by Candace Camp
“It’s hot as—” he began, then glanced at Victoria “—as Hades out here.”
Victoria looked up at the sky. “It’s your fever. It’s early morning still. But soon the sun will be high, and it will be hot. Could you ride a short distance? There’s a big live oak not far from here, and you could lie down in its shade.”
He nodded weakly. “Sure.”
Victoria stood up and went over to Slater’s horse. The animal eyed her warily and sidled away, but its hobble kept it from moving far or quickly, and Victoria’s firm, sure hand soon settled it down. She put on the bridle and saddle, unhobbled the animal and led it back to Slater.
She knelt beside him. “All right. Let’s try it.”
He opened his eyes. They were glazed, but he nodded and pushed himself up onto his elbows. He paused, looking a little amazed at his lack of strength, but then shoved up to a sitting position. From there, however, he couldn’t make it up without help, so Victoria put both hands on his good arm and pulled. Slater got to his feet. He walked to his horse, one arm around Victoria’s shoulders.
“We seem to be making a habit of this,” he joked, but the shortness of his breath drained the humor from his words.
“I’d just as soon we quit,” Victoria retorted tartly. “You’re too heavy for me to be carting you around.”
When they reached his horse, he wrapped his hand around the saddle horn for support and leaned against the animal. “My gun,” he said, wiping his forehead against his sleeve. “Need my gun.”
What a time to be worrying about his gun, Victoria thought irritably, but she turned around to look for it. The double holster was lying on the ground above the blanket. She retrieved it and looped it over the saddle horn. “There. I trust you can ride a few yards without strapping it on.”
He nodded. “I can get to it better here.”
Victoria could see that simply getting up and walking to the horse had tired Slater. His face was even more flushed than before.
“Are you ready to mount?”
Slater rested his forehead against his horse’s neck for a moment. “Come on, Old Jack,” he whispered to the animal. “Don’t get feisty on me today.” He gripped the saddle horn, put his foot into the stirrup and pushed himself up. He was less than graceful, but he made it. Old Jack shifted restlessly, but didn’t dance or shy.
Victoria rolled up Slater’s blanket, grabbed his canteen and saddlebags, and hurried back to her horse. She didn’t take time to strap on the bags or blanket, just hooked them over her saddle horn. She mounted quickly, and they set off on the short journey.
Victoria glanced at her companion several times as they rode. He was drenched with sweat, and his color was too high, but at least he was able to stay in the saddle. He had been right yesterday when he said he could ride, no matter what. For a moment she considered taking him back to town, but she knew that was impossible. He would never make it.
When they reached the live oak tree, Victoria slid off her horse and spread out Slater’s blanket in the shade. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a movement, and she spun around. Slater was dismounting.
“No, wait!” She cried, rushing over to him.
She reached him just as his foot hit the ground and his leg buckled. She threw her arms around him, but he was too heavy for her, and they both toppled over, hitting the ground with a thud. Victoria would have scolded him for trying to do everything by himself, but his weight had knocked the wind out of her.
Slater’s skin felt as if it were on fire. The effort of riding had made his temperature shoot up. All thought of scolding him flew out of her head. Victoria squirmed out from beneath him and rolled him onto his back. He looked at her, his eyes glittering with fever. Victoria had the uneasy feeling that he no longer recognized her.
“Beautiful,” he mumbled.
“What?”
He wet his parched lips. “Come on. Let’s go upstairs.”
He was out of his head.
“All right.” She managed a shaky smile. “But you have to stand up.”
He nodded and rolled unsteadily to his feet. Victoria put her arm around his waist, and they weaved their way to the blanket. Victoria ran to get the canteen and soaked her handkerchief again. She washed off Slater’s face, and he turned gratefully toward the water. She tried to lift his head and let him drink, but this time he didn’t help, and she could raise his head only a little. She brought the canteen to his lips, but it seemed as if as much water spilled as got into his mouth.
