Outlaw's Bride

by Maureen McKade

  The gunman’s fever continued to rage into the night and she cooled him down with a damp towel, drawing it across his broad chest and down his muscled arms. She took more time to cool his neck and wrists, like Kevin had taught her. He’d also told her that cool cloths on the groin area helped bring a fever down. Mattie raised the sheet and steeled herself. Carefully, she laid the cool cloth across his masculinity, and her traitorous gaze remained on him a few moments longer than necessary.

  I’ve been without a man for too long.

  Mrs. Hotzel at the orphanage had always said Mattie had the devil in her—and had punished her more often than any of the other children. Ruth had pshawed such a notion and told Mattie she was merely a woman with a passionate nature, which was nothing to be ashamed of. However, Mattie couldn’t bring herself to accept that explanation. Her wicked thoughts proved Mrs. Hotzel had been right.

  The clock downstairs chimed two in the morning and Mattie took a moment to sit and rest her aching muscles. She leaned back and rocked as she listened to the man’s raspy breathing. Occasionally his breath stammered, and her own heart missed a beat. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t want him to die.

  “No… don’t hurt … her.”

  Mattie awakened immediately to the man’s pain-filled voice, surprised that she’d fallen asleep. She scooted to the edge of her chair and looked into his sweat-slicked face.

  “Leave her … be,” Beaudry murmured, his eyes still closed.

  Mattie realized he was lost in fever dreams. “It’s all right, Mr. Beaudry. You’re safe here,” she said softly.

  He muttered something she couldn’t understand, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. She’d been around delirious patients before and often a human touch would soothe them when nothing else would.

  Beaudry’s mouth twisted into a grimace and he tried to rise, eliciting a groan. Mattie stood over him and wrapped her fingers around his arms, holding him down. “Don’t move or you’ll injure yourself further.”

  Corded muscles flexed beneath her palms and Mattie used every ounce of strength to keep him from thrashing around and opening the fragile scabs on his wounds.

  “No… have to help,” Beaudry slurred.

  “Everything’s all right. You don’t have to help anyone,” Mattie said calmly, hoping he would understand her through his feverish haze.

  “Emily… needs me.”

  Surprise shuttled through Mattie. Who was Emily? A sister? A wife?

  “Em!” he cried out.

  “I’m right here,” Mattie said, not knowing what else to do. “I’m all right, Clint.”

  His eyelids fluttered open, jolting Mattie with the intensity deep in his startling green eyes. He stared up at her, but Mattie knew he was seeing someone else. Beaudry stopped struggling and Mattie eased her grip on his arms as her muscles trembled with exhaustion.

  Tentatively, Beaudry raised his right hand and his fingertips grazed her cheek. She remained motionless as he cupped her face in his palm, and for an insane moment, Mattie wanted to press her cheek closer to his callused skin.

  “I thought … you … were dead.” He coughed and a spasm convulsed though his lean frame. “Em, I’m … sorry.”

  His anguished voice cut through Mattie’s defenses, and her chest tightened. “It’s all right.” Her voice shook.

  He blinked a few times and moisture filled his eyes, and a tear rolled down the side of his face into his tangled hair. “God, I’m … so sorry.”

  The agony in his eyes tore a hole in Mattie’s heart. She felt a tear burn a trail down her cheek to fall onto Beaudry’s bandage.

  He closed his eyes, then his hand slipped down onto the mattress.

  Mattie’s knees collapsed and she dropped into her chair. Obviously Emily had been someone Clint Beaudry had cared for a great deal. Why had he told her he was sorry? What had he done to her?

  Mattie had never seen such anguish in a person’s eyes … except in a mirror ten years ago.

  The next three days passed in a blur for Mattie. She only left Beaudry’s side to cook meals and tuck Andy into bed. For the first time, she was glad she didn’t have any boarders. Her life seemed to revolve around the gunslinger and his fevered ramblings that continued sporadically as she fought to keep him alive.

