Sutton's Way. Diana Palmer
then she went for a coat and stuffed her long blond hair under a stocking cap. “Do you have cough syrup, aspirins, throat lozenges—that sort of thing?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said eagerly, then sighed. “Dad won’t take them, but we have them.”
“Is he suicidal?” Amanda asked angrily as she went out the door behind him and locked the cabin before she climbed on the sled with the boy.
“Well sometimes things get to him,” he ventured. “But he doesn’t ever get sick, and he won’t admit that he is. But he’s out of his head and I’m scared. He’s all I got.”
“We’ll take care of him,” she promised, and hoped she could deliver on the promise. “Let’s go.”
“Do you know Mr. Durning well?” he asked as he called to the draft horse and started him back down the road and up the mountain toward the Sutton house.
“He’s sort of a friend of a relative of mine,” she said evasively. The sled ride was fun, and she was enjoying the cold wind and snow in her face, the delicious mountain air. “I’m only staying at the cabin for a few weeks. Just time to…get over something.”
“Have you been sick, too?” he asked curiously.
“In a way,” she said noncommittally.
The sled went jerkily up the road, around the steep hill. She held on tight and hoped the big draft horse had steady feet. It was a harrowing ride at the last, and then they were up, and the huge redwood ranch house came into sight, blazing with light from its long, wide front porch to the gabled roof.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Amanda said.
“My dad added on to it for my mom, before they married,” he told her. He shrugged. “I don’t remember much about her, except she was redheaded. Dad sure hates women.” He glanced at her apologetically. “He’s not going to like me bringing you….”
“I can take care of myself,” she returned, and smiled reassuringly. “Let’s go see how bad it is.”
“I’ll get Harry to put up the horse and sled,” he said, yelling toward the lighted barn until a grizzled old man appeared. After a brief introduction to Amanda, Harry left and took the horse away.
“Harry’s been here since Dad was a boy,” Elliot told her as he led her down a bare-wood hall and up a steep staircase to the second storey of the house. “He does most everything, even cooks for the men.” He paused outside a closed door, and gave Amanda a worried look. “He’ll yell for sure.”
“Let’s get it over with, then.”
She let Elliot open the door and look in first, to make sure his father had something on.
“He’s still in his jeans,” he told her, smiling as she blushed. “It’s okay.”
She cleared her throat. So much for pretended sophistication, she thought, and here she was twenty-four years old. She avoided Elliot’s grin and walked into the room.
Quinn Sutton was sprawled on his stomach, his bare muscular arms stretched toward the headboard. His back gleamed with sweat, and his thick, black hair was damp with moisture. Since it wasn’t hot in the room, Amanda decided that he must have a high fever. He was moaning and talking unintelligibly.
“Elliot, can you get me a basin and some hot water?” she asked. She took off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her cotton blouse.
“Sure thing,” Elliot told her, and rushed out of the room.
“Mr. Sutton, can you hear me?” Amanda asked softly. She sat down beside him on the bed, and lightly touched his bare shoulder. He was hot, all right—burning up. “Mr. Sutton,” she called again.
“No,” he moaned. “No, you can’t do it…!”
“Mr. Sutton…”
He rolled over and his black eyes opened, glazed with fever, but Amanda barely noticed. Her eyes were on the rest of him, male perfection from shoulder to narrow hips. He was darkly tanned, too, and thick, black hair wedged from his chest down his flat stomach to the wide belt at his hips. Amanda, who was remarkably innocent not only for her age, but for her profession as well, stared like a star-struck girl. He was beautiful, she thought, amazed at the elegant lines of his body, at the ripple of muscle and the smooth, glistening skin.
“What the hell do you want?” he rasped.
So much for hero worship, she thought dryly. She lifted her eyes back to his. “Elliot was worried,” she said quietly. “He came and got me. Please don’t fuss at him. You’re raging with fever.”
“Damn the fever, get out,” he said in a tone that might have stopped a charging wolf.
“I can’t do that,” she said. She turned her head toward the door where Elliot appeared with a basin full of hot water and a towel and washcloth over one arm.
“Here you are, lady,” he said. “Hi, Dad,” he added with a wan smile at his furious father. “You can beat me when you’re able again.”
“Don’t think I won’t,” Quinn growled.
“There, there, you’re just feverish and sick, Mr. Sutton,” Amanda soothed.
“Get Harry and have him throw her off my land,” Quinn told Elliot in a furious voice.
“How about some aspirin, Elliot, and something for him to drink? A small whiskey and something hot—”
“I don’t drink whiskey,” Quinn said harshly.
“He has a glass of wine now and then,” Elliot ventured.
“Wine, then.” She soaked the cloth in the basin. “And you might turn up the heat. We don’t want him to catch a chill when I sponge him down.”
“You damned well aren’t sponging me down!” Quinn raged.
She ignored him. “Go and get those things, please, Elliot, and the cough syrup, too.”
“You bet, lady!” he said grinning.
“My name is Amanda,” she said absently.
“Amanda,” the boy repeated, and went back downstairs.
“God help you when I get back on my feet,” Quinn said with fury. He laid back on the pillow, shivering when she touched him with the cloth. “Don’t…!”
“I could fry an egg on you. I have to get the fever down. Elliot said you were delirious.”
“Elliot’s delirious to let you in here,” he shuddered. Her fingers accidentally brushed his flat stomach and he arched, shivering. “For God’s sake, don’t,” he groaned.
“Does your stomach hurt?” she asked, concerned. “I’m sorry.” She soaked the cloth again and rubbed it against his shoulders, his arms, his face.
His black eyes opened. He was breathing roughly, and his face was taut. The fever, she imagined. She brushed back her long hair, and wished she’d tied it up. It kept flowing down onto his damp chest.
“Damn you,” he growled.
“Damn you, too, Mr. Sutton.” She smiled sweetly. She finished bathing his face and put the cloth and basin aside. “Do you have a long-sleeved shirt?”
“Get out!”
Elliot came back with the medicine and a small glass of wine. “Harry’s making hot chocolate,” he said with a smile. “He’ll bring it up. Here’s the other stuff.”
“Good,” she said. “Does your father have a pajama jacket or something long-sleeved?”
“Sure!”
“Traitor,” Quinn groaned at his son.
“Here