Chapter 3
Chloe felt like she was floating on the surface of a pond as slow, gentle waves shifted her this way and that. She couldn’t move, her body lethargic and heavy, so much so that she wondered why she didn’t sink beneath the surface.
She heard odd sounds that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once, sometimes in the murmur of soft voices though she couldn’t make sense of what was said. She focused and tried to wake up and open her eyes, but she couldn’t manage it. Her body thrummed with pain.
A hand settled on her shoulder and murmured something that sounded garbled.
Where was she? What had happened? She didn’t remember anything but being on a stagecoach, so tired it was hard to keep her eyes open.
The next thing she recalled was … was sitting on a man’s lap on the back of a horse? What kind of dream what this?
“You’re going to be all right,” the voice said, coupled with another gentle pat on her shoulder. “You just rest easy. You’re safe and you’re going to be all right.”
Well of course she was. Why wouldn’t she be? Then the pain returned in waves, mostly originating in her head. She sank once more into the darkness, and sometime later fought her way back up to the surface again. She tried to open her eyes, to make sense of her pain and confusion.
“That’s right, open your eyes, Chloe.”
Even the small frown she managed prompted a thrumming in her head, a painful throbbing that seemed to keep pace with her heartbeat. She struggled to open her eyes but couldn’t quite manage it.
She moved her hands, her fingers finding something soft beneath them. Her eyelids felt so heavy, as if something weighed them down. Wan light made its way past her eyelids and she managed to open them for a moment, completely confused by what she saw.
The room seemed to undulate around her, as if she were on a small boat in a windswept sea. Her stomach turned. She closed her eyes again, waiting for the odd sensations to settle.
She tried again, and this time when she opened her eyes, she focused on a window on the far wall, light oozing through it, a tree beyond, leaves rustling gently in a breeze.
Her vision clarified until she realized she was in a bedroom.
Her heart skipped a beat and fear rushed through her. Where was she? What happened?
“You’re all right, dear,” a voice said.
She turned her head and gasped with the pain the movement caused.
“Oh,” her voice sounded odd to her ears.
She tried to lift her hand to put it to her aching head but couldn’t manage it.
As the pain dissipated slightly, she opened her eyes again and found herself looking at an older woman who sat in a chair beside the bed, leaning toward her with a kind smile.
“Who …”
“My name is Dalia. Dalia Cross.” The woman’s smile broadened. “You’re in a room in my boarding house. You’re safe, but you took a bad fall and bumped your head when the stagecoach was attacked.”
Boarding house? The stagecoach was attacked? She was injured? “I don’t … understand.”
“You don’t remember?”
Chloe started to shake her head, but the resulting pain prompted her to still. She blinked again, carefully moving her gaze about the room. Boarding house? As her senses began to return and her thoughts to clear a bit, she noted the room she was in was small but nicely appointed.
She knew for a certainty she lay on a soft, comfortable bed.
Her fingers moved and she felt quilted stitching beneath them.
The whitewashed plank walls appeared neat and clean.
The woman sat in the chair between her and the wall wore burgundy calico with a scooped white collar and cuffs edged with crocheted scallops.
She appeared to be middle-aged, her dark brown hair riddled with strands of gray.
Her skin was smooth and her brown eyes kind as they gazed at her.
“Where am I?” Chloe asked, still confused.
“You’re in Cedar Bluff,” the woman replied. “The stagecoach you were on was attacked by outlaws. My son, the sheriff of our town, found you and brought you here.”
Cedar Bluff! Bits and pieces came back to her in a rush.
She’d left Nebraska nearly a week ago, headed south on a roundabout route down into the Texas panhandle.
She couldn’t remember the accident though.
She sighed, so tired she could hardly think straight.
“I don’t …” Her body hurt, her head pounded, and confusion made it difficult for her to keep track of her thoughts.
“You don’t worry about anything, Chloe,” the woman said.
“How … how do you know my name?”
“You told my son your name while he rode back to town with you on his horse.” She paused. “You don’t remember any of that?”
“No,” Chloe murmured, trying to lift her hand to touch her head. “Hurts,” she muttered.
“You rest, and in a little while I’ll bring you some soup if you feel up to eating something, all right?”
