“Welcome to you both.” She raised her brows at Mr. Dykstra. “I know you’ve been under the weather. You should have come sooner. It’s a cold day.” Even in her own ears, she sounded like the schoolteacher she’d longed to be in her other life.
“I did. After scrounging a noon meal in some alley. But you wasn’t here.”
She flushed. Tea with Bronx was why. But the cowboy didn’t seem to notice. “Well, you’re here now. Malina, please, might you finish up here?” Her hand shook as she handed the ladle to her helper.
Malina smiled, eager to please, to find her way. Young and pretty with eyes too old for her face, she had once worked the ranker bordellos. “Mr. Dykstra, I’ll settle you.”
Clemmons’s smile brightened like dawn. Something clicked in Lila’s mind. Something between those two...
Bronx’s glance flickered over Lila almost in a dare. “I’ll do so. Not a thing for ladies.” She understood. Effluvia. In truth, she’d cleaned up plenty of it, wondered now if gratitude showed in her eyes.
“Then I’ll heat up some eucalyptus oil. It’ll relieve your breathing, Clemmons. There’s a washstand and towels. Behind there.” She pointed to the door of the original cabin. This big room, well, Emmett had seen it framed and hung with tarp and canvas before he died. Later on, a kind man named Asa Tibbett and his building crew had added real walls.
“He asked to be brought here, so I reckon he understands your way of things.”
“I did and I do,” Mr. Dykstra proclaimed. “There’s a fine bed and some mattresses back there, too. For folks who got no other place to go.”
Lila nodded at Bronx’s question, but did not tell him the bed had once been hers and Emmett’s. That they’d tried to make the slab-shanty a home.
Her heart panged. No home. No baby. Oh, how Emmett had loved the possibilities after buying the abandoned miner’s shanty dirt-cheap. But donations had come in slowly, and the place had never taken the shape of his dreams. A chapel for fifty? The five hand-hewn pews strewn across the puncheon floor might seat twenty. Right now, two folks down on their luck hunkered on the pews with bowls of hot food. The Franklin stove in the center belched out heat and comfort, though. It wasn’t home, but it was enough for those who had nowhere else to go.
“And I’ll get you some ginger tea.” Her voice trembled, but not because of Emmett. Because a handsome man stood in front of her in her husband’s place. Living and breathing. And it couldn’t matter.
Bronx nodded in polite dismissal, and she set about the rusty potbelly in the corner. Mostly for heating, it had one burner, for a kettle or coffeepot. One of the better cribs had tossed it out, but Lila hadn’t been too proud to take it. She couldn’t stop her eyes from turning toward Bronx’s tall form. Even with Mr. Dykstra hunched beneath his arm, Bronx’s backside swayed over his boot heels in a rather delicious way as he strode through the doorway. Her heart slowed as Bronx closed the door that had once seen the threshold of her dreams. Emmett had carried her through it that first day. She’d never once missed Papa’s fancy house. Her jaw tightened. She had had dreams, too.
Obviously, Bronx had left his overcoat back at the boarding house. Maybe he needed warming up, too.
Maybe she’d stop thinking about Emmett every minute of the day.
Even with the fragrant bottle of eucalyptus in her hand and water boiling on the potbelly stove, Bronx’s scent and warmth brushed over her a few minutes later.
Oh, why did her hands shake again? She peeked up from the damp curls crowding her forehead. “I’ll make a tent over Mr. Dykstra’s head with a towel. He’ll breathe in some helpful aromas from the steam that will relieve the bronchial tubes.”
Bronx nodded. “He promises he’s strong enough to...tend himself without me. You know, I...I might have a set of spare clothes in my kit, back at the boardinghouse. For him, you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sanderson. You’re amazingly kind. But I...” Her back teeth clenched. Another moment brought her husband back to life. “I have an armoire back there full of Emmett’s garments. Something’s sure to fit.”
Bronx cleared his throat. “I fear Mr. Dykstra’s has contracted Doc Holliday’s ailment.”
“What on earth do you mean?” Lila dropped the white towel. “What’s this about Doc Holliday?”
“Our friend had a coughing spree just like Doc Holliday did a bit ago.” He looked away, cheeks reddening. “We shared a bottle of bourbon at the Board of Trade, after uh, tea. I just thought—”
“Oh, no, Mr. Dykstra suffers from a lung disease called bronchitis. Doc is battling consumption. I do know him, somewhat.”
Bronx stopped in his tracks. “You? How?”
She burst into laughter. “Why not? It’s impossible in Leadville not to hear tittle tattle about him. And despite his dangerous nature, John Henry Holliday is a true Southern gentleman.”
“He does have a way about him.”
She handed Bronx a knife. “Bread could use slicing before the water boils, if you’ve a mind. So you’ve known Doc Holliday before?”