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  She shrugged her shoulders as she reached for a vase with a single rose in it, placing it on the tray next to the porridge. She rested her hand on his forearm as he lifted the tray. “It’s all he can eat,” she said as she turned away. “And frequently, he can’t even get that down.”

  “Oh,” he said as he glanced down at the tray. He’d had no idea his father was in such a bad condition, and frustration washed through him that he hadn’t arrived sooner, to make his father’s last days as pleasant as he could. Thank the Lord for Mrs. Baxter.

  He stood straight, throwing his shoulders back. He and his father had always been close, had always been able to find levity in any situation, even those as grave as comforting a grieving family. He would do his best to offer that to his father now.

  “Father, I’ve brought supper,” he said as he pushed through the door with his elbow and entered the room.

  His father stared out the window for a moment before turning to his son, his smile wide. “Clint. It’s so good to see you again. You’re a sight for these old, tired eyes.”

  Clint set the tray on the bedside table and sat beside his father. He took the hand his father extended, once again shocked and disheartened at the tiny, bony fingers he held. His father now bore very little resemblance to the man of Clint’s memory.

  “I’m glad, Father. I’m looking forward to spending time with you. I wish I could say you look well, but you don’t,” Clint said, relieved when his father smiled at his small jest.

  “No, I don’t imagine I do. I’ve banished any mirrors from the room, so I’ll just have to take your word for it,” his father said, chuckling.

  “You’re still able to laugh. I’m glad,” Clint said softly as he helped his father up on his elbows then poured a cup of tea, holding it steady as his father sipped.

  He pulled it away as his father began to cough so hard that his eyes watered and he almost wretched.

  “Father, is there anything to give you comfort? The tonic, perhaps?” Clint said as he reached toward the brown bottle on the bedside table.

  His father’s bony fingers clamped hard around his son’s wrist, staying his hand. “Not that, son. Not that,” he said as he rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

  Clint looked from the bottle to his father as he sat back down on the side of the bed. His face had relaxed after his coughing fit and he took in short breaths as Clint brushed his white hair from his forehead. Sweat beaded on his father’s brow and Clint looked around the room for a cloth he could dip in water.

  “Did I hear Mrs. Allen invite you to the fundraiser this evening at the library?” Mr. Jackson’s raspy voice drew his attention back to the bed.

  “Yes, she did,” he said as he applied the cool cloth to his father’s brow.

  Mr. Jackson patted Clint’s hand and trained his crystal blue eyes on his son. “Would it be too much trouble to ask you to attend? I know you’ve just arrived and must be fatigued, but it is an event I would surely have liked to see and it would be an honor if you’d represent me.”

  Clint cocked his head and frowned. He’d managed to sleep most of the afternoon and wasn’t at all tired, but he’d hoped to spend time with his father. God only knew how much time there would be available, and he didn’t want to miss a second.

  “I’d hoped to spend time here, with you and Mrs. Baxter, Father,” he said softly.

  Mr. Jackson smiled and looked toward the window. He cleared his throat and turned his head toward his son.

  “There’s nothing in the world that I’ve looked forward to more than seeing you again, son. But this request is not made lightly. I need you to do this for me,” he said, his eyes meeting Clint’s. “It means a great deal to me, and there isn’t much time.”

  Clint’s breath caught as his father stated the obvious. At this rate, he’d have very little time with his father as it was, and he wasn’t inclined to spend any of it away from him. But if that was his father’s dying wish, who was he to argue?

  “Attend the fundraiser? As your representative?” he asked.

  “Yes. That, and something else.”

  Clint’s eyebrows rose, his interest piqued. “Something else?”

  Mr. Jackson lifted the cool cloth from his forehead and rubbed his neck. He set the cloth on the nightstand and reached for his tea. “Yes,” he said as he sipped his tea, his eyes trained on the brown bottle of tonic.

  Clint waited patiently. His father rarely spoke without carefully choosing his words, and from experience, he knew it was usually worth the wait.

