Endless Heart: Heart, Book 3 Read online

  Standing in Alice’s room, Lettie was uncomfortable and angry. She poured water in the basin and quickly scrubbed away the blood staining her fingers as best she could. The coppery smell had made her stomach roil the entire time she’d been stitching the man’s head wound. It wasn’t a perfect doctoring, but at least the bleeding had stopped. That meant he could get better and leave.

  “Why are you in my room, Lettie?” Alice asked from the doorway.

  “I needed to wash up. Marta told me to come in here.” Lettie dried her hands on her apron and picked up the basin. “I’ll toss this, and you can forget I was here.”

  Alice stopped her with a hand on Lettie’s arm, her blue eyes full of concern. “What happened to your face?”

  “My face has been crooked for years. Another lump isn’t going to change things awful much.” In fact, her nose leaned to the left and one cheekbone was larger than the other. There wasn’t much about her face to ruin.

  “You shouldn’t put yourself down so much. There is nothing wrong with your face.” Alice sounded sincere, another surprise. “Who hit you?”

  Lettie didn’t need to have another person concerned about her or her well-being. “Nobody. It’s nothing, and it sure ain’t your business.” Pushing past the sputtering young woman, Lettie escaped from the room.

  She sucked in a deep breath and walked to the window at the end of the hallway. Alice’s footsteps echoed from the stairs as she went down into the restaurant. Later on, she would probably have a few words for Lettie about the encounter, but she didn’t care. It wouldn’t change a thing.

  After throwing the pink-tinged water out into the deserted backyard, she set the basin at the door to Alice’s room and headed toward the stairs. As her foot landed on the top step, a small moan came from the other room. The room she used to sleep in. The room that held the stranger.

  Her head told her to keep walking, not to stop to check on him. It had been fifteen minutes since they finished cleaning him up and bandaging his wounds. Marta had gone downstairs to make biscuits, fussing about how the fluffy concoctions would be late for the breakfast crowd.

  There was no one to help him but Lettie. If she were a stronger woman, she would have walked back in there and seen to him. If she were a stronger woman, she wouldn’t have hesitated. People thought she was tough, but they were wrong. She had run, had hidden from her fears for so long, she didn’t know how to face them. Lettie used anger to keep others at a distance and her own cowardice to stay there.

  Lettie walked downstairs with his moan echoing in her ears and her cheek still throbbing from his fist. She set aside her guilt, smashing it down deep into her heart. Unfortunately, she had a conscience that lived outside her body.

  Marta stood near the bottom of the steps, flour covering her hands and wrists, along with a few smudges on her chin. “How is the patient?”

  Lettie couldn’t lie to the woman who had helped save her. “I didn’t look in on him.”

  Marta’s expression fell, the corners of her mouth drooping. “He didn’t mean to hurt you, liebchen.”

  “I know, but I just…well…I couldn’t.” Lettie could hardly put into words what she felt or why she felt it. The jumbled stew churning inside her had no rhyme or reason. She listened to her gut and tried to make the best choices. Things didn’t always end up the way she wanted, but she knew no other way to sort through it all.

  “You must. I have to cook and bake. With Angeline not here, there is no one else.” Marta’s sad expression was almost comical given the amount of flour covering her. “We are nothing if we are not kind.”

  Lettie knew she shouldn’t be such a fool about taking care of another human being in need. It wasn’t as though she didn’t feel for him. On the contrary, she felt too much when she was around him. Yet she didn’t want to disappoint Marta.

  “I will go check on him, but I can’t sit with him. Please don’t ask me to.” Her words shook as they rolled off her tongue, like they were perched on top of a teetering tower, ready to fall to the ground and break into a thousand pieces.

  “Is good, is good.” Marta patted her cheek, no doubt leaving smears of flour and dough. “Alice and Karen will serve the customers this morning. You stay upstairs and check on him every ten minutes.”

  With that, the older woman turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Lettie had gotten herself into a situation she didn’t want to be in. She had no choice but to help the stranger. If he hit her again, she would hit him back. Although she was afraid of her own shadow, she would never allow anyone to hit her if she could stop them. She would let the first punch pass since he was out of his mind from blood loss and pain. However, she would never allow him to hurt her again.

