by Tanya Hanson
“What makes you think it isn't?”
She ignored him. “Now let me get you inside. Then I can tie up our intruder.”
“He isn't going anywhere, and nobody's coming to get him. The other thug's long gone. That's Perkins's way. His gang doesn't rescue anybody who gets shot or caught.”
His leg warred with itself, and he ground his teeth tight as they got to the porch.
“We've got to get you some help. You're losing blood.” Her touch was gentle but her voice sharp.
“Lost more than this other times. Chester isn't back yet, anyway. Any doctoring's got to come from you, Miz Haynes.”
She pulled a sash from her ugly dress and tied it tight around the shredded, bloody denim on his thigh. “I, you need to know, Mr. Haynes. I have never dug out a bullet before.”
“Won't have to. Flesh wound. A graze,” he muttered.
A powerful groan rattled the night air, but it didn't come from Brix. He knew well how to hold in the hollers and was doing so right now. The outlaw had gotten to his feet, balancing on one of them and not getting far at all.
Minda looked down the road. “Land sakes, he's running away.”
“He's not running anywhere. Saw Monty and Clem along their north forty. They heard the shots. They'll be here any second and get him to the sheriff.”
Brix leaned hard against her. His stomach churned like butter, but something tasty on the stove did tempt it a bit, and that rose perfume of hers dulled every sense except the one between his legs. Outside the bedroom, he heard Katie and Ned, full of tears and hope both. Minda comforted them with the right words.
“Let's get you to bed,” she said.
“Might mess up that fine new tick.”
“Here's an old blanket and plenty of towels. Now, unless you want me to undress you, Mr. Haynes, get those clothes off. I'll be right back.”
Shucking off his duds, he fought off waves of pain, feeling something like pride at her strength. He lay down.
A deep sleep would feel mighty good after this day. Those roses came into the room before his wife did, bearing her sewing basket in one hand and a bottle in the other.
“Here's some rotgut against the pain.” She settled a flock of pillows under his head and shoulders and handed him the blackstrap whiskey. He took a healthy swig. “I've got some willow bark tea brewing.”
She leaned down to check his wound, and those pansy eyes closed for half a second, like they'd done the first time he'd entered her. Brix had seen worse gunshot, but figured she'd never seen anything like it at all. She pursed her lips with a resolute little nod. His pride gushed at her strength and lack of squeamish frowns.
He drank deeper.
“Let me see just what kind of doctoring I need to do, Mr. Haynes.” Her eyes traveled up and down the length of his leg, stopping just shy of the place he was warmest. “Hmm. It appears I have a thorn to cut out, too.”
But first she pulled out a needle and thread.
“Put that down for a minute, Miz Haynes,” he said, draining the bottle.
“Whatever for?”
“For this,” Brix pulled her face to his. “Your sweet lips intoxicate me better than anything a man can brew.”
“Oh, balderdash, Mr. Haynes,” she muttered, but she relented, her hands reaching inside his shirt and smoothing themselves across his shoulders.
Her lips opened beneath his, then moved below his ear, soft as petals. Sweet breath warmed his sudden shiver.
Then she pulled away, with a whisper. “Really, Mr. Haynes, enough for now. I must get to my task.”
She reached for the needle.
Deep inside, feeling cold and alone at the loss of her warmth, Brixton Haynes knew it wasn't enough then, and never would be.
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* * *
Chapter Twelve
Well past dawn the next morning, Minda woke up next to her husband, her head resting on his bare chest and his fingers combed through her hair. Soft with sleep, his eyes opened, and a little smile played on his lips when he recognized her.
She'd dared to kiss those lips goodnight while he slept, and now she blinked shyly at the memory of his taste. His other hand traveled down to her backside, drawing her up closer.
“Miz Haynes?” he drawled, slower than ever. She couldn't determine whether it was the wound or leftover whiskey. “You stay here all night by my side?”
“Yes, all night,” she murmured, daring to lay her own arm across him. “You told me the doctoring was up to me.”