  His father gestured toward the window, pointing at the sign over the door that let the townsfolk of Tombstone know that he provided undertaking services—and if Clint knew his father, which he did, he offered much more than mere undertaking services.

  “As you can see, I’ve hung up my shingle again,” he said sheepishly, and with a small smile.

  “I have to say, Father, that it did not surprise me in the slightest. Although you’d adamantly said you wouldn’t, I’d have been surprised if you could have refrained.”

  His father smiled and reached for his hand. “I’m so pleased that you understand me, son. It won’t surprise you, then, that there’s someone I’d like you to check on. To ask after.”

  Clint stood and crossed over to the window, looking away from his father so that he wouldn’t catch his smile. He was actually quite proud of his father, and if he wanted him to check on someone in the town, he would certainly do it.

  “Of course,” he said as he turned toward his father, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Relief radiated from the older man and Clint cocked his head again. This clearly meant a great deal to his father, and he vowed not to disappoint him.

  “Whom would you like me to inquire after?”

  His father rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. His words slowed as he said, “The miner. One who is ill. His wife has come to see me for arrangements. I can’t remember her name.”

  “The miner?” he asked, stepping closer to his father who appeared to be falling asleep. How would he know which miner? There had to be hundreds. And what was he supposed to do with this miner? What was he supposed to check on?

  “Yes. Ask at the fundraiser. Miss Archer. Sage. She will know,” his father eked out, the words quickly followed by rumbling snores.

  Clint pulled up the comforter and tucked it under his father’s chin as he shook his head. His father’s request seemed unusual, although if his memory served, it wasn’t all that uncommon for people who’d heard of his father’s reputation to contact him prior to a death in the family.

  His father had mentioned asking Miss Archer. He turned toward the mirror and straightened his tie as he thought of the charming young lady with the bright smile, flowing blonde hair and deep, blue eyes. He smiled at the memory of startling her, her fear changing quickly into an open smile that lifted his own heart. Certainly, if it meant that he’d see her again, he could certainly carry out his father’s wishes—happily.

  Chapter 7

  Sage pulled her warm hat on just as she heard the unmistakable clack of her sister Tarra’s heels on the red tile hallway of the Archer’s rambling, ranch-style adobe home. If she knew her sister Tarra—which she did—she could guess what would come next.

  “Hurry, Sage. We’re all going together, and Papa’s already waiting in the buckboard.”

  Ever punctual, her second-to-youngest sister rapped her knuckles on the mahogany door after she spoke, her impatience with tardiness an affliction that had provided consternation for Sage many times over.

  “I’m coming, Tarra,” Sage said as she fastened her last hat pin and reached for her gloves. “You worry about your own self,” she mumbled as the clacking heels retreated toward the kitchen, further into the main house.

  She knew that she’d been late for supper more than once—absent, even—in the time she’d been working with Dr. Folsom, but it irritated her that Tarra seemed to take great pains to
point it out to the family. Didn’t she understand that her work was important to her, and sometimes ill patients took precedence over meaningless things like supper—or even this fundraiser? She had no doubt that the fundraiser would be a success, whether she was present or not.

  She shrugged on her coat and peeked out her window, reaching for a blue, wool scarf as the sun set across the desert. They’d be gone until after dark, and winter was still upon them. Chill set in immediately as the sun set, and she’d learned to be prepared for whatever contingency came up. Medical emergencies waited for no man—or woman, as the case may be—to grab a scarf.

  Tarra mercifully held her tongue as Sage scrambled into the waiting buckboard, her sister Pepper seated up front with her father. She nodded to her brother Hank and his wife, Clara, who was dressed in her finest. They’d not gotten to town often with the hard work involved in her brother’s horse training business, and it was nice to see her twinkling eyes and beautiful red hair as she gazed up at her brother.

  “Rose must be so very excited,” Clara said as the buckboard began to sway and she reached for her husband’s hand. He wrapped a protective arm around her and pulled his cowboy hat down his forehead.

