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  On the second day of her ordeal, she’d opened the wagon-yard gates again. She knew it was her duty to do so. After all, while she couldn’t mend wagon axles or repair broken harnesses like Mr. McMurdo did, she could tend the store, and he would surely expect her to do so. The citizens of Rio Hondo, few in number though they were, relied on McMurdo’s to keep them supplied with candles and kerosene and flour and molasses and so forth. Besides, clerking in his store was what McMurdo was paying her for.

  She’d never agreed to nurse gunshot strangers as part of her employment. Still and all, it was her Christian duty to do so, and Joy was nothing if not a slave to duty.

  “The train runs from Albuquerque back east now, ma’am, so’s this letter won’t be too long in gettin’ to Baltimore,” the wagon driver said.

  Joy knew he was trying to make her feel better, but his assurance only made her heart speed up and her stomach cramp harder. What if she’d done the wrong thing in writing to Miss Gladstone? She should have asked Mr. Perry, she supposed, but he was still so perilously weak. Joy couldn’t make herself burden him with a decision under the circumstances. So she’d made the decision for him, and now she couldn’t stop worrying about it. She said, “Thank you,” because she couldn’t think of anything better to say.

  Jerusalem, she hoped she’d done the right thing. She felt very low as the wagon driver tipped his hat again, and drove off through the gates. She waved at him, and then felt silly. Waving good-bye to someone seemed like such a Massachusetts thing to do. It didn’t seem frontiersy at all. The man smiled and waved back, however, and she felt a little better.

  With dragging feet, she made her way back into Mr. McMurdo’s house to check on her patient. He’d been shot five days ago, and it seemed to her that he was finally showing signs of improvement. At least she didn’t fret about him dying on her any longer. That was a relief for several reasons.

  For one thing, she really wanted to walk up to the Spring River and pick some asparagus and try to catch a couple of fish. She needed a small break from her nursing duties, which had consumed her life from the moment Mr. McMurdo had left her to them.

  For another thing, and on a more practical note, she didn’t know how she’d get rid of the remains if he were to pass on while under her care. She didn’t know anybody else in town—not that there were very many people in town—whom she could call upon to help her bury it.

  The mere thought of a corpse rotting on that bed for days and days until Mr. McMurdo came back made her feel sick. The only people she’d seen in Rio Hondo besides Mr. McMurdo and his customers were cowboys sent in from nearby ranches, the surly telegraph operator Henry Wiggins—and she didn’t want to ask him—and the people who worked in the Pecos Saloon. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t—ask anyone at the Pecos Saloon to help her. She’d rather die herself than set one foot inside the vile establishment. She was sure her mother’s spirit would send a storm of locusts down from the heavens to nibble her to death if she dared do such a thing.

  She also didn’t know if Mr. Perry belonged to any particular religious faith. She doubted it. If, however, he should be, for example, a Baptist, she wouldn’t have any idea what sorts of prayers to recite over the grave. If she could get a grave dug in the first place.

  Aside from all that, she already had serious doubts about herself and her nursing abilities. If Mr. Perry should die, she’d feel sure she’d done something wrong in caring for him. As it was, she was in a state of nervous excitement all day long, fearing she’d somehow damage him. Every time she had to change his bandages, she went through the torments of hell.

  Of course, this was partly due to the indelicacy inherent in such an activity. Mr. Perry’s naked body was enough to make a gently reared female faint dead away, even one who, like Joy, had been trained in nursing. Imagine a maiden lady peering at a man’s naked thigh, much less putting her hands on it! And his thigh wasn’t the only unseemly part of his body in view when she had to change his bandages, either. The mere thought made her blush. Yet she’d done it, and done it well, for five whole days now, and she felt a certain satisfaction in knowing it. Mr. Perry was getting better, and it was partly, at least a little bit, due to her good nursing.

  “And God’s grace,” she added conscientiously before taking a deep breath and venturing into the back room again. She found Elijah Perry scowling at the door. Her heart executed a crazy plunge, she fought the urge to turn around and run away, and she wondered—for at least the thousandth time—if she was truly cut out for the nursing life. Perhaps it was a good thing after all that Mr. Thrash had left her behind.