“Damn, wish I'd woke up more often.”
“Well, you seemed more peaceful the longer you slept. How are you feeling?” She decided to indulge in one last cuddle, although it would surely be wiser to get up. Even through her purple dress, his body simmered against her. She'd concluded that sleeping beside him in her nightgown might not be wise.
“A morning kiss would make things better,” he said, low.
“Now, Mr. Haynes, you're in no condition to leave.”
He tussled against the pillow and tossed her a puzzled look. “Don't get your meaning.”
“Meaning, Mr. Haynes, you keep saying you'll kiss me when you go.”
Lying back, he breathed deep, his hair black against the linens, and he shifted against her again. “Now there's truth in that statement, Miz Haynes. But good-bye isn't the only kiss I'm going to ever need. Or...” The hand cupping her head moved to her cheek and brought her mouth against his. “...or you either.”
His lips parted over hers, and she remembered what he'd taught her that stormy night on his bedroll. Opening slightly herself, she drew the tip of his tongue inside her mouth, reminding them both of their acts of love. As her body quivered, he reached gently for the buttons of her bodice.
“God almighty,” he murmured, “this sure is a good way to wake up.”
His manhood quickened against her skirts, and despite the layers of fabric, she knew its heat, length, and breadth. Against her inexpressibles, a wetness flowed.
But as quickly as a lightning strike, she sat up, remembering the hopeless feeling of him pushing her away at the river. “You're the one who sleeps outside, Mr. Haynes.”
Against her movements, he winced and masked it with a yawn.
“Notice you're back to using my formal name again.” Then he pulled her down once more.
Before their lips met again, she moved back, and his hand dropped to her knee, giving it a squeeze that was gentle and firm. She almost called out in joy, but only said, “As I recall, it was a custom you began.”
“So I did.” He sighed and moved his hand up her thigh with the same enticing pressure. “You did real good yesterday, Miz Haynes.”
Her skin tingled under layers of crinoline, and her breath puffed in short gasps. “But I wasn't sure what to do at all,” she said, emotion pouring from her like warm honey. “I was so relieved to hear your voice.”
“But you didn't listen,” he mumbled, hand still strong and busy. She placed her fingers atop his, cheeks warming at her boldness.
“And you shot him...”
“Fact is, Miz Haynes—” Brixton interrupted the mist of desire. “That bullet was yours.”
“What?” Shock exploded against her yearning. “How can you know?”
“I aim to kill,” he said in a flat voice. “Better a bullet through the heart than a slow, strangling noose.”
“Merciful heaven.” Distressed, she moved her hand to his forehead, fever mild under her touch. But she let her fingers linger along the heated flesh, treating herself to the feel of him.
“Yep, Miz Haynes. Horse thieving's a hanging offense in these parts. But I'm right proud of you.” His voice slowed. “The kids'll be in good hands once I leave.”
At the reminder, she pulled her hand away. He'd never spoken anything differently, but the hurt continued to pound every time he mentioned it. She didn't care about the pride he had for her. She wanted his love.
She strode to the doorway,
needing to leave the room before she felt even more bereft or confessed something stupid. “I think I'll go heat up some of that willow bark tea and prepare you a soft-cooked egg.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh, Mr. Haynes, I'll be heading into town today to retrieve Priscilla and get some things I need.” She'd decided to wangle some goods for a new bonnet for herself after all, and to consult with Gracey about possible designs.
“No you don't. Perkins's gang might still be out and about.
Minda looked at him, perplexed. “But you said they never rescue a man who gets left behind.”
“They're changing their tactics all over the place. Won't let you take a chance. You keep a gun underneath the bed last night like I told you?”
“Yes, I did.” Even though she'd watched Monty and Clem truss up the criminal and cart him to the jailhouse in town, her fear would not be gone for a long time. It prickled now. Maybe Brixton was right. Even though the thief's partner had ridden off, she didn't know how far. The weapon close by made her feel a little better.
“Fact is, it wouldn't be a bad idea to keep a gun on you all the time,” he said.
