Page 25 of In Honor’s Defense

She stayed by the door, listening. Eyes closed. Forehead pressed against the wood and hand still on the lock until the fading footsteps morphed into the hoofbeats of a departing horse.

Only then did she breathe.

CHAPTER

ELEVEN

Damaris’s head sagged toward her chest. In a desperate grasp for alertness, she jerked her chin upward and forced her eyes wide. Her book twitched in her hand and nearly fell to the floor. Thankfully she caught it before it could slide off her lap and wake her patient. She glanced at the Horseman. Strain lined his features even in sleep.

Lord, please heal him. After all he did for Nathaniel. Such a brave and selfless man. Don’t let evil win this battle.

If Luke Davenport died, Nathaniel might not recover. He was still raw from losing his father. If another man he respected died, and from an attack he blamed himself for, it could break him.

Damaris set aside her copy of Little Women and wrapped her arms around her middle, murmuring a whispered petition on behalf of her nephew as well. When she closed her eyes in prayer, however, her lack of sleep from the night before stalked her. Dragged her head back to her chest. Lured her to succumb. Promised just a few minutes of . . .

No!

Damaris shook her head like a freshly bathed dog. She couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not before the doctor arrived. This was her vigil, and she wouldn’t shirk her duty.

Rising from her chair, she paced the perimeter of the room before returning to the bed. She studied Mr. Davenport. Luke. Formality seemed out of place in a sickroom. Besides, every time he called out for her, he used her given name. A fact that warmed her insides more than it probably should.

“Who are you, Luke?” she whispered as she circled to the far side of the bed and lightly perched on the edge of the mattress, several inches away from him.

She ran the back of her fingers along the side of his face. The scruff of his whiskers scratched her skin as she traced the line of his square jaw.

He made a sound in his sleep and turned his face toward her. Damaris snatched her hand back.

“Forgive me for taking liberties.”

She didn’t know why she’d taken to talking to him while he slept. Vowing he’d get through this. Assuring him he wasn’t alone. Praying aloud for his healing. Talking filled the quiet, she supposed, but deep down, she acknowledged that it filled another purpose. She needed to hear the encouragement and hope as much as he did. Maybe more. Doubts and insecurities clanged like cymbals in her spirit, enumerating her inadequacies. Of which there were many. After all, she had no experience dealing with giant warriors lying in her bed, bleeding from multiple knife wounds. Wounds that had the power to steal his life if she handled them incorrectly.

“Your doctor friend will be here soon,” she said, covering his left hand with her palm, careful not to bump the bandage on his forearm. She slipped her fingers into the curl of his hand and gave him a tiny, encouraging squeeze. “He’ll fix you up in no time. You’ll see.”

Please let that be the truth, Lord.

“Before you know it, you’ll be back to chasing down rustlers and rescuing ladies from root cellars.”

Although the idea of him helping other ladies the way he’d helped her didn’t sit comfortably on her heart. Which was silly. She was no one special. Luke Davenport likely ran across ladies in need of rescuing all the time in his line of work. She was sure that if he hadn’t been attacked and left for dead last night, he would have resolved the rustling issue in less than a week and left Madisonville without giving her a second thought.

But he had been attacked. And he was under her care. No ill-timed girlish longings or lifelong womanly doubts were going to keep her from doing whatever she could to aid his recovery.

“You will get through this, Luke Davenport. You will live a full life with all the adventure you want. Surrounded by good friends. Family. Maybe children one day. Grandchildren, even. You have much to live for, so keep fighting, all right?” A touch of unexpected emotion caught in her throat. “Keep fighting.”

His fingers tightened around hers. Damaris’s pulse jumped, and she quickly stole a glance at his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing deep. He slept. His hand had probably twitched involuntarily. Perhaps he was dreaming of chasing outlaws.

Or maybe . . . just maybe . . . he heard her.

The front door banged open. Pounding feet echoed in the hall. Damaris yanked her hand away from her patient and jumped off the bed as if someone hiding beneath it had jabbed a hatpin through the mattress.

“Aunt Maris! There’s a wagon comin’ up the drive.” Nathaniel ran into the room, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “Could be the doc. He’s got a lady with him, though, so it might just be folks passin’ through. But we ain’t expectin’ any other comp’ny, so it’s gotta be the doc. Right?”

Nathaniel had placed himself on watch the minute Mr. Grimes had departed and hadn’t left his post at the top of the hill all day. Damaris had taken him a sandwich around noon, but he hadn’t returned with her to the house. He’d been adamant about waiting, his gaze glued to the road as if his watching could speed the doctor’s arrival. How well she understood his compulsion to do something, anything, to help.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and offered a hopeful smile. “Let’s go see who it is.”

If it was the doctor, he’d made great time. Better than she’d expected. She’d thought he might arrive by early afternoon if he’d traveled by horseback, but by wagon? He must have found one impressive team.

Impressive was an understatement. The pair of horses trotting into her yard at a fast clip looked like thoroughbreds. Livery horses were never that fine. These were personal stock. Horsemen stock, if she wasn’t mistaken.