  Her hands began to wring each other of their own accord in response to her anxiety. “Is there something the matter, Mr. Perry?”

  “Oh, no,” he said in the most sarcastic tone she’d ever heard. She frowned in reaction. “Nothing’s the matter. I’ve just been shot all to hell, I’m stuck in this room and unable to move, and I can’t even see outdoors. I can’t tell if it’s raining or snowing or sunny out there. Can’t you open the damned curtains at least?”

  “Please don’t swear at me, Mr. Perry.” Joy used her most severe manner, borrowed from what she remembered of her mother. She was proud that her voice didn’t shake. In truth, this man frightened her—which merely pointed out another one of her myriad flaws. The fellow was helpless, for heaven’s sake; there was no reason she should fear him. Except that she was a moral coward. What a depressing thought.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Hardesty.” His voice conveyed no contrition at all. “But can you please open the blessed curtains so that some blessed sunlight can get in. It’s blessed dismal in here.”

  “My mother always advised me to keep the draperies drawn during the sunlight hours, Mr. Perry.”

  “Why? Did she think gloom was good for recovering patients?”

  Joy frowned harder. “Not at all. She always kept the draperies drawn so as not to fade the furniture and carpets.”

  She saw him roll his eyes, and irritation bloomed in her bosom.

  “Damn it, ma’am, I distinctly recall that Mac had the curtains open in this room before my . . . accident. If he doesn’t give a crap about his furniture and rugs fading, I can’t imagine why your mother should.”

  Furious, Joy snapped, “Nevertheless, I shall keep the curtains closed.” It didn’t matter what he wanted anyway, because she was the only one in this house able to get around. A smug sense of triumph soothed her irritated nerves. She knew it was sinful of her to take pleasure in Mr. Perry’s incapacity. She did it anyway.

  “Blast it, Miss Hardesty, your mother isn’t here, and I am, and I sure as the devil won’t fade.”

  “You might not fade, Mr. Perry, but Mr. McMurdo left his home and business establishment under my care. I may not do the job as well as he does, but I’m trying.”

  “You sure as hell are.”

  Joy frowned again, and her sense of triumph crumpled. Since he was undoubtedly a master at trivial conversation, she decided not to bandy barbs with him, but turned to tidy up the medicines she’d laid out on the top of Mr. McMurdo’s dressing table.

  “I suppose you’re just like your mother,” Elijah muttered at her back.

  “I shall never be the woman my mother was, Mr. Perry, but I’m try—that is to say, I attempt every day to live up to her memory.” Joy sniffed, something her mother was wont to do when aggrieved, which was most of the time. “My mother was a wonderful housekeeper.”

  “Was she.”

  “Yes. And she always kept the draperies shut.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet she did.”

  She turned around and glared at him. “That’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”

  He squinted at her. “What are you talking about now?”

  “Betting!” she said triumphantly, pleased by her own cleverness. “Your sinful life has led you to this pass, Mr. Perry, and don’t you forget it. I should think you’d welcome advice from a person of my mother’s caliber.”
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br />   “My sinful life,” he grumbled, as if too disgusted to argue. “Cripes.”

  “My mother was a saint, Mr. Perry. Everyone said so.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “You don’t see me in your predicament, do you?” She peeked at him over her shoulder.

  “No, ma’am.” It didn’t sound as though he considered it much to Joy’s credit. He scratched his chin. “I don’t suppose you can bring me a basin so I can shave myself.”

  “Don’t be any more foolish than you can manage to be, Mr. Perry. You’re in no condition to shave yourself. I’m sure you couldn’t hold a razor if you tried, and you certainly couldn’t balance a basin of water on your lap or handle the shaving cream.”

  “Well, dammit, my chin itches. I’m uncomfortable enough without itching to death, too.”

  Joy drew herself up straight and folded her hands primly. “If you’re truly uncomfortable with your beard, I shall be glad to shave you, Mr. Perry.”

  He squinted at her. “You? What do you know about shaving a man?”

