Molly's Hero

by Susan Amarillas

As he pulled the coverlet up around her, a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder reminded them that the storm still raged outside. Katie stirred.

  “Shh, honey,” Molly said, brushing the child’s forehead with a soothing hand. “Go to sleep.”

  Katie settled down and was soon making what could almost be called snoring noises.

  Ethan chuckled.

  “She’s humming in her sleep,” Molly told him.

  “Humming, huh?” He chuckled again, and so did Molly.

  “Well, it wouldn’t do for a lady to snore now would it?”

  “Oh, I’ve known a couple who did. It didn’t seem to bother them any.”

  The instant the words were out he realized what he’d said. Damn, Wilder, when will you learn to keep your trap shut?

  Molly was very busy looking at the floor, though she did spare him one quick glance out of the corner of her eye before she headed off in the direction of the bureau. The blanket dragged behind her like a regal train.

  “I was thinking that maybe you’d like to get out of those clothes, Mr. Wilder.”

  Her back was to him.

  “Yes, but my clothes are in my saddlebags getting soaked in the rain.”

  The top bureau drawer made a scraping sound as she pulled it open. “I’m sure I can find you something of my husband’s for you to wear.”

  Her husband’s? Just what he wanted—to be wearing that fool’s clothes. “That’s okay. I’m not very clean and—”

  “That water Katie used for her sponge bath shouldn’t be too dirty. You can use that to wash off.”

  She seemed to be intent on this…this project of hers.

  He was equally intent on not obliging, though he suspected their reasons were entirely different.

  “Naw. It’s okay. I don’t need—”

  She turned around and held up a pair of faded red long underwear. “These should do.”

  She sorta held them in front of herself as though doing some sort of test fit. “There’s no sense you spending the night wet and dirty and miserable. Is there?”

  Well, she had him there. What was he going to say: “Yes.” That would make a fine lot of sense.

  “Uh, okay, but I’m not quite sure how we are going to work this.” After all the place was one room, one small room with no walls or partitions or even a hat rack to hide behind.

  “How about,” Molly started, “if I simply go over by the window and wait until you say I can turn around—assuming you trust me?”

  “I think if you can trust me all day, I can sure as hell trust you. Besides—” she heard the rustle of clothes as though he were taking off his shirt, “—there’s not much worth looking at these days, dressed or undressed.”

  Molly heard the clink of his gun belt buckle and the thud of it being put down somewhere, kitchen counter, she guessed. Then his boots hit the floor with a small thud. Another metal clink and she realized he was taking off his trousers.

  Molly stood there trying not to think about him, about what he was doing there a few feet behind her. Now, suddenly, she realized he was naked or perhaps he was wearing long underwear, too. But he was going to have to take those off to put on the new ones.

  Naked.

  There was a naked man in her cabin. Not just any man. No, this was a very special man and she couldn’t help wondering what he looked like. Did he have muscles in his arms and shoulders? Yes, she decided, he did, the kind a woman could put her head against late at night when they were alone in bed. Her eyes fluttered closed. His chest would be broad, strong, the kind a woman would feel safe with.

  His legs would be long and lean and corded from years in the saddle.

  All in all, this was a man who would take care of a woman.

  This was a man who already had.

  “Just about ready.” His deep voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Tell me when,” she managed to say, pleased that her voice sounded so calm.

  “Uh, well, this is as good as it’s going to get,” he said by way of telling her to turn around.

  There he stood. The legs were about six inches too short and the sleeves about four. The long underwear was pulled tight across his chest so that there was a dangerous-looking tug happening at each button.

  Ethan looked down at himself, laughed, then quickly covered his mouth with his hand so he wouldn’t wake Katie.

  “Well, Mr. Wilder, I’m sorry to inform you that you will not be on the cover of Harper’s.”

  Ethan made a show of adjusting his sleeves, not that it did any good, and said, “All things considered, I’d say I’m grateful.”