  Never.

  Shane woke slowly this time. The roaring in his head had subsided somewhat, but that didn’t mean the rest of his body wasn’t moaning. The whiskey had well and truly worn off, leaving him in a puddle of exactly what he’d been avoiding—pain. He vaguely remembered his fingers had been broken, and someone had stitched up his forehead. There had been a brown witch and a granny angel, or perhaps it was the imaginings of drink.

  “I know you’re awake. I can tell because your breathing changed.” Like it or not, the sharp voice yanked him fully into consciousness.

  When he attempted to move, agony sliced through him like a sharp knife. Every bit of him hurt. Was his entire body broken?

  “I’m only going to be in here another minute, so you best get to talking, mister.”

  He tried to open both eyes, but he couldn’t get the left one to budge. It was swollen shut. The right one worked well enough, but it burned like hell from the bright sunshine in the room. He blinked to clear away the stinging and finally focused on the woman standing beside the bed.

  It was the witch.

  She had brown hair, brown eyes and brown clothes, like a brown bird that lived in a brown house and ate brown food. She was somber all over except for her eyes, which reflected anger and pain—two things he knew well enough to recognize in a glance. To his surprise, she also had a shiner. Her left cheek and eye were red and purple, as though the bruise was still forming. His stomach flipped at the memory of swinging his fist.

  “Did I do that?” he managed to croak.

  Her hand flew to her eye, and she touched it with her fingertips. “It makes no never mind. You were out of your head.”

  Her words said one thing, but her expression said if he did it again, she’d likely pound on him. Shane was embarrassed to think he had punched a woman, especially one who was taking care of a stranger.

  “I’m sorry for it. I, uh, don’t hit women.” He winced at the idiocy that came out of his mouth. “Thank you for taking care of me. I’ll be out of here shortly.” He told himself to stand up but found his limbs would not obey. He could only lift one arm with monumental effort. “Or maybe in another hour.”

  She pursed her lips and raised her right brow. “I don’t think you’ll be sitting up for another three days, if you’re lucky. Somebody beat the stuffing out of you, mister, from stem to stern.”

  Somebody beat him? That would explain the overall inability to move as well as the pain coursing through him. He searched his mind for a glimmer of a memory. He remembered a freight wagon pulling out of Cheyenne. He couldn’t recall much of anything else until this woman appeared in his life. The rest was a black void. Hell he didn’t know where he was or what day it was.

  “How did I get here? And where is here?”

  She sighed and sat on the chair next to the bed, careful to keep a three-foot distance from him. “I owe you that much, I guess. This is Forestville, Wyoming, and you’re at the Blue Plate Diner. We’re upstairs in one of the bedrooms. The owner’s wife, Marta, insisted on doctoring you.”

  The woman clearly did not want to be there taking care of him, not that he blamed her. After all, he had punched her. He peered around at the room, wondering whose it was, possibly the woman sitting beside the bed. An odd sensation s
himmied down his spine at the thought. He shook it away with effort.

  “What day is it?”

  She didn’t look surprised at the question. “It’s Saturday, June twenty-first.”

  Shane’s stomach dropped to his knees. He had lost three weeks. Three weeks. Another memory flickered to life. He’d been jawing with a patron in a saloon about it being the first of June. There had been rotgut and talk of riding in a freight wagon, earning his keep by helping to load and unload. He started shaking all over.

  Sweet Jesus, he had kept himself in a drunken stupor for long periods before, but not for three weeks. Bile crept up his throat, and he glanced around for a chamber pot or basin. His unwilling nurse grabbed a pot from beneath the bed and held it at the ready. He managed to lean over the side of the bed and vomit into the container. There was next to nothing in his stomach, but it burned his throat and mouth. No doubt he hadn’t eaten in days.

  “At least you’re not puking on my shoes again.”

