The Engagement Bargain
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The man ripped Anna’s sash and tied it around her waist as a makeshift bandage. All thoughts of men and their rude propositions and knowing leers fled. The pain in her side was like a fire spreading through her body. It consumed her thoughts and kept her attention focused on the source of her agony.
The stranger easily lifted her into his arms, and her head spun. Her eyelids fluttered, and he tucked her more tightly against his chest.
A wave of nausea rose in the back of her throat, and her head lolled against his shoulder. What reason did she have for trusting this man? Someone wanted her dead. For all she knew, he’d fired the shot. With only the elderly Mrs. Franklin as her sentry, there was little either of them could do if his intentions were illicit. Yet she was too weak to refuse. Too weak to fight.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He picked his way over the debris left by the fleeing crowd. “I’m Caleb McCoy. I’m JoBeth Cain’s brother.”
Her eyes widened. “Is Jo here?”
He nodded. “We’re staying at the Savoy Hotel, same as you. Jo was hoping to see you.”
Over the past year, Jo’s letters had been a lifeline for Anna. Her glimpse into Jo’s world had been strange and fascinating. Anna had been raised with an entirely different set of values. Husbands were for women who lived a mediocre existence. As her mother so often reminded her, Anna had been groomed for the extraordinary.
The cause was her purpose for existing.
Her mother had been fighting for women’s rights since before Anna was born. There were moments when Anna wondered if her birth had been just another chance for her mother to draw attention to the suffragist movement. Women didn’t need men to raise children. They didn’t need men to earn money. They didn’t need men for much of anything, other than to prove their point. Her mother certainly hadn’t been forthcoming about the details of Anna’s father.
He doesn’t matter to me, why should he matter to you?
Why, indeed.
The pain wasn’t quite so bad anymore, and Anna felt as though she was separating from her body, floating away and looking at herself from a great distance.
Mr. McCoy adjusted his hold, and her side burned.
She must have made a noise because he glanced down, his gaze anguished. “Not much farther, Miss Bishop.”
An appropriate response eluded her. She should have answered Jo’s telegram. When Jo had discovered Anna was speaking in Kansas, she’d requested they meet. Anna had never replied. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, and Jo’s world held an undeniable fascination.
Pain slashed through her side. “Will you tell Jo that I’m sorry for not answering sooner?”
“You can tell her yourself.”
Jo was intelligent and independent, and absolutely adored her husband. She had children, yet still worked several hours a week as a telegraph operator.
Anna had never considered the possibility of such a life because she’d never seen such a remarkable example. Marriages of equality were extremely rare, and if Anna let her attention stray toward such an elusive goal, she lost sight of her true purpose. Besides, for every one example of a decent husband, her mother would reply with a hundred instances of drunkenness, infidelities and cruelty. Unless women obtained a modicum of power over their own fates, they’d forever be at the mercy of their husbands.
Mr. McCoy kicked aside a crushed picnic basket, and Anna’s stomach plummeted. Discarded blankets and the remnants of fried chicken and an apple pie had been crushed underfoot. “Was anyone else hurt?”
“Not that I know of.”
Disjointed thoughts bobbed through her head. This was the first time her mother had trusted her with a speech alone. Always before, Victoria Bishop had picked and pecked over every last word. This was the first time Anna had been trusted on her own.
The concession was more from necessity than conviction in Anna’s abilities. Her mother had been urgently needed in Boston for a critical task. The Massachusetts chapter had grossly underestimated the opposition to their most current state amendment vote, and the campaign required immediate reinforcement. More than ever, Anna must prove her usefulness.
Maybe then she’d feel worthy of her role as the daughter of the Great Victoria Bishop. The St. Louis chapter was meeting on Friday. Anna had to represent her mother. She’d arranged to leave for St. Louis tomorrow.
She’d never make the depot at this rate. “I have to change my train ticket.”
Mr. McCoy frowned. “It’ll wait.”
“You don’t waste words, do you, Mr. McCoy?”
A half grin lifted the corner of his mouth. “Nope.”
The sheer helplessness of the situation threatened to overwhelm her. She wasn’t used to being dependent on another person. She’d certainly never been carried by anyone in the whole of her adult life. She felt the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the strength of his arms beneath her bent knees. She was vulnerable and helpless, the sensations humbling.
