"I don't feel well at all. Is it hot and sunny outside? Would you mind asking Ma to open a window?" Her voice was strained, her words slurred. Guilt had him kneeling beside her. "I want to hear the birds and smell the summer wind."
Resting his hand on her forehead, he inwardly cringed. The fever was severe, no doubt worsened by her nap on the cold cabin floor. "You've quite a fever."
She turned and pushed at his hand. "Get my Ma. I've had fevers before. She'll know what to do."
"She's not home, dear. I'll see to you."
"Has she gone to get the eggs?"
"Yes," he lied, envisioning an older version of Bobbie fetching eggs from the boxes of unsuspecting hens. He swallowed. It was a damned beautiful thought.
"Then can I have something to drink? My tongue is awfully dry."
"Of course." He stood but when her gaze came to rest on him he paused. The eyes were so vacant, so unseeing.
"Dr. Stark, my hands and feet hurt. I swear I can feel my heart beating in them."
"I know Bobbie." He said the words, hoping his tone was reassuring, but he felt anything but confident. "You'll be all right."
She reached for him and he gingerly took her hand. "I hope I'll be all right, because I feel like death is eyeballing me from around the corner." Tears filled her eyes and slipped down the side of her face and into her hair.
"Don't be silly. You can't leave me, who will I have to yell at?"
A small smile lifted the corner of her lips. It was a somber smile, one filled with lament and void of cheer.
He slid his hand free of her grip and pushed a strand for sweat soaked hair from her face, his touch lingering. She looked so small, so helpless lying there, her dark locks splayed across the stark white of the pillow. He stood, mesmerized. Was she like Briar Rose and if he leaned in to kiss her would she live?
He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Fairy tales…he had Sarah to thank for his knowledge of those ridiculous bits of rubbish. And God knew he was no prince. Only a few hours ago, kissing wasn't the only thing he wanted to do to Miss Roberta Shallcross.
"Dr. Stark, when have you ever yelled at me? The meanest thing you ever did was give me a licorice instead of a peppermint."
"Peppermint your favorite sweet?" he asked, realizing it had been well over five years since he had eaten sweets of any kind. Sarah liked lemon drops.
She nodded and closed her eyes. "Yes, those or ginger cookies."
Finally, he pulled his touch free, the heat from her skin lingering on his fingertips. He needed to cool her down. "Now, you keep thinking of candy while I fetch some water." He busied himself but his mind kept steering toward darkness. She was too hot and soon, she'd be too hot to live…
"Oh, no," he mumbled forcing himself into action. He'd never played nursemaid before, but by God, he'd be the best damned nursemaid this side of Pike's Peak. Bobbie was not going to die. He wouldn't hear of it.
Pulling a chair to her bedside, he began to wipe her down. He set the cloth on her forehead and the heat seemed to seep into the cool rag and still the fever didn't break. He swallowed his worry and unfastening the buttons that held her shift together, he slid the wet rag across the pale, narrow expanse of her chest. Her breath caught in her throat and he continued, his concern melding with his curiosity.
Bobbie was indeed a glorious woman, the delicate slope of her collarbone, the way her breasts curved, the chilled nipples visible beneath her gown. Just touching her in this most innocent of fashions had him longing to once again feel the warmth that loving Sarah had offered his black soul. Perhaps Bobbie had been sent to him to help ease his misery.
He pulled his hands away, the idea searing him with red hot guilt. No, she was not here for him. More likely than not, he was here for her.
Gently lifting her head, he offered her a drink of the icy water. She greedily accepted his offering but as soon as the water hit her system, she began to shiver. It was an awful sight, her entire being jerking and reeling of its own accord. Her teeth rattled against one another and despite covering her with every blanket he could find, she still shivered.
Removing his coat and boots, he slid into bed beside her, the mattress groaning with the addition of his weight. Propping himself up with pillows, he pulled her close hoping the heat of his body would ease her discordant tremor.
To his surprise, she didn't resist, instead she draped her arms around him, her head cradled atop his chest. She held tight as if he were a platform in a tempest.
