Christine Dorsey Read Online Free Page A

to drink some water. I’m going to get it.”
    “Thirsty,” he mumbled, licking his dry lips.
    Grabbing up the lantern, Samantha ran for the house. She didn’t want Will worrying that she’d been so long. But he wasn’t in the parlor and no sound came from the loft where he slept. After climbing the ladder, Samantha saw him sprawled on his mattress, sound asleep.
    She plunked the ladle into the drinking bucket, grabbed it up, and hurried out the door. It wasn’t until she crossed half the yard that she realized she’d left the musket in the stall with the stranger. Grabbing up her skirt she ran, water sloshing onto her legs. But when she burst through the stable door, all was as she’d left it.
    Samantha pressed her hand to her rapidly beating heart, and sank down beside the stranger. He seemed asleep, but within moments he began ranting again about only wanting to help people. A touch of her hand quieted him. Hearing her say she was Lydia made him choke down water.
    She almost left him then. Lord knows she was tired enough to long for her bed, even if there were no sheets covering the sweet-grass mattress. But she couldn’t leave him. Every time she tried, Samantha decided to wipe his face with a damp rag just one more time.
    She wasn’t certain, but maybe his skin felt cooler though he still babbled on about sawing legs and arms, and for once Samantha was too tired to calm him. She sat back, hugging her knees, wondering what kind of man would have nightmares about such things, even when feverish.
    Arms and legs and blood... and sickness. Samantha leaned forward, listening intently to the words he mumbled. If she sieved through the gruesome details of his dream, one thought rang clear. He had tried to help.
    Samantha wasn’t sure when the thought occurred to her, but she dipped the linen in the pail and laid it on his forehead. “Are you a doctor?” she asked, leaning close to his ear.
    “Lydia?”
    “Yes, I’m here.”
    A smile softened the pain-etched planes of his face as he drifted off to sleep.
    “ Now you’re quiet,” Samantha complained. She sat back on her heels, wondering. It didn’t make sense for him to be a doctor, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that his ranting had meant just that. But then why would he join Moore’s gang? “Doctor’s aren’t saints, for heavens sake,” Samantha mumbled to herself. But it still didn’t fit.
    “Who are you?” she whispered, but for now the stranger’s sleep seemed peaceful. And sleeping is what you should be doing, Samantha told herself as she leaned against the stall. But before she closed her eyes, her gaze snagged on the saddlebags she’d tossed in the corner of the stall.
    Casting only a cursory glance at the sleeping man, Samantha shifted to drag them toward her. After unbuckling one side, she flipped open the bag. Samantha didn’t know what she expected to find—what did doctors carry around with them? But there wasn’t anything in his pack but clothes, fairly clean and rolled up, trail equipment, and a leather sack.
    Samantha guessed what was inside before she opened it. The sight of the gold coins made her palms itch—there appeared to be enough money to keep Will and her for several years—but she gave the drawstring a yank and stuffed the sack back into the saddlebag.
    The second pistol was another story. That she quickly stuck in her apron pocket. She sorted through the iron skillet and coffee pot, the pack of Lucifers. She did find a harmonica, and her eyes strayed to the stranger. Did he play?
    Shaking her head at her foolishness, Samantha began repacking the saddlebags. She wasn’t going to learn anything about him, and she should get back to the house and sleep while she had the chance.
    And then she felt something in a jacket pocket. Reaching inside, Samantha discovered a folded paper. Opening it, she found a parole awarded to one Jacob Morgan, Captain, late of the Confederate Army.
    Well, that was no surprise. She knew he