A Ranch To Call Home. Carol Arens
too heavy for her to drag. Which was why he remained beside the bed where he had fallen.
Upon their first meeting, she hadn’t judged him to be a lewd-minded man. To the contrary. He had been concerned for her predicament, even though she had not been in one.
She could not guess why he had invaded her house in the wee hours.
The storm was much worse than when she had gone to bed. Perhaps that was the reason. Maybe he was seeking shelter. Or he could be lost and had mistaken her home for his. From what she’d seen, the ranch homes in this area were not so different from one another. It might be hard to tell the difference through the deluge pounding the earth.
And if he had been very tired? Given the hour, he might have been confused.
Carefully, she slid a pillow under his head. He winced but didn’t awaken. There was no reason she should feel responsible for his pain. He was the one who’d trespassed. Any woman would have reacted the same way to a bare, damp-skinned intruder in her bedroom.
A gloriously built intruder. One she had gazed upon far longer than was appropriate under the circumstances. Under any circumstances, she had reminded herself before she dressed him in the only garment at hand.
He wouldn’t like it. What man would? But his clothes were a dripping heap on the hearth. He could wear what she put on him or continue to shiver on the floor. Besides, he would have no idea how absurd he looked until he came to.
When he did regain consciousness, and she dearly hoped it was soon since she would hate to have to fetch a doctor in this weather, she would discover his reason for being here. Depending upon what it was, she would make up her mind on whether or not to have Chisel escort him back into the rain, or sleet, as it was becoming.
For the moment, though, she would have to tend to him since she was the one who’d laid him low.
“I’m sorry I hit you.” She ought to touch the lump to assure herself that it was going down, to wash the blood out of his hair and cleanse the gash, but every time she tried, he moaned.
“Nearly sorry anyway. You can’t just sneak into a body’s home. And in case you hoped to shock me, I’ve seen a man without his clothes on before.”
One time when she and Johnny had been camped by a stream, he went to bathe, then came back without wearing a stitch. That had been the first time he’d tried to convince her to take premarital liberties. He’d pivoted this way and that, making sure she got a good look at what she would be missing by turning him down. In spite of the fact that he seemed as confident in his allure as a rooster strutting about the hen coop, some things were meant to be waited for.
In the moment, she had been fascinated by the way he looked, so trim and dapper. There had been the slightest softness to his belly, which she didn’t mind since she chose to take it as a compliment to her cooking.
Johnny was pleasant, but seeing him like that had not made her blush in the least.
The same was not true of Jesse Creed. She’d had to look away several times while getting him decently covered. She’d felt her cheeks flaming each time her fingers touched him while she yanked and tugged fabric about him.
Where Johnny was spare and reedy, Mr. Creed was muscled. Every inch of the man looked ripe with power.
It was a good thing it was Johnny she was marrying. She would hate to spend her life feeling the odd edginess that sidelong glances at Mr. Creed gave her. She took a deep breath, expelled it in a rush to purge her mind of comparing naked men.
Since she could do nothing for Mr. Creed at the moment but watch him sleep, and it was getting close to dawn, she decided to go to the barn and tend her horses.
Walking into the front room, she drew aside her pretty curtain. She’d been right about the sleet. It was coming down heavily.
Responsibilities came with having all this land. Back on the Lucky Clover, animals got fed no matter the weather. Her obligation had been to feed the hands who fed the stock. Today, it was up to her to feed the animals.
“Stay here, Chisel. Watch over our prisoner. Or our guest. We’ll figure it out later.” Yanking the blanket from the bed, she spread it over Mr. Creed.
For safety’s sake, she snuffed out the bedroom lamp. She shrugged into her heavy coat, then went outside and dashed for the barn.
By the time she reached the big red doors, mud caked her legs well past her knees. Her dress and petticoats would never be the same. She didn’t even want to think about her shoes.
A whinny of greeting met her while she still had her hand on the door latch. Then another and another...then three more.
She didn’t have that many horses! And hers were in the barn, not the paddock behind the barn.
* * *
Jesse tried to stretch. His arms would not straighten. He needed to take a deep breath but his chest was banded by something that kept his lungs from expanding.
Confusion set heavy upon him. The only thing he knew with certainty was that he was lying on the floor and it was cold.
Easing onto his elbows, he felt something soft yet inflexible cage the roll of his shoulders.
The fabric smelled pretty, though, like citrus and lilac. He’d noticed that fragrance recently, but when? His head pounded. His eyeballs ached. With great force of will, he opened his eyes.
A rose-patterned ruffle fluttered across his chest to the tempo of his breathing.
Sitting up suddenly, he cursed the pain shooting from the back of his brain to the front. He heard a seam rip. Looking down, he saw his legs sticking out of the bottom of a woman’s flannel nightgown. A wide band of lace tickled the hair on his legs inches below his knees.
What the blazes! He’d been in and out of a dream state was all he could recall.
But this was his room, as solid and real as he’d last seen it.
He sat on the floor beside the bed, his naked butt numb with cold. Glancing down, he saw a pillow. Someone must have put it under his head.
A woman—but no, not simply a woman—the woman. She must be the one who dressed him in this...this flannel nightmare.
Also the one who, no doubt, hit him in the head with the skillet that lay on the mattress. It was the only thing that made sense.
She’d hit him because—
Of his horses!
Her beau was the cowboy who was involved with those hell-raising Underwoods. They would have known he’d gone to purchase his herd.
“Damn!” he shouted, then regretted it because it hurt like blazes and because in a shadowed corner of the room, something growled.
Slowly, Jesse came to his feet. So did the animal. In the dim, predawn light, he saw it bare its great, long teeth.
“Good dog.” Or wolf or bear. “Good, good fellow.”
There was no time to deal with the beast. At this very moment, the Underwoods and their fetching accomplice could be riding away with his stock.
As he thought about it, it made sense. Just because Bingham believed the gang of brothers went to Black Creek on a regular basis did not mean that this time they weren’t following Jesse. It had been no secret in Forget-Me-Not that he would be away purchasing his horses. If the brothers were set on thievery, they knew where to find a victim.
The woman had proved to be a skilled conspirator, luring him over the bed and then knocking him senseless. Could be the reason she looked familiar was from seeing that pretty face on a wanted poster. Although, he didn’t think that was something he would forget.
How long had he been unconscious? Plenty long enough for them to ride off with nineteen prime breeding animals.
The dog’s tail thumped the wall. It emerged from the corner.
“Hey...Dog!