The wagon wasn’t moving, and it took Hope a few seconds to realize that the pale orange light surrounding her was not a product of the sun, but the glow of a lamp swinging from a hook attached to the center beam overhead.
Closing her eyes, she let the sights wash through her mind as her hearing tuned in to the sounds of the night.
Outside she could hear the gentle whicker of a horse, maybe two. A hoot owl’s call drifted on the cool night air, accompanied by the annoyed trill of a bird. In the distance, if she listened close, was an occasional gurgle of water. A campfire crackled. The aroma of fresh biscuits and the sizzle of frying bacon alerted her to the hunger that gnawed within.
Her tongue felt thick, like it was coated with fur, as she tried to moisten her dry, cracked lips. Her stomach voiced a complaint, but Hope ignored it as she tried to focus her thoughts on where the ache seeping through her body originated. Her shoulder. No, her arm. No, somewhere just in between. Yes, that was it, she decided as she felt the wagon sway with a sudden weight. Opening her eyes this time was not nearly as difficult.
Using one hand to steady his balance, and the other to hold on to his plate, Drake pushed himself into the wagon. He didn’t notice her, and Hope remained still, doing nothing to indicate she was alert. She watched as he hunched beneath the lamp, taking a seat on the hard wood floor. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, and smell the masculine scent of his flesh. The fragrance mingled with the tantalizing aroma of his meal.
Her hand itched to reach out and feel that muscular shoulder bunch beneath her palm. She cursed the weakness in her limbs that forbade her to give in to the wicked temptation.
Drake must have sensed her perusal. As his fingers brought the piping hot biscuit to his lips, his gaze hesitantly lifted to Hope’s. His expression did not change, but the hand stopped, poised in midair.
“Hope?” The voice cracked as the biscuit was lowered. The plate was quickly set atop the table beside the mattress, and just as quickly forgotten as he knelt beside her.
She tried to smile, but it was a weak gesture at best. “Where have you brought me, gunslinger? Never mind.” She averted her gaze to the half-filled jugs. “Is that water? I’m dying of thirst.”
Drake fumbled with a jug, and Hope let him lift her head and raise the neck of it to her lips. The water was stale, but it tasted good nonetheless. “Small sips,” he directed, eying her carefully as she let the soothing liquid trickle down her throat.
“Just a little more,” she pleaded when he pulled the jug away and tucked it back under the shelf.
Drake shook his head. “You’ve had plenty. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have given you that much. You’ve been pretty sick.”
“So I gathered.” She picked up a hand and forced it to her forehead. The movement sapped what little strength she had. Her flesh, she was relieved to find, was cool, but the dampness of her hair told her how recently her fever had broken. Her gaze shifted from his frown of concern to the biscuit that wafted tendrils of steam in the air. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your food, would you?”
“You’re hungry? Already?” Drake gulped. Henry Mead, the doctor they’d passed a week back on another train heading west, had told him what to do about the fever. But the man hadn’t given instructions for when she woke up. Drake hadn’t thought to ask. He’d harbored his doubts as to whether that moment would ever come.
“Of course I’m hungry,” she smiled weakly. “What did you expect? How long as it been since I’ve had anything eat?”
The reality that she was awake, and speaking, was only now beginning to register, in slowly building waves of elation. The extent of that relief, as it swept through his blood, shocked Drake. “I gave you some broth at noon.” He grinned. “You gave it right back.”
“Sorry,” she murmured. Her cheeks flooded with color as she averted her gaze to the lamp swinging overhead.
“Don’t be. You were sick; it couldn’t be helped.” Taking the biscuit from his plate, he broke it in half and handed the larger chunk to Hope.
Her embarrassment subsided long enough for her to accept the warm piece of bread. She took a small, hesitant bite. Although her gaze rested elsewhere, she could feel the heat of Drake’s eyes watching her carefully. The biscuit slipped down her throat with apparent ease. The next bite was bigger. And the next.
