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TENNESSEE
He was alive. Thank the lord.
“His horse stepped in a prairie dog hole and James was thrown,” the doctor said.
I looked over my shoulder at him to see he now stood beside Jonah. If he heard James’ mention of my mouth on his cock, he didn’t care. I wasn’t going to bring it up. I didn’t care a whit about anything but James being alive.
“The fibula was broken.” He looked between us. “He broke a lower leg bone. A clean break and I reset it. That’s why he’s drunk.”
“I was so worried,” I told him. “God, if something happened to you…”
“I’m fine, Kitten. Only a little drunk,” James said, then promptly passed out. I smiled at him and stroked his silky hair, took him in from head to toe.
His right pant leg was torn from the hem to knee, his leg braced and wrapped in strips of cloth. His boot was off and the one foot bare. His shirt and pants were dusty from the fall, and of course, higher, the bruised eye.
He did stink of drink and no wonder. I thought of the saloon Jonah and I had been in earlier. Whiskey, if I had to guess. If the doctor had to set a bone in my body, I’d want to drink heavily, too. Poor baby. Leaning in, I kissed his forehead.
“That’s all?” Jonah asked.
The doctor frowned. “He didn’t complain of anything else broken. He didn’t hit his head.”
“What about his heart?” Jonah asked, and I held my breath.
“His heart?”
“The other doctor was here last week. Told him he had a bad heart.”
The man ran a hand over the back of his neck. He was perhaps an inch shorter than Jonah, but twenty pounds lighter. He was quite thin, but amiable. “Doc Bruin is sick himself. Something is going about, probably the same summer cold James had last week.”
“Some of the hands here have it as well,” Jonah informed him.
He crossed the room, picked up his leather satchel and went to James. I stood and moved out of his way, going to Jonah. He wrapped an arm about my waist, keeping me close. We watched as he pulled something from the bag and used it to listen to James’ chest.
I glanced up at Jonah, saw the calmness I now relied on. We waited patiently and watched.
When done, the doctor put his listening device back in his bag.
“His heart’s fine.” He stood to his full height. Sighed. Looked from James to us.
James was fine? Well? Was it possible?
“I think there has been some confusion on Doc Bruin’s part. James Kincade, down near Simms, died two days ago in his outhouse. Sounds a little odd, but it happens often enough. I won’t go into details, but he went from a bad heart.”
“James Kincade?” I asked, thinking that sounded quite similar to James Carr. “I did not know him, but I’m sorry for his family.” My relief was at someone else’s sorrow.
The doctor shook his head. “He was eighty-five and as cantankerous as they come. I think he’d be pleased to know his sons found him with his pants down.”
The doctor smiled. He was familiar with death and perhaps thankful when it came easily and swiftly, or in the case of Mr. Kincade, after a full life.
“I believe Doc Bruin mixed up James Carr here”—he tipped his head toward James asleep on the couch—“and James Kincade. There’s about fifty years between them, so I have to wonder if it’s time for the old doctor to enjoy a retirement.”
The reality of the moment settled upon me like a heavy blanket. James truly wasn’t dying. He didn’t have a bad heart. I couldn’t help but sink against Jonah in relief.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “We’ll be pleased to tell James the good news.”
“When his head clears,” Jonah added.
JAMES