  Molly chuckled. Since he’d been around, she chuckled a lot. Sick as she was, the man made her laugh.

  “Why don’t you take the quilt off my bed and wrap up in that?” she asked.

  “Good idea.” Barefoot, he hurried across the room, scooped up the quilt and headed back for the warmth of the stove.

  Molly was already there, seated in one of the chairs they’d dragged over earlier. Ethan gave the stove a check and put another small piece of wood in.

  He sat down next to Molly.

  “That feels good, huh?” he said, staring at the stove.

  “Good,” she murmured, and he could hear her teeth chattering.

  “My God. You’re still cold, aren’t you. Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because every time I try to talk I—” She coughed and coughed. She coughed until she had to bend over. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for him to rub her back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture.

  She waved him away and slowly sat up. “Thanks,” she croaked, her voice still raw from coughing. Even cast in shadows as she was, he thought she looked pale except for the high color in her cheeks. Her hair, that liquid fire hair, fell seductively over one shoulder and covered her breast, hidden beneath her flannel nightgown. The collar was turned up on one side, the side she’d been sleeping on, he supposed. The buttons were done up all the way to the throat—out of habit or because he was there, he wasn’t certain.

  Either way, his first thought was that she was something to look at, sick and all. He couldn’t help thinking that this was how she’d look in the mornings. The faint stirrings of lust brushed over nerve endings in his skin.

  “Thanks.” She shifted, adjusting the blanket.

  Ethan felt strangely intimate. After all, they were a man and woman alone late at night in her, ah, bedroom, so that was a natural feeling, he supposed. He suddenly realized that he had nowhere to sleep tonight, no barn, no wagon, not even a dry spot under the stars. Things got a lot more tense.

  “Thanks for telling her a story.”

  “You’re welcome. I was scrambling there for a while.”

  “Are you going to tell me the ending?”

  “That’d be like reading the end of the book first, wouldn’t it?” Especially since there was no ending—not yet, anyway.

  “Well, I’ve been known to do that.” Molly rubbed her temples, her eyes closed.

  “Headache?”

  “A little,” she murmured, then opened her eyes to him and made a weakhearted attempt at a smile. “I want you to know I only read the end of books to make sure there’s a happy ending. I like happy endings, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do.” Though the happy ending he was thinking of was most likely not going to be so happy for her. That thought didn’t settle well but he was trapped and there wasn’t a damned thing he could do. He had a job to do, obligations, promises to keep.

  As he watched, she went back to rubbing her temples.

  “Here. Let me,” he ordered, and she obliged. Ethan settled himself on the edge of a chair behind her.

  “What are you going to—”

  He rubbed her shoulders, lightly but firmly, letting his thumbs trace up along the tendons of her neck where they disappeared into her scalp. Her hair was like silk, soft and smooth and radiant. Fingers splayed, he let his hands glide up, trace the curve of her
head before settling on her temples.

  Slowly, rhythmically, he rubbed her temples while her hair slipped back and forth between his fingers and over the tops of his hands.

  “How’s that?” he asked, wondering what it would be like to have that same silken beauty brush against the side of his neck, pool on his bare chest before sliding off his shoulder.

  “Hmmm,” Molly murmured, lost in the feelings, the tenderness of his touch, the delicious perfection of having her ache massaged. His thumbs rubbed the base of her skull, then out along her shoulders. “Heaven,” she said, not really realizing she’d spoken out loud.

  “I’m glad,” she heard him say, his voice suddenly deeper, richer, a bit more hoarse. “I’ll do this for you again if you like.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say yes, to say that she liked it very much but reality washed across her sensitized nerves like cold water. Her eyes flew open and she sat straight up and away from him though his hands still rested on her shoulders in a way that was much too familiar, much too pleasant.

  “Uh, thank you, Mr. Wilder. I feel better now.”

  Ethan didn’t move for a moment, allowing himself one last touch of her hair.

  She glanced back at him. “Thank you for the, uh, rub.”

