One-Click Buy: September 2010 Harlequin Blaze

by Lori Wilde

  His gun hand was swathed with bandages, and he looked years older than he had in the days before his trip. He’d always been bigger than life to her. He’d been her protector for most of her life, and now he needed protection. It was the only gift she could give him.

  Archie woke with a jerk but came immediately alert. “Somethin’ wrong, Sam?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the marshal’s lying, but there might be a problem.”

  He waited for her to go on.

  “He says there’s others coming after Mac.”

  “He didn’t say anything more?”

  “No.” She could hardly admit she had basically fled the room shortly after. “I thought he was just trying to scare me.”

  He gave her a long look. “Could be,” he said. “Wouldn’t hurt to ask Jake and Ike to watch the pass. You can talk to them in the morning. Won’t be anyone coming down that way tonight.”

  Sam nodded.

  “The marshal must be doing all right if he’s talkin’ so much.”

  “He’s still in pain, but he’s not one to give in to it.”

  “You might ask him who he thinks is coming,” Archie said. “And you watch him real close. I wish I could take over for you, but…”

  “I’ll be fine. You just take care of Mac.” She hesitated. “He isn’t any better, is he?”

  “I have to git that fever down. Then…mebbe he’ll have a chance. I want you to make some more poultices for him. Make one for the marshal, too.”

  She nodded. She’d planned to do that today. “I just thought you should know what the marshal said.”

  He hesitated. “You did right.”

  She left, feeling better that Archie knew. They couldn’t take chances. Not with Mac so badly injured.

  At least Archie was here with her. A mule skinner, he’d joined the army during the Mexican American war and was assigned to take care of the hospital wagons and horses. When they weren’t traveling, he helped the few doctors. They found him a willing pupil. Then he expanded his knowledge by living with the Utes for several years and learning their herbal medicines. Sam couldn’t help but smile at the tales he told, many times over, of his brushes with death. She’d never known what was true and what wasn’t. What she did know was that he was very skilled at healing people, better, many said, than a trained physician.

  Sam made the poultices, a mixture of turpentine, herbs and moss heated together and placed on a section of sheet. She then warmed some whiskey and crushed willow bark. She took the poultice and a cup of the whiskey up to Archie for Mac. Then she steeled herself before returning to the marshal’s room.

  She would not be affected by him this time. She wouldn’t go nearer than absolutely necessary. She wouldn’t engage him in personal conversation. She would ask him to explain his comment about others coming for Mac.

  Loaded down with her tray of supplies and a lantern, she stepped into the room. The marshal was on his side. He turned toward her and leaned on an elbow. “I thought you ran away,” he said gruffly.

  “I never run away,” she said indignantly. “I had to make a poultice for the wound.” She pushed the pillow behind his head until they were high enough for him to drink easily.

  He glanced at the cup in her hand suspiciously. “What is it?”

  “Whiskey and willow bark. It will cut the pain when I put the poultice on.”

  He took the cup in two hands. Despite his drawn face, he looked lethal. He seemed to read every thought she had and keep secret all of his. She suspected he did that frequently. Fixed those dark eyes on some poor soul until they were thoroughly intimidated.

  She wasn’t going to be intimidated. Nor was she going to allow a repeat of what had happened earlier.

  “I have a question,” she said.

  “And how can I help you, Miss Sam?”

  “You said someone might be coming after Mac.”

  “Ah, you listened. I wasn’t sure.”

  The man obviously wasn’t going to offer anything else. “Who?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Name of Calhoun Benson. He claims your ‘Mac’ shot his son in cold blood. He’s advertising for gunslingers. Fifty dollars each and a thousand for the man who kills MacDonald or Thornton or whatever name he goes by.”

  “Why are you telling me?”

  “Oddly enough, I wouldn’t want to see you or the old man in the line of fire. I would suggest you leave as soon as possible.”

  “And you?”

  “I can manage.”

