17

"You hungry, Jonesy?" Shepard murmured, gazing at her as he settled his right hand in the small of her back. "That roast beef and potatoes smell awful good."

Hazel grimaced. She was hungry; her stomach had been growling for the better part of the morning—it was roaring in displeasure now, so loud Shepard started chuckling and nudged her toward a table without waiting for her to answer his question.

But her gut was so twisted with nerves and anxiety she didn't know if she'd be able to keep anything down.

Shepard pulled out a chair and motioned for her to sit, "Let's feed that monster in your belly."

She blushed and slowly lowered into the seat, watching him pull one next to her so close his left thigh rubbed against her right.

"I don't think I'll be able to eat, Shepard," she mumbled, pasting on a smile when Vonda—a kindhearted, dark-haired barmaid who seemed out of place in a town like Sheridan—glided to their table and quickly took their order.

Shepard patted Hazel's hand where it lay fisted in her lap and winked at her but didn't say a word while they waited for their meals to arrive. He glanced around the room, recognizing several faces from the night before. They nodded in greeting when they caught his eye, then returned to their lunch or card games.

The Sheriff sat at the same table Shepard had seen him at when they'd returned to check on Jeremiah, conversing with the white-haired man in a brown tweed suit from earlier. Both men huddled as though guarding their conversation, their expressions tense. "Who's that man sitting with Sheriff Douglas?"

Hazel looked over, then returned her attention to studying the back of Shepard's hand resting atop hers. "Lawrence Howard..." she murmured, wondering if Shepard knowingly played with her fingers and brushed his thumb across the back of her hand or if it was a subconscious caress. "He's an uncle or cousin visiting from out of town... I met him last week when he arrived."

Shepard pursed his lips, unsure why his curiosity had been pricked by the man in the first place. Maybe it was the manner he and the Sheriff talked that set his nerves on edge or that his more refined style stood out amongst the other casually dressed men in attendance. Whatever it was, Shepard's gut warned that Lawrence Howard was someone to be mindful of.

"Why do you ask?" Hazel whispered, leaning in close and gaining his undivided attention.

Shepard shrugged and held his tongue as Vonda returned and set their plates of roast and potatoes in front of them, followed by a basket of rolls. Shepard's stomach growled, and his mouth watered, so he wasted no time picking up his knife and fork and digging in.

Hazel watched him eat for a moment, struggling not to smile at the way he attacked his meal. "Hungry?"

Shepard grunted and shoved another forkful into his mouth, closing his eyes and tipping his head back on a sigh. Swallowing, he glanced at her and loaded his fork again, "What's so funny?"

"You," she giggled as she reached for a roll. "Someone might think you hadn't eaten a meal for years the way you ambushed those potatoes."

Shepard laughed. "You try eating my cooking for six years straight and see how it changes your appreciation of good food."

He watched her slowly butter the roll in her hand before taking a dainty bite. His gut clenched when her tongue darted out to capture a dribble of butter on her lower lip, and suddenly he wanted to throw her over his shoulder and escape to his room. Clearing his throat, he resumed eating, though with far less gusto than before.

Hazel focused on her lunch purely so she wouldn't embarrass herself by choking or spilling it down the front of her dress. Something she had no doubt would happen if she gave in to the desperate urge to look at Shepard.

And despite her protestations about not wanting to eat, she managed to clean her entire plate and consume all but two of the rolls—simply because Shepard seized them with a feral grunt and proprietary gleam in his eye, daring her to lay a finger on them.

"Don't even think about it, Jonesy."

She briefly wondered what he'd do if she didn't relinquish her claim. They might be worth whatever devious retribution he would devise. But, in the end, she decided to show a little mercy—he had been incredibly thoughtful and caring, after all, so it was the least she could do.

With a magnanimous wave of her hand, like that of a Queen bestowing a favor to a triumphant knight, she released her bestial grip on the roll basket, then grunted and sat back in her chair with a mulish huff.

Shepard winked, victory shining like a beacon in his whiskey-colored eyes as he tore into the first of the last two rolls.

A couple of minutes passed in contemplative silence before she murmured, "Should we take a bowl of soup to Jeremiah before we leave?"

Hazel watched Shepard's throat convulse on a swallow, unsure if she was attempting to delay the inevitable or because it was the right thing to do for a sick friend.

She liked to think she was kind and thoughtful, but she had the sinking suspicion in this instance, her motivation was purely selfish.

Shepard leveled a knowing look her way as he popped the last morsel of bread in his mouth. However, instead of commenting on her reluctance to join the clean-up at her shop, he nodded and stood.

Ten minutes later, they were outside Jeremiah's door with a covered bowl of soup in Shepard's hand. He knocked and waited, then knocked again before testing the knob. It twisted with a low squeal of protest but proved to be unlocked. Shepard looked at Hazel with worry creasing his brow and pushed the door open.

