Page 14 of Fairest of Heart

“Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah,

Pilgrim through this barren land;

I am weak, but Thou are mighty,

Hold me with Thy pow’rful hand . . .”

Each repeated stanza placed a brick in the wall that took her fearful thoughts captive. She hummed and rocked and prayed the words of the song until her mind finally began to drift, and exhaustion forced peace upon her battered spirit.

6

Titus had forgotten how good it felt to sleep in a bed that wasn’t attached to a saloon. Doc’s spare room might smell like liniment and old socks, but it was blessedly void of the ruckus spawned by piano music, dancing girls, and drunken cowboys that could plague a fellow into the wee hours of the morning. Not to mention that he didn’t have to worry about what kind of unsavory activities might have occurred in the bed before he took occupancy. Saloon accommodations and thin bedrolls spread on hard ground didn’t exactly position a man for a good night’s rest. He felt downright spoiled this morning as he headed to the kitchen for coffee without a single neck crick or sore muscle to work back into place.

A bald man with impressive chin whiskers stood at the cookstove flipping bacon in an iron skillet. Grease sizzled and popped, and the salty aroma set Titus’s mouth to watering.

“That smells mighty good, Coy.” Titus grinned and leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorway. “You tryin’ to fatten me up before I leave?”

The man’s face reddened, the color stretching upward to turn his bald pate pink. “It ain’t nuthin’ fancy. Threw a few strips in the pan when I heard you movin’ around.” He shrugged as if such thoughtfulness were an everyday occurrence. “Got some leftover flapjacks in the warmin’ oven if ya want ’em.”

“Everyone else eat already?” Titus glanced out the window positioned over the sink. The sun hung within spitting distance of the horizon, so he wasn’t that late, but men who’d been working as cowhands all their lives didn’t know how to stay in bed past sunrise.

They probably considered him a slugabed for not rising until seven. Normally, he’d agree with that assessment, but he’d been up till after midnight assisting Doc with the surgery on the gunshot dog. Still, he felt like a loafer when fellas in their sixties and seventies beat him out of bed.

“Doc’s not been down yet. He ain’t used to them late hours. I held back a few hot cakes for him, too.”

Titus wouldn’t have expected anything else. The men at the Diamond D revered Doc. Not only because he was the eldest among them at seventy-six, but because most of them would’ve been dead by now without him.

Doc had created a family when he’d opened the Diamond D to retired cowhands, and there wasn’t one man among them who wouldn’t give up his right arm if Doc needed it. Most had no family of their own. They’d spent their days workin’ cows for whichever brand had need of their skills, living like nomads all over the West. No wives. No children. No home. And when age stole their ability to work, they found themselves with no purpose and no place.

Jeb had been the first. Doc took him in as a favor to a medical colleague who’d been concerned that his patient had nowhere to recuperate from his career-ending injury. No one wanted to put up with his famously sour disposition for an extended period. Jeb had broken an ankle so severely the physician expected him never to walk again. Doc had different ideas. It took nearly a year and more patience than Job to put up with Jeb’s cantankerous demeanor, but Doc got him walking again.

Rowdy had been much the same. A kick to the head by an unruly stallion had nearly ended his life. When he came to the Diamond D, he’d been unable to do more than sit in a chair and stare into space. Now he could dress and feed himself and go on long, rambling walks around the ranch. He didn’t talk much, and he’d taken up some peculiar habits, but he was self-sufficient.

After that, word spread, and retired drovers started showing up at Grandpa’s door. Doc didn’t allow drinkin’, cussin’, or tobacco chawin’ at the Diamond D, and he made it clear that every resident would be required to attend Sunday morning Bible study in the parlor. The unpopular rules kept the place from being overrun, but they’d also served to bring a few wild old cowboys back into the Lord’s fold. Coy among them.

One wouldn’t guess it by the fella’s shy, kindhearted demeanor, but he’d run with an outlaw gang for most of his youth before moving on to more honest ranch work when the rest of his cohorts either died or were carted off to prison. Titus had supposed the man was just shy around him because of his work with the Rangers, but Doc claimed Coy acted bashful around everyone. Almost as if he wanted so badly to hide the shameful deeds of his past that he hid part of himself along with them.

Pushing away from the doorjamb, Titus entered the kitchen and crossed over to the corner near the stove. Hunkering down, he ran a hand lightly over the black fur of the dog curled up on a pallet of old quilts.

“How’s our patient this morning?”

Coy set the skillet aside and took a mug down from the nearby cabinet. “Still breathin’. I got him to lap up a little water an hour ago, but he’s just been sleepin’ the rest of the time. I suppose that’s what he needs after all he’s been through.”

Titus stroked the dog’s head, careful not to disturb his slumber. “Doc said if he made it through the night, he’d have a decent chance at recovering. I’m glad he cleared the first hurdle.”

“Most men wouldn’t have done what you did, Titus. Cartin’ that critter miles outta the way instead of just puttin’ him out of his misery. Speaks well of ya.” Coy poured coffee into the mug and extended it to Titus like a medal of commendation.

Titus straightened and accepted the mug, though he found accepting the praise more difficult. He’d just carried the dog here. Doc had done all the saving.

Coy nodded toward the table, and Titus took the hint. He pulled out a chair and sat down. A few seconds later, a plate filled with four pieces of bacon and three flapjacks plopped down in front of him.

“Butter’s in the crock, and there’s honey in the jar behind it.”

Titus set his coffee down and reached for the jar. Little bits of honeycomb floated in the golden-brown goo. “From Ike’s bees?”

“Yup. Them little stingers give me the willies, but they sure make good honey.”

The bees had been a new addition last spring when Ike had run across a displaced swarm in a tree behind his garden. The hive had been new the last time Titus had visited. Hard to believe he’d been gone long enough for them to get established and create enough honey to be harvested. But then, he hadn’t been to the Diamond D in months. His work with the Rangers had kept him too busy. He probably wouldn’t have stopped by this time if it hadn’t been for the dog.