Her eyelids already growing heavy, Chloe barely managed the tiniest of nods before her eyelids dropped and she was swept once again into oblivion. The next time she opened her eyes, the room was almost dark. The chair between the bed and the wall that the woman had sat on earlier was empty.
This time when she woke however, the room didn’t spin or wobble.
Even so, she carefully turned her head toward a circle of light reflected on the ceiling, then toward the other side of the bed.
She winced as she looked at the glowing porcelain lamp on a table by the bed.
She then startled when she spied a man sitting in a small, stuffed armchair that looked much too small for his tall frame, one leg crossed over the other, reading a newspaper.
Heart pounding, she dug her hands into the coverlet for several moments as she stared. All she could really see of him was a scuffed boot and two sun-browned hands holding the paper open, and then a glimpse of brownish-black hair.
She must’ve made a sound because suddenly the newspaper lowered and she found herself looking into the calm brown eyes of a quite handsome man with sun-darkened skin, a day or two’s growth of whiskers straggling across lean cheeks and jaw, and lips that curved into a satisfied grin.
“So you’re awake.”
His voice was deep and slightly gravelly and yet soft.
She watched as he quickly folded the newspaper and tossed it onto the floor beside the chair.
With a nod of satisfaction, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying her.
She felt incredibly self-conscious. For the first time she wished she could remember how she’d gotten here, who had put her in this bed, and more importantly, what she was wearing beneath the covers.
“What …” She carefully turned her head to look up at the ceiling once more, trying to gather her thoughts. Her vision was clearer now, and her thoughts were gaining clarity as well. With feigned bravery, she turned back to the man. “Who are you?”
“Nathaniel Cross,” he replied. “Sheriff Nathaniel Cross. You took a good knock on the head, but I brought you back to town.”
She frowned until doing so caused her head to pound once more.
Now she recalled why that name seemed so familiar.
She didn’t like the way he was staring at her, his eyes moving slowly over her face and along the length of her on the bed.
She glanced down, relieved that yes, she was indeed under the covers though her arms were exposed.
Long nightgown sleeves covered her arms and ended in a ruffle at her wrists.
It was a moment later that she realized she didn’t have such a nice nightgown as this.
“My mother owns and runs this boarding house,” he said. “And in case you’re wondering, you’re wearing my sister’s nightgown.”
He seemed to have no trouble talking about unmentionables, but even so, her cheeks grew warm at his bluntness. She was in someone else’s nightgown. That meant someone had undressed her. But who—
“I brought you here from the scene of a stagecoach accident a few miles east of town. You remember?”
She recalled being told but couldn’t remember what had happened.
She swallowed, tried to pull her gaze from his brown-eyed gaze so steady on her.
“I …” She paused, still confused, but the more he stared at her, the more she recalled a vague image of his face peering down at her, telling her that everything was going to be all right.
“You understand what I’m saying?”
His tone curious or perhaps a bit worried, she wasn’t sure how to answer. Her head continued to throb but she didn’t feel quite as exhausted as she had before. Then, in a burst of lucidity came bits of memory, flashes of images and sounds racing through her mind, one after another.
Gunfire. Shouts. The scream of frightened horses, the creak of the stagecoach as it bounced over rough ground, throwing her from the bench seat. She remembered feeling a sharp pain in her head as she tumbled to the floor …
“Yes,” she murmured.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
She swallowed, realizing for the first time how thirsty she was.
He must’ve noticed because he glanced toward the other corner of the room where a small table stood.
Atop a doily were a cream-colored basin and pitcher painted with faint pink roses, and a glass beside it.
A small towel hung from a nail or wooden peg on the wall beside it.
An oval, wood-framed mirror hung above, and a leather razor strop was strung from a nail on the other side.
He moved across the room toward the washstand.
His back to her, she saw only a tall man with broad shoulders, lean hips, and long legs.
He wore slightly faded dungarees, a long-sleeved light blue shirt, and a brown leather vest. Water sloshed and when he turned, she noticed the sheriff’s star pinned to his vest. Her heart skipped a beat, intimidated by his size, the somber expression he wore, and the questions he might ask of her.