Finally, she stilled, and although she appeared peaceful she did not sleep. Her eyes remained open as she stared vacantly at the cobwebbed laden wall.
"Try to sleep, darlin'," he whispered. "Close your eyes."
Time seemed to crawl by before she finally slid her gaze up at him. "I’m afraid to. What if I never wake up?"
Her words touched a nerve and clenching his teeth he tried to force back the memory. But his guard had been down and it savagely pushed through. As if it had just happened he could see Sarah's broken body, limp upon the cabin floor. Her hand outstretched and her eyes wide as they stared unseeing toward the door. Had she watched for him? Had she willed him to enter and save her? Or had she been too afraid to close her eyes for fear they'd never be open again?
"Don't talk like that." His words came out far harsher than he intended. "You're going to be just fine." But even as he said it, he knew better. He hoped she'd be fine, but with the fever and more than likely infection in her hands and feet, he wondered. No one was ever truly fine, anyway. Life was simply a miserable journey toward death.
Unfazed by his bitter tone, she finally closed her eyes. "I hope so." She reached for his hand and he wrapped her bandaged fingers in the fold of his grip. "I'll try to sleep, but will you stay with me a while longer?"
"Of course I will."
Her face grew tranquil, her breathing steady as she drifted off. Watching her sleep had him feeling drowsy. He leaned back, resting his head against the soft pillow. Closing his eyes, he continued to hold her hand. Should he slide it beneath the covers and try to escape her embrace? Relaxed, he held on to it, making no effort to let go.
***
Bobbie opened her eyes and stared around the bright, sunlit cabin. David sat facing her, his back to the fire. He held a book in his hand and was deep into reading. She hated to interrupt him, so she watched.
Why did it surprise her that he knew how to read? Why had she thought him uneducated? He certainly spoke well and she liked his soft Southern drawl. No, it was his appearance, but had she truly judged the man by the clothes he wore or had it been the dirt and grime that clung to every bit of him?
"Good morning, David." Her voice sounded as if it didn't belong to her. She cleared her throat.
"Good morning, two days later," he said, coming to his feet. Alfred jumped from his pallet near the fire and followed close behind, his toenails clicking against the hardwood floor. "Are you feeling better?" He reached across her body and set his calloused hand upon her forehead.
"Yes, I am," she muttered, but how had the time passed and she hadn't known? Surprise had her setting her hand to her breast. "But two days asleep?"
"On and off, but I do think you're on the mend. Fever broke and you're not setting my flesh afire when I touch you."
He ran his finger across her cheek and the chill that followed his touch delighted. A smile lit up his bearded face and for the first time she saw that he had strong, white teeth. Her heart clenched and her breath caught in her throat. His smile. It was beautiful. "How are my hands and feet?" she asked, changing the subject, not so much for his benefit but her own.
"Better too. I reckon you'll have more use of them a in a couple days. I'd take care though. The blisters have busted and the salve is keeping the damaged skin moist and pliable, but they're still injured."
"Am I going to lose a toe or fingers?" She swallowed the worry that accompanied the question.
"I don't think so. Was concerned about the little toe on yo
ur left foot, but as of this morning the black spot is not growing and it felt warm to the touch. I thought the fever was brought on by infection, but now I'm thinking no, as none of injuries are gangrenous."
"No, my brother was sick. His illness had us staying in Colorado Springs a week longer than we intended."
He brought his lower lip between his teeth and his eyes took on a pity-filled sheen. "Would have definitely made it through…" but his words trailed off. He didn't need to finish the sentence for her to know where he was heading.
"The pass." Her heart grew heavy yet she wouldn't cry. No. They were alive and time would bear that out. She had to believe that or go insane.
Time slowed to a crawl and he cleared his throat. "You hungry?"
"No," she admitted, trying to sit up, but even that small effort had her body trembling. "But I suppose I should eat."
He leaned in, sliding his warm arm around her waist and helping her sit up. The smell of smoke, winter and a mixture of both his and her humanity and she stifled a cough. "David?"
"Yeah," he said, propping her up with pillows.
