by Jodi Thomas
As McCall’s body warmed beneath the covers, she felt Sloan beside her. She welcomed the dream once more, opening her mouth to his kisses and feeling his hands moving over her body. He tickled her ear with his whispers and pulled her close so she could hear the pounding of his heart. Sloan’s heart. The only sound that allowed her to relax and sleep.
Hidden in a distance of miles and night, Sloan also slept. He also dreamed. She came to him all soft and gentle, as she never had in life. Welcoming his touch and needing his warmth.
Sloan was so lost in his fantasies he didn’t hear the first sounds of someone moving toward him through the night. He’d been so many years without a dream that he didn’t pull himself back to reality as fast as his training should have demanded. He didn’t respond to the slight sound of a blade clearing leather.
In his dream he wanted one more touch, one more kiss, one more heartbeat.
Eighteen
MCCALL JERKED AWAKE with a cry. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The wagon’s canopy hid the stars, and she couldn’t feel the warmth of any fire.
“What is it, child?” Alyce Wren rose on one elbow, only the width of the wagon away. “What’s happened?”
“Sloan,” McCall whispered. “Something’s happened to Sloan.” She couldn’t bear to voice her dream.
“Nonsense,” Alyce tried to reassure her. “Sloan can take care of himself. He promised to meet us back at the station. We’ll be there in another day, two at the most if this rain keeps up. You’ll see—he may even be waiting for us when we arrive.”
When McCall didn’t seem convinced, she added, “I’d have felt it if he were in trouble. I can always feel trouble riding in, even on a cloud.”
“No.” McCall shook with a fear she’d never known, not even when she’d been in the middle of the battlefield. She felt as if a part of her were dying, and she could do nothing to stop it. “He’s in trouble, maybe dead already. I can feel it.” All the men who ever cared about her, her grandfather, her father, her husband, had died. Since Sloan had acted like he cared, it seemed logical in this midnight hour that he might be dead also.
McCall didn’t sleep the rest of the night. At dawn she tried to talk Moses into leaving to look for Sloan. But Moses was determined to see them to safety. When she wouldn’t stop asking, he finally told her that no one, not even an Apache, could track in this rain. Everyone, including Winter, tried to convince her Sloan would be all right alone, but McCall wouldn’t be calmed. By the time they reached the station two days later, she was ill from lack of sleep.
Pushing herself, McCall insisted on settling Winter into the room between hers and Alyce Wren’s. She then weathered the icy rain with him in tow to a little store across from the station that served as mercantile, dress shop, and bakery. It was more a post for trading goods than a shop, but she managed to find the boy boots, trousers, and three shirts. Helen, the owner, gave Winter a proper haircut with her sewing scissors. Linda, her spinster sister, picked out several things she thought a boy would like—a small pocketknife, a book, several wooden toys, and a child’s dressing table set. Winter showed no interest in anything but the knife.
When they returned to the station, the rain had turned to snow, blowing hard out of the north. Alyce Wren stood just inside the door as though she’d been waiting for them. “It’s about time!” she shouted. “I was thinking of sending Moses out to track you two down. Didn’t you notice the weather getting bad?” She helped McCall with her coat. “And you already looking all dark-eyed from no sleep. You’ll catch your death.”
McCall allowed the old woman to pamper her. She insisted McCall go upstairs and change into a warm cotton gown, then gave her a strong dose of herb tea.
“Sleep!” Alyce ordered as she held open the blankets to a bed that had already been warmed with a covered brick. “It will be dark in a few hours. No one will be riding in in this weather, so you might as well rest. I’ll see that the boy has supper and is put to bed.”
Finally, McCall slept in the warm darkness of a room that had been hers for three years. Surrounded by familiar things she treasured—her father’s huge bed, her grandfather’s rocker, her mother’s dressing table—she closed her eyes to the world. This was as close to a home as she felt she had or would ever have.