He moved restlessly, mumbling, and Victoria washed his face again, sliding the cloth down the column of his neck. She unbuttoned his shirt and pushed the sides apart. His shirt was as wet as if he’d dipped it in water, and his skin was slick with sweat. The golden-brown hairs on his chest curled damply. Victoria felt an unaccustomed tightness in her own chest, and her breathing was suddenly shallower and faster. She had taken care of sick men before, but somehow it wasn’t the same with Slater.
His chest was hard and ridged with muscle, his skin smooth and bronzed. A long white scar curled down across his rib cage. She reached out and traced it with her forefinger. Slater moved agitatedly, and she snatched her hand back. Whatever was she thinking of? There was no reason to touch him like that. And there was no reason for the funny feeling in her abdomen when she looked at his bare chest. She’d seen other men without their shirts—her father and some of the ranch hands.
Her eyes went back to Slater. None of the men she’d seen had looked like him, so lean and hard and elemental. Her gaze moved up to his face. His lids shuttered his eyes, but she could well remember their piercing green. They had cut right through her. His lashes were long and dark against his cheeks, giving him a vulnerable look at odds with the hard line of his jaw, roughened now with stubble. His mouth was full and wide, his lips dry from the fever.
Victoria dampened her finger and drew it across his lips. They closed on her finger, capturing the moisture, and she felt his tongue against her skin. Her stomach quivered, and she pulled her hand back. He groaned softly. Again she moistened his lips with her finger and his tongue flickered over her flesh like fire. Victoria swallowed. An ache started low in her abdomen.
She wet the piece of cloth again and swept it down Slater’s throat and chest. Her hand slowed as it moved over his chest, almost turning into a caress. Slater moved his head. “Opal,” he uttered in a hoarse whisper. “Don’t, sugar. Have to leave.”
Victoria’s hand stopped in mid-motion. Her eyebrows rose. It didn’t take much imagination to guess where his feverish mind was. She turned away and wrung out the handkerchief. It was warm from his body. Her breath was shaky. Earlier, he had called her beautiful. She wondered if he had meant it, or if it had been the fever talking. Had he even been seeing her when he said it? Or Opal? And who was Opal?
She spread the cloth out on a rock, then went back to Slater and tried to get him to drink. She was a little more successful this time, but when she let his head back down, leaning over him, his hand snaked up her body. She gasped and froze. He cupped her breast and squeezed gently.
“Come on, sugar. Been on the road…six weeks.” He smiled in response to something only he heard and saw. “Sure.” His hand caressed her breast. Victoria closed her eyes. No man had ever touched her so intimately. He was out of his head, so she couldn’t really get mad at him. But she ought to move away. Still, she stayed for a moment longer, unable to move. The touch of his fingers sent such strange feelings washing over her. It made her head light and her knees weak, and the ache inside her spread.
Though she was not as naïve as Amy, Victoria had little experience with men other than the kiss or two that Riley Landman’s son had stolen from her at dances. There were very few men who would try to trifle with the daughter of as wealthy and important a rancher as Edward Stafford, and if they did, Victoria was quite capable of setting them straight. Victoria found most of the local boys foolish and young, and Dave Landman’s
pecks on her lips had never aroused enough interest in her to permit anything further.
But Slater’s touch was something altogether different. His hand on her breast set off a yearning, a desire to explore and discover. She looked at his lips, full and sensual beneath his thick, curving moustache, and wondered what it would be like to kiss him. His kisses wouldn’t be like Dave’s, she suspected.
Victoria jumped to her feet. This was insane. Amy was in the hands of an outlaw, and Slater was ill. This was no time for such thoughts. Anyway, even if Slater weren’t sick, he was the last man she should want to have kiss her. He had made it clear that he couldn’t stand her, and she didn’t like him, either. He was rude and rough, and he opposed her at every turn. If he did kiss her, she would slap him. His kiss wouldn’t be nice or respectful or gentlemanly. Or boring.
Victoria made a noise of disgust and walked over to the horses. She’d better keep her mind on their situation. Both their lives depended on it. The first problem was water. The water in one canteen was gone. Each horse had carried two canteens, so that left them with three, but at the rate she was using water on Slater, that supply wouldn’t last long. Before the day was done, they would need more.
