A Time to Bloom (Leah's Garden #2)(93)

RJ, no!



A heavy body tackled RJ from the side as soon as he rushed out the door.

Realizing his rashness too late, RJ rolled with the attacker across the boardinghouse porch and down the steps. His rifle fell uselessly to the side.

The man pummeled RJ’s shoulders and back, and RJ struggled to turn over, kicking at his assailant. Memories flashed—the Confederate renegade, the knife, his eye. Did this man have a knife?

With a sudden burst, RJ wrenched himself over onto his back and kneed the man in the groin. Howling with pain, his attacker rolled off for an instant, and RJ scrambled to his feet, bent to attack, breathing hard.

Another howl, this time of rage, and Clive Johnson flung himself at RJ again, catching him around the waist and trying to drag him down. RJ grasped Clive’s shoulders, straining to wrestle him to the ground.

“You,” Clive spat into his face, his breath putrid. “You took everything. Wasn’t enough to take one job away. Now you got me fired from the only other place that would have me.”

The liquor tent? Had Johnson been paid as a bouncer there or something? RJ struggled to think, using all his strength to stay upright. Clive didn’t look like a powerful man, but liquor evidently gave him liquid strength as well as courage.

Shifting his weight, RJ pushed his foot against Clive’s ankle, knocking him off balance, then threw him to the ground, kneeling on his arms. “When a man attacks innocent people and destroys a family”—RJ snatched a breath—“I say he gets what he deserves.”

Clive stared up at him, blinking hatred. “I woulda killed that boy if’n he hadn’t been so feisty.”

RJ slammed his first into Clive’s face.

Clive spewed blood and foul words. He yanked his arm from beneath RJ’s knee and thrust upward with a small blade he must have had hidden in his belt, slicing RJ’s arm.

RJ caught Clive’s wrist before the knife reached his face, but Johnson pushed against him, their strength matched. RJ strove to force the other man’s arm back down, the blade winking at him in the moonlight. His breath came in gasps.

Lord, help. Everyone in the boardinghouse—please, please, don’t let anyone else get hurt.

“You can freeze right there, mister.” Not far above them, a rifle cocked.

Clive Johnson glanced up to see Larkspur Nielsen standing a few yards away, rifle poised and aimed.

“You have three seconds to drop that knife and leave these parts, never to show your face here again.” Her words sparked fire. “Or I will shoot. And as anyone around here can tell you, I do not shoot to miss.”

RJ took the instant of distraction to wrest the knife from Clive’s grip and fling it away. Clive stared from Lark to RJ for a moment, chest heaving. Then he scrambled out from under RJ and took off into the darkness so fast that all they could hear was the sigh of the night wind in the dry prairie grasses.

“RJ.” Del came running from the porch and fell to her knees beside him, lifting his arm. “You’re bleeding.”

Light-headed, he let her and Lark help him up the steps and onto a chair in the dining room, where Adam examined his bicep.

“Only a flesh wound, but it’s deep and will need stitches. Del, keep the pressure on it, and I’ll run back to get my bag. I’ll only be a few minutes. Forsythia, I think he’ll be all right, but watch him for shock.” Adam stood. “Everyone else, clear out. Give him room to breathe.”

Lark and Lilac shepherded out the children, the workmen following with sober faces. RJ leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eye, his heart still pounding, the gash on his arm burning like fire.

But more than the receding fear, more than the pain, a deep thankfulness throbbed through him. He hadn’t had to take another life. And Clive wouldn’t be back, judging by that look of terror on his cowardly face.

Del adjusted the dish towel on his arm. “You foolish man, you could have been killed.” Her voice caught.

RJ opened his eye and smiled at her. “But I wasn’t.” And he had been able to protect those he cared for—no, those he loved. The Brownsvilles and Nielsens, William and Jesse.

And having Delphinium Nielsen’s gentle hands pressing the dish towel to his arm made a knife wound seem a petty price to pay.

The look in her gray-blue eyes, so near his own, made him swallow. Might she feel the same way?





28


Lord, please. Not snow.

Peering out the soddy window the morning of the school raising, Del felt her heart sink. The falling flakes were tiny and scattered, but a thin dusting already veiled the ground. She’d so hoped and prayed against this.

“Don’t look so glum, Miss Schoolmarm.” Lark rattled the stove lids as she got the fire going for breakfast. “I don’t think it’ll stick.”

“I hope not.” Del shivered and held out her hands to the growing warmth. “This is only one reason I wanted the school built months ago.” Old resentments threatened once more.

“Ah, ah.” Lark held up a warning finger, but her eyes were gentle. “Let’s not get into if-onlys today.”

“You’re right.” Forgive me, Lord. Del straightened her shoulders and drew a breath. “Shall I mix the biscuits?”

“Yes, and then we’ll tuck the ham inside and eat in the wagon. I know you want to get there early.”