“Is that bacon?” she asked, a grin curling her lips as she eyed the plate hungrily. “Real bacon?”
Drake returned the grin. Satisfied that she wasn’t going to be sick again, he pulled the plate from the shelf. “Real? As opposed to what?”
“Don’t get fresh with me, Frazier. I’ve been sick.”
The bacon was still warm from the cooking fire. To Hope, it tasted richer than any apple pie she’d ever baked. She licked the grease from her fingers as she eyed the other strip.
“I think I liked you better when you were senseless,” he griped good-naturedly as he handed over the plate. “At least then you didn’t eat all my supper.”
“Where are you going?” she asked around a mouthful of food as she watched him make his way to the end of the wagon.
“For more food,” he replied over his shoulder.
Pulling back the curtain he’d hung over the canvas opening to keep out the cool night air, he disappeared. In less than a minute, he returned with another plate of food, this one heaped with more than enough for two.
“I had a feeling you’d wake up tonight,” he said, as he leaned over her and dropped some of the contents onto her almost empty plate.
“You can’t be too comfortable down there.” She raised a fresh biscuit to her lips and watched him settle back onto the hardwood floor. There was barely enough room to sit, though she had to admit he made good use of the accommodations. Slipping his long legs beneath the low platform on which she reclined, Drake settled the plate on the firm pillow of his thighs and began to eat with a vengeance.
They finished the meal in silence, though both eyed the other when they thought they weren’t being watched. For the first time, Hope noticed the dark circles beneath Drake’s eyes, and the pronounced hollows under his cheeks. His hands were dirty and his hair was shaggy and rumpled. He looked like he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in weeks.
With his hunger slaked, Drake wearily settled his empty plate on top of the shelf. His questioning glance flickered over her half-finished food, and she handed over her own plate. “Guess I felt hungrier than I really was,” she apologized.
Drake settled back on the floor. His thoughts drifted to the pot of coffee sitting close enough to the fire to stay warm, but not close enough to burn. The strong brew would’ve done him good right about now. Too bad he didn’t have the energy to go and fetch it.
“Drake?”
Hope’s soft voice penetrated the tired cloud that had settled over him. One eye opened and regarded her skeptically. “Hmmm?”
“You can’t sleep down there.”
Funny, but she hadn’t stopped to wonder where he’d been sleeping while she was sick. “I’m fine, Hope,” he mumbled wearily. Pulling his hat from the floor, he placed it over the upper portion of his face and rested back against the sack of flour. “Go to sleep. The doctor said you needed plenty of rest.”
Doctor? What doctor? It didn’t matter, she decided. She’d ask him about it in the morning. Right now, she had to get him off the floor. He couldn’t sleep down there, and even with all her strength intact she wasn’t strong enough to pick him up!
“Drake?” He grumbled, shifting but not answering. Sighing, she lifted the comforter invitingly. The cool night air wafted over her naked body, and pain shot through her shoulder as she huddled back against the wall, stealing the focus of her concentration. “Come on, gunslinger, there’s room enough for two.”
Without conscious thought, Drake whipped the hat from his head, uncoiled his legs from beneath the platform, blew out the lamp, then climbed tiredly onto the mattress. He mumbled something about savi
ng the dishes until morning as Hope flipped the blanket over them both, then rolled onto her right side. She kept her back to him for fear of putting any undue pressure on her wound. But that didn’t stop her from snuggling into the warmth his body offered. The hand that draped her hip was a heavy, thoroughly welcome presence.
“We should talk,” he murmured into her hair. “There are things you have to know about—”
“No.” She reached around her waist with her right hand and let it rest atop the one that possessively rode her hip. Her reaction to pain was fast and sure from years of practice. “I remember what happened. That’s enough. Talking about it won’t change it.”
Hope felt Drake stiffen, as though he meant to challenge the words. But sleep won out in the end. As they lay there, bathed in silence and the pale glow of moonlight, she could feel his body gradually relaxing. The breath that warmed her ear and neck eased into a deep rhythm.