  It sounded to Joy as if Mr. Perry couldn’t imagine her within fifty feet of a man. She wished she could find fault with his reasoning, but she couldn’t. She could, however, set him straight. “I took an extensive course in nursing in Boston. The teachers had us practice shaving patients, since many men seem to find a growing beard uncomfortable.”

  He looked at her doubtfully. “I don’t know . . .”

  “Of course, if you prefer, I shall be happy to let your beard grow. When your bullet wounds begin to heal, I’m sure their itching will take your mind off the itching on your chin.” She gave him a tight smile and thought, So there. She knew she was being childish.

  “You’re mean as a cat, you know that, Miss Hardesty?”

  “I didn’t know that cats were particularly mean, Mr. Perry.”

  “Yeah. That doesn’t surprise me. But they like torturing helpless animals, too.”

  “I am not torturing you! I’m attempting to help you get better, and I resent your implication.”

  “It’s no implication, ma’am. It’s a statement of fact.”

  “Fine.” Indignation swelled within her, and Joy would have taken great pleasure in thumping Mr. Elijah Perry with one of his pillows. Since she couldn’t do such a thing, she turned on her heel and resumed tidying up his room. Jerusalem, what an ungrateful, peevish man!

  She tried her best to ignore him—which was not unlike trying to ignore a hippopotamus that had found its way into the room—but at last his grunts and groans became too loud to ignore. When she turned around and found him grimacing horribly and with his feet on the floor, she shrieked, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting up.” Perspiration poured from his forehead. Joy could see from across the room that he was in agony. The muscles in his arms quivered like the jellied aspic that used to swim around her mother’s ham loaf. It had always made her sick, and she’d been sure her distaste was further indication of her basic badness.

  She raced to the bed. “Lie back down this minute, Mr. Perry! You mustn’t jar your wounds this way!”

  “Dammit, I want some light in here. I’m bored. I want to read my book.”

  “You couldn’t hold a book if you wanted to! I’ll read to you, if you want entertainment.”

  “I don’t want to hear the damned Bible. I want something interesting.”

  “Don’t you dare use profanity in reference to the Bible!”

  “Let go of me, dammit! I need some light. I’m turning into a mushroom lying here in the dark.”

  Frustrated and worried almost to death that he’d die because she was being stubborn, Joy cried, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I’ll open the curtains. Just lie still.”

  He collapsed on the bed as if he’d been holding out for this. His legs still dangled over the side. Joy waited, but he didn’t lift them.

  “Get back into bed, Mr. Perry,” she commanded severely.

  “I can’t move anymore,” he whimpered, sounding as if took his last faint ounce of energy to do so.

  “Well, you can’t simply lie there like that.”

  “I’ll lift ‘em in a minute. After I recover.”

  “You wouldn’t be in this fix if you hadn’t been so obstreperous.”

  “I wouldn’t be in this fix if you weren’t such a sour apple.”

  Joy ripped the curtain open, and its wooden rings made a loud racket against the curtain rod. Although she was embarrassed about having made so much noise, she didn’t want to give Mr. Perry the satisfaction of knowing it, so she ripped the second curtain back the same way. A sour apple was she? Well, maybe she was, but she knew her duty as a Christian.

  Still, she didn’t like seeing his naked legs hanging outside of the bedclothes that way. She wished he’d cover himself. Exhausted or not, a decent man would do his best to hide his nudity in front of a maiden lady.

  Mr. Perry had very hairy legs. They were exceptionally muscular, too, and looking at them made Joy feel . . . something. She wasn’t sure what emotion they evoked, but it wasn’t one she’d felt before. It was one thing to view a man’s naked extremities when one had to do so in the pursuit of one’s nursing vocation. It was another thing to see them on other occasions.

  Oh, dear. She turned around and realized light from the window now poured into the room. She could see those long hairy legs of his even more clearly than before.

  Her mother had disparaged her father so often in Joy’s hearing that Joy seldom sought memories of him when she was in need. She did so today, however. As she busied herself with preparing Elijah Perry’s shaving gear whilst endeavoring to ignore Elijah Perry’s legs, she recited some scripture to herself. Her father had been used to reciting verses when he was upset.

