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  For a moment, Joy felt circumstances overwhelm her. She dropped her head into her hands and wished she were dead.

  Why, oh why, did she have to be so irresolute and incompetent? She reminded herself of Nicodemus, the fellow who dared visit Christ only by night so that he wouldn’t be condemned by his fellow Pharisees. Her mother had detested Nicodemus, calling him a lily-livered coward. Not for Mrs. Hardesty the comfort of sneaking around like a thief in the night, disguising her true colors or hiding her faith.

  For instance, Joy’s mother would never have let Alexander McMurdo’s genial disposition and soft speech weaken her determination. Mrs. Hardesty would have remained resolute in the face of Mr. McMurdo’s benevolence and dealt with him like the corrupt man he was. And her mother certainly wouldn’t have allowed Elijah Perry to get the better of her in a battle of words—never in a million years. Her mother would not have let him cow her or make her feel guilty for demonstrating her repudiation of his wicked ways. Drinking and gambling! They were the devil’s work, and Joy’s mother would have told him so.

  Nobody had ever dared talk back to Joy’s mother the way people did to Joy. Joy’s mother couldn’t be intimidated. Mrs. Hardesty had known herself to be right. Besides, her mother had been a saint. Everybody said so. No one had ever dared talk back to her. No one disconcerted Mrs. George Quincy Hardesty; particularly not the late Reverend Mr. George Quincy Hardesty or his mousy daughter, Joy.

  With a sigh, Joy’s thoughts turned to her father. He’d been a weak-willed, ineffectual, irresolute man, according to Joy’s mother, and Joy had never even thought about contradicting her. It was a shame he hadn’t possessed more backbone. He hadn’t and he was, therefore, an unworthy vessel to have attempted to spread God’s Word. By the time he had shuffled off this mortal coil Joy, who had been used when she was very small to run to him for comfort from her mother’s caustic tongue, had thoroughly despised him.

  Her mother, though . . . Her mother had truly been a saint. Everybody knew it. Even Joy did, although she invariably had to suppress a shudder when she thought about it, knowing as she did so that she herself was wicked beyond redemption.

  Joy feared she took after her father. In fact, she was so unsure of herself that half the time she felt as though her insides had frozen solid. She never knew what to do. Or what not to do. If only her mother were still alive to guide her. Joy’s mother had criticized her constantly for her lack of resolution, but she’d always been there to tell Joy what to do.

  These men, for instance. In truth, Joy didn’t even know them. Therefore, she felt uncomfortable despising them. She knew, however, because of the things her mother had taught her, that they exhibited all the trappings of evil-doers. If she possessed her mother’d determination, she could have shown them, through her own strength of spirit, the error of their ways.

  Joy hadn’t done any such thing. Then, to compound her sins of omission and commission, she’d felt bad about her failure to judge and even worse about having been rude. This was no way to get on in life. Joy knew it, and she couldn’t seem to help herself. Twenty-five years old, and already she was a disaster through and through.

  Then there was the problem of Alexander McMurdo. For heaven’s sake, the man smoked, drank, and swore. Any one of those behaviors was enough to condemn him to eternal damnation according to the principles by which Joy had been reared. Yet he’d been so kind to Joy when she’d needed kindness most that she had a very hard time disapproving of him. Which only went to point out Joy’s own inadequacies. Her mother would have said that what Joy perceived as kindness was merely frosting over filth, and that Joy was a fool to look upon him as anything more or less than a tool of the devil.

  There are no two ways about it, Joy Hardesty. Either you follow the straight and narrow path, or you don’t.

  Yes, Mother.

  At the moment, Joy was filled with such dreadful confusion couldn’t see any path at all, straight and narrow or otherwise. She felt like a machine whose gears had rusted in place. Half the time, she couldn’t even get her motor to whir. She was very depressed.

  “Miss Hardesty, if it isn’t too much trouble, could we have another round of beer over here.”

  Joy’s head snapped up, and she frowned automatically at the word beer, which she had been taught from the cradle was wicked. Although she guessed this was another opportunity lost—her mother would have taken it to give these men a gentle lecture on the evils of drinking—she said only, “Certainly.” She said it disagreeably to make up for her lack of resolution, then felt small-minded and puritanical. She wouldn’t blame anyone for not welcoming the Lord into his heart if all of God’s emissaries were like her.

