Whirlwind Groom. Debra Cowan
her arm to draw the wet cloth over her face and chest. She twitched beneath his hand, her head turning from side to side on her pillow. Her hair slid across her face and Davis Lee nudged the wet strands away.
“Blood,” she whispered brokenly. “So much blood.”
Another sob choked out of her and his heart caught at the deep-reaching agony of it. Blood? What was going on in her head? Just another question to add to the others he had about her.
He wished her fever would cool, that Catherine would return. He took her hand and dipped it into the water up to her wrist, spreading the wet rag on her chest for a moment. The tiny mole he’d glimpsed before at the edge of her collarbone teased him. And so did that damn transparent undergarment.
Davis Lee stared at her plump breasts and the dusky nipples that had drawn up like shy buds. Despite the fact that he knew she was lying about something, want pounded through him, low and fierce and hot. He moved his gaze from the flat of her stomach to the dark shadow between her legs. His breath hitched on the same sharp edge of desire he’d felt for another woman with lies in her eyes.
Davis Lee dragged a hand down his face, wishing he could erase this picture of her from his mind. He had no doubt he would carry this image to his grave. What he needed was to focus on getting her fever down, helping her through this. Then finding out her connection to Ian McDougal and why she had really come to Whirlwind.
Chapter Five
T he pain woke her, a searing agony that pulsed just below the surface of her skin. Her eyelids were heavy, and when she finally got her eyes open, her vision was slightly blurry. The tight heaviness against her lower left leg confirmed the splint she vaguely remembered Catherine fashioning. A bulky wrap of white cloth kept the poultice in place. The snakeroot must be drawing out the poison because her leg burned like fire.
Pale gray light tinged with the sun crept into the room. Trying to get her bearings, she stared at the dresser at the foot of the bed. She became aware of the damp sheets beneath her, the thick cotton feel of her mouth. The door was open.
Even with her senses dulled by pain and weakness she knew she wasn’t alone.
Her head felt too heavy for her neck and it was an effort to look over at the window. Davis Lee. Her mind stalled on that for a moment. She remembered shooting with him, resting against him on the ride here. Catherine Donnelly had put the poultice on her leg then the splint. That was the last thing Josie remembered.
Where was Catherine? How long had the sheriff been here? His back was to her. One broad shoulder braced against the wall as he stared out the window. He wore the same light blue shirt he’d worn yesterday. At least she thought it was the same.
The lamp’s low flame burned beside the bed, giving a golden haze to the watery daylight seeping into the room. Her gaze skimmed involuntarily down the dark trousers that molded his lean hips and long legs entirely too well. She remembered how it felt to be cradled between his hard thighs, held against that brawny chest. Only then did Josie’s numbed brain realize that she was nearly naked.
The fine lawn of her combination suit clung to her body like wet tissue. The sweats that she and Catherine expected now slicked her still-fevered flesh, causing the thin cloth to cup her breasts and the tops of her thighs. Who had undressed her? Him?
The fabric was transparent. Josie could see her nipples, her navel, everything she owned. Which meant he had, too.
The heat that flushed her from head to toe had her easing herself up and reaching for the sheet.
“You’re awake,” he said, turning around.
How had he known that? Startled, she made a desperate grab for the linen and caught the corner, drawing it up to her chest.
“Every time I did that, you kicked it off.”
She frowned at the tired rasp of his voice. Dark stubble shadowed his too-strong jaw, sharpening the angles of his face. His eyes burned with blue fire and his coffee-dark hair was furrowed from his fingers. His hat hung on the chair beside her bed.
He moved over to her. She pressed the sheet to her breasts, mortified at the thought that Davis Lee had seen her nearly naked.
He reached for the pitcher on the bedside table. After pouring water into a glass, he bent down and slid one hard, hot hand under her neck to hold her head.
His touch was gentle, at odds with the no-nonsense line of his lips, the cool knowing in his eyes. She sipped, looking down to escape his intense gaze. The liquid soothed the parched heat of her mouth but didn’t quench her thirst.
She drank greedily and he pulled back a little.
“Easy,” he murmured.
Trying to slow down, she finished the rest. He lowered her head back to the pillow and returned the glass to the bedside table. Her body still burned with fever, but she could feel the brand of his touch on her nape. His gaze on her body.
Her eyes met his and she was struck by the hard glitter of want in his eyes. Jaw tightening, he stepped away, behind the chair.
She fastened her gaze on her hands. Weakness pulled at her. “I thought Catherine was here.”
“She was called away on an emergency.”
It took too much effort to nod so Josie just absorbed the information. The mildness of Davis Lee’s voice relaxed her unease enough that she glanced at him. No emotion showed now on his handsome face, but his body was taut with a subtle tension. She didn’t recall him coming back after he’d fetched the herbs for Catherine.
He gestured to her leg. “Still hurt pretty bad?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember much of what happened after I brought you here?”
“Not really. Catherine, the snakeroot.” Somewhere in her mushy brain, she recalled another woman. Older. “Was Mrs. Wavers here?”
“For a bit.”
Her body ached. She didn’t have the energy of a sun-warmed cat. “I was unconscious.”
He nodded.
“How long?”
“Ten or twelve minutes without coming to. Then you were in and out.”
She was thirsty and the pain in her leg radiated through her whole body. “I don’t remember anything else.”
“You were burning up.” He felt her forehead, his big, rough hand gentle on her skin. “Still are.”
“Yes, I remember the fever….”
And strong hands moving softly over her face, her chest. Her gaze flew to Davis Lee. It had been him. Touching her. Soothing her.
His gaze dipped, skimmed over her body.
She squirmed beneath the sheet. “So…how long have you been here?”
“A while.”
She wondered if this dizziness was due to the snakebite or the blue-eyed man standing over her. “Who’s watching the jail?”
“Your window has a perfect view of it.” His gaze sharpened like a newly whetted blade. “But Jake stayed with the prisoner.”
His pointed answer told her he was on to her spying, but she couldn’t summon the energy to care or to keep it in her head for more than a fleeting moment. She could barely lift the sheet to blot her damp forehead and neck. For the first time she wondered if Davis Lee could be held responsible for McDougal dying in his custody. She wouldn’t want that.
Despite her listlessness and dulled thoughts, she was well aware he had saved her life. He didn’t look all that pleased about it. Neither was she. She didn’t want to owe him, but she couldn’t dance around the fact that she did.
“I…thank you. For saving my life,” she said quietly.
His