  She caught snatches of sleep sitting in the chair beside him when she couldn’t hold the exhaustion at bay any longer. Herman had volunteered to stay with her patient so she could get some rest, but Mattie had the horrible feeling that if she left Clint for longer than an hour, he’d slip away, so she refused Herman’s offers.

  By the evening of the fourth day, Mattie’s mind had grown sluggish and her body ached. However, Beaudry’s fever had steadily dropped and he’d gone nearly eight hours without slipping into a delirium.

  “Here’s the water, Ma,” Andy said softly.

  Startled, Mattie glanced at the doorway to see her son holding a pitcher in two hands. She managed a smile. “Thanks. Go ahead and set it down.”

  Andy entered and placed the pitcher beside its matching bowl on the nightstand. Curiosity etched his young face. “Do you think he’s going to live?”

  “I don’t know.” Mattie had difficulty getting the words out. “But he’s got a better chance now than when you first found him.”

  Andy placed his hand on the rocker’s arm. “Did my pa look like him?”

  Warning bells clanged in her mind, obliterating the cobwebs. “Why do you ask that?”

  Andy shrugged. “You don’t ever talk about him.”

  Because she didn’t want to be reminded of Jason’s foolish bravado. Stalling, she dipped the cloth into the water and placed it back on Beaudry’s forehead. “No. He had brown hair and dark eyes.”

  “How did he die?” Andy pressed.

  Mattie placed her arm around her son’s shoulders. “I’ve told you before, he was shot by outlaws.”

  Andy gazed at the pale man in the bed. “Is Mr. Beaudry an outlaw?”

  “I don’t know,” Mattie replied honestly.

  “Why are you taking care of him?”

  Because I saw something in him I can’t forget. “Because it’s my Christian duty.”

  Andy shifted his attention to the gunbelt lying on the dresser and Mattie saw envy glint in his expression. “When can I learn how to shoot?”

  Fear slid through Mattie. “You know how I feel about guns, Andrew.”

  Defiance flared in his face and he drew his hand away from hers. “All my friends can shoot. If I knew how, I could hunt deer and rabbits so you wouldn’t have to buy meat. Why won’t you let me learn?”

  “You know why.”

  “Because Pa was killed by a gun.”

  “That’s right,” Mattie said firmly. She wouldn’t tell him his father had goaded the man into a gunfight. “Time to get ready for bed. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

  “You don’t have to tuck me in, Ma. I’m not a baby anymore.” Andy whirled around and charged out of the bedroom.

  Mattie rose to follow him, but Beaudry’s groan stopped her. She laid the back of her hand against his cheek—the fever had finally broken. She breathed a sigh of thanksgiving.

  Beaudry shifted and his eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes, then closed them and reopened them. For the first time, she saw awareness in his expression.

  “How are you feeling, Mr. Beaudry?” Mattie asked softly.

  He studied her silently, as if trying to figure out who she was.

  “You’re safe here,” she said.

  “Where… the hell … am I?” His voice was raspy, but his tone left no doubt it was a demand and not a polite inquiry.

  The dangerous gunman had returned.

  Chapter 3

  Clint stared up at the woman’s moonlight-tinted face and recalled violet eyes and black hair—the widow who owned the boardinghouse.

  “You’re in my home,” she answered flatly. “Would you like some water?”

  He nodded.

 
As she filled a glass, Clint studied her slim back and rounded hips—hips that would fill his hands nicely. When he’d ridden out of town, he had spent some pleasant moments imagining the body she hid beneath the plain black skirt and baggy blouse, and suspected her curves would fit against his own body just fine.

  She turned back to him. “I’ll help you.”

  Her hand slipped behind his neck and she raised his head so he could drink. The water slid down, relieving his parched throat. He didn’t stop swallowing until he’d emptied the cup. As she eased him back down to the pillow, her slender fingers cool against his nape, he noticed the shadowed circles beneath her eyes. Guilt twinged his conscience. Nobody had cared for him in a long time.

  Slowly, he became aware of an ache in his side—an ache that became a sharp piercing pain. He closed his eyes tightly and focused on controlling it.

  “I was shot?” he asked, damning the weak tremor in his voice.

