My Heart Stood Still (Sisters Of Mercy Flats 2) by Lori Copeland Page A
Authors: Lori Copeland
Tags: Fiction, adventure, Romance, Historical, Action, Orphans, Western, Spirituality, Religious, Christian, Inspirational, Faith, jail, trust, wagon, Attack, Civil War Era, Crow Warrior, Three Sisters, Money Swindling, McDougal Sisters, Hauled Away, Different Men, Bandits Trailing, Gold Cache, Seek Peace, Companions
Ads: Link
his friend finally woke up.
It seemed the whole world waited on Creed Walker.
Creed drifted between awareness and unconsciousness. In lucid moments he recognized the smell of cinnamon and baked apples, but that wasn’t what Anne-Marie and the old woman were forcing down his throat. When he tried to swallow the bitter concoction, he was reminded of the time he’d been sick with the white man’s fever and the medicine man had forced something equally vile through his parched lips.
Occasionally he could hear Anne-Marie voice his concerns.
“He’s so weak.”
“He’s as strong as an ox,” a gravelly voice answered from somewhere above him. He felt a small, cool hand touch his face when the noxious brew was once again raised to his mouth.
“Will he live?”
Creed wanted to assure the voice that he would, but he couldn’t force the words from his throat.
“He’ll make it,” Eulalie confirmed.
Occasionally he could hear pounding in the background and could only surmise that Quincy was trying to repay the old woman for her charitable hospitality.
Mercifully he dropped into unconsciousness, his last thoughts being that of a lovely young woman with emerald-colored eyes.
By late afternoon Anne-Marie had grown weary of the wait. She decided the patient needed a good washing, if not for him, then out of respect for those around him. Armed with soap and hot water, the angels of mercy scrubbed, lathered, scoured, and powdered until they had the Indian, in Quincy’s stated opinion, smelling like a girl. He stood close by, trying to converse with a lifeless Creed. “I’d spare you this appalling exhibition of maternal clucking, but I am powerless to prevent it.”
“Don’t be so smug, Mr. Adams.” Anne-Marie filled the hot water kettle and set it on the stove. “You’re next.”
Quincy headed for the door but Anne-Marie blocked his efforts to flee. “You’re not going anywhere until you bathe. I’m sick of smelling you and your friend—and lay your clothes by the doorway. I want to scrub them too.”
Not long after, the freshly bathed Quincy excused himself and escaped to the lean-to, wearing a pair of clean breeches and a shirt Eulalie had provided.
Later, Eulalie settled down in the rocking chair and Anne-Marie decided to read a book of poems by the popular poet Walt Whitman. She loved poetry; she’d even written one or two poems herself—though they weren’t all that good.
“Where did you get a Walt Whitman book?” she asked, thumbing through the yellowed pages of Leaves of Grass . She would never think that Eulalie had a literary side.
“Can’t rightly recall.” Her host glanced at the book. “Don’t look familiar to me. You’re welcome to read it if you like.”
A gust of wind rattled the old shanty as Anne-Marie lost herself in Whitman’s words. The sound of a strangled snort distracted her, and she glanced up to see Eulalie’s head starting to nod.
Shaking her head, Anne-Marie returned to “Song of Myself” as the clock on the mantel methodically ticked off the long evening.
Smoke. Creed opened his eyes when the smell filled his nostrils. Coughing, he struggled to sit up.
Angry, red-hot tendrils licked a trail from floor to ceiling, devouring the dry timber. Heat suffocated him and he groped for the edge of the bed.
Where was he?
Rolling to the floor, he gritted his teeth when a white-hot pain shot up his leg. Through a thick blanket of haze he saw the old woman’s sleeping form slumped forward in her chair, the roaring flames, like a pack of wild animals coming closer.
He threw his arm up to shield his face from the scorching heat while his eyes searched the room. The flames were spreading, leaping across the dry timber, destroying everything that stood in their way.
“Quincy! Are you in here?” he called in a cracked voice. His lungs burned, and his eyes blurred when he rolled off the cot and tried to crawl across the room.
“Over here.” Anne-Marie’s barely
It seemed the whole world waited on Creed Walker.
Creed drifted between awareness and unconsciousness. In lucid moments he recognized the smell of cinnamon and baked apples, but that wasn’t what Anne-Marie and the old woman were forcing down his throat. When he tried to swallow the bitter concoction, he was reminded of the time he’d been sick with the white man’s fever and the medicine man had forced something equally vile through his parched lips.
Occasionally he could hear Anne-Marie voice his concerns.
“He’s so weak.”
“He’s as strong as an ox,” a gravelly voice answered from somewhere above him. He felt a small, cool hand touch his face when the noxious brew was once again raised to his mouth.
“Will he live?”
Creed wanted to assure the voice that he would, but he couldn’t force the words from his throat.
“He’ll make it,” Eulalie confirmed.
Occasionally he could hear pounding in the background and could only surmise that Quincy was trying to repay the old woman for her charitable hospitality.
Mercifully he dropped into unconsciousness, his last thoughts being that of a lovely young woman with emerald-colored eyes.
By late afternoon Anne-Marie had grown weary of the wait. She decided the patient needed a good washing, if not for him, then out of respect for those around him. Armed with soap and hot water, the angels of mercy scrubbed, lathered, scoured, and powdered until they had the Indian, in Quincy’s stated opinion, smelling like a girl. He stood close by, trying to converse with a lifeless Creed. “I’d spare you this appalling exhibition of maternal clucking, but I am powerless to prevent it.”
“Don’t be so smug, Mr. Adams.” Anne-Marie filled the hot water kettle and set it on the stove. “You’re next.”
Quincy headed for the door but Anne-Marie blocked his efforts to flee. “You’re not going anywhere until you bathe. I’m sick of smelling you and your friend—and lay your clothes by the doorway. I want to scrub them too.”
Not long after, the freshly bathed Quincy excused himself and escaped to the lean-to, wearing a pair of clean breeches and a shirt Eulalie had provided.
Later, Eulalie settled down in the rocking chair and Anne-Marie decided to read a book of poems by the popular poet Walt Whitman. She loved poetry; she’d even written one or two poems herself—though they weren’t all that good.
“Where did you get a Walt Whitman book?” she asked, thumbing through the yellowed pages of Leaves of Grass . She would never think that Eulalie had a literary side.
“Can’t rightly recall.” Her host glanced at the book. “Don’t look familiar to me. You’re welcome to read it if you like.”
A gust of wind rattled the old shanty as Anne-Marie lost herself in Whitman’s words. The sound of a strangled snort distracted her, and she glanced up to see Eulalie’s head starting to nod.
Shaking her head, Anne-Marie returned to “Song of Myself” as the clock on the mantel methodically ticked off the long evening.
Smoke. Creed opened his eyes when the smell filled his nostrils. Coughing, he struggled to sit up.
Angry, red-hot tendrils licked a trail from floor to ceiling, devouring the dry timber. Heat suffocated him and he groped for the edge of the bed.
Where was he?
Rolling to the floor, he gritted his teeth when a white-hot pain shot up his leg. Through a thick blanket of haze he saw the old woman’s sleeping form slumped forward in her chair, the roaring flames, like a pack of wild animals coming closer.
He threw his arm up to shield his face from the scorching heat while his eyes searched the room. The flames were spreading, leaping across the dry timber, destroying everything that stood in their way.
“Quincy! Are you in here?” he called in a cracked voice. His lungs burned, and his eyes blurred when he rolled off the cot and tried to crawl across the room.
“Over here.” Anne-Marie’s barely
Similar Books