She could ride ahead and try to find water. She felt sure she would reach it soon. By her calculations they were headed toward the Blanco River, and she didn’t think they were far from it. She could find the river or some smaller tributary, refill the canteens and return to Slater.
But she couldn’t leave him lying here defenseless. He would be easy prey for any predator, animal or human, that chanced to come along. Out of his head as he was, he could do himself harm. He might stumble off God knew where, or try to get on his horse and fall. Or what if something happened to her, and she was unable to get back to him? He would be left alone here to die.
But the fact remained that if she didn’t get water, eventually he would die anyway.
Victoria sighed. Thinking about her troubles took her mind off her unladylike thoughts, but it wasn’t bringing her any ease. She decided to put off the decision. Right now she would just worry about taking care of Slater.
She removed the saddles and supplies from the horses and let them graze. Then she picked up a fresh canteen and returned to Slater. He was still out of his head, mumbling, tossing and turning. She bathed his face and chest again, sternly keeping her touch—and her thoughts—impersonal.
All morning and into the afternoon she continued to watch him, washing him down and forcing him to drink. It was the only thing she could do to combat the fever. She felt so helpless. If only she had brought medical supplies! It had been foolish of her not to ask Dr. Bauer for something, considering the fact that Slater had been wounded. She should have guessed that this might happen.
Slater was restless, unable to lie still, and sometimes he talked, though usually she couldn’t understand what he said. After a while he got the chills and began to shiver. Victoria wrapped both blankets around him, but still he shuddered uncontrollably. Finally she lay down beside him and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close so that her body heat would penetrate him. His arms were tight around her. His body was like a furnace, enveloping her with heat. Yet, strangely, it wasn’t unpleasant.
Victoria wasn’t overly concerned with proprieties; she wouldn’t have ridden with Slater if she had been. But she had never had any reason to flout convention; socially her life had been much the same as that of any young woman of her class and age. She had never held a man except for the times she’d hugged her own father; certainly she’d never lain down beside one. But she found that there was something very warm and comforting—and breathtakingly exciting—about it. His lean body was tight against hers all the way up and down, the contours of his body so hard, so different from hers. He was muscled and tough, and, even as sick as he was, she felt protected within the circle of his arms. His intense heat permeated her body; his sweat dampened her blouse and skin. She wanted, for the first time she could remember, to lean her head against that hard chest and surrender her problems to him. Yet she felt an equal need to give comfort and healing, to strengthen him with her strength. And tangled amongst those emotions were other, fiercer physical feelings, stirrings that she had never known before and that made her shiver despite the heat.
She knew she should have been relieved when he rolled away from her, kicking off his covers, hot once more, but instead she was aware of a faint sense of disappointment. She sat up and continued her watch.
Once or twice Slater opened his eyes and was lucid again, and she took hope. But soon he returned to his incoherent mutterings and uneasy movements. He didn’t seem to be improving. She didn’t know how long it would take for the fever to break. By the middle of the afternoon, Victoria knew that she would have to leave him and search for water. She had emptied almost three canteens already.
Victoria left Slater with the holster and pistols above his head, as he had slept with them last night, hoping that instinct at least would impel him to reach for them if he were in danger. There was no point in explaining to him where she was going, so she left him lying there, his eyes closed, and rode quickly north.
She had torn a ruffle from her petticoat and ripped it into short strips and she tied these strips to trees and bushes periodically. She wasn’t familiar with the area, and she wanted to make sure that she could find her way back to Slater as quickly as possible.
It was less than an hour before she came upon a creek, and she uttered a small prayer of relief. She wouldn’t have to be away from Slater long, and with the creek this close, she would be able to come again tomorrow. She drank from the clear stream. She had led Slater’s horse with her, so that both the horses could have water when she found it, and now she let them loose to drink downstream while she filled the canteens upstream.