  “That’s right.” The woman’s corn-silk tone gave him something to focus on other than the red ants that scurried through his insides. “You don’t remember?”

  He concentrated, shoving aside the curtain shrouding his memory. The recollection of a man wearing shiny black boots and riding a golden palomino slammed back. “The sonuvabitch backshot me.”

  Her lips thinned in irritation. “You’ll refrain from that kind of language while under my roof, Mr. Beaudry.”

  In spite of his rage that his wife’s killer had escaped, he chuckled. “Next to you, a cactus would seem downright friendly, lady.”

  “My name is Mrs. St. Clair,” she said curtly.

  Though he couldn’t see her blush in the dimness, he knew it was there. He had no problem calling to mind the color in her cheeks and the violet eyes that flashed with fire when she’d rebuffed him … yesterday? “How long have I been here?”

  “Four days.”

  Damn, he must have been hurt bad. “Bullet out?”

  He saw her nod. “It went through your left side. A few inches higher and you’d be lying in a pine box.”

  Just like Emily.

  “A man’s gotta die sooner or later,” he said quietly. A coughing fit caught him off guard and agony streaked through him.

  “Shhh, take it easy. I’ll get you some laudanum for the pain.” Mrs. St. Clair’s gentle voice and her soft hand across his brow eased Clint more than any medicine.

  “No,” he rasped out. “No… l-laudanum.”

  “It’ll help you sleep.”

  “D-don’t want—” he coughed again and clutched the sheet in tight fists—“t-to sleep.” His wife’s murderer already had too much of a lead.

  “Sleep is the best way to heal, Mr. Beaudry.” She withdrew, leaving Clint feeling cold and desolate. A moment later, she held a spoon to his lips. “Take it.”

  He tried to keep his mouth closed but didn’t have the strength to resist, and the bitter liquid spilled across his tongue, forcing him to swallow. Then her hand slid behind his neck again and he drank more water to wash away the caustic taste. She rested his head back on the pillow and her fingertips whispered across his brow. He caught a whiff of roses.

  “Sleep now, Mr. Beaudry.”

  Her voice floated around him, like an angel’s. No—a woman who looked liked her was no angel.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I told you—Mrs. St. Clair.”

  He gazed at her fine, silver-gilded features and his vision blurred, softening the severe line of her mouth and the creases in her brow. “What are you?”

  Her lips puckered as if she had bit into a lemon. “Your nurse, for now.”

  “And later?” Clint lifted his hand and his fingers grazed her unbound hair and the firm breast hidden beneath it.

  She gasped and jerked back. “If you do that again, Mr. Beaudry, I’ll throw you out by way of the window.” Her husky voice was breathy with anger.

  He would have laughed if he had the strength. “Always… d-did like a woman … with s-some spirit.”

  Clint tried to stay awake, but the medicine was dragging him down … down into a dark cavern. The widow became fuzzy and faded into the blackness, leaving him with only the lingering scent of wild roses.

  Mattie’s heart slowed its rapid beat as she examined Beaudry’s bandage. After his paroxysm, she wasn’t surprised to see fresh red blood staining the white material. Now was a good time to change it, while the laudanum was in effect. As she removed the old bandage, Mattie was careful to keep from touching his skin any more than necessary.

  When his fingertips had brushed her breast, she’d nearly jumped out of her skin. Her nerves had hummed like bees after their hive was disturbed. It was impossible to deny her unwanted attraction to Beaudry, but that didn’t mean she had to surrender to it. Only weak women gave in to such carnal feelings.

  Weak like she’d been.

  She mixed the carbolic acid and water, and cleaned the wounds. Beaudry groaned softly and Mattie worried her lower lip between her teeth. She hated hurting him, but the solution would keep an infection from setting in. After cleansing the injuries, Mattie attached clean dressings and wrapped them. She tucked the end of the bandage between his skin and the gauze, then re-covered him.

  Mattie laid her palm against his forehead—still normal. She kept her hand in place a few moments longer, prolonging the contact with the unsettling man, then she jerked her hand away, embarrassed by her shameful indulgence.

  Exhaustion—that explained her actions.