Upon their arrival in the hotel lobby, Jo rushed toward them. “Oh, dear. What can I do?”
Though they’d only met in person the one time, the sight of Jo filled Anna with relief. Jo’s letters were lively and personal, and she was the closest person Anna had to a friend in Kansas City.
“She’s been shot.” Caleb stated the obvious, keeping his voice low.
Only a few gazes flicked in their direction. The people jamming the lobby were too busy, either frantically reuniting with their missing loved ones or nursing their own bumps and bruises, to pay the three of them much notice.
Mr. McCoy brushed past his sister and crossed to the stairs. “They’ve sent for a surgeon, but we’re running out of time. Fetch my bag and meet me in your room.”
“Why not mine?” Anna replied anxiously. Moving to another room was another change, another slip away from the familiar.
“Because we still don’t know who shot you,” Mr. McCoy said. “Or if they’ll try to finish what they started.”
Jo gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Caleb will take care of you. My room isn’t locked. I’ll let them know where to send the doctor, and I’ll be there in a tick.”
Panic welled in the back of Anna’s throat. All of the choices were being ripped away from her. She’d always been independent. As a child, her mother had insisted Anna take charge of her own decisions. The idea of putting her life in the hands of this stranger terrified her.
Caleb took the stairs two at a time. Though she sensed his care in ensuring she wasn’t jostled, each tiny movement sent waves of agony coursing through her, silencing any protests or avowals of independence she might have made. Upon reaching Jo’s room, he pushed open the door and rested her on the quilted blanket covering the bed.
The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, showcasing a cloudless sky. The sight blurred around the edges as her vision tunneled. Her breath strangled in her throat. Her heartbeat slowed and grew sluggish.
Mr. McCoy studied her wound, keeping his expression carefully blank. A shiver wracked her body. His rigidly guarded reactions frightened her more than the dark blood staining his clothing.
“Am I going to die?” Anna asked.
And how would God react to her presence? She’d had Corinthians quoted to her enough over her lifetime that the words were an anathema.
Let your women keep silent in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak.
And since women were not allowed to speak in church, they should not be allowed to speak on civic matters. Were they permitted to speak in heaven?
Mr. McCoy’s lips tightened. “You’re not going to die. But I have to stitch you up. We have to stop the bleeding, and I can’t wait for the surgeon. It won’t be easy for you.”
She adjusted her position and winced. “I appreciate your candor.”
He must have mistaken her words as a censure because he sighed and knelt beside the bed, then gently removed her crushed velvet hat and smoothed her damp hair from her forehead. His vivid green eyes were filled with sympathy.
A suffragist shouldn’t notice such things, and this certainly wasn’t the time or place for frivolous observations, but he really was quite handsome with his dark hair and warm, green eyes. Handsome in a swarthy kind of way. Anna exhaled a ragged breath. Her situation was obviously dire if that was the drift of her thoughts.
“Miss Bishop,” he said. “Anna. It’s your choice. I’m not a surgeon. We can wait. But it’s my educated opinion that we need to stop the bleeding.”
Every living thing died eventually—every blade of prairie grass, every mosquito, every redwood tree. She’d been wrong before—death, no matter how extraordinary a life one lived on earth, was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Feeling as though she’d regained a measure of control, Anna met his steady gaze. “Are you a very good veterinarian?”
“The best.”
He exuded an air of confidence that put her at ease. “Then, do what needs to be done.”
She barely managed to whisper the words before blackness swirled around her. She hoped he had enough fight left for both of them.
Chapter Two
She’d trusted him. She’d trusted Caleb with her life. He prayed her trust wasn’t misplaced because the coming task filled him with dread.
After tightening the bandage on Anna’s wound, Caleb shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his sleeves. The door swung open, revealing Jo who clutched his bag to her chest. The suffragist from the rally appeared behind his sister. He’d lost sight of her earlier; his attention had been focused elsewhere, but she’d obviously been nearby.
The older woman glanced at the bed. “Where is the surgeon? Hasn’t he arrived yet?”