Stifling a yawn, Hope basked in the feel of his body snuggled against her, and in the wave of sensations that feeling evoked. It wasn’t long before she joined him in sleep.
Hope awoke to find Drake working free the buttons of his sleep-wrinkled shirt. She was not unmindful of the way he kept his back to her as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders. She was treated to a fine display of a rippling back and muscular shoulders before a clean shirt was shaken loose from a wooden crate and the sleeves slipped up over his arms.
“What doctor?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
He glanced over his shoulder, and the surprise that flickered in his eyes soon melted to warmth. “Morning, sunshine,” he said with that infernal, lopsided grin. “And aren’t we talkative today? You must be feeling better.”
“I am, thank you,” she answered with light sarcasm. She shifted on the mattress, and winced at the pain that shot down her arm. “And what doctor? Where is he?”
“Probably in California by now. We passed another wagon last week.” He pulled the paper collar around his neck and worked the buttons closed. “Damn good thing we did too,” he added, his hand poised over a fresh pair of trousers. Apparently he thought better of changing his pants in front of her, for he left the clean ones in place and unbuttoned the ones that hugged his lean hips. “As luck would have it, there was a doctor with them. You wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for Henry Mead, not that we’ll ever see him again for you to thank.”
Tucking the tails of the red flannel shirt inside the waistband of his denim trousers, he worked the buttons shut then turned to face Hope. She was sending him an accusingly skeptical glare as he slipped a leather vest over his shoulders, then reached for a plain red bandanna. The latter was tied around his neck with supple fingers.
Hope scowled. “A week? I was sick for that long?”
“Longer.” Drake reached for the gunbelt. He buckled it around his waist and tied the holster straps around a sinewy thigh. “We’ve been on the trail for almost three.”
“Trail? Three weeks!” She struggled to sit, but the pain in her shoulder drove her back to the mattress. “Now wait just a cotton picking minute. Where the hell do you think you’re taking me? I have a claim to work, Drake. I don’t have time to be traipsing around the country in a wagon.”
Drake’s expression darkened, and to Hope it looked like thunderclouds blocking out the sun. “Don’t be a fool. I’m sure Oren Larzdon and his band of merry misfits were all over that claim before the ink on your father’s death certificate dried.” Hope winced at his bluntness, and Drake’s tone softened. “I’m sorry, sunshine, but it’s the truth. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later. It might as well be now.”
The familiar ache tugged at her heart with icy fingers. Hope resolutely pushed it away. “You saw them take the claim, then?” she asked, her voice as flat and lifeless as her expression.
“In case you didn’t notice, there was a man shooting at us back there,” he informed her briskly, his look guarded. “Once we got on that horse, I didn’t think stopping was in either our best interests.” A glint of cynicism touched his eyes. “For some crazy reason I thought getting you patched up was more important than sticking around to fight for a claim that wasn’t paying dirt.”
“It would have paid,” she replied tightly. Her cheeks, already pale, lost whatever color had returned. Her hands clutched the comforter beneath her chin in a death-grip. “It showed more color than all the other mines combined. It would have paid. I know it.”
“Maybe,” he shrugged, running a palm along his stubbled jaw, “maybe not. That’s something we’ll never know.” Drake kept his tone neutral. He was treading on thin ice and he knew it. While he didn’t want to upset Hope any more than she already was, he was having a devil of a time keeping his anger in check. Goddamn, but she was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met! He wouldn’t put it past her to pull some hot-headed stunt that would pop the stitches that doctor had so carefully sewn into her shoulder. And all for want of a claim that wasn’t paying enough to survive!
Drake cleared his throat, and tried to clear his mind as well. He had to keep her calm, even if it meant kicking the daylights out of the wagon wheel later to vent his frustration. If he allowed her to get too upset, he risked jeopardizing her recovery. Drake didn’t need a doctor to tell him that Hope’s recovery was still too new to jeopardize.
