Hummingbird by Lavyrle Spencer Read Free Book Online

sent out a description. Somebody along the line must have recognized him by it."
    "But suppose the man does die? It wouldn't seem proper for a man to die where not a soul even knew his name."
    "It's happened before," Doc stated truthfully.
    Her shoulders squared, and a look of pure resolve came over her face. "Yes, but it shan't this time. I will make it my goal, a sort of talisman if you like, to see that he revives sufficiently to state his name. If he can do that, perhaps he can recuperate fully. As you see, Doctor, I intend to be a tenacious healer" She gave Doc a wry grin. "Now hurry along. I have a kitchen to see to and a supper to prepare." Doc was chuckling as she whisked him away. It took more than weariness to defeat Abigail McKenzie!
    She hadn't time to worry about her own appearance while she prepared David Melcher's supper tray, yet her heart was light as she pondered Doc's words. A devotee. David Melcher was her devotee. A delicious sense of expectation rippled through Miss Abigail at the thought. She took extra care with his meal and paused to tuck a few stray wisps of hair into place before stepping into his room. He was lying quietly, facing the window with its view of the apricot sky. As she paused in the doorway, he sensed her there and turned with a smile. Her heart flitted gaily, filling her with some new sense of herself.
    "I've brought your supper," she said softly.
    "Please sit with me while I eat it and keep me company," he invited. She wanted to…oh, how she wanted to, but it simply wasn't proper.
    "I'm afraid I have things to do downstairs," was her excuse. His face registered disappointment. But he was afraid to be too insistent; she'd done so much already. The room grew silent, and from outside came the wistful cry of a mourning dove. Miss Abigail set the tray on his lap, then offered brightly, "But I've brought you something to read if you'd care to, after you've finished your supper" From her pocket she pulled a book of sonnets.
    "Ah, sonnets! Do you enjoy sonnets too? I might have guessed you would."
    At his smile of approval she grew flustered and raised her eyes to the cotton candy clouds beyond the window. Again came the call of the mourning dove, singing its question, "Who? Who? Who?" It suddenly seemed to Miss Abigail that the question was being asked of her It was a question she'd asked herself more times than she cared to remember Who would there ever be to brighten her life? To give her reason for living?
    Lost in reverie, Miss Abigail said rather dreamily, "I find the evening a particularly appropriate time of day for sonnets—rather the softest time of day, don't you think?"
    "I couldn't agree more," came his gentle reply. "It seems we have something in common."
    "Yes, we do." She became suddenly aware of how she looked, and touched her lower lip with the tips of her fingers. She still wore her stained, sweaty dress that she'd worn all day, and her hair was terribly untidy. Yet even as she fled the room, she realized he'd smiled sweetly and spoken almost tenderly. Was it true, what Doc had said? Abigail McKenzie, you're so tired you're getting fanciful!
    But tired or not, her day was not over.
    Dusk had fallen and in the gloom of her downstairs bedroom its occupant looked darker than ever. She found herself comparing him to Mr. Melcher. The whiskers on his chin had nearly doubled in length, and she decided that tomorrow she would shave him. She had never liked dark-whiskered men anyway. And moustaches! Well, if dark chin whiskers were sinister, black moustaches were positively forbidding! This one—she stepped closer—bordered his upper lip like thick, drooping bat's wings. She shuddered as she studied it and crossed her arms protectively. Vile! she thought. Why would any man want to wear a bristly, unattractive thing like that on his very face?
    But suddenly Miss Abigail's grip on her upper arms loosened. She had a dim recollection of—but no, it couldn't have been, could it? She