“I’m afraid not.” Caleb lifted a corner of the blood-soaked bandage and checked the wound before motioning for his sister. “Keep pressure on this.” He searched through his bag and began arranging his equipment on the clean towel draped over the side table. “Unless the doctor arrives in the next few minutes, I’m stitching her up myself.”
He’d brought along his case because that’s the way he always packed. When his services were needed on an extended call, he threw a change of clothing over his instruments so he wasn’t hampered by an extra bag. He’d packed for this trip the same way by rote.
Swiping the back of his hand across the perspiration beading on his forehead, he sighed. Perhaps Jo was partially right, perhaps he was growing too set in his ways.
The suffragist clenched and unclenched her hands. “You’re the veterinarian, aren’t you?”
Caleb straightened his instruments and set his jaw. Anna didn’t have time for debate. “It appears I’m the best choice you’ve got right now.”
“I’m Mrs. Franklin.” The suffragist stuck out her hand and gave his a fierce shake. “I briefly served as a nurse in the war. I can assist you.”
“Excellent.” A wave of relief flooded through him. “I’ve got alcohol, bandages and tools in my bag. There’s no ether, but I have a dose of laudanum.” He met the woman’s steady gaze. “I’m Caleb McCoy. This is my sister, JoBeth Cain.”
Mrs. Franklin tilted her head. “I thought you must be related. Those green eyes and that dark hair are quite striking.” The woman’s eyes filled with tears. “Anna is tough. She’ll do well.” She pressed both hands against her papery cheeks. “I requested her appearance. I had no idea something like this would happen.”
Jo snorted. “Of course you didn’t. Assigning blame isn’t going to stop a bullet. Caleb, tell us what to do.” She lifted a pale green corked bottle from his bag. “And why do you have laudanum, anyway?”
“Got it from the doc when John’s prize stallion kicked me last spring.” Caleb rolled his shoulder, recalling the incident with a wince. John Elder raised horses for the cavalry, and his livelihood depended upon his horses’ continued good health. Caleb’s dedication had left him with a dislocated shoulder and a nasty scar on his thigh from the horse’s sharp teeth. “I figured the laudanum might come in handy one day. I’ll need the chair. You’ll have to sit on the opposite side of the bed.”
He uncorked the still-full bottle and measured a dose into the crystal glass he’d discovered on the nightstand. Jo rested her hip on the bed and raised Miss Bishop’s shoulders. Anna moaned and pulled away.
Caleb held the glass to her lips. “This tastes foul, but you’ll appreciate the benefits.”
A fine sheen of sweat coated Miss Bishop’s forehead. Her brilliant blue eyes had glazed over, yet he caught a hint of understanding in her disoriented expression. He tipped the glass, and she took a drink, then coughed and sputtered.
“Easy there,” Caleb soothed. “Just a little more.”
Jo quirked one dark eyebrow. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to say, easy there old girl.”
Miss Bishop pushed away the glass. “This old girl has had enough.”
“Don’t go slandering my patients,” Caleb offered with a half grin. “I’ve never gotten a complaint yet.”
She flashed him a withering glance that let him know exactly what she thought of his assurances. “The next time you have a speaking patient, we’ll compare notes.”
He was heartened Miss Bishop had retained her gumption. She was going to need it.
After ensuring she’d taken the full dose, he rested the glass on the table and adjusted the pillow more comfortably behind Miss Bishop’s head. “You’ll be sound asleep in a minute. This will all be over soon.”
“I have an uneasy feeling this is only the beginning, Mr. McCoy.” She spoke hoarsely, her eyes already dulled by the laudanum.
“You’ll live to fight another day, Miss Bishop. I promise you that.”
Her head lolled to one side, and she reached for Jo. “Please, let my mother know I’m fine. I don’t want her to worry.”
While Jo offered reassurances, Caleb checked the wound once more and discovered the bleeding had slowed, granting him a much-needed reprieve. He desperately wanted to wait until the laudanum took effect before stitching her up. This situation was uncharted territory. He understood an animal’s reaction to pain. He knew how to soothe them, and he took confidence in his skills, knowing his treatments were for the ultimate benefit.
People were altogether different. He wasn’t good with people in the best of situations, let alone people he didn’t know well. He never missed the opportunity to remain silent in a group, letting others carry the conversation.