  He wanted to ask what she meant, but his stomach heaved once more. Stars swam behind his eyes as his body convulsed, forcing him to vomit nothing but acid from his churning gut. A cold cloth landed on the back of his neck, and its presence relaxed the muscles there. Within minutes, the urge to vomit passed and he was able to lay back. She used the cold cloth to wipe his face and mouth as though he were an infant. His hands were bandaged, and he couldn’t clean himself up, but that fact didn’t matter.

  Shane was worthless at that moment. Completely, utterly worthless.

  “I’ll be right back.” Her footsteps echoed as she walked out of the room, leaving him to struggle alone.

  He managed not to cry or howl, although it took a lot of effort to contain the sounds of his agony and self-hatred. Shane Murphy had hit bottom, the very dregs of nowhere. He had the choice to stay there or find a way to get back on his feet. A creak of wood startled him. He forced his eye open to find the woman back in the chair. Had he passed out?

  She held his gaze, not flinching from the pitiful mess he was. She had grit. “Now that you’ve got that out of the way, what’s your name?”

  “Shane Murphy.”

  “Where do you hail from, Mr. Murphy?”

  “Missouri.”

  “Long way from home.” She folded her arms, pushing up her breasts, and to his complete surprise, he found his gaze straying to them. They were large and round, more than enough for any man.

  What the hell was he thinking?

  “I, um, wandered a bit after the war.”

  “It’s been eight years since the war ended, Mr. Murphy. That’s a lot of wandering.” She acted like a general interrogating a prisoner.

  “I don’t think I need to explain my life to you, ma’am.” He wouldn’t have normally gotten his back up at her methods, but damned if she didn’t make him feel as ornery as she was.

  “Fair enough.” Her gaze roamed over his face. “But if I was you, I’d want to make sure I didn’t end up near death on a stranger’s doorstep again.”

  Her blunt jab hurt like a bitch when it hit. She definitely had no compunction about being brutally honest, did she?

  “What’s your name?”

  She started then frowned at him. “Lett—I mean Miss Brown.”

  If he had an ounce of energy, he might have laughed at the fact this woman sheathed in brown was aptly named after the color she swam in. “Miss Brown, I want to thank you for helping a fella like me. I know I likely stink—”

  “Understatement.”

  He forged on, annoyed but determined to speak his peace. “And I ain’t a pretty sight right now, but I do appreciate you helping me. It’s a kind thing to do.”

  “We are nothing if we aren’t kind.” Her words were hollow, recited as though they had been drilled into her. He didn’t know and couldn’t guess what she was feeling, but it surely wasn’t kindness.

  “Well, um, thank you.” Sweat rolled down the side of his face as the shaking grew worse. He was thirsty, but more than that, he needed a drink. A whole lot. More than he’d ever needed anything in his life. That was a lie, but at that moment he had to accept it as truth.

  She peered at him. “You’re feeling poorly because you’re coming off the whiskey.”

  It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t feel obligated to answer. Instead he closed his working eye and focused on something, anything, to stop the urge to crawl out of the room to find a saloon.

  “I’m thirsty.”

  “I can offer you water or coffee, Mr. Murphy. There’s no whiskey in this restaurant.” She got to her feet.

  The last thing he wanted to do was be alone. That would make things much worse. Although Miss Brown wasn’t a demure, soft-spoken woman, she was better than his own company.

  “Coffee would be good. You’ll come back?” He hated the pitiful note in his voice, evidence of the puling idiot who inhabited his body nowadays.

  A small sigh escaped her. “I suppose. I do have a job, and I ain’t getting paid for sitting with you.” She left the room with her back ramrod straight and her arms at her sides.

  He should feel guilty, but he didn’t. Shane had become selfish, and right about then, it served him well. All he felt was relief that he wouldn’t have to stare at the cheery lace curtains and clean walls, in the soft bed, and know he didn’t belong there. He didn’t belong anywhere except hell, which had taken up residence inside him, traveled with him, haunted his nightmares and kept him awash in whiskey.

  Until now. Until he ran into the estimable Miss Brown and her severe brown ways. She might be an unlikely nurse and companion, but he didn’t need sympathy. He needed someone who would treat him as he needed to be treated, as nobody.

