Nicole Foster - Jake's Angel

Before he could decide, a hot drift of breeze carried the angel’s song into the room again, a clear, pure voice raised in a soulful Spanish ballad. Ignoring the wash of pain and dizziness, Jake flung back the quilt and limped to the window to look down on the garden below.

Isabel was there, singing to herself and a large raven perched on the rock wall beside her. As he watched, she bent to pluck a few sprigs from some leafy plant. She rubbed them gently between her fingertips, then cupped the leaves to inhale their scent before adding them to the collection in the basket looped over her arm.

Sunlight washed her dark-golden hair and Jake found himself wondering what it would look like, freed from its confining braid, spread over her shoulders and—

He cut short the thought, shaking his head to clear it. Whatever potion she’d given him was clouding his thoughts, making him crazy. He turned to move away from the window and shut out her vision. The stiffness in his leg made him awkward and he knocked against a small table, rattling the pitcher and bowl there.

The clatter, in the late day stillness, brought Isabel’s head up and for a moment, their gazes locked. Jake could almost hear her catch her breath and he felt himself holding his.

“What are you doing on your feet?” she called up, breaking the spell. She shook her head, giving an exasperated sigh. “I hope you aren’t going to be this stubborn over everything or I’ll never be rid of you. Get back into bed, I’m coming up.”

“Now there’s an invitation I can’t refuse,” Jake said, unable to resist baiting her.

Isabel only glared at him then quickened her step to the door below his window. Jake heard it slam behind her and smiled.

She found him propped up against the pillows, the quilt pulled carelessly up to his waist as if he’d just tossed it there after hearing her footsteps. He’d flung his shirt and it lay in a heap in the corner. She chose to ignore the reality he now wore nothing but the quilt.

Putting down the tray she’d carried up on the dresser top, Isabel turned to face him, determined not to give him the upper hand.

“If you’re going to lecture me about staying in bed, save your breath,” Jake said before she could open her mouth. “I’m beginning to regret even opening my eyes.”

“I’m not surprised. Do you always make a habit of acting before you think, Mr. Coulter?”

“Usually I don’t have the luxury of time to think.”

“Does that mean you’re usually on the run?” Isabel could see her bluntness surprised him. But it was obvious he wasn’t going to volunteer the information.

“I see subtlety is one art you don’t practice. And no, ma’am, I’m not usually on the run, although I’ll confess I’ve worn out a few saddles in the past years.”

“I see,” Isabel said, although she didn’t. She studied him a moment, then from the tray picked up a pile of fresh cloths and a new poultice she’d made. Setting them down on the bedside table, she poured water from the pitcher into the bowl, then turned to him again. “I need to look at your leg.”

“It’s becoming a habit with you. Do you enjoy it that much?”

Isabel smiled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Flipping back the edge of the quilt, she busied herself removing the old bandages. When she’d finished, she ran her fingers lightly over the bullet wound.

Jake flinched at the gentleness of her touch and she glanced at him in concern. “Is it that painful?”

“No—no. It’s—I’m not used to being touched like that.”

“That I can believe. You have more scars than my furniture and believe me, with two boys in the house, that’s saying a lot.”

“You said you had children.”

She nodded, her attention fixed on cleaning his wound and reapplying a poultice and bandage. Her hands moved deftly over him, warm and sure, more soothing than the herbs she used to ease his pain. “My grandmother and sister live here, too. You’re my only boarder.”

“And your husband?”

“Is dead,” she said shortly. She kept her eyes down, not because of any pretense of modesty, Jake guessed, but because she wanted to guard her feelings from him.

“Don’t get any ideas that I can’t protect myself and my own,” Isabel said when he let the silence stretch between them. She yanked the quilt back over him, her stance defiant. “I’m used to doing it and it’ll take more than a down-on-his-luck outlaw to give me trouble.”

“That, I don’t doubt.”

“And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why are you in Whispering Creek?” With her family to protect, she had to know. Obviously, Jake Coulter was no miner, and he didn’t have the smooth charm of a gambler, nor the rough edges of a cowboy.

He reminded her, instead, of a hunter, dark and dangerous, and not quite civilized.

“I’m here because I can’t ride out on my own,” Jake answered. “But you don’t have to worry. You’re not going to find my face on any of the sheriff’s wanted posters. No one will be looking for me here.”

“I see,” she said, unsatisfied. She decided to try another approach. “Where are you from, Mr. Coulter?”

“Jake. And where I’m from depends on what day it is. Yesterday I came from Taos. Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Isabel said slowly. “Perhaps it should.”

“It doesn’t to me, not anymore.”

The words were heavy with weariness and he closed his eyes against them, rousing both concern and curiosity in Isabel. Something had hurt Jake Coulter and it was more than a bullet. The healer in her wanted to know what it was. The woman in her warned against finding the answer.

“Mr. Coulter…Jake—”

The sound of a downstairs door slamming and a clatter of footsteps up the stairs stopped whatever Isabel intended to say.

There was a scuffling noise outside Jake’s door, and a flurry of whispering before Nate poked his head inside. He darted a quick curious glance at Jake, then looked at Isabel, his face suspiciously innocent.

“We wanted to know if we could have jam tarts. Nana made them, but she’s visiting Mrs. Parker, and well…we thought we’d ask.”

“Did you now?” Isabel shook her head, unable to hide her smile. “It sounds to me as if you needed a reason to come upstairs and meet our new guest.”

“It was Nate’s idea,” Matt piped up behind him. “He wanted to see the gunfighter.” He peeked around the corner, wide-eyed. “But we would like jam tarts, too.”

“Ah, I see. Matt, Nate…” She took their hands and led them just inside the room. “This is Mr. Coulter. He’s not a gunfighter,” she said, praying she didn’t lie, “and he’s going to be staying with us until his leg is healed. He’s not feeling very well, so he won’t be up to having any visitors for a while. Now go downstairs to the kitchen. I’ll be along in a minute and I’ll help you eat those jam tarts Nana left for you.”

Before Jake could respond, Isabel shooed her sons out the door and the boys scampered off, clattering noisily down the stairs. “You didn’t tell me I was contagious,” he said, watching after them.

“They’re very impressionable,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. She quickly gathered up her supplies and put them back on the tray. “They’ve already decided you’re a dangerous outlaw and that you can tell them all sorts of exciting stories about gunfights and stolen gold. I don’t want to encourage them.”

“I don’t know any stories about stolen gold.”

“At least you don’t deny the gunfights.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I did.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Unless you want to confess you shot yourself in the leg.” Returning to his bedside, Isabel handed him a cup. “Drink this. It will help the pain.”