Cowboy Resurrected. Elle James
spun away, wondering what the hell had come over him. He rummaged in the wooden box where he’d found the blanket and emerged with a pot. He emptied the can of beans into the pot and set it on the potbellied stove. Then, using a stick from the box of wood, he stirred the embers inside the stove, making them glow brighter. Heat warmed his cheeks.
The bedsprings creaked behind him.
Sophia had pushed to a sitting position and was reaching for the foil-wrapped package on the other bed.
Thorn got to it before she did and unwrapped several soft tortillas. “Is this what you were going for?”
She nodded and peeled one off the top. Sitting with her legs pulled up beneath her, she nibbled on the corn tortilla, color slowly returning to her cheeks.
“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” he asked.
She refused to meet his gaze. “I don’t remember.”
“And you were out for a hike on motorbikes.” Thorn stared at her for a long time. “Still not talking?”
She finished the tortilla and nodded toward the stove. “You’re burning the beans.”
Thorn spun back to the stove and rescued the boiling beans. He scrounged up two tin plates and spoons from the storage box, held them under the eaves by the door to rinse them off and scooped beans onto each damp plate.
Sophia accepted the plate without complaint and dug her spoon into the fragrant beans, eating every bite.
Thorn sat back, his own plate forgotten. “How can you eat like that after being sick?”
She accepted another tortilla and sopped up the remaining juices from her plate. She finished the tortilla before answering. “I get sick if I don’t eat.”
“Are you anemic or something?”
“Something.” Sophia set the plate on the floor, stretched out on the mattress and pulled the blanket over herself, closing her eyes.
“That’s it?” Thorn asked.
“I’m working on, what did you call it? Shut-eye.” Her eyes remained closed.
The fire burned down into glowing coals, heat from the stove filling the small space, making it cozy and comfortable despite the storm outside.
Thorn ate the beans on his plate, and then rinsed the pot and both plates and spoons in rainwater. Once he’d returned the eating utensils to the box, he cleared her backpack off the remaining bed, gathered the handgun and rifle beside him and settled on his side, facing Sophia. In the fading light from the fire, he studied the stranger. Her Spanish accent led him to believe she’d spent the majority of her life south of the United States border, but her grasp of English made him want to believe her story that her mother was American.
Her dark blond hair and pale skin could mean either her mother was American, as she’d insisted, or she could be Mexican of Spanish decent.
Sophia’s chest rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm, her eyelids twitching as if her dreams were not all that pleasant.
What was she afraid of? Why wasn’t she telling him the truth about her presence on the Raging Bull? Who had hit her to make her so skittish?
The more he reflected on Sophia and her possible reasons for being in the cabin, the more questions Thorn came up with. Finally, exhaustion pulled at his own eyelids, dragging them downward.
His final thought of the woman beside him was one that left him frowning into his dreams. She’d stirred in him a spark of awareness he hadn’t felt since Kayla had died in his arms. And worse, he didn’t understand the desire he felt inside to protect her from whatever she was running from.
Hiking in the mountains. Not likely.
With one hand on the rifle, the pistol tucked beneath him, he drifted into a fitful sleep, the storm outside raging well into the early hours of the morning. His dreams were filled with the horror of the shooting that had taken his wife and unborn child, the nightmare of holding Kayla in his arms as she bled out. He’d held her so long that the EMTs had to remind him where he was and that he couldn’t stay in the middle of the street. He had to let go and get up.
“Get up!” a voice said into his ear. A hand grabbed his arm and shook him.
At first Thorn thought it was the EMT telling him they had to load his wife’s body. As he swam to the surface of consciousness, he remembered his wife had been dead for two years. The hand moved from his shoulder, and something tugged in his fingers.
Thorn sat up and grabbed the hand trying to pry the rifle from his fingers. “Let go, or I’ll shoot you,” he said, pointing the pistol at his attacker.
Sophia raised her hands and backed up a step. She wore the jeans and shirt she’d spread out earlier to dry, and her gaze flicked to the door of the cabin, her eyes wide and filled with terror. “Please, don’t let them take me back.”
Thorn frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“Someone is outside. It might be the men who shot Hector.” Sophia tugged at his arm. “Get up. Hurry.”
As the fog of sleep cleared, Thorn realized the rain had stopped and, with it, the lightning. But what he’d thought was thunder was the rumble of an engine, like that of a heavy-duty diesel truck.
He jammed his legs into his jeans and boots, grabbed his rifle and reached for the doorknob. Before he could open the door, it was flung wide, slamming against the wall.
A towering figure filled the frame, backlit by the headlights of a truck standing a few feet behind him, engine running. From his silhouette, he appeared to hold an assault rifle.
His heart racing, Thorn raised his weapon and aimed for the middle of the man’s chest. “Not a step farther.”
The man froze in the doorway.
A voice behind the man in the door called out, “Thorn? Is that you?”
Thorn stared past the man with the assault rifle, his hand steady on his own gun. “Hank?”
The older man pushed past his bodyguard and held up his hands. “You gonna put that rifle down or shoot me?”
Thorn lowered the weapon, ran a hand through his hair and stared out into the darkness. “What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Thought you might need rescuing. When your horse came back without you on it, I sent out a search party, figuring you got thrown or bushwhacked.” His gaze swung to the woman cowering in the corner by the potbellied stove. “Ah, you have company.”
“Sorry to get you and your men out in that weather. The storm scared my mount, and he took off without me.” Thorn turned toward Sophia. “I took shelter in this cabin, only to discover a squatter beat me to it.” He waved toward Sophia. “Hank, this is Sophia. Sophia, this is Hank Derringer, the owner of the property you’re trespassing on.”
Before Thorn’s last word left his lips, Sophia flung herself at Hank.
Hank staggered backward, his arms going around Sophia to steady them both.
The bodyguard reached for Sophia’s arm.
“It’s okay,” Hank said. “She’s not hurting me. Sophia, this is Max. Max, Sophia. There. You’ve been properly introduced.”
Sophia buried her face in Hank’s shirt, silent sobs shaking her body. “It is a miracle,” she whispered, then her body went limp and she would have fallen to the floor if Hank hadn’t had his arms around her.
Thorn stood by, his hands aching to go to Sophia’s rescue, but he forced himself to stand back.
Hank stared over the top of the unconscious woman’s head. “What the devil is going on here?”
Конец