Rocky Mountain Man. Jillian Hart
and her sweet heart-shaped face was familiar. Worry crinkled the corners of her eyes and emphasized the dimple in the center of her delicate chin. She was a petite thing, and she smelled good. Like sunshine and clover and those little yellow flowers that used to grow on the fence in his mother’s backyard.
Pain scoured his chest. His thoughts cleared and he knew where he was. The dark shadows were his trees and it was his laundry lady kneeling over him with her riot of dark gold curls bouncing everywhere, thick and lustrous and rippling from the wind’s touch.
Another wave of pain crashed through him. He was here, in the present, the past vanishing like fog.
Her eyes, so blue and gentle, gleamed with an unspoken kindness. “Oh, thank Heaven. I knew you were too ornery to die on me.”
But the way she said it wasn’t harsh. No, it was tender, as if she didn’t think he was ornery at all. And he was. All he could think about was how he despised women like her, so delicate and soft and sheltered. She wanted something. All women wanted something. A woman like that had ruined him. Maybe it was bitterness, or maybe it was just his broken spirit that made him believe a woman could be no other way.
“What do you want?” he snarled as she whipped out a needle and stuck it into his neck. “I don’t have a lot of money.”
“Money? I might charge you a fee for doing your washing and ironing and mending, Mr. Hennessey, but I’m not about to bill you for patching you up. Not when you saved my life as you did.” She tugged the thread through his skin, quick and tight.
Agony drilled through him. He lifted his head and tried to get up, but his body wouldn’t move. He was wet with his own sweat and blood, and he began trembling. She leaned over him, giving him a perfect view of her white chemise. Lace edged the top where the soft creamy curves of her full breasts strained at the fabric.
Panic overrode pain. He was alone with a woman in her underclothes. That couldn’t be good. Memories rushed into his mind and he was too weak to stop them. Memories of another woman in her lace-edged chemise, memories of a pack of men shouting and beating down his door. The splinter of wood breaking. The rage of the crowd as it crashed through his shop—
“No!” He heaved to the side, but his body felt distant and wooden. His strength was gone. Gone. No, that wasn’t right. He had to move, he had to get away from her—
“Wait, oh, no! You’re tearing up my work. Please, Mr. Hennessey.” Her cool hands grabbed at him and pushed him back down. Her face hovered over him, full of concern, like an angel of mercy. He didn’t believe in mercy. “Please, you have to let me do this. You have to. I can’t watch another man die. So you have to let me help you. That’s all I want to do.”
“I don’t want your help. Get away from me.”
“You’d rather bleed to death, is that it?”
“Yeah, now get off me.”
“No. I’m going to save you whether you like it or not.” She rose over him and sat on his waist. Silver tears filled her eyes but they didn’t fall, and he could only stare.
Were those genuine? He remembered how it had seemed he was looking down on her and she’d been crying over him. He could see the faint tracks on her cheeks.
She meant to help him, he could read that plain enough on her face. But she would bring him harm, just the same. Whatever it cost him, he had to get up, he had to find her horse and buggy and send her on her way. She’d bound him with her dress and petticoats, and while any fool could see the yellow gingham wrapped around his wounds, it didn’t change the fact that she was alone with him—in her undergarments. And with his past—
He had to get up. He tried. He really did. His left arm moved and his left hand scrabbled along until he seized on something. He turned toward it. The low branch of a tree. It looked sturdy enough. He pulled, dragging his body along the gritty earth. Rocks jabbed into his spine, but he was moving. Something hard slid off his chest and poked him in his ribs.
His Colt. 45. Relief made him forget about the woman trying to hold him down, talking a mile a minute as she kept on stitching. He pulled on the tree branch with all his might. The tree shook, the limb groaned as if on the breaking point, but he was sitting up. Now if he could just stand—
“No, hold still, I have to knot it.” Her words came in and out, fading along with his vision.
Duncan fought the blackness. Breathing hard, as if he’d worked a sixteen-hour shift in the quarry. He fought to stand. And then he saw movement in the shadows. A wolf leaped through the trees.
He let go of the branch and grabbed the Colt. Missed. His reflexes were too slow and his hand was no longer working.
There was a shot, a flash of fire, and the last thing he remembered was his laundry woman kneeling beside him, protecting him with her body, as she fired off a second round.
The darkness stole everything—his sight, his hearing, his thoughts, and even the pain. There was nothing but blackness taking him down like deep water.
But he wasn’t alone. He felt soft fingertips brush his brow. It was the woman.
Chapter Three
It was hard to look at this unconscious man and to not remember another. Betsy let the swell of sadness fill her up. Time had healed her grief, but she’d never forgotten. When Charlie had died, it had been a moonless night like this, too, and silent, as if the entire world had lain in wait for him to pass. She’d been just as helpless then.
Like Charlie, Duncan Hennessey had lost too much blood. He’d fought her, breaking open his worst wound. Getting him down the rocky road and shooing off the coyotes that were brazenly following them had drained every ounce of her optimism. She’d had to finally fashion a torch out of a branch and keep it lit to ward off the more dangerous predators.
It had worked, and now the stout log walls of his house protected them. But the animals were outside the door. Even with a torch, she didn’t dare head out into the night to fetch more water. She wrung the washcloth from the basin at her side and carefully cleansed the dried blood from his chest. His pulse thudded too fast at the hollow in his throat and his breathing was shallow.
He wasn’t nearly as disagreeable unconscious. He was a big man, over six feet, and his build was strong. Even slack, muscles were visible beneath his sun-bronzed skin. He radiated pure masculine strength, as if it came not only from his physical form but also from his spirit.
His skin was hot. The male scent of him—salty and woodsy—made her remember what it was like to be married. To share intimacy and morning cups of coffee and quiet evenings, of the immeasurable emotional bond that bound a man and wife. She hadn’t minded these years spent alone. That didn’t mean she liked it. Only that she hadn’t found a man who she could laugh with. One who seemed to fit with her.
The lantern light flickered. The oil was low. She should get up and search through his cupboards for more, but she didn’t want to leave him. Not unless she had to. He was dying, she knew it. She feared nothing could stop it. And it was her fault. He’d been protecting her.
He moaned low in his throat, troubled by dreams. Was a fever setting in? She leaned her cheek against his brow. He did feel warm, but not too warm. Yet. The pungent odor of boiling onions mixed with the nettles she had stewing on his stove—both smelled nearly done, she figured. Soon she would have to go check on them and see. She’d search for the oil can then.
“In the meantime, just rest.”
The flame writhed and swelled, and the strange orange light swept over the hard crags of his face and the vulnerable underside of his jaw. The shadows seemed to cling to him, as if he belonged to the night. As if there were only the shadow of him remaining.
She finished washing the blood from his chest and wondered, Did she finish stitching the lesser wounds? The horrible gashes spread nearly a foot and a half from his chest to his shoulder. Several were still seeping, but she feared by removing the bandaging, she would break open the clotted places.