Miss Bishop fumbled for his hand and squeezed his fingers, sending his heartbeat into double time. He wasn’t certain if her touch signified fear or gratitude. Aware of the curious perusal of the other two women, Caleb kept the comforting pressure on her delicate hand and waited until he felt the tension drain from Miss Bishop’s body. Once her breathing turned shallow and even, he gently extracted his fingers from her limp hold.
Satisfied the laudanum had taken effect, he doused his hands with alcohol over a porcelain bowl, then motioned for Mrs. Franklin to do the same. Without being asked, the suffragist cleaned his tools in the same solution, her movements efficient and sure.
Caleb breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Franklin knew her way around medical instruments. He put her age at midsixties, though he was no expert on such matters. Her hair was the same stern gray as her eyes and her austere dress, the skin around her cheeks frail. She was tall for a woman, and wiry thin. Her fingers were swollen at the knuckles, yet her hands were steady.
Jo cleared her throat. “Caleb, I never thanked you for coming with me today. I’m thinking this is a good time to remedy that.”
They exchanged a look, and his throat tightened. A silent communication passed between them, a wealth of understanding born of a shared childhood that didn’t need words.
A sudden thought jolted him. “Did you find the little girl’s parents? Was anyone else injured?”
“One question at a time.” Jo admonished. “Anna’s youngest follower discovered her mother in the lobby, frantic with worry. As you’d expect, there was much scolding and a few tears of relief. I asked around, and, as far as anyone can tell, Anna was the only person hurt.”
Relieved to set one worry aside, Caleb focused on his patient. “Most likely we’d know by now if someone else was injured.”
Or shot.
The enormity of Miss Bishop’s condition weighed on him. She’d placed her trust in him, and he wouldn’t fail her. “If Anna comes around, you’ll need to keep her calm. I’ve enough laudanum for another dose, but it’s potent, and I’d like to finish before the first measure wears off.”
He’d never been a great admirer of the concoction, and the less she ingested, the better.
Jo pressed the back of her hand against Miss Bishop’s forehead. “Don’t forget, I helped Ma for years with her midwife duties. I know what to do.”
The irony hadn’t escaped him. Of the three of them, Caleb was the least experienced with human patients, yet he had the most experience with stitching up wounds. After modestly draping Miss Bishop’s upper body, he slid his scissors between the turquoise fabric and her skin and easily sliced the soaked material away from her wound.
He held out the scissors, and they were instantly replaced with a cloth.
His admiration for the suffragist grew. “How long did you serve in the war, Mrs. Franklin?”
“It was only a few months in ’65. I’d lost both of my sons and my husband by then. Our farm was burned. There really wasn’t anything left for me to do. Nothing to do but help others.”
Caleb briefly closed his eyes before carefully tucking the draping around the bullet wound. “I’m sorry for your losses.”
Mrs. Franklin lifted her chin. “It was a long time ago. I’ve been a widow longer than I was ever married. Would you like the instruments handed to you from the right or the left?”
“The right.”
Her brisk efficiency brought them all on task. Caleb exchanged another quick look with his sister, and she flashed a smile of encouragement. Caleb offered a brief prayer for guidance and set about his work.
From that moment forward, he focused his attention on the process, certain the surgeon’s arrival was imminent. While Caleb might be the best option at the moment, he was perfectly willing to cede the process to a better option. He wasn’t a man to let false pride cloud his judgment.
Taking a deep breath, he studied the rift marring the right side of Miss Bishop’s body. He’d seen his fair share of gunshot wounds over the years. It wasn’t unheard of for careless hunters or drunken ranchers to miss their mark and strike livestock. Often the animal was put down, but depending on the location of the wound, he’d been able to save a few. His stomach clenched. Had the bullet gone a few inches to the left...
He set his jaw and accepted the needle and thread, his hands rock steady. While he worked, his pocket watch ticked the minutes away, resounding in the heavy silence. Though Miss Bishop wasn’t anything like his normal patients, the concept remained the same. He watched for signs of shock, stemmed the bleeding, cleaned the area to inhibit infection, and ensured Jo kept his patient calm.