  “And then you’d go after this…man you’re hunting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a marshal.”

  “But it’s something more,” she said. “I hear it in your voice when you mention him. Like it’s personal.”

  He didn’t answer, but his eyes turned icy as he drank from the cup.

  Then, unexpectedly, his lips quirked up on one side. “I don’t suppose you want to help me drink again.”

  “I think you’re strong enough to hold that little cup,” she replied.

  He finished the whiskey, then handed the cup back to her. She tried to avoid his touch, but somehow…

  His fingers covered hers, the heat from his hand scorching her skin and traveling like a brush fire through her bloodstream. For a moment, she thought he might try to grab her again, but his hand fell back. The half smile grew wider, and the dimple in his chin deepened. He looked…rakish.

  Except there was no laughter or light in him. Even when he flashed that smile, she sensed it was all on the surface.

  You shot him. Why should he have any joy or laughter?

  She put the cup down, then removed the loose bandage around the wound. It was raw and seeping. She winced. Maybe she should wait until the morning.

  “What’s in the poultice?” he asked.

  “Turpentine and moss and some of Archie’s Indian herbs.”

  He nodded as if that was enough explanation.

  “It’s going to burn,” she said, hesitating.

  His gaze met hers. “I know the effect of turpentine. Go ahead.”

  “Do you need a piece of wood, something to bite on?”

  “No,” he said flatly.

  She placed the poultice on the wound. His body tensed and his hands balled into fists. “Christ,” he said.

  She knew it had to be agonizing at first. The turpentine would draw out any poison, and then the moss and herbs would soothe, but that would take a while. Archie had used the same combination on her when she’d ripped her leg open after falling from her horse. “It’ll keep the wound from putrefying,” she tried to explain.

  “If it doesn’t kill me,” he replied darkly.

  “More whiskey?”

  He nodded. She left the room, refilled the cup and returned. He drained it.

  “Anything else I can do?” she asked.

  “Another kiss, perhaps.” His voice was slurred but his eyes were clear. And piercing.

  A taunt? Or simply male reaction?

  Ignore it. “I don’t think so,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “Sleep well.”

  She grabbed the lantern and left, closing the door behind her and remembering to lock it this time. She was trembling. What frightened her more than anything was that she hadn’t wanted to leave.

  She wanted that kiss. Wanted it to the tip of her toes. She wondered whether it would be like the other one. Did kisses get better?

  As hurting as he must be, he was still defiant. And dangerous. She suspected that he would not let her stand in the way of getting what he wanted. Even as she went up the stairs to get some sleep, she kept reliving that earlier kiss, the moment of magic when the world stopped turning for a fraction of an instant. Her body tingled with the remembrance of it, and she wished her mother was alive, that she had someone to talk to about it.

  Was this the way her mother had felt when Mac kissed her? Had he turned her mother’s life inside out? She tried to remember, but the two of them had
been very careful around her. Very proper for the other boarders. But sometimes Sam caught them in an embrace. Had her mother felt this hunger inside? And where did it lead? The need to know more, to feel more, to experience more gnawed at her heart.

  But the marshal didn’t love her, and she certainly couldn’t feel anything for him.

  When she reached her room, she tried to ignore the ache deep within her, the sudden loneliness she’d never felt before.

  She hadn’t realized something was missing in her life. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  6

  AT FIRST LIGHT, Sam rode in a driving rain down to the stream about a half mile from town. Dawg ran alongside her horse, happy to be out for a run despite the rain.

  Unfortunately, all Sam’s thoughts were of the marshal.

  She hadn’t slept well. In fact she’d had little rest since his arrival. But she’d kept turning in bed. Wondering how it would feel to lie next to him. Wondering why her body was responding in such rebellious ways.

  She’d checked on the marshal before leaving. He was sleeping, thank God. No dark eyes to probe straight to her core…

  She stopped at one of the four cabins that had survived the fire and knocked on the door. A lanky old trapper in buckskins opened it. “Miss Sam, a pleasure for sure.” He led the way inside, inviting Dawg, as well. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  She quickly explained what had happened three days earlier, though she suspected Burley had already told Jake everything.