  Ethan stood. “You’re welcome. When you’re sick you deserve special treatment. But when you’re better…” He made a poor show of frowning.

  “I’ll remember,” Molly said, and she wondered if she was talking about the admonition or the massage?

  Ethan knew that he’d remember, too. “Can I get you something?”

  “No, thanks. Nothing.” She dragged in a deep breath and he watched her let it out slowly.

  “Sure?”

  Sure. Now about that story,” she prompted, obviously changing the subject. He went along.

  “You’ll have to wait.” For a great many things, judging by the look of the place, he thought sadly and with a bit of temper for the man who would leave her here to fend for herself and for the child.

  She chuckled. “Okay, I’ll—” Her chuckle brought on another coughing spell and he felt somehow responsible, which was silly, but he felt it all the same. Maybe it was just that he felt sorry for her, for her suffering.

  You don’t have time to get involved here, Wilder. Get the land and get out.

  Yeah, he knew, but she looked so pitiful, her hands cupped over her mouth to muffle the sound. He was totally and completely helpless, a feeling unfamiliar to a man used to being in charge, making things happen, making things happen his way.

  He waited until her coughing stopped.

  “Besides the coughing, how’re you feeling? Maybe I shouldn’t ask.”

  “Cold but better, I think.” She straightened, hooking her hair back behind her ears. It didn’t stay there, but fell in lush waves around her face again.

  “Fever down?”

  She felt her own forehead. “I can’t tell.”

  Ethan could’ve taken her word for it. A smart man would’ve. What the devil did he know about fevers and such? Not a darned thing, but he reached out and touched her cheek anyway. Maybe because she was so close and looked so fragile. Maybe it was simply that he wanted to get closer, to touch her. He let his knuckles brush lightly along her cheek, then trail down to her jaw. Her skin was soft, warm and dry. She never flinched, never moved away at all, and his hand lingered there a moment or two longer than it should have. Long enough for black eyes to seek blue ones. Long enough for there to be a sudden stillness in the room, anxious, ripe with anticipation.

  Blessedly, she coughed and broke the spell. She turned away, her hands covering her mouth. Ethan rubbed her shoulder. Not that it would do any good, but it made him feel better, as if he were doing something to help. Suddenly, it was important that he help her.

  As he rubbed her arm from shoulder to elbow and back again, he was assailed with memories from earlier today, memories of her in his arms as he’d carried her into the cabin, to that very bed. That thought brought a whole other rush of memories, the slenderness of her frame, her head resting on his shoulder, her arms around his neck.

  Wilder, where are you going with this? Business, remember?

  He let his hand fall away to rest on the patchwork quilt of the comforter that was his cape. Absently his fingers traced the crisscross stitching. “I’m no good at nursing,” he told her, ashamed and surprised by the direction of his thoughts.

  “You’re doing…fine.”

  Molly’s coughing tapered off. A couple of deep breaths and the ache in her chest eased. The scratchiness in her throat remained.

  The coverlet pooled in Molly’s lap as she sat Indian fashion in the chair. She let her chin rest on her chest. She needed a minute. Just a minute to put things all to rights.

  “Can I do something for you?” she heard him ask, though she didn’t bother to open her eyes. She knew he was there, close. She could sense his nearness, almost as though she were touched by him. That was the trouble—well, part of the trouble. She had been touched by him in ways that she was totally unprepared for. It had been a long time, a very long time, since anyone had shown her the concern, the thoughtfulness, the kindness that this man had.

  Slowly, she opened her eyes and her gaze immediately sought his. He looked dark and imposing and totally out of place in her little cabin. His expression was serious, almost grim. His mustache seemed to add to his frown. She had the silliest impulse to reach out and touch his mouth, to coax a smile, the smile she’d remembered from earlier today.

  She slammed her eyes shut and swallowed hard. It was the fever making her have these foolish thoughts. Yes, that was it. Fever. Lord, it was hot in here.