  Feeling even more discouraged than usual, she fetched the tray she used to carry dishes and waded into the hazy blue fog of cigar smoke surrounding the card table. The acrid smoke made her throat close up and her eyes water, but she did her job. This was a duty set out by her employer. She figured she could at least fulfill this function, even if her mother was surely frowning down at her in censure from her heavenly home and instructing Saint Peter to refuse her daughter admission through the Pearly Gates when the time came for Joy to knock at them.

  She sighed heavily, and only realized how foolish she’d been to do so when smoke choked her lungs.

  Quickly she snatched up the empty beer mugs and carted them to the back room. Once there, she realized she had no idea whose beer mug was whose. Then she thought it didn’t matter. Those men out there were nothing but evil rogues who didn’t deserve clean glasses.

  Then she decided her thought had been a sinful one, and that she was shirking her duty to behave as a Christian, no matter what her circumstances. Turning the other cheek or something like that.

  Then she remembered her mother’s injunction against consorting with low company.

  Then the thought occurred to her that, although those men were gambling, they might not be all bad—a shocking notion she’d heard her father suggest once or twice in her mother’s presence, rather timidly.

  Then the memory of her mother’s voice fairly shrieked at her not to be Satan’s dupe.

  Then she shook her head and told herself to stop thinking. She was no good at it, and thinking only confused her. What she should do was pray for the good Lord to guide her. Maybe one of these days, He’d clear up all this perplexity for her. She hoped so, anyway.

  So she washed the glasses, dried them, and refilled them. Beer smelled truly awful, she decided as her nose wrinkled. With another deep sigh—her lungs hurt from all the cigar smoke—she hefted the tray. It was heavier now, what with the four filled beer mugs balanced on it. With a sinking heart, she headed for the front room again.

  # # #

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Cooper?”

  Cooper looked at his inquisitor, a cowboy named Grant Davis, and frowned. “What the devil do you mean, what the hell do I think I’m doing, Davis?”

  Davis slammed his handful of cards down on the table. “I meant what I said, dammit. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Elijah didn’t like this. He’d felt uncomfortable ever since this game started, and he felt even more uncomfortable now. Something ugly hovered in the air tonight, and it wasn’t only Joy Hardesty’s self-righteousness.

  “Now boys,” he said lightly. “Let’s not argue.”

  “To hell with that shit,” snarled Davis. “I say he’s cheatin’.”

  Elijah slid a glance at the ceiling in what was, for him, a prayer of sorts. Then he said, even more lightly, “Now, now. Let’s not be hasty.”

  “Hasty, my ass. Nobody calls me a cheater and gets away with it.” Cooper slammed his own hand on the table. He scowled at Davis, who scowled back.

  The fourth man in the game, an amiable fellow named Pete Walker, pushed his chair back as though trying to distance himself from the blossoming hostilities. Elijah didn’t blame him, although he felt sort of responsible in the present circumstances. After
all, he was the professional gambler in the group. Also, he didn’t want a fight to break out in the store and bust up McMurdo’s merchandise.

  “Yeah?” said Davis, more belligerent now. “What the hell do you aim to do about it, Cooper? I’m callin’ you a cheater, ‘cause you’re a damn cheater, and I know it.”

  “Damn your eyes, Davis! You can go straight to hell.”

  “Okay, boys, let’s calm down now,” Elijah murmured. He tried to pitch his voice to a soothing timbre.

  Neither of the combatants noticed. Pete Walker shoved his chair farther out, stood up, and began edging away from the argument. He didn’t say a word, but his gaze darted between the two men, and he looked scared.

  “I ain’t goin’ to hell, Cooper. You’re the cheater, and you’re goin’ to hell.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe you’d like to join me there, Davis.”

  Oh, hell. Elijah saw Davis reach for his gun a split second after Cooper reached for his. Elijah grabbed for Davis, intending to shove him out of the way of a bullet.

