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“Jesse, hear me out.”
“No bride.”
“I haven’t promised you to anyone.” Her fingers tightened around his. “I wrote because I thought you two might suit. Then, after the attack, I sent word telling her exactly what had happened.”
Jesse’s heart kicked hard against his sore ribs. “You told a woman to come here? Now?”
“I told her there was a chance you might not wake. I made certain she understood she owed us nothing.”
“What’s her name?”
“Eden Whitcomb. She’s from Missouri.”
Eden Whitcomb.
A stranger on her way to marry a man who could scarcely raise his arm. He pictured her stepping into this room and seeing the bandages, the basin, and the leg that wouldn’t move.
“Tell her not to come.”
“I can’t undo the letter.”
“Write another.”
“She may already be traveling.”
Jesse pulled his hand free. “Then she can turn around when she gets here.”
Emily’s face tightened. “She has a mind of her own, Jesse. If she comes, you’ll treat her decently.”
“Who’d want a husband like this?” He made a helpless gesture toward the blankets.
Emily leaned forward. “You listen to me. Being hurt doesn’t make you less Jesse Pickett. I’m not going to sit here while you speak of my brother-in-law like he’s fit for the manure pile.”
Despite himself, he heard Aunt Cleo in her voice.
“Now,” she said, adjusting her shawl, “you need to rest. I’ve said my piece.”
“More than your piece.”
Her mouth curved. “That too.”
She stood and tucked the blanket near his left hand. “I’m glad you’re awake.”
He swallowed. “Tell Bass he can quit digging my grave.”
“I’ll tell him.”
When she had gone, Jesse listened to the clinic settle around him. The lamp hissed. Someone crossed the front room. He pictured a woman on a westbound train, carrying a letter with his name on it.
He couldn’t even remember what had happened to him. How was he supposed to explain any of it to her?
Nate adjusted the bandage near his temple. “You’ve done enough talking.”
“Need to remember the men.”
“We’ll work on that when you’ve rested.”
“What if it don’t come back?”