  “Can you and Ike watch the pass?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’ll take a turn at watching,” Jake agreed. “So will Ike. He’s out hunting now, but he should be back soon.”

  “Burley will relieve you, too,” Sam said.

  Jake snorted. “Can’t depend on Burley.”

  “You can, if he says so,” she replied. “He feels really bad that he admitted to the marshal that Mac might be in town.”

  Jake grumbled under his breath. “Damn fool.” Then he turned his attention back to her.

  “You really leaving Gideon’s Hope?” he asked. “Archie said you plan to head north.”

  “When Mac’s well enough. Maybe a week or so.”

  “We sure will miss you. You and Mac and Archie. Even Reese, damn his soul. No one left to win what little gold I pan.”

  “Come with us.”

  “No, Miss Sam. Been in these mountains too long. When I die, I want to be looking at them peaks. Like they’re reaching up to heaven, they are. I can just follow them up.”

  She loved the mountains, too, and would miss them bitterly.

  “You shoulda gone ahead and killed that marshal,” Jake muttered. “Save you a lot of trouble. I ain’t got no use for most of them.”

  Of course he didn’t. Jake didn’t like authority of any kind, which was why he and Archie got along so well. The mountain man had come to Gideon’s Hope seven years ago with a load of furs and a body racked with pneumonia. Archie had treated him with some of his Indian remedies, and Jake gradually regained his strength. He’d returned the next four winters. When most of the population left, he’d appropriated one of the few remaining cabins. Getting too old, he said, to live up in the mountains alone year-round.

  He was in his seventies now, a thin, wiry man but still strong enough to stay in the mountains by himself for months. If he said he would watch the pass, he would. Ike had been his friend for a long time, and he, too, had settled in an abandoned cabin next to the stream, mainly, she thought, to look after Jake. Neither one of them liked people much, and Gideon’s Hope with its permanent population of seven suited both just fine. They hunted, fished and trapped. Archie was there if needed for healing, Mac to take a drink with and Reese to gamble with. No man needed more, he said.

  It was a small ragtag group. Ike and Jake, Burley, Archie and herself. If an army of gunslingers came for Mac, the five of them would have a hard time fighting them off. But they had an advantage. They knew every inch of the area. They could always hide Mac in one of the abandoned mines carved out of the rock. Not particularly healthy for him, but better than being hanged or shot.

  “I’ll go on up there now,” Jake said. He looked down at his feet. “Maybe you can leave a note for Ike. Tell him to meet me there.”

  She gave him a quick hug and left. She’d offered to teach Jake to read and write, but he’d refused. Too old to learn new tricks, he always said. The rain had slackened slightly by the time she’d left a note in Ike’s cabin and stopped to gather moss from around the trees along the creek. She would need it for the poultices; her supply was running low. Behind her were more mountains and an overgrown trail that led east through a narrow and steep pass. It was the only way into Gideon’s Hope when the creek ran strong and deep as it did now. The pass was both their protection and their weak spot.

  She stood a moment longer, drinking in the peace. She never grew tired of the view, especially in winter when the water glistened with ice and the trees with snow. But spring was grand, too, with its wildflowers and tender new shoots. Sometimes the landscape was so lovely it hurt.

  She would miss it, but she also looked forward to a new adventure.

  Sam went up to Mac’s room. She knocked but opened the door before anyone answered.

  Archie gave her a tired smile and nodded his head toward the bed. Mac’s face was pale under its deep tan, but when she felt his cheek, it wasn’t as hot as it was yesterday.

  “His fever went down this morning,” Archie said. “He’s still damned weak, but I think he’ll make it.”

  “He’s conscious?”

  “On and off. Mostly off. Still not making much sense. Muttering about your ma.”