  Cooper’s bullet hit Elijah on his upper arm, sending a jolt of pain through him and making him jog Grant Davis’s gun hand. Davis, disconcerted by the noise and Elijah’s shove and bellow of pain, pulled the trigger.

  Elijah felt a second bullet strike his thigh. He spun around as his leg crumpled under him. A third bullet—he never did know from whose gun that one came—struck him in the ribs. He thought he heard one of them crack in the heartbeat’s worth of time it took for his brain to register the disaster that had befallen him.

  Damn. One of the last things he thought before the pain overwhelmed his senses and he passed out was that he hoped somebody would post his letter to Virginia. He wished he’d left a note or something asking that his grandfather’s watch be sent to her, too.

  The very last thing he heard was the terrible crash of breaking glass, one more shot, and a woman’s high-pitched scream. He welcomed unconsciousness as a relief from that piercing shriek.

  Chapter Three

  “But you can’t just go away!”

  “Shhhh. Best lower your voice and give the poor lad some peace and quiet, lass. He needs it.”

  That was unquestionably true, but Joy couldn’t take it in right now. Mr. McMurdo had, only a moment before, told her he was leaving her, alone, in charge of a man who might die at any second, and her wits had gone quite distracted. Heavenly days, how in the world was she supposed to cope if Mr. McMurdo just up and left her? It was unthinkable.

  She pressed a hand to her head, disarranging her carefully pinned-up braids. “I’ll give him peace and quiet!” she said less stridently, but with not a whit less sincerity. “But you can’t simply go away and leave me to nurse him all by myself! You can’t!”

  Although Mr. McMurdo’s wrinkled face appeared thoughtful through his whiskers—somber, even—his twinkly blue eyes looked like they were laughing at her. Joy didn’t appreciate it at all. That man lying on the bed in Mr. McMurdo’s spare room might well die, for the love of mercy. Mr. McMurdo couldn’t simply abandon her here with him.

  “Pisht, lass, ye’ll do fine. I dug out the bullets and stitched and patched him up. I even used some of my own special, home-made medicine. There’s plenty of it left in the cupboard to daub on the wounds when you have to change his bandages. And that willow-bark concoct114 €ion will serve him fine if he turns feverish. And there’s laudanum in the cupboard yonder.

  “The poor fellow mostly needs sleep to heal in, you know, and you can surely give him that. His body will do the rest, with the help of those medicaments, God’s grace, and your gentle nursing. That good chicken soup will do the lad a world of good when he can take some, and you can find asparagus growing wild up by the river. And there’s plenty of fish there, too.” He nodded. “Fresh vegetables, fish. That’s what the lad’ll be needin’ when he can eat solid food again. In the meantime, he can drink the soup.”

  “If the good Lord wills it,” Joy said mechanically, without really meaning it.

  “Of course,” McMurdo murmured. “But I’d try the chicken soup anyway.”

  Joy saw him smile. She couldn’t think of one single solitary thing amusing about this situation. In truth, while she knew she wasn’t a particularly sterling person, she wondered what she’d done to deserve this brand of revenge. It seemed too hard; too cruel.

  She began to wring her hands. She didn’t have any idea what Mr. Perry needed, but she had a strong feeling it was more than chicken soup and fresh vegetables. And, unlike her mother, Joy didn’t have a direct connection to God. She didn’t know what He had in mind for the poor sinner lying unconscious on that bed, but she feared she was a poor excuse for an attendant by which to do it.

  “Oh, Mr. McMurdo, please! Please don’t leave me alone with him. What if he should take a turn for the worse in spite of your chicken soup and medicine?”

  “I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt to read the good Lord’s word aloud to him.”

  “Read the good . . .?” This time she knew he was amusing himself at her expense because he winked and grinned. She resented his attitude, and wondered if she were wicked to do so. Probably.

  She thought of something else. “But where will I sleep? He’s on the only bed in the back room.”

  “I’ll set up a cot for you in the room with the lad, Joy. Ye’ll be fine.”

  “You expect me to sleep in the same room with him?”

  “Shhh, lass.” Mr. McMurdo seemed to have to struggle to contain his merriment. Joy wanted to scream. “The poor boy’s in much too bad shape to take advantage o’ ye, lass.”