"When can I have a bath?"
He offered a loud sigh, the tell tale sign of booze still lingering on his breath. "When you're a bit better. Soon."
She raised her eyes toward him, trepidation tugging at her. "And will you have one?"
His gaze narrowed and his mouth curved into a frown. "Will it get you off my back?"
"Only if you let me cut your hair too."
He growled and stalked away, leaving her alone with her smile. He was as grumpy as a bear, but there was definitely a good man under all that filth. A bad man wouldn't have seen to her as he had or held her hand until she fell to sleep. She hesitantly curled her fingers, wondering why in all the darkness of the past days that she remembered him taking her hand. She would never forget his simple act of kindness, for it was a gift he had most assuredly last bestowed upon the dead woman.
Chapter 5
Despite the roaring fire, the cabin was still cold. Wind seeped through the log beams, the window rattled and the floors were unpleasantly icy against his bare feet. Of course, what did he expect? The cabin was nothing but a rustic oasis in the middle of a frozen hell.
So, why was it she was taking such a long time in the bath? Yes, he had warmed the water, but surely it was becoming tepid and he had only just gotten her healthy. Was she actually foolish enough to wash herself back into illness? He'd give her a few more minutes and then he'd march back there and fetch her if needs be.
Looking into the shaving mirror he grimaced. What a terrible site he was. His face drawn, his eyes bloodshot and the dark circles that hung below his eyes proof that sleeping on the floor wasn't very restful. Truth was, he looked considerably older than his thirty years. Time had not been kind, nor had the bottle. With his irritation surging, he pulled at his beard. What a wild and woolly beast he had become. More bear than man!
"Bobbie!" he shouted, instantly sorry that he took his anger out on her. "Are you almost done?"
"Hold your horses," she said, her voice muffled but the glee was unmistakable. "I’m getting dressed. The gown is lovely. Thank you so much for allowing me to use it."
His stomach knotted. How was he going to feel about seeing her in Sarah's gown? Granted, it wasn't a favorite. She'd probably only worn it once. Yes. Just once and complained about it the entire time. It was too plain, too unsophisticated. He shook his head. She had always been a flamboyant dresser. What had possessed him to think a parrot could survive in the mountains? It had been a terrible mistake, one he would always regret.
Focusing on his reflection in the mirror, he continued to trim his wild beard, his hands shaky, his thoughts lost in the fog between too much booze and not enough. He narrowed his gaze and frowned. Damnation he was a mess. It was a wonder that Bobbie hadn't turned and run away at the sight of him that night she ended up on his doorstep. Years without a proper shave or haircut, weeks and weeks without a proper bath…he truly was wild and disgusting. Henry had complained about him coming into the trading post and running out the rats, but he hadn't heeded him. Hadn't cared…so why now did it bother him?
Bobbie bounded in from behind the makeshift curtain, twirling around in the pale gray woolen gown. "It fits almost perfectly," she crowed. "I am a bit tall and a bit narrow, but it's warm and lovely."
He set the scissors back into his kit and stared at her reflection on the mirror. She was right, it was almost a perfect fit and damnation she looked beautiful, her skin fresh and pink from her bath, her long dark curls cascading over her slender shoulders. His cock pressed against his pants, a painful reminder that he was still a young man. Anger nearly suffocated him and he turned on her. "That's Sarah's dress."
She stopped, all the joy sliding from her face. "I know. Thank you. I meant no disrespect." Her gray eyes grew large and moist. "I would never try to hurt you, David. I'm sorry."
Guilt had him looking past her. But was it guilt for yelling at her? Or was it guilt for allowing the urchin to have an impact on him? He knew. It was the same old guilt that had dogged his every step these five years, compounded by his carnal desire to make love to a woman other than his beloved. He brushed past her and ducked behind the curtain, determined to grab up one of his last bottles of whiskey. It would be time to make a run to the trading post soon. He needed drink and he'd ditch her with Henry. It made more sense anyway. He'd take better care of her and God knew taking care of her was killing him.