  “I’ll put some stew on. Just let me know when he wakes again.” She leaned over and touched Mac’s good hand, taking it in hers, willing her strength into him.

  “The marshal?” he asked.

  “I put the poultice on the wound last night. I checked early this morning and he was asleep. His breathing was ragged, but he wasn’t hot.”

  He nodded. “Strong as a damned mule. Damn if I know what we’ll do with him.”

  She wondered the same thing. “I think he might be on his feet faster than we thought.”

  Archie muttered under his breath.

  “I’ll make some biscuits for breakfast.”

  “Naw, just some bread and that jam you made,” he said. “And coffee.”

  “I’ll have it here in a minute.” She regarded Archie for a moment, then Mac, and her heart filled with love for both of them. They were all in danger. And the danger was downstairs in the form of a tall, taciturn man who set her whole being on fire.

  She went over and gave Archie a rare hug. Clung to him, in fact. She couldn’t talk to him about what was going on inside her, but she could absorb his affection, the acceptance of who and what she was.

  “I don’t know what I would do if I lost any one of you,” she said before stepping back.

  “One day…” he started to say, but she darted out the door before he could finish. She didn’t want to hear about one day.

  Her shirt was still damp, but she decided not to take the time to change it. Instead, she went directly to the kitchen and made coffee. She took one cup along with a plate of bread and jam up to Archie. Then she cut three more thick slices from the loaf and spread them with jam.

  The marshal had been too weak to take anything but broth in the past few days, but she suspected that was changing.

  She unlocked the door to his room and glanced inside. He was still sleeping. Or pretending to sleep. The sheet had fallen away from him.

  She moved closer and put the food and coffee on the table. Then she studied him, particularly the scars she’d noticed yesterday. The war? How and when had he been hurt? His life obviously hadn’t been easy.

  The sheet was tangled, and he’d taken off the shirt again, probably because of the heat in the small, stuffy room. There was no way of getting pants over his wound and the poult
ice, and he was magnificent in his nakedness. She reached down and covered him as well as she could, forcing herself to concentrate on his face. His face only.

  She longed to make him smile. Even laugh. Don’t lie. She wanted more than that. She wanted him to touch her. Slowly. Seductively.

  “Marshal?” She said the word softly. If he didn’t wake, she didn’t intend to rouse him. He needed rest.

  He opened his eyes and rolled on his back. She didn’t know whether he had been feigning sleep or whether her voice had awakened him.

  He didn’t reply. Instead he fixed her with that steady gaze of his. Waiting. He seemed to be a patient man. A man who waited for the right moment. A shiver ran through her.

  “I’ve brought coffee and food.”

  He moved up in the bed to lean against the iron posts. A muscle worked along his throat as he made the effort.

  “How’s your leg?” she asked.

  “Still hurts like hell.”

  Well, she’d asked. She decided to ignore the answer. “Want some coffee?”

  He nodded even as he regarded her with an unblinking stare. There was calculation in his eyes, although the side of his lips had a quizzical turn to them. The dimple in his chin appeared to be deeper. He took the coffee and held it in both hands as he sipped.

  The bristle on his face was darker, a little heavier, and he looked more bandit than lawman. For a split second, she saw a simmering anger behind his dark eyes before they went blank. She remembered the image she’d had before of a wild animal waiting to pounce.

  She prayed her face didn’t give her wayward thoughts away. Instead she concentrated on the fact that he was a marshal. And not just any marshal. She took a deep breath and tried to understand why it was catching in her throat.

  Sam suddenly remembered the bread on the table. She practically stumbled over herself to hand the plate to him. He put it in his lap and balanced the cup of coffee in one hand. He picked up a slice of bread and bit off a large chunk, leaving jam smeared over his lips. For a moment, he looked like a lad, and she grinned at the incongruous sight.

  He seemed perplexed for a moment, then he used his tongue to wipe his lips clean. Slowly. Seductively. Her pulse quickened and her legs felt boneless.