  “Certainly, she must be,” Tarra said as she pulled on her leather gloves and grabbed the side of the buckboard. “She and Papa and Mrs. Allen have been working toward this night for many long months. I do hope it’s a rousing success.”

  “It will be,” Pepper said as she turned around in her seat. “Papa wouldn’t let it be otherwise, would you, Papa?” Her braids flew forward as she turned again, her earnest eyes on her father.

  “I expect it will be quite successful,” he said as he urged the horses through the wide gates at the end of the drive and under the tall, wrought iron sign that read Archer Ranch.

  “I suppose Saffron and Carol will be there, too,” Sage mused as she looked forward to seeing her twin sister and new sister-in-law.

  “Of course. Carol’s still working at the library, and I’m positive she wouldn’t miss it,” Pepper said as she turned around again. Her eyes lit on Sage and flickered as she glanced up at Tarra. “I imagine the doctor will be there, too,” she said slyly as she nudged Tarra with her elbow.

  Tarra raised a brow and turned toward Sage. “I suppose he will. Won’t he, Sage?” she said, stifling a smile.

  Sage looked up and frowned. Why did everyone say that? How would she know if Dr. Folsom would take time from his busy schedule saving lives to attend a fundraiser?

  “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “I’m certain he has better things to do.” She pinched her thigh, hoping it would distract her enough to stop the heat flooding in her cheeks.

  She let out a relieved sigh as they approached the library, and the attention of her siblings turned away from her and toward the gaily decorated building, soft light spilling from the large windows onto the boardwalk.

  “Is that apple cider I smell?” Pepper asked as she hopped down from the buckboard seconds after it pulled to a stop.

  “I believe it is,” Beau Archer said as he helped his remaining daughters from the wagon and cast a sidelong glance at his youngest daughter, who’d already leaped up the steps of the boardwalk. “Mrs. Allen and Rose made arrangements for refreshments, and I believe it is a favorite of theirs.”

  “Hers, you mean. Mrs. Allen,” Tarra said. She winked at her father, reaching for his offered hand as she lifted her skirts and stepped down from the wagon.

  Sage smiled as her father flushed and tugged at his collar. He’d endured similar teasing about his time spent with Mrs. Allen as she had about her non-existent relationship with Dr. Folsom, and her sympathies went out to him. Why couldn’t all these people mind their own business?

  “Don’t worry, Pa. I’ve got these ladies covered,” Hank said as he helped Sage onto Allen Street.

  “Keep them away from the doctor, too, if he’s here,” she whispered up at him as she released his hand. Her brother had always been kind to her when she was growing up, and she hoped he’d help her now. It had been wonderful to have him home and off the trail, and since he and Clara had been married, he’d spent more time with them at the ranch.

  His smiled down at her, his kind eyes twinkling. “I’ve got you covered, Sage,” he whispered before he turned and offered his arm to his wife.

  With renewed hope, she walked around the back of the buckboard and up the steps of the boardwalk, the wooden planks creaking as people entered the library. The beautiful sound of a piano streamed from the open door, and Sage smiled as she spotted her brother-in-law Sam’s nimble fingers on the keys. He was the best pianist she’d ever known, and it was always a pleasure to listen to him play—even better when her sister Meg sang to his accompaniment.

  She tugged at her scarf and glanced around the room, tapping her foot to the music. It was nice to see her entire family in attendance as she hadn’t had much opportunity to see her married sisters much recently. Her oldest sister, Rose, had been instrumental in establishing the library, along with her schoolteacher husband, Michael. Mrs. Allen rested her elbow on the piano as her son played—she must be truly proud, as she’d been quite involved in raising funds for the library as well.

  Sage’s father had been correct about the apple cider—she spotted her twin sister Saffron ladling cups and handing them to children and adults alike in the corner. She waved when Saffron spotted her, her smile widening as she lifted a cup of cider in her direction. Carol, from her wheelchair, waved as well, her husband Will handing her empty cups as fast as she could fill them.

  Over the din of the crowd, she heard a vaguely familiar voice behind her say, “This is quite an event. I had no idea Tombstone could be so festive. It’s certainly not what one reads in the New York newspapers.”

