“Fair enough.”
It took him a minute. Like everyone in the room, he was so exhausted as to be running on his last dregs of energy. With that excellent bourbon warming its way downward from gullet to gut, he was about to topple over.
Quinn Hennessey’s body now lay in the coroner’s back room, waiting to be prepared for his funeral tomorrow. Nothing elaborate, of course, and with probably very few attendants. He hadn’t been around town long enough for residents to get to know him very well. And what they had known, they hadn’t really liked.
But it was necessary. Couldn’t hardly just throw him out in somebody’s old hog lot and wait for Mother Nature to take her course.
“I don’t see why not,” muttered Camellia. The interruption was not intentional, but involuntary and she gave Paul a glance full of contrition. “I’m sorry. Please, go on.”
Paul had done the best he could in writing up the official account, although he was unfortunately missing a lot of pertinent information. Cause of death, from what anyone could tell, was accidental. Beyond that, any further developments were on hold, until...
/> “Reckon you’d like to hear our part, now,” said Gabriel, stretching across his friend to snag the bottle for, in his opinion, a much-deserved refill.
Leaning forward, Paul draped both elbows on his thighs, bracing for the worst. How was she faring, that pathetic boneless victim he and Diablo had transported so carefully all the way back to her temporary home from the edge of nowhere? Was there any hope for her survival? And, from there, her recovery?
Together, the doctor and Camellia had cut away the rags of Molly’s clothing, had washed her poor body with warm water, had set bones and bandaged wounds and administered medicaments. Emotion must be put aside for now; a breakdown could come later, when the work was done.
Finally, finished, Camellia turned at the bedroom door on her way into the hall. Molly was desperately hurt, with injuries about which, at this point, even Gabe was uncertain. Who knew what internal damage might have been done? She lay motionless and unconscious, unaware of anyone or anything.
But she was home. She was home, and she would never be bothered by that odious devil Quinn Hennessey again.
Blinded by tears, Camellia blundered down the last few stairs straight against Gabriel’s substantial body. He could take great pleasure in holding her, for just a minute, before shoving her into Ben’s surprised arms. “Here. I believe this is yours.”
“And your—prognosis?” Paul’s voice sounded rusty and ill-used, like a pump which must be primed to bring up water.
Gabriel had scrubbed at his weary face. “Can’t give you one yet, my friend. Too soon. What I’ve seen on the surface—and treated, best I could—is a serious blow to the head, lotsa cuts and scrapes and bruises, a skinned-up arm, and a broken ankle. That fallin’ tree did her a world of hurt.”
“D’ you think she’ll come to, pretty soon?”
“Dunno about that, neither. Reckon she’ll wake when—” If? “—she’s ready. Might be better if she sleeps away for a while, gives all them wounds a chance to heal. You got any idea what happened out there?”
“We found both of ’em buried under a monster pile of branches. At first I figured that—that—neither one made it.” Again that clunky, traitorous voice. Paul cleared his throat, swallowed another shot of bourbon, and tried once more. “Then she—I heard Molly give out a moan.”
“You did a fine job out there, Sheriff,” said Ben quietly. He had shifted to the settee, where he and Camellia sat huddled close together, each drawing comfort and support from the other’s nearness. Marriage could be a wonderful thing, and this was one time Paul felt a stab of envy for the couple. “Come next election, you got my vote, for sure.”
Paul managed a wan smile. Then, exhausted beyond measure, he nearly split apart his jaws in a mighty yawn before shambling awkwardly to his stockinged feet. “Reckon I’d better take off, then. I’d like to come back, tomorrow mawnin’, if that’s all right with you.”
“No.” Camellia saw how it was. She’d seen it for some time, a matter so private and so personal that apparently no one else was aware of the situation. But this must be encouraged, at all costs. “Paul, you stretch out right here in the parlor. Yes, you can, I’m inviting you. I’m getting used to having you two around as semi-permanent house guests. I’ll simply hang a shingle out front.”
“Oh, ma’am, I can’t put you out like that...”
“Of course you can, and you will. Ben, please go on up to bed; I’ll be there directly. Paul, you settle in, and I’ll fetch a pillow and a blanket. Gabriel, are you staying or going?”
“Lord keep me from a bossy woman,” chuckled Gabe. “You Burton ladies do beat all. I’m stayin’, Cam, so’s I can check in on my patient. You got a place for me to sleep, too?”
“Certainly; the house has four bedrooms. Very well, come along then. I’ll show you where everything is. I’ll be up and down periodically, too, Gabe, so don’t be surprised by movement during what’s left of the night.”
“Not a’tall, lovely lady. You and I will be as ships passin’ in the night.”
Camellia snorted. “Hmmmph. All right, then. But I’m warning both of you, here and now: do not—I repeat—do not wake me at some ungodly hour. If you do, I will not be happy. And an unhappy woman will turn everyone around her unhappy, as well. Do I make myself clear?”
Both men wore sheepish expressions. For some reason, males are not at their best once their boots are removed and their wool socks are visible for all and sundry to see. It must be an issue of vulnerability.
“Yes, ma’am. Abundantly clear.”
Chapter Twenty-One
SO HERE MOLLY WAS, a week later still white as death and insensible of everything around her, murmuring that one word: “—Bye. Bye...”