He was unconscious again. She stared at him a moment, at the ugly wet stain slowly spreading across the back of his shirt. Swallowing hard, she reached down and pulled his shirttail out of his trousers. Lifting it, she felt her nausea rise. Blood leaked from a neat, round hole in his back. Had he been shot? She’d heard about realism in movie making, but surely this was carrying things too far!
She thought of all the old cowboy movies she had seen, the Westerns she had read. There was no exit hole in front, which meant the bullet was still in there somewhere.
What to do, what to do? She cursed softly. Why had she made such a ridiculous promise before she saw how badly he was hurt? She blew out a sigh of exasperation. She couldn’t just let him lay there and bleed all over her clean sheets! Thank goodness she had taken a first aid class not long ago. At least she had some idea of what to do, and how to do it.
Going into the bathroom, she found her first aid kit and a pair of sharp scissors. Shoving a washcloth into her pocket, she carried the kit and the scissors into the kitchen. After placing them on the table, she filled a pan with water and put it on the stove to heat, then went back into the guest room.
He was still unconscious. She rolled him onto his side as gently as possible, unbuckled his gunbelt and hung it over the back of a chair. In addition to the holster, she noticed there was a very large knife in a beaded sheath.
She removed his shirt as carefully as she could and dropped it on the floor, removed the kerchief from his neck, then pulled off his boots, which were badly scuffed and worn at the heels. And a very tight fit: she was panting with exertion when she finally got them off. She peeled off his stockings, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Dropping his socks on top of his shirt, she wondered when he had bathed last. She unfastened his belt, unbuttoned his pants, and tugged them down his long, long legs.
“What the heck?” she muttered as she dropped his trousers on the floor. He was wearing what looked like the bottom half of a pair of old-fashioned long johns. Whoever this guy was, he had really immersed himself in the part. With a shake of her head, she rolled him onto his stomach again.
She folded the washcloth into a neat square and pressed it over the bruised-looking hole in his back, which was still leaking a thin trail of blood. At least it wasn't pumping strongly, which she thought meant the bullet had missed any major arteries.
As she applied pressure to the compress, she studied his profile. He had high cheekbones, a square jaw roughened by a dark beard, a nose that had never been broken, a nice mouth with a full lower lip. And dark skin—uniformly dark from his face to his waist. Either he spent a lot of time outside without a shirt, or he was just naturally dark. From the strength of his features, she thought he probably had some Indian blood in his background.
Going back into the kitchen, she slipped an old apron on over her clothes, boiled a slender-bladed knife and the scissors while she rummaged through a drawer for some soft, clean dishrags. She filled a bowl with hot water and placed it on a tray, along with the dishrags, the sterilized knife, the scissors, and the first-aid kit, and then, saying a silent prayer that she wouldn’t faint, she went back into the guest room.
He hadn’t moved. His breathing was steady, but labored and shallow. She put the tray on the table beside the bed, stood there a moment gathering her courage, and then began to wash the area around the wound. The muscles in his back twitched and he moaned softly, then he was still once again.
She wiped the area dry, then picked up the knife. “You can do this.” She stared at the blade, at the way it shook in her hand. “Sure you can,” she muttered, “and when you kill him, you can just bury him out in the backyard.”
Taking a deep breath, she began to probe the wound, surprised and grateful when the tip of the blade hit the slug on the first try. Maybe he was right. Maybe he wasn’t hurt all that bad. The bullet hadn’t penetrated very far or hit anything vital. Bright red blood oozed from the wound. She wiped it away with a dry cloth, wiped the perspiration from her brow and probed a little deeper into the wound until she got the tip of the knife under the slug. When she thought she had it just right, she gave a little flick of her wrist and the slug popped out, an ugly misshapen lump of lead covered with blood.
Dropping it on the tray, she quickly washed the wound and the area around it and drenched it with disinfectant. After patting his skin dry with a clean cloth, she covered the wound with a pad made of gauze, and taped it in place.
She’d done it! She stared at the bloody knife on the tray, felt her knees go weak. Sinking down on the edge of the bed, she closed her eyes, unable to believe she had actually dug a bullet out of a man’s back.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes, and stared at him. Who was he? Rising, she took the bowl into the bathroom. After washing her hands, she dumped the bloody water into the sink, rinsed the bowl, and refilled it with hot water from the tap. Grabbing a bar of soap and a bath towel, she went back into the bedroom and washed the man’s face, neck, arms, chest, and feet. The more private parts of him would just have to wait until he could do it himself.
When she was finished, she pulled the covers over him, gathered up his clothing, and went into the laundry room. She filled the washer with cold water and tossed his bloody clothes in to soak. Removing her apron, she tossed it inside, too, along with some color-fast bleach, and then she went outside.
The stallion stood near the foot of the stairs where she had left it. The horse whinnied softly as she approached, rubbed his cheek against her shoulder.
She scratched the stallion between the ears. “So, I guess he belongs to you?”
The stallion tossed its head.
“Well, come on.” Taking up the reins, she led the horse across the yard and into the barn.