“Every single day?” Minda's brow furrowed.
Brixton tried to sit upright, his breath full of tiny groans and gasps. “Yep. Every day. Later on it could be something simple. Like scaring off a ‘coon in the henhouse. Or something complicated like an outlaw. Me, I always keep my Bowie knife in my boot. Now, I'm going with you.”
He bit out the words, and she wondered, not for the first time, how a sick man could still look so handsome.
“You most certainly are not. Have some sense, Mr. Haynes. You need your rest. And I need some chicken stock to make you a nourishing broth. Bandages, of course, and an unguent to relieve your wounds.” She swallowed against her nerves. “I simply must visit the mercantile.”
“No, you do not,” he said, snorting. “Get some white oak leaves or skunk cabbage and make a poultice, that's what. Rip up a pillow case. And Ned's got a henhouse full of chickens. Fry us up one for supper. You got no needs at that mercantile.”
“Oh, I understand. You and Caldwell are still behaving like schoolboys. Well, I...” She looked away. She couldn't confess she'd never butchered or dressed a chicken. Her hard-nosed husband would think her a ninny. Gleesburg had a fine meat shop. Many times she'd traded a hat for a rib roast and capons and home-smoked bacon.
As he nodded, a knowing smile wrestled with his moustache. “Reckon I got you figured out, Miz Haynes. You haven't ever wrung a neck or plucked a feather, now, have you?”
“No.”
He laughed deep at first, but shuddered in sudden pain. “Well, get Neddie to show you.”
If he weren't hurt, a cup of spilled water over his head would have cooled her aggravation. “Nothing you can say will keep me from town.”
“Hackett isn't the reason I want to go with you. Well, not the entire one anyways.” His eyes flashed some honesty just then, and she wished again to touch him, to reassure him Caldwell meant nothing to her. “Need to consult with Bob Pelton. Likely some kind of reward out for that fella you nicked.”
Hmm. A reward sounded like a fine piece of unexpected fortune for her nerves and his pain, particularly with supplies to buy. “Well, if that's the case, it's certainly something I can do all by myself.”
“But more important, if you're collecting Silly, I'd like to be there, too. Don't seem right around here without her.”
His tender declaration lightened her heart, and she almost relented, but it throbbed heavy the next second. Why didn't his lonely cattle trails seem wrong without her?
Her husband's face split with a saucy smile. “How many stitches did you notch me up with, Miz Haynes?”
“Twenty-two,” Minda said firmly, then smiled. “I figured if I didn't count diligently, I'd empty my stomach all over you.”
Under the covers, he grimaced and moved, grunting like he shouldn't have changed position. “You doctor up your sisters like that back home?”
“No need, thank the Lord. But once I helped the surgeon in our town stitch shut the haunch of our poor dog. She'd been struck by a cartwheel. That long slash sideways along your thigh seemed somewhat similar. By the way,” she said with confidence, “our pup lived a long, happy life without a limp.”
Brix's eyes shone bright with something that wasn't fever. It was something she easily recognized and would force herself to resist. “I will never go limp on you, Minda.”
It was her first name, an invitation. They were alone and they had the time. His loving her body would be a dream come true.
If he weren't leaving her.
“I'll get some warm water for your bath, Mr. Haynes. Then it will be time for breakfast.”
* * * *
Brix exhaled with regret. He understood her looks and her touch. She might be inexperienced, but she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Sometimes a man's wounds brought a nurturing woman to her knees
It would be wrong to take advantage. Likely it was a good thing he hadn't known she spent last night next to him.
Minutes later, she returned with the washtub, towels folded over her arm, a prodigious apron hiding her bosom. “Kids still asleep?” he asked.
She nodded, looking at the hill his toes made under the covers. If she'd glance higher, she'd notice his manhood tall with life just from the swaying of her backside when she walked.
Damn, at least the kids would be a diversion. He'd felt their hugs last night through his haze of pain. Recalling their sweet tears started his heart pumping in a way that was entirely new.