Sometime long after dark, she awoke as wind from the window blew snow into her room. She crawled from the warm blankets and crossed the room to close off the night air. The land was covered with white silence. The wind seemed to whirl without direction. All looked at peace, she thought.
As she reached for the window’s handle, something moved to her left, near the fireplace. McCall felt groggy and half asleep. She fought to awaken fully, for her life might depend on it. Her body tensed as an outline of a man lowered itself into her grandfather’s chair, between her and the fire.
The wind and snow were forgotten as McCall looked around for a weapon. No one but a crazy man or a ghost would dare disturb her sleep at the station. All she had to do was cry out and twenty people would be at her door. She’d always felt safe here, never thinking of how easy it must have been for this intruder to climb the low porch and walk along its roof to her bedroom window. She’d chosen the room because it was in the back of the station, away from all views except the barn.
“I didn’t want to frighten you,” the shadow whispered. “I only wanted to make sure you were all right before I bedded down in the barn. I didn’t think I’d wake you up, but I couldn’t see you from the window.”
“Sloan?” McCall whispered.
The shadow removed its soaked hat and let it plop on the floor. “At your service, General.” He gave a slight salute.
McCall rushed to his side and knelt. “You’re alive!” Her hand touched his snow-covered shoulder.
Sloan turned his face into the shadows, not wanting her to see the bruises. “That’s the rumor, but the jury’s not in yet.” He leaned back in the chair, rocking away from her.
“I dreamed you were killed.” McCall whispered the words she’d been afraid to tell anyone for three days. “I dreamed you were asleep, and someone jumped atop you with a long knife already raised to plunge into your chest.”
“Your dream wasn’t far off.” His laugh was void of humor. “I was caught off guard by one of the Apache scouts looking for me just about the time this storm started. If he hadn’t been alone, he would have made your dream true. When I finished with him, I hadn’t the energy left to fight another.” Sloan didn’t want to tell her the details of how they’d fought in the darkness and that he’d killed the man without seeing his attacker’s face. He didn’t want to relive any of the past few days.
“You’re hurt.” McCall wasn’t sure if her words were a question or a statement. Firelight reflected off the bloodstains on his coat and sleeves.
“No, I’m fine.” He touched his jacket as if he could brush away the stains as easily as he did the melting snow. “Most of this is someone’s else’s blood. You were right about the long knife, but I stopped its path with my arm.” He rocked back again, feeling more pain now that he was less cold. “I haven’t slept for three nights while trying to get back to warn you.” He clenched his teeth. Every muscle in his body throbbed. His ribs were hurting again and the cut along his arm had already soaked through the bandage he’d rigged.
“Warn me?” McCall watched him closely. A week’s worth of beard covered his face since she’d seen him last, framing his strong jaw with warmth and making his eyes look darker. His hair was damp and lightened with snow at the sideburns.
“I lost something in the fight.” Sloan closed his eyes, damning himself for being so careless. He didn’t want to have to tell her about the tintype, but there was no other way to keep her safe. “I went back to look, but it was too late. The body and the bandanna had already been found by men who won’t waste any time coming after you.”
“You’re talking out of your head.” McCall stood and poured water into the kettle hanging on the s
winging hook. As she pushed the pot over the fire she continued, “I’ll go get Alyce Wren and tell her you’re safe. Once you’re comfortable, we’ll talk about how men could possibly be looking for me.”
Sloan reached for her with bloody fingers. “No!” he insisted. “Don’t tell anyone I’m here. It’s safest if I leave before anyone knows. And you’ve got to leave also. Go down south or back east or even to that ranch of yours. No one will look for you there. But promise me you’ll leave, and soon.”
McCall stared at his hand, dirtying the sleeve of her white nightgown. “You’re not going anywhere tonight and neither am I. You’re hurt.”
“I’ll be fine.” He let his hand drop. “But your life may depend on your not telling anyone I was here tonight. Don’t you see, if they took my gear, they can find you. I can disappear; no one knows me. But you—half the state knows of the brave widow of Holden Harrison.”