  She spun on her heel and looked up, directly into the dancing eyes of Mr. Jackson’s son. She took a step back and looked down as she fiddled with her scarf. He’d laughed when he’d startled her earlier, and here he was doing it again She did her best not to appear annoyed.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Archer. Have I startled you again?” He clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes still dancing as he nodded slightly at Sage.

  “No, no, not at all,” she said quickly as she glanced about the room. It was very crowded, and Dr. Folsom was quite tall—she’d be able to see him if he were here.

  “Looking for someone?” Mr. Jackson’s son said as he followed her eyes.

  She unwrapped her scarf from around her neck and folded it over her arm. “Certainly not. Who would I be looking for?” she asked as she turned back toward him.

  His eyebrows rose and he smiled. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve been in Tombstone for all of twelve hours. I don’t know a soul, save you, Mrs. Baxter and my father. Oh, and that charming Mrs. Allen.”

  Sage looked toward the piano, where her father had just presented Mrs. Allen with a cup of cider. “You met Mrs. Allen? She asked about your father and I mentioned it might be all right if she visited. I hope that was the correct thing to do.”

  “It certainly was. My father was quite happy to see her. It seems they’re friends.”

  “Yes, they are,” Sage said as she turned back toward Clint. “She does seem to make him happy, and he’s worked very hard with her on the fundraiser. I’m glad you’re here, to see what he’s done.”

  She watched as Clint glanced around the room, his eyes lighting on the stacks of books neatly catalogued in rows.

  “I’m certain he took great joy in helping provide the people of the town with pleasurable things to read,” he said as his eyes eventually met hers.

  She studied him for a moment—his wavy, brown hair was combed back from a broad forehead, his eyes radiating intelligence and kindness—and something else, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  “I am sorry your father couldn’t be here to see it for himself. They’ve all worked very hard. I’m glad he asked you to come and represent him, and hopefully report back wh
at a success it is.”

  Clint pushed back his black coat and hung his thumbs in the pockets of his satin vest.

  “Yes, he did want me to represent him and let him know how it went. But there was something else he wanted. Information about someone in particular.”

  “Oh? Who?” Sage asked, her interest piqued. She’d spent quite a bit of time with Mr. Jackson and he’d never mentioned wanting information.

  “I regret to say that I don’t know who he wants information about. He only mentioned who I should seek out to obtain it.”

  She turned to look at him straight on, curious enough now that the room fell away and she couldn’t hear the din of the crowd. “Oh, my. Whom did he say to seek out?”

  His eyes twinkled again, in a way Sage now noticed was quite frequent. He paused for a moment, and her heart leapt into her throat when he said, “Why, Miss Archer, you. He asked me to seek out the information from you.”

  Chapter 8

  It had taken a while for Miss Archer to put the pieces together regarding his father’s request. At first, she hadn’t known whom his father was referring to, but as he gave a few more details—the miner was ill and his wife had called on Mr. Jackson for future undertaking services—she’d identified the couple. From what Miss Archer shared, the miner had fallen ill over a month prior, and the doctor—a Dr. Folsom, she’d said—hadn’t been able to alleviate his symptoms. Mrs. Chapman, his wife, had become despondent and feared his ultimate demise, contacting Mr. Jackson Senior about undertaking. She was quite concerned about the cost, apparently, and his father had taken an interest in the dilemma—hence his request that Clint check on them.

  He’d watched as Miss Archer thought the request through, running possibilities through her head. Clearly, she was quite intelligent and he waited patiently as she searched her memory for which miner his father could have been speaking of. She’d settled on this Mr. Chapman and he’d been quite impressed with her powers of deduction—as well as her stunning eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. As she thought out loud, he’d had a moment to take in her visage, her navy blue hat contrasting with her blonde hair that had been twisted at the nape of her neck. She wore no jewelry, which he’d known to be common with the nurses or volunteers he’d met. She seemed quite competent, very bright and quite interested in helping.