  As the minutes ticked by and she did not return, Shane dozed. Dark images and shadows surrounded him. He fought against them but he had no strength. The bed became a doorway into hell, one that beckoned him. It was a trap. It had to be a trap, one to punish him for the wrongdoings he’d committed. There were so, so many of them.

  He struggled against the bed, trying to save himself, although he was tempted to give in to the pull and let himself finally be free. Yet a piece of him—he wanted to believe it was the part of the man left inside him—prodded him to fight for his life.

  Shane heaved himself out of bed and landed face down on the floor. Through the pain, he grimaced in triumph. He probably looked like a monster, but it didn’t matter a whit. He crawled toward the door.

  Shane.

  He stopped in mid-motion, his ears straining to hear it again, his heart pounding. Miss Brown hadn’t come back, he was alone in the room, and he had no idea who had called his name.

  You’re mine, Shane. Where do you think you’re going?

  Now he recognized the voice, and the confusion turned to full-blown panic. Violet was dead and gone. She couldn’t be there, taunting him, calling him. He scrambled for the door, rowing against an unseen current, his hands screeching in agony as he slammed them into the wooden floor.

  He had to escape.

  Lettie stared out the kitchen window at the morning sunshine. Bits of dust and flowers floated in the sunbeams streaming into the yard. Somewhere a dog barked, and Marta hummed as she retrieved another batch of biscuits from the big black stove.

  The fresh pot of coffee wasn’t ready yet, and it gave Lettie a convenient excuse to stay downstairs, away from Shane Murphy, for a few extra minutes. He’d looked awful, as though he’d been put into a coffee bean grinder and spat out the other side. With one eye swollen shut, cuts, bruises and stitches covering every inch of his visage, he was almost monstrous.

  She couldn’t even peek at the rest of him. His face was enough to make her want to vomit right alongside him. Lettie had been him once, barely able to move, her mouth so sore she couldn’t do anything but dribble broth through her lips. His very presence brought back painful memories. She had to work hard to keep them at bay.

  “The coffee is ready,” Marta prompted. “Be careful carrying it upst
airs so you don’t burn yourself.”

  Lettie could have told her that burning herself was the smallest of her concerns. At least that would be a real injury, not one lying in wait like a nightmare to pounce on her. She took her time filling two of the large mugs, then added a spoon of sugar to hers. He could drink it black.

  “You are a good girl, liebchen.” Marta smiled at her. The genuine affection in her gaze gave Lettie pause. She had been blessed to find such lovely people, a family, to become a part of. Some days the darkness beat away the light she’d been living in, but Marta’s gentle, loving ways always reminded Lettie of what she had.

  “No, you are a good person, Marta.” Lettie set the mugs on the small table and pulled the startled older woman into a hug. Generally, Lettie touched no one, and no one, except Angeline, touched her. “Thank you for everything.”

  Before she turned into a complete idiot, Lettie retrieved the cups and escaped from the kitchen, not daring to look at Marta’s expression. The hug was a surprise to both of them, and Lettie needed time to figure out exactly why she’d done it. Touching others gave her hives, and she had a strict rule against it. Now she’d gone off and hugged the woman who had become her mother, of sorts, as though it was an everyday occurrence.

  Taking care of Mr. Murphy was turning her into a fool, or maybe the punch to her face had jumbled up her mind enough that she was acting loco. Either way, the strangeness had begun with the man in the bed upstairs.

  A thump from above made her stop in mid-stride.

  She turned to see Karen and Alice, who were currently serving customers, look at her. The waitresses both had their eyebrows raised. If Lettie knew Karen, the thirty-five-year-old was already quizzing Marta about Mr. Murphy, as she was always on the prowl for a new husband. Alice was nosy and too immature to know her elbow from her ear.

  Lettie shrugged at them and continued up, trepidation growing with each step. The upstairs was dead quiet, the only noise the low murmur from the restaurant below. The door to the room where the stranger lay was closed. She had distinctly left it open knowing she would be carrying coffee up. So who had closed it? She set the mugs on the floor beside the door and wiped her hands on her apron.