Page 8 of Fairest of Heart

Doc looked Titus straight in the eye. “I know you, son. There’s no way you shot this dog. Even by accident.”

Because Enoch Kingsley had known him since the day he was born. The minute he was born, actually, having been the doctor who delivered him.

“Yeah, well, I know you, too,” Titus countered. “And there’s no way you’ll let this fella die just because he’s hairier than your usual clientele.”

“Not without a fight.” Doc’s features tightened as he grabbed hold of his medical kit and dragged it close.

This was a man Titus loved and respected. A healer with the heart of a Ranger. One who’d never willingly surrender a battle, even if it broke him in the process.

A memory flashed of Doc bending over Tate four years ago, pounding the young man’s chest again and again in a futile attempt to restart his grandson’s heart. Titus’s father had been the one who’d eventually pulled him away. The one who’d tearfully voiced the words no one in the family wanted to hear. “He’s gone, Dad.” Doc had crumpled beside Tate’s bed, buried his head against the mattress, and repeatedly rasped, “I’m sorry,” until his voice grew too clogged with tears to speak.

He’d taken down his shingle the next day and retired his medical practice.

“We’re going to need to clean this wound,” Doc said, yanking Titus back into the present. “Angus, put the kettle on, then dip out a basinful of water from the stove reservoir and bring it to me along with soap and towels.”

All grogginess vanished from the big man’s face as he nodded and hurried into the house.

“Jeb, I’m going to need you to hold the dog’s head. If he wakes, he might fight, so beware of those teeth.”

“I know what to do,” Jeb groused, but an unmistakable gleam entered his eyes, one Titus imagined harkened back to the days when the old cowhand was one of the most sought-after bronco busters in the state.

“Titus, keep his lower half still and his belly exposed so I have room to work.”

Titus moved into position and took a gentle yet firm hold on the dog’s hips. “Got it.”

“Good.” Doc extracted a pair of surgical scissors from his bag and snipped away the bandage. “Now let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“I’m dealing with amateurs!”

Madame LaBelle’s screech brought Penelope running out of the small tent designated for female staff. She’d been coated with dirt and dust after her excursion and had needed a wash and change before checking in with her mistress. Snatching the white mobcap off her cot, she fit it to her head as she scurried to her mistress’s private quarters. She ducked under the flap and nearly got hit in the face with a flying hairbrush. A quick dodge spared her forehead, but the troupe’s costume designer hadn’t fared as well. A red welt bloomed on her cheek. Had Narcissa struck the seamstress? Usually she simply yelled and threw things while in one of her rages, but the angry mark on Mildred’s cheek indicated things had escalated. Probably due to the half-empty decanter of wine on Narcissa’s bedside table.

“You incompetent, idiotic—”

“Madame?” Penelope hurried inside and drew her mistress’s attention away from the cowering Mildred. “May I be of assistance?”

Over the last six months, Penelope had learned how to manage her employer’s moods. Anticipating needs and fulfilling them before being asked was key. Unfortunately, she didn’t know what the current need entailed, and she doubted a footbath with Epsom salts would help this particular situation.

“Penelope, look what she’s done to me!” Madame LaBelle flung herself sideways to give Penelope the full view of the dress she was to wear to the ball given in her honor at Kerr’s Hall in Granbury tomorrow evening.

The troupe intended to set out at first light and arrive in Granbury midday for the start of a two-week engagement. But judging by the dramatics of their lead actress, part of the plan had gone awry.

Madame LaBelle’s fingers spread wide as she gestured to herself with great flourish. “She was supposed to make me look voluptuous, not vulgar.” She turned to face the oversized mirror attached to her dressing table. “I look like a scarlet woman.” Yet she still preened as she beheld her reflection, twisting slightly to view herself at the most flattering angle.

“We’ll have it altered to your specifications before tomorrow night, Madame.” Penelope made the vow without the slightest hint that anything other than success would be the outcome. “I’ll assist Mildred myself.”

Narcissa eyed her in the mirror for a long moment before coming to a decision. “Very well. But I’m holding you personally responsible, Miss Snow. If the dress fails to please me, I’m taking the cost of the gown out of your wages.” Her gaze dared Penelope to back down.

Penelope lifted her chin. “I’ll see that you aren’t disappointed, ma’am.”

“I better not be.” She turned away from the mirror and held out her arms. “Now get me out of this travesty. I need fresh air.”

Penelope scurried forward and began undoing buttons on the ball gown constructed of deep purple silk and black lace that surely cost more than the entirety of all her earnings to date. Once she had the dress removed, she handed it to Mildred, then helped her mistress into an ensemble more fitting for a walk by the river. Neither she nor Mildred said a word until their mistress was a good ten yards from the tent.

Penelope dropped the tent flap back into place, then turned, ready to offer Mildred whatever help she needed, but the older woman’s downcast face stilled her tongue.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Mildred shook her head. “What she asks is impossible.”

Penelope stepped closer. “I’ve experience wielding a needle. Surely between the two of us—”