She stayed only as long as was necessary to water the horses, then hastened back to Slater. The white strips of cloth were easy to spot and she traveled quickly. She drew closer to the place where she had left him. Soon she could see the top of the live oak tree beyond a small rise that was piled with slabs of rock. As she started to climb the rise, Slater’s horse suddenly whickered and came to a stop, pulling away nervously. Victoria kept a tight grip on the reins, so that he didn’t get away from her, but her own horse balked and pranced, too. Victoria’s stomach went cold. There was something wrong. The horses had scented danger. Victoria puller her rifle from its scabbard and slid off her horse. After tying the reins of both animals firmly around the largest branch of a mesquite, she started silently up the rise on foot. Whatever was ahead, it would be better to sneak up and get a view of it instead of charging in on her horse.
She tiptoed as quietly as she could, using the rocks for cover. She edged around a larger boulder, and for the first time she could see Slater. He lay asleep on the ground, oblivious to everything around him. Now and then his limbs twitched, or he rolled over onto his side, but he had no idea that, standing on a large boulder, only feet away from him, was a cougar.
Victoria’s heart leaped into her throat. Silently she raised the rifle to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel at the powerful cat, grateful that he was upwind and hadn’t caught her scent. He drew back on his haunches, and Victoria went taut all over. Carefully she squeezed the trigger just as he began his leap.
The bullet caught him, and he screamed with pain, crashing to the ground. At the sound Slater sat straight up, scrabbling for his pistol and looking for the danger. Victoria hurried forward, her gun still trained on the animal. The cougar twitched a few times and went still. She had killed it with one shot. Victoria relaxed with a sigh and glanced over at Slater. He had his pistol out and aimed at the animal on the ground, though his hand wavered with fatigue. His eyes were hot, but clear, and she knew that for the moment, at least, he was aware of who and where he was.
He looked at her, and his hand dropped. He gave her a weak grin. “Damn. You’re right. You can shoot.”
&nbs
p; “It’s a good thing for you I can.” Victoria tried to match his light tone. She prodded the animal with her gun to make sure it was dead, then turned back to Slater. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a wet washrag.” He flopped back onto the blanket.
“Mmm. You kind of look like one, too.” She squatted down beside him and laid her hand on his forehead. He felt cooler. She smiled. It was then that she noticed her hand was shaking.
She swallowed and stood up. She was beginning to tremble all over in the aftermath of the excitement. She looked down at Slater. His eyes were already closed, and he had slipped back into sleep. Victoria walked over to a rock a good distance away from the slain cat and sat down, her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. It was some time before she stood up and began to move again.
The horses balked at returning to the camp, even though Victoria dragged the slain cougar out of sight. Its scent was still there, and that spooked the animals. Victoria tethered them some distance away before she returned to Slater’s side, bringing the full canteens and her rifle and ammunition.
Through the rest of the afternoon, she continued to bathe Slater’s head and torso with water and urge him to drink from the canteen. Her back began to ache from bending over him, but she kept at it, horribly aware that there was nothing else she could do.
When it grew dusk, she built a fire. Despite Slater’s fears about Brody turning the tables on them, she wasn’t about to go through the night without a fire, not after her experience with the cougar. The fire would keep away wild animals, and at the moment they were of more concern to her than the outlaw.
Victoria took out a twist of beef jerky and ate it for supper. She had tried to get Slater to take a bite, but he had steadfastly refused it. She wished she had a strengthening meat broth to feed him. She wished for more than that, actually—medicine, water nearby, a doctor to give her advice. Victoria had tended to wounds and nursed people through illnesses, but she’d never been completely alone when she did it. There had been a doctor in town who could be sent for, and her father and Mrs. Donnelly had been close by, along with ranch hands and maids to help her. Victoria glanced over her shoulder at Slater. Earlier his temperature had dropped, and he slept more peacefully. But now it was back up, and he was moving fitfully. She wondered what she would do if he grew worse in the night. It would be impossible to get him onto his horse. She couldn’t leave him and ride for help. Would she have to sit here and watch him die, bit by bit?