  “Water,” she said suddenly. “I need some water.” She needed some distance. She surged to her feet intent on getting to that sink. Unfortunately, a wave of dizziness washed over her and she sank down on the chair as though someone had put a lead weight in her pockets.

  Instantly, he was there, beside her, one arm around her shoulder in a way that was at once protective, comforting and more than a little exciting.

  “Take it easy. You’ll fall flat, and then what will I do?”

  The question was more, what was she going to do? She angled her head around to look up at him, his face close, very close, his breath warm on her cheek. Their gazes locked. Why was it so hard to breathe?

  “Molly,” he said in a husky tone that sent shivers skimming over her skin. For a heartbeat, she thought that he would kiss her. More importantly, she thought that she would let him.

  Thankfully, reality got a fingerhold on her fever-clouded brain. Awkwardly, she tore her gaze away and shifted so that he released her.

  “Well,” he muttered after what seemed an incredibly long time, “I’ll get you that water.”

  She was still sitting on the edge of the chair when he returned.

  “Here you go.” His voice startled her and she actually jumped. She managed a shaky smile and took the offered cup.

  “Thanks.” The metal was cool against her fingers, the water equally cool, and she drank it down, needing something to quench her thirst, to distract her from the man who was tall and powerful and altogether too handsome.

  “More?” he asked, and she nodded her answer, not entirely trusting her voice to work. What the devil was the matter with her? She was not some silly girl; she was a woman, grown and married, for heaven’s sake. Not much of a marriage, granted, but married just the same.

  Fever.

  It was the fever making her behave so strangely.

  “Don’t spill,” he said gently as he handed her the refilled cup. “I got it a bit too close to the top.”

  She did spill, though. Water sloshed over the rim and soaked into the green cotton of her nightgown, turning it a darker green. She kept her eyes and her thoughts fixed on that water, the cup, and just about anything else but him.

  After draining the cup for a second time, she handed it back, careful not to let their fingers
touch. “Thanks. I guess I was thirstier than I thought.”

  “Fevers do that.” He lifted the cup away from her.

  “I wouldn’t know.” She slid back in the chair.

  “Usually I’m as healthy as a horse. Mama always said I was gonna live to be a hundred.”

  Ethan chuckled. “I wouldn’t compare you to a horse by any means.” No, he could think of a great many things to compare her to, most of them having to do with dreams he’d had on lonely nights.

  He pulled his chair up alongside of hers. “I’m glad you’re doing better. I was worried earlier today.”

  Her expression turned very serious. “I was worried myself. I’ve watched too many fevers sweep through a gold camp faster than an avalanche and take out as many people in a matter of no time.”

  “I had no idea you were afraid,” he said, and covered her hand with his. “You didn’t have to worry. If it had come down to it I’d have gone to Cheyenne and back for a doctor.” He realized in that instant he would have. He would have done more to keep Molly Murphy safe.

  “I believe you would have, Mr. Wilder.”

  The silence stretched taut between them. Their gazes locked, the room breathlessly quiet. After what could have been a few seconds or several minutes, she slipped her hand free of his and he sat back a bit.

  “So,” he began, looking for something to say. “What were you doing in a gold camp?”

  “I grew up there.”

  “In a gold camp?”

  “Not one camp. There must have been a dozen, maybe more. I can’t remember offhand without counting ’em up.” She coughed, then managed a shaky glimpse of a smile. “Looking for gold is worse than looking for a rainbow on a sunny day.”

  Katie stirred in her bed and Ethan stood to check on the child. The lamplight flickered, casting strange shadows on the ceiling.

  “She’s still sleeping,” he said, sitting down again.

  Molly nodded.

  Ethan went back to their discussion. “Someone must be finding the gold or people wouldn’t keep looking.” He leaned forward, elbows to knees. Her foot brushed against his in a way that seemed provocative yet comfortable.

  She cocked her head to one side, her red hair spilling over one shoulder in a way that definitely caught his attention. “That’s the trouble. What you just said.”