by Joyce Armor
Actually, he couldn’t have met her eyes anyway, unless he was on the ground, as that’s where they were firmly fixed. Garrett, feeling proprietary about this parcel of land he hoped to build a home on, but a little bit guilty for snapping at Libby, urged his horse forward, down the incline, and she slowly followed. By the time he had unsaddled the horses, led them to the creek to drink their fill and ground-staked them, she had spread out the blanket and laid out the food Carmen had packed. They made a little small talk about the weather and the horses and smoothed over the awkwardness.
“Carmen sure knows how to cook,” Libby said, smiling, as he joined her on the blanket.
“That she does. It’s a wonder we’re not all too heavy for our horses.”
She tried to keep the conversation impersonal as she munched on a chicken leg. “Deer Lodge is an interesting name for a town.”
“Its name comes from the Warm Springs Mound, which is about 40 feet high,” he explained. “Hot water bubbles to the surface and sometimes steams. Indians, fur trappers and traders used it as a landmark, and from a distance it looked like an Indian lodge when steaming.”
“Where did the “Deer” come in?”
“Well, the warm waters kept the grass green, and mineral deposits in the waters created a salt lick, and both attracted many deer.”
“Who named it?”
“I think it was the Frenchies, but the Americans came up with their own unique translation.”
“I haven’t seen much of the town.”
“It’s grown just since I’ve been here.”
“How long is that again?” She was surprised he was talking so much without insulting her. It must be some sort of a record.
“Oh, ten or 12 years. The town has a post office now and a newspaper, The Weekly Independent. And the territorial prison opened in Deer Lodge last year.”
“Is there a bank? I need to figure out a way to get my inheritance.”
“Yes, I went there the other day, remember? There’s even a school now.”
For some reason, this made Libby blush, and she giggled to cover it up. Just this simple sequence of events and his body betrayed him, warming inside. He thought of cattle rustling, branding, mucking stalls, anything to keep from thinking about her. Then he watched, fascinated, as she licked the chicken grease off her fingers and felt his jeans tighten in a most embarrassing spot.
“Is there any more lemonade?” he asked quickly, his voice hoarse. It was either that or take a quick jump into the creek, which still held some of the snow runoff. That should do it, all right.
“Yes, here, let me pour you some.”
He watched as she did, picturing her delicate, ungloved fingers walking up and down his body. Unconsciously, he moaned.
“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” She had set down the jug and was studying him, concerned.
He looked at her for a moment and then surprised himself by saying, “I have to kiss you,” as he moved closer to her.
“What?” Could you think of anything dumber to say?
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t move. He gently placed his rough hands on her alabaster cheeks and slowly drew her closer, placing a butterfly-soft kiss on her lips, which tasted like lemonade and something else sweet and flowery. And then, before she could run shrieking into the countryside, he put his hands around her waist and pulled her closer. His lips met hers again, and he deepened the kiss. With his tongue, he pressed on her lower lip and she opened to him. Not only that; she responded, molding her body to his and kissing him back for all she was worth. He was just about ready to throw her onto the blanket and rip her clothes off when one of the horses neighed and she stiffened.
He let go suddenly and stood up abruptly. What had he done? What was he supposed to say now…Sorry? He wasn’t sorry, exactly, although he imagined that was the right thing to say. But he didn’t say it. “We’d better start heading back,” he said curtly instead.” You put the food away, and I’ll saddle the horses.” He strode off as if his pants were on fire.
Maybe they were, she mused. She certainly felt the fire in her own nether region. She had been kissed twice before, but never remotely like that. Bucky Winter’s kiss was all wet and slobbery and made her want to retch. Douglas Denhart kissed like a piece of wood and then smiled as if he were God’s gift to manhood. The only other thing she remembered from those kisses was a kind of intense revulsion and a desire to flee. Garrett’s kiss was…downright inspiring. She had felt it all the way down to her toes. Lord, the man went hot and cold on her and half the time acted like he wanted to strangle her, and with one kiss she was ready to prostrate herself before him. Idiot!
He obviously regretted the kiss but couldn’t bring himself to apologize. She recalled how difficult it had been for him to say he was sorry previously for upsetting her at dinner. Well, Libby Anne Parminter…Butterman?…was not about to beg Garrett Winslow or anybody else to like her. He could have his loose women in town and she would wait out her birthday and maybe move on to California. Although she hoped to forge a nice bond with Jackson, she would never give up her determination to not be under any man’s control ever again.
They were standing by the horses. She got the feeling Garrett was waiting for her to get all uppity and outraged about the kiss, but she had no intention of mentioning it. She would remember it for a long, long time, however. He was starting to help her into the saddle when he saw a glint in the distance and suddenly yanked her back and threw her to the ground. As he did, a shot rang out. He grunted and landed on top of her with a thud.
“Are you all right?” he ground out as he pulled out his revolver and looked around.
“I…think so. Just out of breath.” She tried to shift her position. “And a little bit crushed.”
He grunted again as he slid off her. She started to get to her hands and knees, but he pulled her back down as another shot rang out.
“Stay down!”
“I was just trying to get away from the horses before I get kicked.”
