Trish dragged her eyelids open to a darkening room. The high pitch staccato of a poorly played piano begged for understanding… or a shotgun. Trish grimaced.
"Well, well, she isn't dead. Welcome back, Gardner style. Damn, I wish he'd stop. Been stranglin' that cat for best of an hour."
Trish held still, recognizing a familiar tune amidst the flat sharps from the saloon. "Actually, I think he's getting better." She carefully pushed herself to a sitting position. "How long have I been out?"
"Too long. It's mid-afternoon, I expect." Quinn pushed the chair he'd managed to find back on all fours. "Ya done droppin' like a fly? Ya could probably use some food and a stiff drink."
Trish grimaced and tested her forehead for a fever. "I could use some cool air, maybe even a cool bath. I think I have a fever. Are you up to helping a damsel in distress?"
"A bath would draw a whole lot of attention. But ifn' you're up to it…" A smirk crossed his features.
Trish watched him, noticing sincere concern replace his teasing. "You are right on both counts, but maybe a stroll to the livery would do me good. We could stop and put our feet in the water?" she coaxed.
"I'll help ya down the steps ifn' ya gonna sit and wait while I find some vittles for ya."
Trish sat on the bottom steps of the outdoor stairs and closed her eyes to the soft breeze, willing it to lift her hair off her neck. Two cowboys rode up and tied their ponies to the hitching rail while she waited for Quinn. He returned with a packet of food tucked inside a relatively clean bar towel.
"It ain't much, but it'll do in a pinch. Ya feel like walkin' now?" He offered to help her to her feet. Trish leaned on him as they strolled toward the bridge. "There's a right nice spot just this side of the livery, if ya don't mind that we often water the horses there. They leave some right deep holes sometimes."
"If you can keep me from falling and if there aren't a lot of flies buzzing around, it sounds good." Trish smiled.
"Cain't guarantee nothin' but I'll do my best to keep ya on yar feet." Quinn guided her across the bridge and along the river bank. At a fallen tree, he stopped and with a wide flourish, indicated nature's seat. "Here's the place."
They sat side by side on the tree, Trish nibbling at the biscuits and cold chicken Quinn had gathered from Pierre's kitchen. "Ya ain't eaten much," Quinn observed.
"I'm not really hungry," Trish explained while swallowing the sickness in her throat. "I think I have a concussion."
"Ya be okay for a minute?"
"I'm not going anywhere."
Quinn stood and walked toward the river, taking his shirt off as he went. Trish smiled, feeling a delicious shudder in her belly at the sight of his physique. He may not have the use of the modern gym but it didn't matter. His shoulders were wide and well-muscled, his hips narrow, and in her opinion, the perfect specimen in any century. At the river's edge, he knelt and submerged his shirt in the rushing water.
Trish inhaled a breath of fresh air, enjoying how his muscles rippled in his shoulders. If only she felt good enough to act on the attraction his naked body ignited.
He returned to her, his shirt still dripping in his hands. "Hold this," he commanded.
She managed to contain her reaction to the hair on his chest. Hair she hadn't been able to make out at the swimming hole due to the distance and the shadows. She took the dripping shirt, holding it away from her body while he gathered the food to set it aside.
"It ain't a bath, but it'll cool ya off." He took the shirt from her and stepped up on the tree trunk behind her.
She looked up in time to see the water that he wrung from his shirt shower her with cold drops of water. "Uhhh," she gasped, scrambling to her feet in an effort to get away.
"Stay put or I'll hogtie ya," His voice held a generous amount of mirth while he chased her, continuing to wring the shirt's water onto her.
She stumbled, falling to her knees. She remained on her hands and knees, not sure whether to laugh or cry while he squeezed the last drops on her head.
Quinn bent over her, unraveling the shirt, and pressed a cold sleeve to her forehead. He held it there for several minutes.
Trish sank back on her heels and breathed deep, her hands going to the cool damp cloth. She pressed it to her hot face and neck.
Quinn lifted her hair off the back of her neck while holding the shirt out of the dirt. "Ya ready for another sprinklin'?"
"No. I'd rather wade right in."
"River's too high and yer too weak. 'Fraid ya'd plumb wash away. Here, let's get ya outta the dirt for another--"
"Quinn? Help me to the river. I don't care if I fall in. I've got to cool off."
"I got a better idea." He draped his wet shirt around her shoulders. "Stay right here." He retrieved the food, pressing it into her hands. Minutes later, he led his horse to where she remained in the dirt. Taking the food to tuck in his saddle bags, he then helped her mount and swung up behind her. With his arm secured around her waist, he clucked to the horse.
At first, the cold of the shirt had chilled her, but it wasn't long before the heat of his chest warmed her back. She sank back against him as they rode, basking in his nearness, and the hard muscles of his chest.
"Swat the mosquito on my arm," Quinn instructed, lifting it to where she could do so easily.
Slap.
The insect stuck to his arm. "Quinn, you're being eaten alive." Guilt flooded her. She had his shirt and he rode behind her with his back and arms exposed to the hungry mosquitoes. "Stop. And I'll give you your shirt back."
Quinn wrapped the reins around the saddle horn between her thighs without stopping the horse. A luscious sensation rushed through her. No, she argued, I can't, I'm going home. Her traitorous heart skipped a beat. Excitement burst to a full gallop. It stuttered, her heart skidding to a stop before racing on. Quinn lifted the shirt from her shoulders and pulled it on. His hands went to the saddle horn, retrieving the reins. Delicious shudders broke into a succulent wave deep in her belly.
She glanced at the sun and its distance to the horizon, measuring the time she had left. I'm going home, I'm going home, she reminded herself. He doesn't love me, he was just trying to scare me into telling him what he thought was the truth.
They picked their way through the trees, coming to a halt near the swimming hole. Quinn climbed off the horse, turning to offer his assistance. Trish swallowed the longing for his touch, trying to chase the desire away, unable to slow her heart.
The Talisman - Crisscross Page 41