Jeremiah lay sleeping, but it was apparent by his flushed skin that his condition had worsened. Sweat covered his brow, drenching his nightshirt and bed linens. His breathing was labored, each inhale accented by a worrisome wet rattling sound emanating from his lungs.

Hurrying to the bed, Hazel felt Jeremiah's brow and gasped. "He's burning with fever."

She pushed the covers away then reached for the wet cloth that had fallen to his pillow beside him. "Will you go ask Harris if we might have some ice if there's any? I'll see what I can do to help make him comfortable."

Shepard set the bowl down on the bedside table and nodded, rushing from the room without more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

Hazel dipped the cloth in the basin and wrung out the excess water, then set about bathing the sweat from Jeremiah's body.

Eons passed. Or minutes, it was difficult to know for sure.

All that seemed to matter in the space of time it took until Shepard flew back into the room with a small bowl of straw-speckled ice chunks was that Jeremiah remained unconscious to her presence.

Not once did his eyes flutter, and no groan or grumble of protest escaped his lips. Anxiety wrapped its dreaded tentacles around Hazel's heart and squeezed.

The next few hours passed much the same way in their efforts to ease Jeremiah's fever. Finally, after Shepard returned with the second bowl of ice chips, Hazel took pity on his increased agitation and insisted he join the other men at her shop.

"I don't want to leave you alone," he whispered with a slight shake of his head.

"I won't be alone; I'll have Jeremiah to keep me company."

The look he shot her clearly said he didn't appreciate her logic.

She rolled her eyes and dipped the cloth into the ice water before resting it once more upon Jeremiah's forehead. "I'll lock the door and refuse to open it unless it's for you and only after you do our secret knock."

"We don't have a secret knock," he grumbled with a smile tugging at his mouth as he folded his arms across his chest.

Hazel shrugged, "Then we'll make one up before you go."

Shepard's gaze flicked between her and Jeremiah, weighing his need to feel useful against his concern over leaving her alone with an incapacitated Marshal. "What if he gets worse?"

"I'll send someone to fetch you."

He looked unconvinced. "There could be trouble."

"Yes, but I doubt it will find me while I'm hidden away, tending a sick man. Are you thinking of antagonizing Thomas into a fight?" She asked with an arch of her brow, deftly changing the topic to divert his attention. "I don't think he'd have much trouble taking you up on the offer."

Shepard scoffed. It would certainly help relieve some of his tension to plant a fist in the man's round face. "That wasn't what I had in mind," he drawled, "but now that you mention it..." he watched her refresh the cloth and slowly wipe it along Jeremiah's feverish face and neck. "What if Dynamite tries something while I'm gone."

"He won't."

"You can't know that," Shepard growled, "Jeremiah shot him, but for all we know, he could be lying in wait to try abducting you again."

Hazel scowled. "You're right, I don't know; it's not as though I've seen his calendar of events. But I believe I know him a little better than you."

She stared at him, her tone dropping to a whisper when she continued, "If Dynamite's wounded, he'll lay low until he regains his strength unless we're lucky and he dies from infection. He's a brute, but he isn't stupid. Not to mention, I'll have Jeremiah's revolver and gun-belt nearby, so you needn't worry about me." Seeing Shepard still looked undecided, Hazel added, "I'm a crack shot."

Shepard raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath.

He hated this. He'd never been good at standing idly by and waiting for things beyond his control to improve, especially when someone he cared about was in danger. He needed to keep himself busy.

Maybe Hazel was right. She clearly had a better handle on the situation than he did, or she was more skilled at hiding her concern.

"Fine," he grumbled after a few more moments of deliberation, "but only if you're sure."

Hazel nodded, "Go, do some man things and get dirty. You'll feel better afterward." She walked him to the door, handing him his hat as she pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, "Who knows, you might get lucky and be able to punch Thomas."

Shepard settled his hat on his head, "One can hope."

Grinning, Hazel prodded Shepard out onto the landing and closed the door before he could think of another excuse to stay.

Shepard stared at the chipped paint and fought the urge to smile. She knew him too well, his Jonesy, even after all their time apart.

With one last look over his shoulder to reassure himself Hazel and Jeremiah would be safe, he marched downstairs and outside, stopping for a moment to take a deep cleansing breath before continuing on to her shop.

From the street, it was clear to see Thomas and the other men had made decent progress in the few hours since they'd started. A pile of charred rubble littered the boardwalk and a portion of the street as though they'd pushed from above and called it good.

In the next second, one of the men shouted, "LOOK OUT BELOW."

And sure enough, another pile of dust and debris fell to the street with a clatter, followed by Francis Richards—a balding, short, rotund man with a frizzy curtain of grey hair—peering over the ledge to observe his handiwork.

Or determine if there'd been any injuries. His motivation was unclear.