After loosening the cinch, she lifted the heavy saddle from the stallion’s back; her muscles were really getting a workout today, she mused, and then spread the damp saddle blanket over a bale of hay to dry. Leading the horse into the stall, she slipped the bridle off its head, and then dropped a flake of hay into the feeder.
She ran her hand along the stallion’s neck, then shook her head. “Doesn’t that man ever brush you?”
The stallion made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a horse laugh.
Grinning, Amanda patted the stud’s shoulder. “I’ll be back later to clean you up. Enjoy your lunch.”
Back at the house, she picked up her handbag and keys from the porch and tossed them on a chair in the living room, and, then went to look in on her patient. He was still unconscious. What would she do if he didn’t wake up? Oh, Lord, what would she do if he died?
She laid her hand across his brow. His skin felt as if it were on fire. Picking up the bowl she had left on the table, she went into the bathroom. She filled the bowl with cool water, took a washcloth from the drawer, and went back into the bedroom.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she pulled the covers down, then dipped the washcloth in the bowl. Wringing it out, she ran it over his broad back and shoulders.
“You’re a lot of trouble, you know that?” she muttered as she gently wiped his face and neck, his arms, and then his back again. “Kind of handsome, though, in a rugged sort of way.”
She sat there for close to an hour, dragging the cool cloth over his face and neck and body, admiring the deep bronze of his skin, the feel of his hair against her hand. Once, yielding to some urge she couldn’t refuse, she ran her fingertips over his lower lip.
“Who are you?” she wondered aloud. “Where did you come from?”
He looked like a cowboy. If he wasn’t missing from a movie company, he could be a genuine cowboy. There were ranches in the area. Had he come from one of those? Did cowboys in this day and age wear guns? She supposed they might. There were wild animals in the hills. Snakes. Even supposing working cowboys wore guns, she was pretty sure they didn’t go around shooting each other, although, being men, it was not out of the realm of possibility. The nightly news was full o
f stories of men, old and young, who seemed to think guns and violence were the answer to everything.
She thought for a moment. Perhaps he was one of those re-enactors, the ones who had made a hobby of dressing up in Old West duds and firing old-fashioned weapons at targets. Maybe someone had fired wildly, and this had been just an accident. He was just as wounded as if it had been intentional though. And how had he showed up here? Her mind raced with questions.
But she wasn’t likely to find the answers to any of them today.
She sponged him off several times during the day and into the night, even managed to get him to drink a little water. He was incoherent the few minutes when he was conscious; but, for the most part, he slept.
It was after midnight when she went to bed, only to awake at every sound, always aware that there was a stranger in the house. The last thing she had done before she went to bed was put his gunbelt on the floor in the back of her closet. She felt safer, somehow, knowing it was in her room, and out of his reach.
* * * * *
She woke early after a restless night. She started to go downstairs in her gown and robe, then, remembering the stranger, she decided against it. She dressed quickly in a long-sleeved tee shirt and jeans, turned up the heat, and went downstairs to check on her patient.
He was lying on his stomach, his head turned toward the door. She thought he was asleep, but his eyes opened the moment she stepped into the room.
He stared at her through narrowed, pain-glazed eyes. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“Who are you?”
He rolled onto his side, groaning softly. “What happened?”
“Well, I’m not sure what happened, or how it happened, but you’ve been shot.”
He grunted softly, his gaze moving around the room. “How’d I get here?” He had a voice like aged whiskey, she thought, warm and smooth. And sexy.
Amanda shrugged. “You tell me. And while you’re at it, you can tell me who shot you, and who you want me to notify.”
“You can’t tell anybody about this.”
“Surely you want your family to know you’re all right.”
He shook his head, then licked his lips.
“Are you thirsty?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Trey watched her leave the room, his mind filling with questions. How had he gotten here? Where the hell was here? And who the hell was she?
He glanced around the room again. White walls. Blue curtains. A blue rug that covered the whole floor. A three-drawer chest. A table beside the bed. A lamp on the table, but a lamp like none he had ever seen. It had a flowered shade, no oil, no wick. Where the hell was his gun?
He started to sit up, swore as pain lanced through his back. Easing back down on the bed, he closed his eyes. How had he gotten here, wherever here was?
He opened his eyes at the sound of footsteps. The woman offered him a drink of water and he drank it greedily, then sank back on the pillow. She was a pretty woman, tall and slender, with a wealth of wavy red hair, dark-green eyes, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. Long, slender legs encased in a man’s jeans. He hadn't known many women who wore pants, surely none as lovely and curvy as this one, and he averted his eyes, afraid he had stared at her legs too long.
She gazed down at him, a worried look in her eyes. “Are you hungry?”
He shook his head.
“Who shot you?”
“What difference does it make?”
“Well, you should probably report it to the police.”
Report it? He wondered if she was out of her mind, then realized she had no way of knowing he was on the dodge. “I’m obliged to you for taking me in, but I’d best be moving on.”
“Don’t you think you should rest a day or two? You’ve got a fever.”
It was tempting, but he couldn’t stay here, not with Wolf Langley hot on his trail. Damn! “Thanks, but I’d better get going.”
“And I think you’d better stay right where you are, at least until tomorrow. Anyway, your clothes are soaking in the washer.”
