Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] by Nightrose

to know if you, Mary, and Theresa have had measles.”
    “Why?”
    “Damn it, Katy! Can’t you answer a simple question?”
    “We had them at Myrtle Gulch.” Mary quickly interceded. “Theresa was not yet two at the time. I didn’t have them as bad as Katy. She was awfully sick.”
    Katy shot her sister a frowning look of disapproval for giving out the information, then forced herself to look back at Rowe and speak matter of factly.
    “Now I understand why you need us to stay here. You have an outbreak of measles and you want us to tend the sick. Let me warn you, Mr.
Blackbeard
Teach, that I could not have possibly been Florence Nightingale in my former life because, as far as I know, she is still living. Nor could I have been Clara Barton, for the same reason.”
    Rowe threw back his head and laughed.
    At this moment Katy thoroughly hated him. More than anything she wanted to slam her knotted fist into his eye with every ounce of her strength. The thought sobered her. What was this man doing to her? She couldn’t remember ever wanting to strike anyone before. When she was with Garrick Rowe, it was as if there were another person inside her clamoring to get out.
    “What in the world are you talking about?” Mary asked, looking first at Rowe’s smiling face then at her sister’s angry one. Katy’s lips were pressed in a downward arc, and her brows were beetled. “How many men are sick, Rowe?”
    “Two, so far. Hank isolated them in one wagon. He says measles broke out in Bannack while they were there, so we expect more men to come down with them.”
    “Poor things. Sage tea will break the fever and bakingsoda paste will help the itch—”
    “They’re a miserable lot with fever runnin’ high,” Hank said, and his Irish brogue reminded Katy of Pack Gallagher, Mara Shannon’s husband.
    “Of course, we’ll do what we can for them,” Mary said firmly. “Are they still in the wagons?”
    “We moved them to the house back of the livery.”
    “Is someone looking after them?”
    “I’ve been doin’ what I can.”
    “Then you’ve had measles.”
    “Not that I know of, but—”
    “Laws! You’ll be coming down with them next.” Mary got to her feet and went to the cupboard. “We’ve got sage for tea but not much soda.”
    “There’s plenty in the cookhouse,” Hank said.
    Katy watched Mary. She was in her glory when she was nursing the sick. Damn Garrick Rowe! He
was
playing all the right cards. Mary wouldn’t even think of leaving Trinity as long as there was someone here who needed her.
    “I’ll go see what I can do, Katy. Men die of measles if they’re not given enough water, if fever burns them up, or if they scratch and get infection.”
    “I figured you would,” Katy said drily.
    “You needn’t worry, miss,” Hank said. “I’ll see that no harm comes to her.”
    Katy looked at him, then at Rowe. Rowe was aggravating, but she was reasonably sure he wouldn’t force himself on her or her sister. Hank Weston was another matter. He seemed nice enough, but so did the preacher who had met her outside the house one night in Bonanza City and tried to throw her to the ground. She held him off with the little Derringer, and the next Sunday he was in the pulpit preaching hellfire and brimstone and looking as pious as ever.
    “She’ll be all right. Hank will stay close to her,” Rowe said, seeing the doubt on her face.
    “That’s what I’m afraid of,” Katy said bluntly.
    “Katy!” Mary’s cheeks turned red with mortification. “Please excuse us. I want to speak to my sister in private.” Mary went to the back of the building and into the shadows. The men sat in embarrassed silence as Katy, with head high, followed her sister. “What in the world has gotten into you?” Mary demanded in an angry whisper.
    “Why? Because I don’t like the idea of you going out in the dark with that . . . big Irish rowdy?”
    “How do you know he’s a rowdy?” She held her hand up when Katy