Swallowing, he savored the burn as the alcohol slid down his throat. Eyeing the tub, he slammed the bottle down upon the small table and undressing, slid into the lukewarm water. The feel of the scented liquid did little to ease his arousal, for she bathed with lilac soap…Sarah's lilac soap.
"Damnation," he mumbled. If she wanted him clean, he'd be clean, but then he owed her nothing more. She was not Sarah. She had no right to ask him for anything. Not even a haircut.
He lathered, drank, rinsed and drank. If he did it right, he'd be foxed by the time he finished his bath. His ache for Bobbie would cease and with luck, he'd be curled up on the pallet before the fire and another day would draw to an end without him even being aware.
***
No matter what she did she was wrong. But that realization did little to ease her guilt. God knew she would have put her own gown back on, but he offered her the one she now wore. Was it wicked to like having a fine dress? She supposed she wasn't wrong, but reluctantly, she admitted, his reaction to her pirouetting around in Sarah's clothes wasn't wrong either.
Flopping down on her bed, she studied her hands. The skin was still in ugly shape but her fingers moved, her blisters healing, no infection…she was clean, clothed, full of rabbit stew and only moments before verging on happiness.
Still she didn't have to wonder why he acted the way he did. She knew. It was about her looking the part of Sarah. Sarah, he called her name in his sleep. Sarah, he kept a locket with her picture in his pocket. He ate, breathed and most especially drank, Sarah. Despite her being gone, the woman's memory was killing him.
Alfred curled up on the bed beside her and she stroked his soft brindle fur. "What can I do to help him?" she asked the dog.
"Nothing Roberta. There is nothing you can do to help me."
He stood before her, a towel around his waist. His broad, muscular frame glistened in the orange light of the fire. She swallowed back her surprise, having never considered what he would look like beneath his filthy buckskin and wool. With as much as he drank he should have been either fat or thin, but he was neither. His physical condition had her wanting to reach out and touch him, wondering if the lightly haired body was as hard as it looked. And with his beard trimmed and his hair clean, well he was quite a handsome man. The transformation kicked her heartbeat up a notch and a strange tickle cascaded through her abdomen.
"But David, you're miserable."
His green eyes darkened, and his full lips pinched into an angry line. "Your under
stated observation makes me sick."
She didn't like the look on his face, didn't like the way his rage constantly bubbled beneath the surface. But what had her fighting her own ire was how his mood slipped from pleasant gentleman to mad drunk without the slightest warning. Crossing her arms over her body she glared back at him. "You drink too much. It makes you mean."
"You watch too closely, Roberta Shallcross. You judge when you know nothing of my pain."
"You never bothered to ask anything but my name and my age. How could you possibly know of my life? Perhaps I do understand some of what you're feeling." Hot, angry blood flooded her cheeks. She was infuriated and she loathed him for it. She prided herself on staying positive. Even when she was lost on the mountain, she knew it would work out one way or the other. That life or death scenario was less frustrating than dealing with an irate drunk in mourning.
"Oh, you're a widow? You lost the love of your life through your own carelessness?"
"No," she replied, lifting her chin in mock confidence. Truth was, she was having trouble holding his gaze. "But I lost what's left of my family to either weather or desertion. I watched a dear grandfather die in great pain. I buried my best friend after she and I both struggled through typhus. You tell me, David, do you suppose my life has been so easy?"
Thankfully, he looked away. "None of those things are your fault, Bobbie. You can blame circumstance, not your own foolishness."
What circumstance, she wondered. But it had to be something that a man could blame himself for even though it wasn't truly his fault. For David didn't seem the type to abuse or neglect. "Did she die in childbirth?" she asked, weakly.
He didn't say anything and she finally forced herself to look upon him. Anger had returned to his countenance. "No. She was murdered. I found her dead right in front of the fireplace."
She swallowed the horrified lump that clogged her throat. Without thought, she jumped to her feet and rushed to him, grabbing his hand. "I'm so sorry, David."
"So am I. It was a horrible sight, one I close my eyes and see over and over." Tears filled his eyes yet did not spill.
Harris Channing Page 4