McCall knelt and pulled at one of his muddy boots. “You’re not making any sense. How could a fight you had bring some bad men back to me? No one even knows we’ve been together but a handful of people, and I trust all of them with my life. Everything will make sense when you’ve rested.”
Sloan was too exhausted to argue. He hadn’t eaten or slept in almost four days. He’d been in the saddle so long he wasn’t sure his legs would support him for more than a few feet. All he could think about was getting back to McCall and warning her that Bull Willis and maybe others from Satan’s Seven would be looking for her. Thanks to him, the man would have little trouble recognizing McCall. He knew their types. If they thought they could hurt him by killing McCall, her life would be worthless.
She pulled at his other boot, then removed his socks. “You need a bath,” she said without hiding her disgust at the mud caking his socks. “I’m surprised they haven’t smelled you from downstairs. You are fairly dripping in mud and blood.”
“Don’t tell anyone I’m here,” he ordered in what was meant to be a roar, but sounded more like a plea.
“All right, but you’re having a bath.” McCall stood and pulled on her wrapper. She went to the hallway and called down to the kitchen for someone to please bring her a tub and water for a bath.
Then she turned her attention back to Sloan. “Step around that panel and slip off those clothes. No one will see you.”
“I can’t,” he shook his head. “I have to be going. The farther I’m away from you, the safer you’ll be.”
“You’ll do as I say, soldier, or I’ll call Miss Alyce to hold you down while I strip you myself.”
Sloan was too tired to argue. He picked up his boots and moved behind the curtain as Annie brought in the huge tin tub.
“It’ll take a few minutes for enough water to boil, Mrs. Harrison, but I’m sure glad to see you up and about. We was all worried when you came in this morning, so tired and all. I checked on you a few times today, but you were sleeping away.”
“Thank you, Annie.” McCall kept her hands behind her so the girl wouldn’t see the mud on them. “I didn’t realize I’d been asleep so long. Would it be too much to ask if I could have some supper? I’m starving.”
“Sure,” Annie smiled. “You know there’s always plenty left in the pie pantry for midnight raids. Sometimes a few of the soldiers come over from the fort for a little visit, but I doubt with the weather I’ll be having any company tonight. I’ll bring you something to eat right away.”
Sloan moved as if he were underwater. He pulled off the dirty clothes slowly, peeling away dried blood in several spots as he undressed. Standing nude behind the thin folding panel, he tried to ease the bandage off his arm, but it wouldn’t give. Parts of the blood had dried, holding the wound and bandage together, while the top layer of blood had mixed with the snow and was frozen.
“Are you undressed?” McCall called from the other side when the water had been delivered.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then come out here and get in the tub while the water’s hot.”
Sloan hesitated. He’d never considered himself as modest as most, but he wasn’t sure he could just walk out in front of her. Asking her to turn around seemed a coward’s way.
“Are you coming out or do I have to come get you?” McCall asked again.
“I’m coming, General,” he grumbled in protest.
But when he stepped out from behind the wall he found he’d worried for no reason. She was busy by the fire and didn’t even look in his direction.
“Get in the tub. I’ll pour more water in. It’ll take gallons to get you clean.”
Sloan eased into the long tub. He’d never had a bath in anything so big. He could almost stretch his legs out all the way and sink plumb down to his shoulders.
“Ahh,” he whispered as he lowered his tired body into the warmth.
McCall turned when he was in the water. “That tub belongs to Alyce Wren. She’ll probably skin all the mud off you along with the hide if she knows you’re using it. She told me once that a man gave it to her years ago. She said he brought it all the way from New Orleans.” McCall stepped closer. “I’ll wash your hair if you like.”
“I can do it myself.” Sloan dunked his head face first into the water.