Once he was satisfied with his stitches on the entrance wound, he swiped at his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’ll need to turn her to the side.”
Jo grasped Miss Bishop’s shoulder, and Caleb carefully tilted her onto her hip. Anna groaned, and her arm flipped onto the bed, her hand palm up, her fingers curled, the sight unbearably vulnerable.
Not even an hour earlier she’d held an entire audience enthralled with her bounding energy, and now her life’s blood drained from her body, vibrant against the cheerful tulip pattern sewn into the quilted coverlet. Impotent rage at whoever had caused this destruction flared in his chest.
He shook off the distraction with a force of will and resumed his stitching. With any luck they’d already apprehended the shooter.
Miss Bishop drifted in and out of consciousness during the procedure, but remained mostly numbed throughout his ministrations. For that he was unaccountably grateful.
Jo dabbed at Anna’s brow and murmured calming words when she grew agitated, keeping her still while Caleb worked. Mrs. Franklin maintained charge of the instruments with practiced efficiency. Despite having only met the widow moments before, their impromptu team worked well together.
Caleb tied off the last stitch and clipped the thread, then touched the pulse at Miss Bishop’s wrist, buoyed by the strong, steady heartbeat beneath his fingertips. He collapsed back in his chair and surveyed his work.
He’d kept his stitches precise and small. While he couldn’t order his usual patients to remain in bed after an injury, he’d ensure Miss Bishop rested until she healed.
With the worst of the crises behind him, the muscles along his shoulders grew taut. Mrs. Franklin sneaked a surreptitious glance at the door.
When she caught his interest, a bloom of color appeared on her cheeks. “You’ve done a fine job. But I thought... I assumed...”
“You assumed the surgeon would be here by now.” Caleb pushed forward in his chair and reached for the final bandage. “As did I.”
He’d made his choice. Instead of walking away, he’d stayed. That choice had unwittingly linked him to Miss Bishop, and he’d sever that tie as soon as the surgeon arrived. The two of them were worlds apart, and the sooner they each returned home, the better.
He sponged away the last of the blood and sanitized the wound. The instant the alcohol touched her skin, Miss Bishop groaned and arched her back.
Caleb held a restraining hand against her shoulder. “Don’t undo all of my careful work.”
She murmured something unintelligible and reached for him again. Painfully aware of his sister’s curious stare, he cradled Miss Bishop’s hand and rubbed her palm with the pad of his thumb. His touch seemed to soothe her, and he kept up the gentle movement until she calmed. The differences between them were striking. His hands were work-roughened and weather-darkened, Anna’s were pale and frighteningly delicate. A callous on the middle finger of her right hand, along with the faded ink stains where she rested her hand against the paper, indicated she wrote often.
The ease with which she trusted him tightened something in his chest. He never doubted his ability with animals. For as long as he could remember, he’d had an affinity with most anything that walked on all fours...or slithered, for that matter. Yet that skill had never translated with people. An affliction that wasn’t visited on anyone else in his family. The McCoys were a boisterous lot, gregarious and friendly. Caleb was the odd man in the bunch.
Once her chest rose and fell with even breaths, he reluctantly released his hold and sat back in his chair, then rubbed his damp fingers against his pant legs.
Her instinctive need for human touch reminded him of the thread that held them all together. All of God’s creatures sought comfort when suffering.
Voices sounded from the corridor, and Jo stood. “If that’s the surgeon, I’m going to give him a piece of my mind.”
Mrs. Franklin tucked the blankets around Miss Bishop’s shoulders. “We should tidy the room and change the bedding. Perhaps Mr. McCoy should deal with any visitors we have.”
Caleb took the hint. “If I’m unable to locate the surgeon, I’ll check on Miss Bishop in half an hour.”
He snatched his coat and stepped into the corridor, then glanced around the now-empty space. He caught sight of the blood staining his vest and shirt and blew out a breath. The voices they’d heard had not been the surgeon’s, and he couldn’t visit the lobby with such a grisly appearance. The telling evidence discoloring his shirt also placed him at the rally, and he wasn’t ready to answer questions.
Or make himself a target.
He crossed to his room and quickly changed. Now that the immediacy of the situation had passed, exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed onto the bed, clutching his head.