“Better kicked than shot.”
“Better neither.”
“Hmph.”
He propelled them a few feet from the horses and behind a large boulder. That’s when she noticed his shoulder was bleeding rather profusely.
“Oh, my Lord. You’re hit.”
He gritted his teeth. “I know.”
She looked around frantically and then reached under her skirt and removed her petticoat.
“You don’t have to take off your clothes to cheer me up.”
She refrained to comment but rolled her eyes and began ripping the petticoat into strips as he leaned back against the boulder, panting heavily. “Do you think anyone will hear the shots?”
“Probably not this late in the day,” he gasped.
She folded up one of the strips and pressed it against his shoulder as he let loose with a colorful curse.
“We’ve got to stop the bleeding.”
His hand holding the revolver dropped to the ground.
“Do you…can you shoot?”
“If I have to.” She wound the bandage strips around his chest and shoulder to hold the pad in place.
“If I pass out, you may have to.”
She tried not to show the panic that was about to consume her. “All right, only if you faint. But we need to get some help or get back to the ranch before you bleed to death.”
“Men don’t faint,” he gasped. “Look…look over at that field to the right, by the tree line. Do you see anything? That’s where I saw the reflection on the rifle.”
“You saved my life,” she said as she tied off the bandage and he grunted in pain. “Sorry.”
“Assuming it was someone after you,” he ground out. “I’m not all that sure everyone loves me.”
“No,” she chuckled sarcastically, “A sweet fellow like you? I don’t see anything in the woods.”
“He might have left.”
“How do you know it’s a man? Maybe it’s M
iss Cindy Lou Big Breasts trying to take out the competition.”
“Are you competition?”
“Only in her little brain.”
He laughed, then grimaced. “I think we should try to get out of here. We’re going to have to both ride on my horse. I don’t think I can make it alone.”
“Wait…Is it a cold day in hell? Did you just admit to a weakness?”
“Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
Time to be brave. She could do it. “I’ll bring your horse over here.”
“Stay close to the ground and don’t run in a straight path.”
“Should I bring mine too?”
“Let her loose and hit her on the rump. She knows the way back to the ranch. When she comes in alone, they should send someone out looking for us.”
“Oh, good. I’ll do that first.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
She crawled toward the horses, dragging herself through the grass and dirt in a zigzag path. So much for trying to look good today. When she got to her pinto, she untied it and had to steel herself to hit its rump hard enough to send it off. She probably could whack her stepfather or Edward DeJulius if she had to, but she hated to hit an innocent animal. Still, she didn’t think she could really hurt the horse if she tried, so she turned it around to face the way home and smacked it on the rear. The horse barely moved.
“You can do better than that!” he called out weakly. “Just pretend the horse is me.”
She smacked the horse a good one and the pinto took off at a gallop.
Garrett chuckled and then coughed as he painfully adjusted his position slightly. That was when he felt his vision narrowing and then, despite his best efforts, everything went black. Crouching to make herself the smallest target, Libby untied Garrett’s gelding and quickly led it over to the boulder, just as a bullet hit the side of the boulder and sent a piece of rock into the side of her head. She screeched and threw herself down next to Garrett, who was now slumped over on the ground, unconscious.
“No!” she cried, shaking him gently. “Garrett, don’t do this. Come on. Wake up. Please. Wake up.”
He was out cold. She felt liquid dripping down her face and put her hand up to find another painful lump had formed. Her hand came away with blood. “Oh, great.” She ripped another piece of her petticoat and pressed it against the wound, wincing. Holding that bandage with one hand, she picked up Garrett’s revolver and put it in her lap, then checked his bandages. He was still bleeding, but not as much. She had to get him help as soon as possible, which meant somehow getting him and herself onto the horse without getting either of them killed. If she waited much longer, he could bleed to death or whoever was shooting at them could come in close for the kill.
First, she tried to rouse him again, gently slapping his cheeks and calling out to him. That didn’t work. Then she tried kissing him. That didn’t work but it felt good. Next, she dropped the bandage she’d been holding on her head, stuck the revolver in her dress pocket and brought the horse as close to the boulder as possible. Then she grabbed her cowboy under the arms, struggling to lift him to a semi-standing position. Her cowboy?
“C’mon, Garrett, help me here,” she begged as she walked/dragged him next to the horse. Somehow she got his left foot into the stirrup and had him leaning against the gelding, which showed the patience of Job. It also left her body molded against the back of his, which was a frighteningly pleasant experience in this rather terrifying situation. She just didn’t have enough time to dwell on the sensation as she noticed how pale the hard-bodied cowboy had become.
“You can do this, Lionhearted Libby,” she said empathically, placing her hands on his butt and painstakingly hoisting him into the saddle. He nearly fell off the other side before she grabbed the back of his shirt and balanced him as best she could. Then she led the gelding even closer to the boulder. Holding one hand on his thigh, she stepped on an indentation in the boulder and tried to hoist herself into the saddle behind Garrett while still ducking behind the giant rock. It took three tries, but she finally made it, expecting a rifle shot to pierce her back at any moment.