He frowned. “Washer?”
“You know, washing machine?”
He stared at her, wondering what the devil she was talking about.
“Where’s my horse?”
“In the barn. You really should keep an eye on him, you know. He’s been here several times in the last couple of days.”
She was crazy, he thought. There was no doubt about it. “And my gun?”
“Safe enough. You need to rest,” she said, “and I’ve got some work to do. Why don’t you go back to sleep, and I’ll bring you something to eat later?”
He nodded, closed his eyes, and was asleep.
Amanda stared at him for several minutes, her mind churning with unanswered questions. She didn’t know who he was or where he’d come from, but she intended to find out.
* * * * *
It was dark when he woke again. The bedroom door was open, and he could see a glimmer of light in the hallway. Bright white light that burned steadily. Too bright for a coal-oil lamp. He could hear someone moving around in the next room. The crazy woman? He wondered if she was married, or if she lived alone.
He frowned as a strange ringing noise broke the stillness. It was an odd noise, one he had never heard before. With an effort, he sat up. Dizziness swamped him. When it passed, he stood and made his way to the door. He stood there a moment, one hand braced on the frame, and then walked slowly down the hallway, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet.
He could hear her talking now. From what he could hear of the conversation, it sounded like she was talking to someone else, but hers was the only voice he heard.
Peering around the corner, he saw her standing with her back to him. Her hair fell halfway down her back in a mass of waves. She was wearing the long-sleeved shirt and those jeans that clung to her like a second skin, outlining the shape of her long legs and well-rounded buttocks. He had seen working ranch women in trousers from time to time, but nothing like these. She was holding something to her ear.
“All right, Rob. I’ve got to go. Be careful, okay?”
Silence. Was she talking to herself? Crazy, no doubt about it.
Then, “I know. I love you, too. Bye.”
She put whatever she had been holding to her ear down on the table. His gaze followed the sway of her hips as she left the room.
Curious, he padded across the floor, picked up the thing she had been holding and put it to his ear. What the hell! He jerked his head back when he heard a strange buzzing noise. Putting the thing down, he glanced around the room. It looked like any other house. And yet, it didn’t. There was a red brick fireplace with a raised hearth. Some pictures on the wall. A sofa and two chairs, and a couple of low tables. A pair of those strange lamps with their eerily silent bright light. Some new kind of gaslight? A large square box that had a window you couldn’t see through on the front. Some doo-dads and knickknacks women were fond of.
At the sound of footsteps, he glanced at the doorway. It was the woman.
“What are you doing out of bed?” she exclaimed. She made a shooing motion with one hand. “Go on, get back into bed. You look like you’re about to pass out again.”
He glowered at her, then turned and retraced his steps to the bedroom. Every movement sent slivers of pain shooting through his back. He sat down gingerly, took a deep breath, then stretched out on his side and closed his eyes. Dammit, he felt as weak as a newborn colt.
Moments later, he sensed the woman’s presence in the room. “You must be hungry.”
“Yeah.”
“What would you like to eat? I’ve got some chicken noodle soup.”
“Soup!” He opened his eyes and glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Well, what do you want? Steak?”
“Rare.”
“All right. What do you want with your steak?”
“Anything you’ve got is fine.”<
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“All right.” If he was hungry enough to eat a steak, he couldn’t be too bad off. She moved around to stand in front of him. “Here.” She handed him a glass of water, and held out her hand. “Take these.”
He stared at the two small white things in her hand. “What’re those?”
“Aspirin.”
He frowned up at her. “Aspirin?”
“For your fever.” She shook her head. “For heaven’s sake, you’d think you’d never seen aspirin before.”
Well, she was right about that. He took them from her hand and popped them in his mouth, grimaced at the horrible taste.
The woman sighed. “You’re supposed to wash them down with water.”
He drained the glass, rinsing the bad taste from his mouth, then handed it to her.
“Where are you from, anyway?” she asked.
“From here.”
“Arizona?”
He nodded.
She looked at him oddly for a moment. “Have you got a name?”
“Trey.”
“Just Trey?”
He nodded, unwilling to share his last name. “And yours would be?”
“Amanda.”
“Just Amanda?” he asked with a wry smile.
“Just Amanda. Are you sure there isn’t someone you want me to notify that you're here?”
“I’m sure.”
“Well, I’ll go fix that steak,” she said, heading for the door. “Rare.”
He stared after her. There was something strange going on here, something not quite right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was definitely wrong.
Chapter Six
Amanda stood in the kitchen, staring out the window while she waited for the potatoes to boil. She didn’t know what it was, but there was something definitely wrong here. Something out of sync about…what was his name? Trey. Just Trey.
He was a handsome man, not pretty boy handsome the way Rob was handsome, but handsome in a rugged, masculine sort of way. She smiled at her reflection in the window. Sort of the way Tommy Lee Jones was sexy, with that gravelly voice and killer smile. Why hadn’t he known what aspirin looked like? Why was he wearing a gun? And clothes that looked sort of…outdated? If he really were an actor, or one of those guys who liked to play cowboy, perhaps the trauma of getting shot for real had blurred his memory.
Chase the Lightning Page 4