  She should go tuck Andy in, then climb into her own bed and get some much-needed sleep. Yes, that’s what she would do….

  If only he hadn’t revealed such anguish concerning the mysterious Emily—now she felt bewildered and unbalanced. What other secrets did he harbor? Was he a Robin Hood in disguise, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? Or perhaps Don Quixote, willing to slay windmills for his Dulcinea?

  Impatiently, she flung her long hair over her shoulder. This insane conjecturing had to be a product of her overtired mind. She spun around and marched to the door, only to pause and gaze at him one last time, but her gaze was sidetracked by his gunbelt. She stalked back to the dresser, then picked up the holster and gun as if it were a rattlesnake.

  She couldn’t take the chance of Andy being tempted by the weapon. Since Beaudry wouldn’t be needing it for a while, she would hide it in her own room.

  Right beside her husband’s, which she hadn’t touched in over ten years.

  Mattie straightened slowly and stifled a yawn. After the long days of sitting and watching over Beaudry, standing for two hours ironing clothes was sheer torture. Of course, she could have made bread or mended clothes or cleaned and filled the lamps, or one of a dozen other chores she’d neglected because of her uninvited guest.

  She finished pressing the last shirt and flattened her palms against her back, then stretched and popped her spine. If she could only lie down and rest for just a few minutes…

  Attuned to the slightest sound from upstairs, she heard Beaudry’s bed creak. Remembering Kevin’s admonishment to get Sheriff Atwater as soon as Beaudry regained consciousness, Mattie called out the back door, “Andy!”

  “I’m coming,” came his faint reply.

  A few moments later, Andy raced around the corner of the house.

  “Run into town and get Sheriff Atwater,” Mattie said.

  “That gunman finally wake up?” Excitement lit Andy’s expression.

  “He just woke up. Hurry, now.”

  Andy nodded and tugged his hat down on his head, then dashed away.

  She returned to the house and mounted the stairs, pausing outside Beaudry’s door to bolster her defenses against his magnetic lure. When she entered his room, her gaze clashed with his piercing green eyes. Her breath faltered and she resolutely reined in her galloping heart.

  “I was wondering when you were going to wake up,” Mattie said, her tone more brusque than she’d anticipated, then added lamely, “It’s nearly ten o’cl
ock.”

  “Some water?” he asked.

  Ashamed of her attitude toward the injured man, Mattie poured him a glass and raised his head so he wouldn’t choke. His long hair tickled her fingers and she sternly kept her thoughts from straying. After he’d finished drinking, Mattie settled him back against the pillow. “I need to check your bandages.”

  Beaudry remained silent as she drew the covers off his chest and folded them down to his waist, high enough that she didn’t embarrass him. One look at the glint in his eyes made her amend that thought—so she wouldn’t be embarrassed. Her fingers, usually so steady, betrayed her and she fumbled with the end of the bandage.

  Beaudry grimaced. “You ever done this before?”

  Mattie’s hackles rose. “Never,” she replied sarcastically. “I’ve had my ten-year-old son change them the last few days.”

  “Maybe you should get him, then.” His tone matched hers.

  Mattie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from continuing the childish verbal duel and removed the old bandage. Aware of Beaudry’s cool gaze, she leaned closer to make certain both the entrance and exit wounds were free of purulence.

  “It looks like your luck is holding.”

  Beaudry snorted. “You call getting a bullet in the back lucky?”

  “It is when you survive and the wound doesn’t get infected,” Mattie shot back. The man’s lack of gratitude galled her. She poured some carbolic acid into the basin and added some water, then cleaned the open wounds carefully.

  Beaudry inhaled sharply. “Sonuvabitch, lady, you trying to finish the job that bastard started?”

  Mattie froze for a moment. The ungrateful man didn’t deserve her apology for hurting him. “What did I say about swearing in my home?”

  “Shit.”

  Mattie narrowed her eyes. If he had any sense, he’d know she hadn’t meant to hurt him and would restrain his offensive language. But he was probably so accustomed to people jumping at his commands that he didn’t care how he treated them.