The Maverick Preacher. Victoria BylinЧитать онлайн книгу.
smell whiskey. If she had, she’d have thrown water in his face and ordered him off her porch. Before meeting Maggie, she’d supported herself by cleaning cafés and saloons, any place that would pay a few coins so she could eat. The smell of liquor had turned her stomach then, and it still did.
Adie worried that the man had been shot, but she didn’t smell blood, only dirt and perspiration. Judging by his horse and the duster, he’d been on the road for a while and had come straight to Swan’s Nest, not from a saloon in the heart of Denver. Maybe he was a drifter or even an outlaw on the run. Adie didn’t rent to men and didn’t want to start now, but her conscience wouldn’t let her close the door.
Neither would her common sense. What if the stranger died? A dead body meant calling the sheriff. Calling the sheriff meant exposing Swan’s Nest to scrutiny. A reporter would show up from the Denver Star. The next thing she knew, she’d be answering questions that came dangerously close to revealing the truth about her son and Maggie Butler. Calling for help, even the doctor, put Adie and her son at risk. She saw only one solution. The man had to wake up and leave. Using all her strength, she rolled him to his back. “Wake up!”
He didn’t stir.
None too gently, she patted his cheek. Black whiskers scraped her palm, another sign of his maleness and time spent on the trail. She pulled back her hand. “Can you hear me?”
Nothing.
The circumstances called for drastic measures. She hurried to the kitchen, filled a glass with water, then opened the high cupboard where she kept smelling salts. She lifted a vial, picked up the glass and went back to the porch. If the ammonia carbonate didn’t wake the man up, she’d splash his face with the water.
Dropping back to her knees, she tried the smelling salts first. They stank worse than rotten eggs.
Her visitor got a whiff and jerked his head to the side. His eyes popped wide, revealing dilated pupils and a sheen of confusion.
“Wake up!” she said again.
He looked at her with more hope than she’d ever seen on a human face. “Emily?”
“I’m not Emily,” Adie replied. “Are you ill or shot?”
He groaned. “I’m not shot.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Not a drop.” His voice faded. “No laudanum, either.”
Why had he added that? Thoughts of opium hadn’t crossed Adie’s mind. “Here,” she said, holding out the water. “This might help.”
He reached for it but couldn’t raise his head. Setting aside her reluctance, she put her arm behind his shoulders and lifted. As he raised his hand to steady the cup, she felt muscles stretch across his back. His shoulder blades jutted against her wrist, reminding her again that he had a physical strength she lacked.
He drained the glass, then blew out a breath. “Thank you, miss.”
She lowered his shoulders to the porch, then rocked back on her knees. “Who are you?”
“No one important.”
Adie needed facts. “What’s your name?”
“Joshua Blue.” He grimaced. “God bless you for your kindness.”
Adie’s lips tightened. Considering how God had “blessed” her in the past, she wanted nothing to do with Him. “I’m not interested in God’s blessing, Mr. Blue. I want you to leave.”
“Blessings aside,” he murmured, “thank you for the water.”
Adie didn’t want to be thanked. She wanted to be rid of him. “Can you stand?”
“I think so.”
“Can you ride?” she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “I came to rent a room.”
“I don’t rent to men.”
“I’ll pay double.”
The money tempted her in a way nothing else could. Before meeting Maggie, Adie had been homeless. She valued a roof and a bed the way rich women valued silver and jewels. It had taken a miracle—and Maggie Butler—to make Swan’s Nest Adie’s home. She owned it. Or more correctly, she owned half of it. Franklin Dean, the new owner of Denver National Bank, held the promissory note Adie had signed with his father. The older man had viewed banking as a way to help hardworking people, but he’d died a month ago. His son lacked the same compassion, and Adie had clashed with him the instant they’d met. They’d done battle again when he’d tried to call on Pearl against the girl’s will.
Adie’s blood boiled at the thought of Dean, all slick and shiny in his black carriage. She’d managed to keep up with her mortgage but not as easily as she’d hoped when she’d signed the papers. Her guests paid what they could and she didn’t ask for more. So far, she’d made ends meet. She’d also served broth and bread for supper when the pantry ran low. No one ever complained.
A few extra dollars would be welcome, but she had to be careful. Swan’s Nest lay on the outskirts of Denver, several blocks from the saloons but close to the trails that led to Wyoming and places notorious for outlaws. Before she rented a room to Joshua Blue, she needed to know more about him. Double the money could mean double the trouble.
“Are you an outlaw?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
Adie wrinkled her brow. Human beings lied all the time. Timothy Long had lied to her in the attic she’d called her room. Reverend Honeycutt had lied to the town. Maggie had been as close as a sister, but even she’d had secrets. Adie studied the man on her porch for signs of deception. In her experience, evil men bragged about their misdeeds. Joshua Blue had offered a humble denial. She took it as a good sign, but she still had to consider Stephen. He’d been born too soon and had almost died. She feared bringing sickness into the house.
“What about your health?” she asked. “If you’re ill—”
His jaw tightened. “If I had the pox, I wouldn’t be here.”
“But you fainted.”
He grunted. “Stupidity on my part.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s honest.”
Looking at his gaunt face, she wondered if he’d passed out from hunger and was too proud to admit it. She’d had that problem herself. Sometimes she still did. If she skipped breakfast to save a few pennies, she got weak-kneed and had to gobble bread and jam. How long had it been since Joshua Blue had eaten a solid meal?
“All right,” she said. “You can stay but only until you’re well.”
“I’d be grateful.”
“It’ll cost you four dollars a week. Can you afford it?”
“That’s more than fair.”
“You’ll get a bed and two meals a day, but your room won’t be as nice as some. It’s small and behind the kitchen.”
“Anything will do.”
Maybe for him, but Adie took pride in her home. She’d learned from Maggie that beauty lifted a woman’s spirits. The upstairs rooms all had pretty quilts and matching curtains Adie had stitched herself. She picked flowers every day and put them in the crystal vases that had come with the house. She thought about brightening up Joshua Blue’s room with a bunch of daisies, then chided herself for being foolish. She had no desire to make this man feel welcome.
“The room’s not fancy,” she said. “But it’s cozy.”
“Thank you, Miss—?”
She almost said “it’s Mrs.” but didn’t. Necessary or not, she hated that lie. “I’m Adie Clarke.”