  The seventh chapter of the Song of Solomon tiptoed into her mind. How beautiful are thy feet . . .

  No, no, no. That one would never do.

  Annoyed with herself, Joy backtracked and began silently reciting the Forty-seventh Psalm. It had been one of her father’s favorites, and Joy liked it too, even though she was sure she shouldn’t. Her mother had sniffed and said it reminded her of the Holy Rollers, but Joy’s mother wasn’t here, and Joy said it to herself anyway.

  O clap your hands, all ye people.; shout unto God with the voice of triumph. For the Lord most high is terrible; he is a great King over all the earth. He shall subdue the people under us, and the nations under our feet.

  His feet were long and slender. Joy had seen calluses on his soles.

  She shook herself mentally and forced her mind back into her Psalm. He shall choose our inheritance for us, the excellency of Jacob whom he loved. Selah.

  Selah. Joy loved that word. With a sigh, she turned with her tray full of shaving gear.

  There were Elijah Perry’s legs, hanging over the side of the bed, big as life, as he lay on his pillow with his eyes shut. She couldn’t stand it another moment longer. With a combination of fury and fear raging inside her, she deposited her tray on Mr. McMurdo’s dressing table with a clatter. “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’ll help you get back under the covers.”

  Elijah looked exhausted. At Joy’s exclamation, he opened one eye and had the audacity to grin at her. “Can’t take it, huh? Too much man for you, am I?”

  Joy felt herself get hot and hoped she wouldn’t perspire. She hated perspiring out here because dust clung to the sweat, and it was bothersome to have to wash five or six times a day, especially when one had to pump that hard, hard water. It formed such a crust on the cooking utensils that Joy had taken to using vinegar on them to dissolve the mineral deposits. Frowning to let Elijah know his wit wasn’t appreciated, she said, “Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Perry.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He truly sounded as though he found it difficult to speak. When she lifted his legs, Joy felt his muscles tense and heard his sharp intake of breath. She knew how much it must hurt him to have his wounds jostled in this manner. It was his own fault, thou
gh, and she tried not to feel sorry for him. Her mother would never have spared any sympathy for a wicked transgressor like Elijah Perry. Joy wished she’d inherited her mother’s strength of spirit instead of her father’s soft heart.

  After she’d settled him under the covers, she said, “I shall now fetch your shaving gear—if you believe I can be trusted not to cut your throat with the razor.”

  She noticed that Elijah Perry’s eyes could twinkle almost as devilishly as Alexander McMurdo’s and wasn’t surprised. They were both wretched sinners.

  All at once she wondered why sinners should have all the fun in life. Immediately she shoved the question aside. Such random thoughts were indications that Satan was here, in this room, working away at her resolution. With a sigh, she wished her faith were stronger.

  “Thank you for opening the curtains, Miss Hardesty,” Elijah said faintly.

  She pursed her lips, surprised that he’d bothered to thank her. “You’re welcome.”

  She hated knowing she’d given in and done something of which her mother wouldn’t have approved.

  She hated it even more when sunlight poured into the room and made everything seem bright and cheerful. It wasn’t fair of God to make Elijah Perry’s suggestion seem right.

  It occurred to Joy in that moment that nothing in life was fair.

  Chapter Five

  “After you’ve been shaved, I shall read some passages from the Bible. Then I shall read to you from your—” Joy took a deep breath. “—novel.” She endowed the word novel with all the contempt she’d been taught to feel for works of fiction.

  “What’s the matter, Miss Hardesty? Are you one of those folks who think novels are wicked?”

  Elijah cocked one eyebrow, which gave him an ironical look that Joy didn’t appreciate. She sniffed. “My mother believed novels to be works of the devil, Mr. Perry.”

  “Actually, I think this one’s the work of a gent named Wilkie Collins.” His voice was as dry as the weather.

  Joy sniffed again. “You know what I mean and are merely attempting to be clever. Novels are frivolous. They’re not at all educational, and they promote sloth and indolence.”