Shepard sighed and walked around back, unsurprised to find the door hanging wide open for the second time that day. When he stepped inside, he blinked against the drastic change in lighting and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Someone had been thoughtful enough to tack swaths of canvas into the ceiling to cover the fabric shelves and drape the other pieces of equipment and furniture.

Sooty footprints marked a well-traversed path from the door to the stairs. Shepard followed them, absently wondering how long it would take to wash it out off the boards or if they too would need to be replaced.

Taking the steps two at a time, he came face to face with a begrimed Thomas three steps from the top. It was, no doubt, the one and only time they would stand eye to eye.

The fact Shepard allowed the moment to slide by without comment or a dig at the man's shorter stature proved the depth of his concern over Jeremiah. Instead, Shepard simply grunted in greeting and walked past Thomas. An all but civil exchange compared to their previous interactions.

"Figures the devil would show when the work is almost done," Thomas said, following him into the room.

Shepard arched a brow at him over his shoulder but miraculously kept his mouth shut as he took a quick accounting of what still needed to be done, then crossed to Hazel's bed.

Stripped of linens, the tarnished brass bed frame and ruined mattress jutted from the wall into the middle of the room like a lone tooth in a skull. Shepard rolled the thin mattress and hoisted it onto his right shoulder, grimacing when a stream of fetid water ran down his back. Muttering a curse under his breath, he readjusted his grip.

He'd considered going the civilized route to dispose of it, but Francis Richards, with a jovial smile creasing his dirty face, took one look at Shepard lugging his waterlogged burden and belted, "LOOK OUT BELOW."

When in Rome, Shepard silently acknowledged with a shrug and gracious tip of his head to Francis, then promptly heaved the mattress over.

He stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of the crash below, and had to admit it was a gratifying experience he looked forward to repeating.

But since the bed only needed a good cleaning and the tin box resting on the floorboards beneath would be given to Hazel upon his return, his options were unfortunately depleted.

"That'll do for today, boys," Thomas called to the men on the roof who were knocking the ruined beams free. "We'll clean up outside, then start again bright and early tomorrow," he looked at Shepard and growled, "your help won't be needed, Devereaux."

Shepard crossed to the bed and retrieved the scorched tin box. It had a bit of heft to it but nothing substantial enough to help him determine what might be inside.

The fact Hazel had kept it under her bed within easy access made him deeply curious as to its contents. He shook it and frowned at hearing nothing roll around inside. Something that sounded suspiciously like paper thunked against the edges of the container, but that was it.

He was seconds away from prying the lid open when Thomas slammed his hand on the top and curled his fingers around the edge in a blatantly obvious attempt to steal it out of his grip.

"I'll be taking that to Miss Isadora," Thomas snapped, tugging at the tin.

Shepard tightened his hold, "Surely, you're exhausted after your day of labor."

"I am a bit sore," Thomas admitted, his eyes narrowing. He slid his other hand under the bottom and gave a good yank with both arms. "But not so tired I can't return this to Miss Isadora."

Shepard held firm, thoroughly enjoying the little fur ball's struggles. "I'm taking it to her. I'd hate for something to happen to it should you pass out along the way."

"I assure you," Thomas tugged, grunting, "I'm more than capable of delivering this to her."

"No."

Thomas threw his whole weight into prying the container free of Shepard's grip. "I've had just about enough of this. Now... hand it over, I won't ask politely again."

Shepard grinned and lifted it above his head, holding it well beyond the shorter man's reach. "Nice try, but I must refuse."

Fury flared to life in Thomas' eyes a second before he sucker-punched Shepard in the face. At least, that's what Shepard believed he tried to do. In all honesty, it felt more as though he'd been tapped in the jaw by a pudgy-fisted infant.

But because Thomas had all but begged for retaliation, and Shepard was more than willing to grant his wish, he responded accordingly.

By slapping him across the cheek.

With his weaker left hand.

And he didn't even haul back and really let go, which if one wanted to get technical, meant it was little more than a pat on the cheek he'd just given him. Fair was fair.

However, Shepard soon discovered Thomas was not as stalwart as his short, somewhat stocky physique suggested. Apparently, even the light dusting of a slap packed enough power to tip the man off-balance and send him stumbling backward.

In Thomas' feeble efforts to correct his stance, he tripped over a chunk of wood one of the men had knocked from the rafters mere seconds earlier and lurched toward the gaping hole from the absent wall.

It was a moment that hung suspended in time. Shepard's eyes widened. Possibly with delight. And Francis, who'd heralded the mattress tumbling to the street moments ago, belted out, "LOOK OUT BELOW," just as Thomas fell.

Shepard bit back a grin, tucked the tin box under his arm, and skipped down the stairs.

By the time he made it outside and around the corner, Thomas was rolling down the pile of debris, thoroughly coating himself in soot and ash.

"See you tomorrow, Thomas," Shepard called out with a smile as he stepped onto the street, "bright and early. Sure hope you don't pull a muscle cleaning that mess up because we've got lots of work to do."