“I’ve been worried about you. Today’s the fourth of you being in bed, and you’re not looking any better. I know you said no doctor. So I went to the druggist.” She held up the container of brown liquid.
Laudanum.
He gripped the edge of the mattress as if it was a cliff edge. His fingers itched to snatch the bottle from her hand and pour the elixir down his throat.
She tipped the bottle toward the waiting spoon. “He said this helps all manner of stomach ailments. I don’t have to see every time you head toward the privy or empty a bedpan to know you’re ill.”
His hand shook as the liquid slithered onto the silver surface. There was no condemnation. It was medicine. She’d brought it to him. He didn’t have to ask. All he had to do was open his mouth, and relief would be delivered to his tongue. He’d be able to keep his commitment. Just a few spoonfuls—surely, not more than one bottle. It wouldn’t take much to get him on his feet again. He could be a real help to her, instead of being an invalid. He could repair the corral, work on figuring out what happened to her cattle, and turn this place into a successful ranch.
She lifted the spoon toward him. “Here you go.”
His lips parted. The clank of shackles rattled through his mind…Dear Lord, help me.
No!
The word reverberated through every cell of his being. Without thought, he slammed the spoon from her hand, sending the silver utensil and its poison across the room. Brown liquid splattered on the rough oak floorboards, and the spoon struck the table leg before rattling to a halt. The bottle tumbled from her lap, spilling its contents onto her skirt and the rag rug at the bedside.
She jumped to her feet, upsetting the chair in the process. “What…? Why…?” A deep furrow knotted her brow.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to strike your hand.” Laudanum on the floor, on her skirt, the bottle. The odor filled his nostrils and made his skin crawl, calling to him a song as sweet as Odysseus’s sirens. “Get it out of sight. Now. Please.” He doubled over, elbows on his knees, and drove his fingers through his hair. He had to get it out of his head, out of his nose, before he gave in. “All of it. Every last drop. Even the smell of it.”
She stumbled toward the washstand, but she didn’t move fast enough.
Head reeling, he snatched the rug and the bottle from the floor and pushed past her to the open window. Shoving the sash up, he threw them out with all of the force he could muster. A sticky residue clung to his fingers. He could lick them. Just a taste… No.
Washcloth in one hand and the pitcher in the other, she gaped at him as if he were a madman.
At the moment, it didn’t matter. He grabbed the pitcher from her, held his hand above where the liquid from the spoon had splattered and doused hand and floor with the water as though putting out a fire. “All of it. Every trace of it. Now.”
A strand of hair falling against her cheek, Cora lowered herself to her knees and scrubbed. The dark-blue linen folds of her garment mingled with the dirty surface.
Nausea clenched his stomach. He would not, could not be sick right now. He hadn’t meant to yell at her or order her about. He snatched the towel from the washstand and roughed the material over his fingers. The smell invaded his head and leached at his self-control as he poured water from the basin onto the spot on the floor by the bed and scoured the oak boards.
Finished, he dropped to his elbows and knees, exhausted. Cora’s steps sounded on the stairs, departing. Would she ever be back? Would she ever forgive him or respect him again?
CHAPTER 7
Cora’s whole body shook as she stumbled into the kitchen. Ben was like her father. The realization roared through her. That same hungry, haunted look that had contorted her father’s face every time he’d tried to stop drinking. Why had she not recognized it in Ben? She slammed her fists against her thighs. She should have seen it. And he’d already started to worm his way into her affections. Coming here in Jeb’s stead, paying off the debt, and practically inviting himself to take up residence under their roof.
Her stomach reeled. Brow damp with sweat, she rushed out to the side of the house and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the ground. Swiping her hand across her mouth, she kicked dirt over the spot. She glanced toward the stables. Ben McKenzie would have to go.
She wasn’t about to have a man who’d allowed himself to be enslaved to drink, laudanum, or any other concoction living on her property. Somehow, some way…she’d repay him for the loan. But he couldn’t stay.
She’d lived too many years with her father. Drinking all evening. Passed out on the floor, too drunk to make it into bed. His hands shaking when he reached for the bottle. Ben’s handhad shaken when she’d brought out the laudanum. That was his poison—not whiskey, not brandy. Laudanum. And she’d waved it right in front of him. She cringed.
It didn’t matter that he’d slammed it from her hand. He’d give in sooner or later, just like her father. Why, there’d almost been fear in his eyes. Fear that he’d take the so-called medicine.
That’s why he was laid up, too ill to work. He was trying to do without it. Her heart wobbled.
“It doesn’t matter.” She said the words out loud. How many years had her mother waited and hoped Pa would put the bottle aside for good? And before the bottle, it’d been gambling. There’d been good months, even good years, until her sister, Amy, had died almost eight years ago. No more good years after that. Not even good months. Then, when Mitchell was killed at Sharpsburg, not even good weeks. Her father probably didn’t see a sober day after that until his own death. And her poor mother…
Cora would never tie herself to a man like that. She stomped back to the house. And what were all these thoughts about being tied to anyone? Ben was practically a stranger. She hardly knew him. How had she ever come up with the idea of welcoming him into the family as a substitute brother? She marched into the kitchen where the meager supplies she’d bought in town still sat. The small sack of sugar on the table brought her to a halt. A luxury she could ill afford, but somewhere in her foolishness, she’d planned to make Ben a pie.
She shoved the sack into the cupboard and grabbed a bar of soap and a couple more rags from the dry sink. Best get back to the stables, before Ben got desperate enough to start yanking the floorboards up.
Outside at the well, she cranked the handle, drawing the bucket up from the cool dark below.
Charlie jogged over, his hat brim flopping with the beat of his feet. “I finished three rows of beans. Can I go visit Ben?” Dirt caked around his fingernails. A smear covered his jaw.