  “I suppose so.” She frowned, and knew she should be putting up a stronger resistance. If only her mother were here. “Oh, but—”

  “Joy, m’dear, there’s truly no impropriety in the sleeping arrangements. The only thing you have to worry about is poor Mr. Perry. If the worst happens, well, if there’s one thing you can do to a turn, it’s pray over a body. If the poor fellow slips his hold on this world, ye’re the best-qualified lady in the territory to pray him into the next, unless I miss my guess.”

  Joy was pretty sure the old man didn’t mean his assessment of her qualifications as a compliment. She might have taken him to task if terror hadn’t submerged her mother’s principles inside of her and rendered her speechless. A soft groan from the insensible patient lying on the bed behind them made panic bubble up in her like boiling water. To her horror, she felt tears sting her eyes. Her mother would have been appalled. Joy was pretty appalled herself, but for a different reason.

  Speech returned in a heartbeat. “But, Mr. McMurdo, I’m not qualified! Not as a doctor. I don’t know what to do for gunshot wounds. Truly, you might be jeopardizing the poor man’s life by leaving him in my care.”

  He winked again.

  Joy stamped her foot. “Stop that! I’m telling the truth! It’s not fair to him to leave him with only me to watch over him.”

  “Tut, tut, child. Whilst you were sick, your friend Mr. Thrash told me you’d taken an intensive course of nursing in Boston.”

  “Well, yes. Yes, I did, but I didn’t expect to have to use my skills all by myself. I expected to have someone supervising me. At least at first.” Jerusalem! Without somebody at her back telling her what to do, Joy was good for nothing; her mother had told her so over and over and over. She’d never done anything all by herself in her whole life. She’d always had a strong presence behind her, pushing her, scolding her, giving her intricate instructions. How could she function alone?

  Already she felt paralysis creeping over her. Her limbs felt like lead, her brain functions had congealed; she couldn’t think; she was afraid to act. Mr. McMurdo couldn’t leave her here to handle this crisis alone!

  “Nonsense, child. You’re as competent as the next person. More, probably. You merely have no confidence in yourself, but this experience will give it to you. You’ll see how well you do. I trust you to do a wonderful job. You’ve had more medical training than most folks who pa
ss themselves off as doctors here in the territory, I’ll warrant.”

  But they’d had practice in their craft and trusted themselves. No matter how many complimentary words Mr. McMurdo used to make her feel better, Joy knew she was worthless without supervision. She didn’t know how to say so, but only pleaded with her eyes. Her voiceless plea did as much good as her verbal ones had.

  “If you found yourself under other circumstances with a wounded person, wouldn’t you try to help even if there was nobody else around to assist you?”

  “Well, of course. If there was no alternative.”

  “There. You see? Of course you would.”

  “But this is different!”

  Mr. McMurdo reached into the cupboard and withdrew a pouch of tobacco which he tossed into the bag he’d been packing. “Your Mr. Thrash said you were prepared to nurse the natives in South America. Is poor Mr. Perry over there worth less than a jungle full of natives you’ve never met?”

  Yes, Joy’s brain shrieked. It did so silently, because Joy suspected she’d be showing herself up as a hypocrite if she said the word aloud. Jerusalem! To be thwarted in this manner by an old rogue like Alexander McMurdo maddened her. If only her mother were here. Her mother would know what to do.

  “But—but Mr. Thrash had special medicines made in Boston for his expedition, Mr. McMurdo. He was prepared for all sorts of contingencies. I—I don’t have anything with me here.”

  “Ah, but I do, lass. Ye’ll do fine.”

  At once, a vision of her mother standing toe to toe with Alexander McMurdo entered Joy’s head and made her heart spasm painfully. What a dreadful confrontation that would be. The thought made her cringe, and in an abrupt about-face, she decided she was glad her mother wasn’t here. That poor man on the bed might die, but at least Joy wouldn’t have to endure his death and her mother’s condemnation both.

  No matter what happened to Elijah Perry, in her mother’s eyes it would be Joy’s fault. Unless he recovered. Then it would be God’s merciful will. Joy narrowed her eyes as the injustice of those judgments played at the corner of her brain. She didn’t dwell on it because there was no time and she was so frightened.