Holding the reins with one hand and Garrett with the other, still shielded by the boulder, she carefully turned the horse around before taking a deep breath and kicking it into a canter and then a gallop. Several shots rang out, one so close she heard it whiz by her head, until they were out of rifle range. Not that whoever had shot Garrett couldn’t be galloping behind them. But she thought a continuous gallop might cause him to bleed too much, so she slowed the pace back to a cantor, while looking behind frequently to make sure they weren’t followed.
After the first mile, it became harder to hold Garrett, who was dead weight and leaning so hard against her right arm she didn’t know if she could hold him much longer. Her head was throbbing and she was starting to feel light-headed. Looking around once again, she slowed the horse to a walk. She saw a stand of trees in the distance and headed for it, swaying in the saddle as they neared it. Once there, she stopped the horse and did her best to adjust Garrett and herself.
That’s when she heard a horse or horses approaching, almost in a fog. What was wrong with her vision? She shook her head, trying to clear it, and only felt an agony of pain. Horses! They had to get away. She tried to kick Garrett’s horse, but her legs wouldn’t obey. The horses were getting closer, and now she couldn’t hold the reins. She tried to get a tighter grip on Garrett but felt him slipping away. Then, almost in slow motion, she fell from the horse, taking Garrett with her. Now they were both unconscious.
Chapter 8
Jackson’s relief at spotting Garrett and Libby on his gelding as they headed into the woods faded as he watched them plummet to the ground.
“C’mon!” he shouted to his cowhands Gem and Dusty as he spurred his stallion toward the trees.
Minutes later, Dusty was on his way to Deer Lodge to fetch the doctor. Jackson rode back to the ranch house holding the unconscious Garrett and leading Garrett’s horse, and Chet carried the equally unconscious Libby on his horse. Inside, Jackson was boiling. If there was anything that stuck in his craw, it was anyone harming innocent people. There would be a reckoning, he promised himself. The fires of hell could not keep him from exacting justice, Jackson Butterman style.
* * *
One minute Garrett was kissing her like he couldn’t get enough of her, and the next minute someone was pounding on her head. She tried to scream but it came out a squeak. Her lips were so dry. Were they cracked? She tried to sit up, but her throbbing head and a wave of dizziness put an end to that plan.
“Doctor, she is waking up,” Carmen said excitedly. “You were right.”
A moment later, someone gently latched onto her wrist and held on. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and she tried to focus. When at last she could see reasonably clearly, she saw a familiar middle-aged man with ruddy cheeks smiling down on her as he held her wrist to gauge her pulse.
“You took quite a bump on your head,” he said kindly. “Again.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
She thought about that for a moment, then remembered. “I…it was a rock,” she said weakly.
“I need to check your pupils.”
As he lifted one eyelid and then the other, the afternoon’s events came back to her even more thoroughly. “Garrett!” She tried to sit up with no more success than her last attempt, crumpling weakly to the bed. “How…how is Garrett?”
“I got the bullet out, but he’s still unconscious. He lost a lot of blood. You need to rest. This will help.”
He propped her up and fed her some odd-tasting liquid.
“I want to see him,” she said, yawning. Her eyelids were so heavy.
“And you will, my dear,” the doctor intoned, patting her hand as her eyelids fluttered closed.
“Poor señorita,” Carmen clucked over his shoulder.
It was the last thing Libby heard for several hours.
“She needs rest. I see no signs of a concussion this time, but no doubt she’ll have a walloping headache for a day or two. You can take the stitches out in 10 days unless you see signs of infection. If that happens, send for me.”
“And Garrett will recover, no?”
“He should, unless infection sets in. It’s in God’s hands now, Carmen. Is Jackson here?”
“He is organizing a search for the shooter.”
“Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow morning to check on Garrett and make sure Libby is up and about. Try to get some broth down him if you can. She can eat normally as she wishes when she wakes.”
“Thank you, doctor. Will you stay for dinner?”
“I’d like to, Carmen, but Mrs. Minter is in labor with her first, so I’m headed out to their farm now.”
“I will give you some tamales to take with you.”
“Bless you, señora.”
“De nada.”
The next time Libby awoke, light was streaming into the room, so she knew it was daytime, but that’s about all she knew. Although she felt fuzzy-headed and her eyes ached, she didn’t feel nearly as weak as she had the day before. Or was it two days before? She had no idea. She stayed in bed for several minutes, gathering her thoughts and strength. And then a sudden thought overcame her: Garrett! He had saved her life. Had she been able to save his?
She sat up too quickly and nearly keeled over. This was apparently becoming such a pattern, she almost chuckled. She grabbed onto the bedside table, fumbling to keep the water pitcher and glass from sliding off, and fought off a familiar wave of nausea. She sat back down and tried mind over matter to overcome an urge to just collapse in a heap. But that would never do. She had to see Garrett. Please don’t let him be gone. Taking a deep breath, she stood up again, carefully this time, and managed to find her balance. She realized then that her head was throbbing and no doubt would for a while. Too bad. She would not let that stop her. It took her longer than usual to change her chemise and get into her blue shift, but eventually she made it. Then came her stockings and shoes. Now if she could just make her feet move.
