Page 63 of At Love’s Command

CHAPTER

TWENTY-SEVEN

Dawn’s glow gently penetrated Josephine’s eyelids, stirring her from the exhausted stupor she’d fallen into sometime after midnight. She tried to stretch out of the cramped ball shape she lay in, but her shoes thunked against the bed’s wooden footboard. No. Not a footboard. A tailgate. Her eyes cracked open. The tan canvas cover of the chuck wagon glowed with early morning light.

A smile curled her lips as she carefully negotiated her way into a hunched sitting position. She’d made it through the night unscathed. Well, her back ached and she had a terrible crick in her neck—she wouldn’t recommend half-filled flour sacks as a mattress substitute any time soon—but her dignity and purity were intact, and those mattered so much more than physical comfort.

Praise and thanksgiving poured out of her soul to her heavenly Protector like floodwater through a spillway. She needed to thank her earthly protectors, as well. Two noble knights in tarnished armor. Rolling forward, she tucked her legs beneath her and crawled to the back of the small wagon, then reached an arm over the tailgate to release the latch.

She lowered the tailgate slowly, but the creaking wood jolted Charlie awake from where he slept beneath it. His head jerked up, and one bleary eye pried itself open.

“Jo? You all right?”

She smiled, and all lingering frustration toward him melted out of her heart. His tousled hair and red eyes circled with dark smudges announced that he’d slept very little during the course of the night. He’d guarded her well. And perhaps even grown up a bit in the process, if the serious cast to his features was an accurate indication.

“I’m fine. A bit sore, but a little walk to the bushes will work out the kinks.” She sat on the edge of the wagon bed and swung her legs over the side.

“I’ll keep watch.” Charlie scrambled to his feet and offered her his hand—the one not chained to the chuck wagon wheel.

After dinner, Taggart had corralled Carver and Dawson and taken them back to the farmhouse. Those two seemed to be his right-hand men, so they had probably secluded themselves to go over their ransom scheme and search for weaknesses in need of shoring up. Taggart’s display of confidence in Matthew’s inability to threaten his plans hadn’t been as impervious as he would have his men believe. Josephine liked to think her insistence that the Horsemen would come had planted enough seeds of doubt to rattle him into regrouping. After all, Matthew and his Horsemen had outmaneuvered Taggart’s gang once before. They could do so again. Taggart would be a fool not to organize a few contingencies.

Not that she wanted him to make the situation more difficult for the Horsemen when they arrived, but having her guard dog temporarily reassigned meant a reprieve from his constant harassment and lewd taunting. A reprieve that gave her the chance to shore up her courage and re-starch her spine as she faced a new day in the outlaw camp.

As Josephine fit her hand into her brother’s palm, she squeezed tight. He really did love her. His sleepless vigil last night proved it. She had no doubt that he would have fought tooth and nail to protect her virtue had anyone approached the wagon. His self-indulgent nature and lack of maturity might have led him down a terrible path, but the remorse shining in his bloodshot eyes told her the wisdom that could only be gained through failure had started to take hold.

“Thank you for watching over me last night,” she said as she gained her feet.

“It’s my fault you’re in this mess. I never thought . . .” Charlie hung his head and let the rest of the excuse fall away unspoken. When he lifted his face again, moisture glistened in his eyes. “I was a selfish fool. Angry at Father for cutting me off, for not letting me be the man I wanted to be instead of one made in his image. I got so caught up in demanding what I thought was mine by right that I blinded myself to everything else. Taggart’s true motives. The consequences to you and to the men willing to risk their lives to rescue me.” He blew out a breath. “I was so determined to prove myself my own man. Yet the man I proved myself to be was a worthless scoundrel who willingly endangered an innocent woman—my own kin, no less—for his own gain.” He looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry, sis. So sorry.”

“I know.” She held tight to his hand when he tried to pull away. “You can’t undo the past, but you can learn from it.” She wouldn’t sweep his mistakes under the rug any longer, but neither would she rub his nose in them. “I believe in you, Charlie. I believe that you can be the man God designed you to be. A man of honor and integrity. You’ve got a good heart,” she said, tapping a fingertip against his chest. “It’s just a little rusty, is all. Give it a good scrubbing, scrape away the corrosion, and infuse it with a purpose higher than itself. It will shine again.”

He stared at the charred remains of last night’s fire, his throat working up and down. He said nothing, just fought the emotions brought to the surface by too little sleep and too many regrets. Josephine patted his chest, then let her hand fall away. She wouldn’t press him for promises he wasn’t ready to make. This was a battle he had to fight in his own way and in his own time.

Show him the right path, Lord, and give him the courage to follow it.

A tug on her own heart drew her attention. Perhaps it was time to consider moving her medical practice closer to home. The thought jarred her. Immediate disagreement rose to combat the unsolicited idea. She’d worked hard to establish her practice in Purgatory Springs. Had battled prejudice and earned respect. She had relationships there. Patients who needed her.

Her heart twinged again. Charlie needed her too. Not to nurse him to physical health, but to aid in his spiritual recovery. Who else would lend him faith when his ran in short supply? Or build him up when others tore him down? Josephine shuddered to think what their father might say or do after this fiasco. Charlie was going to need someone on his side, and words penned in an occasional letter would not be sufficient. He needed the touch of a hand, a sisterly embrace, and maybe the occasional swat upside the head to get him back on track.

If she neglected Charlie in order to pursue her career, how was that any less selfish than her brother pursuing personal gain at the cost of her safety?

It wasn’t.

The truth settled into her soul. For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? She doubted there’d be much profit for a woman either, who gained her career while her brother lost his soul.

Perhaps Charlie wasn’t the only one with lessons to learn this day.

The muted clang of metal on metal drew her out of her cogitations. Arnold Watson, the camp cook, had lost his grip on the striker while he dozed against the back wheel of the chuck wagon, causing it to clatter against the triangular dinner bell in his lap. He snorted his way out of a snore and came awake with a start. In a flash, he had the dinner bell in hand and the striker poised to sound an alarm.

The dear man had not only emptied his wagon of supplies and insisted she sleep in the one place that could ensure her a modicum of privacy, but he’d joined Charlie in standing guard, threatening to raise a clatter fit for a stampede should any man attempt to accost her. Taggart, apparently, hated having his sleep disturbed, so even though the cook would be blamed for raising the racket, whoever instigated the incident would likely share in the punishment. A fact that had proved a sufficient deterrent. Yet what truly moved her was that Mr. Watson had been willing to endure whatever atrocities Taggart meted out in order to keep her safe.

“Miz Burkett? That you?” The cook squinted in her direction, his bushy gray eyebrows nearly hiding his eyes.

“Yes, Mr. Watson. All is well.” She gave Charlie’s hand one final squeeze, then walked over to her second champion, who was struggling to his feet. She clasped his elbow in a steadying grip. “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness. You and Charlie are true heroes for watching over me with such vigilance.”

“Ain’t nothin’ heroic ’bout me, ma’am.”

“I beg to differ. You guarded me as well as any knight of old. Even though I’m a perfect stranger to you. You’re a man of character, Mr. Watson.”