The Drifter. Сьюзен Виггс

doesn’t eat much,” he said.

      “We have to try. Since she seems to be resting comfortably, don’t disturb her. When she wakes on her own, help her sit up. Have her inhale the steam and try to get her to take some broth and bread. Mrs. Dawson will have it ready in the kitchen.” Leah turned to go. He stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. He was one of the tallest men she had ever seen—and one of the meanest-looking. She folded her arms. “If you dare to threaten me again, I’ll go straight to Sheriff St. Croix.”

      Her warning made no impression on him—or did it? Perhaps his eyes got a little narrower, his mouth a little tighter. “Lady, if you know what’s good for you, then you won’t breathe a word to the sheriff.”

      She hitched up her chin. “And if I do?”

      “Don’t take that risk with me.”

      The icy promise in his voice chilled her blood. “I don’t want any trouble,” she stated.

      “Neither do I. So I’ll be spending the day working on the boat you wrecked last night.”

      “That boat was a wreck long before I disabled the rudder.”

      “At least I could steer it.” He hissed out a long breath, clearly trying to gather patience. Then he dug into the pocket of his jeans and took out a thick roll of bills. “What’s your fee?”

      She swallowed. “Five dollars, but—”

      He peeled off a twenty-dollar note. “That should take care of the fee, plus room and board. I ought to be able to get the steering fixed today, and then we’ll be off.”

      She stared at the paper money but made no attempt to take it. “I’m afraid you didn’t understand. You have to stay here and take care of your wife. Not just for today, but until she gets better. You can’t just go sailing off into the sunset.”

      “But you said—”

      “I said she needs complete bed rest and plenty of food and care. She won’t get that on your ship. She won’t get that without you. You’re staying here, Mr….” She floundered, realizing he’d never told her his name.

      “Underhill. Jackson T. Underhill. And I’m not staying.”

      “What’s your hurry, Mr. Underhill?” Leah demanded. As if she didn’t know. He was a man on the run. A fugitive. From what, she didn’t care to speculate. None of her affair. Her gaze flicked to the twenty dollars in his hand. Was it stolen?

      “I don’t have time to lollygag on some island.”

      She felt a niggling fear that he’d go off and leave Carrie. “You cannot abandon your duties,” she stated. “I simply will not allow it.”

      “I’ve got business to take care of.”

      “You’ve got a wife to take care of.”

      He waved the money at her. “That’s what I’m hiring you to do.”

      “I’m a doctor, not a nursemaid.” Leah planted her hands on her hips and wished she were taller so she could face him down, eye to eye, nose to nose. “Good day, Mr. Underhill. I’ll look in on your wife this evening. If you need anything before then, tell Mrs. Dawson. She’ll instruct Mr. Douglas to fetch me.”

      She reached past him for the doorknob. He seized her wrist.

      Something happened; she wasn’t sure what, but his touch sparked a hot and alien sensation within her. His grip was strong, though it didn’t hurt. His gaze was brutal and uncompromising. And in spite of it all, she felt a curious breathlessness, a quickening in her chest.

      “If I need anything?” he repeated. “Lady, there are a lot of things I need.”

      She snatched her hand away, mortified by the forbidden sensations his touch had caused. “I wasn’t speaking of your needs, but Carrie’s. I’ll treat your wife to the best of my abilities.” She hoped he didn’t hear the slight tremor in her voice. “Beyond that, I can promise you nothing.”

      Face flaming, she pushed past him and left the room.

      The Mundy place had a real honest-to-God bathhouse, Jackson was pleased to discover. Apparently, this had been a fine estate at one time, and the previous owner had spared no expense in endowing it with luxuries. Perpetua Dawson, the small, busy woman who ran the kitchen, had shown him to the bathhouse, pointing out the deep zinc tubs and the furnace-heated water supply.

      After laboring to bring the crippled boat into harbor, Jackson had looked in on Carrie, finding her listless and vague. Trying to calm the panic beating in his chest, he went to the baths to enjoy the first good soak he’d had since…Santa Fe, was it? No, there was that night in San Francisco not so long ago. A frizzy-haired whore, wet-brained from too much beer, had careered right into Jackson and landed in his lap. Laughing, Carrie had struck up a conversation with her and blurted out that they’d bought passage to Seattle. He’d thought the whore was too far gone to hear. He hoped he was right.

      Carrie had cajoled him into spending his winnings on a room at the Lombard Hotel. She had exclaimed gleefully over the luxurious velvet draperies, the champagne and oysters, the tray of chocolate truffles….

      But then she’d looked at the fancy grille on the window and shivered. “This is a prison, Jackson. They’ll never let me out of here. I’ll never be safe. Never.”

      “Hush now, Carrie,” he’d said, repeating an age-old pledge. “I’ll keep you safe.”

      “Build up the fire,” she had begged. “It’s too cold in here.”

      The thought ignited an old, old memory that raised a bittersweet ache in his chest. The years peeled away and he was a boy again, sitting on the wet brick pavement in the moldering courtyard of the St. Ignatius Orphan Asylum of Chicago. Through a grille-covered window he could hear a little girl sobbing, sobbing.

      Carrie. With shaking hands, Jackson had held the bundle of sweets he’d stolen from the pantry of the refectory. The sweets were never given to the children, of course. Brother Anthony and Brother Brandon saved them for themselves.

      Holding a little cloth bag of gumdrops, Jackson started to climb. His feet, in worn and ill-fitting shoes, wedged into the gaps left by crumbling mortar. His wiry arms trembled as he pulled himself up. A sliver from the windowsill stabbed into his hand. He ignored the pain. At St. I’s, kids knew better than to cry over a sliver.

      “Carrie,” he said, finding a toehold on the rain gutter. “Carrie, it’s me, Jackson.”

      Her sobbing hiccuped into silence. Then she spoke, her little-girl’s voice clear as a crystal bell. “They locked me in. Oh, save me, Jackson. I’m so cold. I’ll die in here.”

      “I couldn’t pick the lock,” he said apologetically. “I tried and tried.” He pushed the bag of sweets between the rusty bars of the window. “Gumdrops, Carrie!”

      “Red ones?”

      The silence spun out. A distant horn blew, signaling the end of the shift for Chicago’s dockworkers at Quimper Shipyards. The swampy smell of Lake Michigan blew in on a cold wind through the courtyard. “Carrie?” Jackson strained to see inside the locked room, but spied only shadows. “You all right?”

      “No,” she said, the word muffled by a mouthful of candy. “What’s this, Jackson?”

      “Something I made for you. Carved it out of firewood.”

      “It’s a bird.”

      “Uh-huh.” He imagined her turning it over in her small hands. He was proud of his work, his attention to detail. It was a dove; he’d copied the stained glass Holy Ghost in St. Mary’s Church. At Christmas and Easter, the brothers scrubbed the orphans up and paraded them to church, and Jackson had always spent the hour staring at the jewel-colored windows.

      “Oh, Jackson.”