“I’m going back.”
Her words fell over him like a dark cloud. His eyes narrowed angrily as he growled, “Over my dead body.”
Hope’s eyes glistened with raw challenge. “If that’s what it takes.”
“Don’t try it, sunshine,” he replied, holding a firm hand over his mounting annoyance. “I don’t care if I have to hogtie you to the bed, you’re not going anywhere.”
“Get out your rope then, Frazier,” she taunted, her gaze boldly holding his, “because as soon as I’m well enough, I’m going back to work my claim.”
A cold smile played on Drake’s lips; a smile that was not mirrored in his eyes. “Sunshine, by the time you’re well enough, I’ll probably be more than happy to see you go.”
She opened her mouth to retaliate, but he had already stalked from the wagon.
Balling up a fist, she slammed it into the sideboard. The force of the blow sent a bolt of pain ricocheting through her shoulder, slicing down her other arm. Hope gasped, inwardly swearing at the injury that forced her to lie immobile, unable to do anything but listen to Drake Frazier’s threats.
But I won’t be immobile forever, she swore beneath her breath, determined to teach the damn gunslinger a sorely needed lesson just as soon as she regained her strength.
Chapter 10
Thick smoke curled around her legs like dense fog. It stung her eyes and clogged her lungs until she could barely breathe. What little air she was able to draw was filled with the thick, acrid scent of charred wood.
Hope opened her mouth to scream. No sound escaped her lips. Her throat burned and felt like it had been briskly rubbed with sandpaper.
She ran. There was no seeing through the sheet of smoke, yet she ran anyway. Her chest rose and fell in wheezing gasps. The toe of her foot caught on something small and hard, throwing her off balance. This time the scream tore from her lungs in an agonizing cry as she crashed to the ground.
The crackle of flames scorching brick and devouring wood grew louder as she scrambled to her feet. The smoke was too thick to see from which direction the noise came.
Hope ran to the left, guided by instinct. Gasping, she broke through the cloud of smoke. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she leaned against the towering oak tree. The bark cut into her cheek as she pressed against it, inhaling deeply of the crisp night air. The only trace left of the burning wood was the scent of it clinging to her hair.
She waited until her breathing slowed to normal before pushing away from the tree. Small stones bit into the soles of her bare feet as she staggered down the gravel drive. She hardly noticed them. Her attention was focused entirely on the sight slowly rising o
ver the incline as she walked up it.
Lake’s Edge in all its glory. The familiar view stirred her heart, bringing a smile of remembrance to her lips.
The house was magnificent, its red brick complemented by towering white columns and white trim. Oil lamps burned in all but one of the windows, illuminating the lush grass sprawling out from all sides. Carried on the breeze was a hint of honeysuckle, and the notes of a Bagatelle in A minor by Beethoven. Hope recognized the melody immediately, and her fingers flexed in response. Many times, her fingers had flown over the same keys, trying in vain to master the work.
Slowly, she drew closer to the house. The music seemed to increase its momentum with each step. The sound of voices and laughter drifted out from open windows where curtains billowed softly with the breeze.
Hope passed the last towering oak lining the drive, and ran for the front door. The tempo of the music increased until it sounded like the player within was no longer trickling over the notes but punching each ivory key with unnecessary force. A surge of laughter—Luke’s laughter—rippled through the air as she neared the front door. Her feet flew over the steps sandwiched between long white columns. As the laughter subsided, the sound of a woman’s chatter and the insistent chirp of crickets prevailed.
The music softened as Hope hesitated on the porch, her ears alerted to the voices coming from inside. Mama. That was her mother’s voice, Hope was sure of it. Her father’s voice was there as well, and Old Joe’s.
Pain tightened around Hope’s hears as she reached for the doorknob that glistened in the moonlight. A sob escaped her lips as she grasped the metal and started to turn it.
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