Recalling Minda's morning kiss started a throbbing all over.
She looked away from his eyes, but her face was still that pretty pink from moments ago. He remembered her shyness in the lantern light, that night on his bedroll when he'd made her his own.
Damn. That night had started a hunger he wouldn't be around to satisfy.
“Mr. Haynes,” she said, with a deeper blush than before, “last night I had to cut away the right leg of your drawers. So I've brought you a pair that is fresh and intact.”
Damn, how he wanted her help getting naked, and how he couldn't allow it.
“Don't need a bath.” He grumbled to hide his need.
“Of course you do. Cleanliness is part of godliness.”
“Don't have any godliness in me. You know that most of all, Miz Haynes.”
She sighed nice and loud. The apron tugged here and there, and while he couldn't see the shape of her breasts, it didn't matter. He knew. He'd seen. He'd tasted.
“Please, Mr. Haynes, don't be an infant. Get out of those garments, and let's get a start.” She gave him a good long glare, dark as gloom like she just might be reading his thoughts. “I do have other things to do today.”
“No woman's going to get to wash me. Been tussying myself for years.” He pulled at the bedsheet in protection.
“Well, not today. And I'm not just a woman. I'm your wife. Now get on with it. I tended your wounds last night, but miasma from the river has likely already corrupted the rest of you. You need to be clean.”
“Well, you got it right there, Miz Haynes. You aren't just a woman. You're my woman.” His erection squirmed just at the words, and he scorned his poor self control.
Damn, she'd slept next to him all night. How could he not have known?
Her tongue clucked, and she shook her head, both signs of disgust, he knew, and that helped tamp his desire. Then he returned to using his brain, not his body, and considered her words. He reckoned mud had seeped up into his foot due to that thorn, and that likely wasn't a good thing. Then he shuddered at a blurry nightmare. His wife had dug that barb out with a knitting needle!
But nothing mattered now, other than her hands. She moved over him fragrant as flowers and soft as a song he'd once heard, and he near burst with need.
“Then I'll have to cut away some more.” She clattered some scissors in his ear. But there was something maidenly
about her. She didn't strip him bare.
Damn.
His manly member that she'd once touched stayed hidden beneath a scrap of wool with four buttons and a tie-string. Yet his mind pounded with recollection of her hand closing around it, bringing it to urgent life. He recalled his resolve to teach her how to pleasure him with her mouth without fear and suspicion.
Now that goal could never be achieved.
“This doesn't change anything.” He redirected his thoughts and pointed to the bandage on his thigh. As she bent down with a washcloth, she looked at him full-on, making a sound without words that made him want her all the more.
For it reminded him of her moans in the dark. His manhood flamed, and only a blind woman wouldn't see it rising up higher yet. Her latest blush told him she noticed.
He couldn't help a smidge of triumph.
“About me leaving, I mean,” he said, meaning it. “This pain isn't much. I could ride a hundred miles without stopping.”
The soapy swirls she made with the rag halted on his chest and her hand glided across one nipple. He held his breath, doubting she knew what she did to him, and figuring he'd better complete his wash-up himself like he'd threatened.
That was the safest course of action.
“That might be, Mr. Haynes.” Her voice trembled a bit. Maybe she did know, after all. “But you don't need to ride a hundred miles today.” Her tone was soft as dawn.
Her soapy hand slid just to the point his drawers lined up with his gut. If she slipped down inside he'd die and go to heaven.
But she didn't.
“Minda, I can finish scrubbing myself.” He scowled in frustration.
She stopped at once. “Brixton, I suppose you're right. I'll start breakfast and see to the children.”
Damn. Her voice took on that sad sound Katie's had, when he told her that her pa had just passed. Minda refreshed the rag, squeezed out the drips, and laid it on his chest. She left before he could take her soft, warm hand. It was best that she had, of course. He'd be hale soon and then he could leave.
At least she'd used his Christian name.
* * * *
“Uncle Brix,” little Ned asked after supper two evenings later, “those outlaws aren't out there anymore, are they?”