He felt her hand grip his hair and pull hard. When his head cleared the water her words greeted him.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I can help. You couldn’t possibly be as much trouble to bathe as Winter. He threatened to murder me in my sleep if I scrubbed any harder. He said he’d be lucky if he had enough skin left for anyone to tell what color he was.”
McCall talked on of their days returning to the station as she lathered his hair and scrubbed. She didn’t seem to notice how her wrapper had come open at the waist and that her gown was getting wet, sticking to her skin like a second layer in places.
Sloan was too tired to object at first and too interested in the sight of her to speak. Her skilled hands moved through his hair, soaping away the dirt and the worry. He didn’t want to think about how she’d done this task for her husband. He didn’t want to think about anything.
He leaned back and closed his eyes as she washed his hair, then his back and shoulders. When she reached his arm, she gently took the bandage off his forearm and examined the cut.
“When we’re finished, I’ll put salve on this and a clean dressing. It doesn’t look infected, but it’s deep enough to leave an ugly scar.”
Sloan looked at her then. “One scar more or less doesn’t matter,” he mumbled as he watched her. The general was back, ordering, making plans, making decisions. And for once he was too tired to argue.
She started to wash his chest and Sloan covered her soapy hand with his. “I can do the rest,” he whispered with a smile as he tried to guess just how far she planned to continue.
She dropped the soap and nodded, leaving no doubt the thought had also just crossed her mind. “I’ll fill you a plate while you finish. I’m sorry I don’t have any coffee up here, only tea. Will that do?”
Sloan didn’t answer as he continued washing. It felt so good to get the layers of mud off.
As he rose from the tub, she handed him a stack of towels without looking at him. He wrapped one around his waist and reached for another.
“I don’t have any other clothes to change into,” Sloan said, realizing he’d have to put the filthy shirt and trousers back on.
“I could get you something clean to wear come morning, if you don’t mind spending the night in a towel.” McCall handed him a plate of food. “But clothes aren’t as important as taking care of that cut. You should have stopped long enough to tend it properly.”
“I had to get back,” Sloan answered, thinking he should add “to you,” but didn’t. He sat silently in the old rocker and ate with his left hand as she doctored his right arm. He could never remember food tasting so good. Even the tea didn’t seem as bad as he remembered. She looked so different in the white gown. Little of the untouchable general remained.
�
�Did you make it in before the storm?” he whispered as she worked. Her fingers showed the skill of having handled many field dressings.
“Barely.” McCall ripped a square of cotton for bandages. “Another day and we’d have had it rough. Moses and Eppie were in one of the back rooms downstairs when I fell asleep. I hope they’re still here and not out in this.”
Sloan was having trouble keeping his eyes open. The warmth of the fire and her gentle touch washed over him like aged whiskey.
“Finished.” She stood and ordered, “Now you need sleep.”
Pulling him from the chair with gentle tugs, McCall helped him to the bed. Sloan started to object. He couldn’t lie down wearing only a towel. But she had that “We’re going to do this my way, soldier” look about her.
“I’ve slept enough. I’ll stay up while you rest, and in the morning we’ll talk.”
Sloan knew he should tell her more about the men who were looking for her. He should warn her that they might try to get to him through her. If they had her likeness, it wouldn’t take long before someone in this part of the country would point them toward the station.
She put one hand on each of his shoulders and pushed him against the sheets, then pulled the covers over him with the same indifference of a tired field nurse.
Pulling the towel from beneath the quilts, he handed it to her. “This is damp,” he mumbled as he relaxed into the soft bedding.
“You’re naked?”
Sloan smiled. He’d shattered her military manner.
“I think so. Want to check?”
“No.” She straightened, trying to draw back into her proper stance. “I guess I didn’t know men ever slept nude.”
“Of course we do.” Sloan tried to think of one time in his life when he had. “Don’t you?”
“I…” She’d been around males all her life, but they’d always worn nightshirts or long underwear. Her grandfather had said more than once that a man without wool next to his skin from September to May is a fool asking for pneumonia.
