by Linda Howard
“P-please, can’t we stop for the night and build a f-fire?” she blurted, and was startled to hear her own voice. The words seemed to have come of their own volition.
“No.” Just that one word, flat and implacable.
“P-please,” she said again, and was aghast to realize she was begging. “I’m so c-c-cold.”
He turned his head and looked at her. She couldn’t see his features under the brim of his hat, only the faint gleam of his eyes. “We can’t stop yet.”
“Then w-when?”
“When I say.”
But he didn’t say, not during those endlessly long, increasingly cold hours. The horses’ breath rose in clouds of steam. The pace had necessarily slowed to a walk as the way became increasingly steep, and several times he had to unloop her reins and hold them in his hand, leading her horse directly behind him in single file. Annie tried to estimate the passage of time, but found that physical misery distorted all perception of it. She would force herself to wait until she had thought an hour had passed, then look at the moon, only to find that it had barely moved since the last time she had looked.
Her feet were so cold that every movement of her toes was agony. Her legs quivered with exertion, for caution forced her to use them to stay in the saddle since her hands were largely useless. Her throat and lungs felt raw from the cold, and each breath rasped the delicate tissues. She turned up the collar of her coat and tried to draw her head down within its protection so the air she breathed would be warmer, but the coat kept gaping open and she didn’t dare turn loose of the saddle horn to hold it together.
In silent desperation she fastened her eyes on the broad back in front of her. If he could keep going, sick and wounded as he was, then she could, too. But dogged pride, she found, helped for only so long before sheer physical misery overwhelmed it. Damn him, why didn’t he stop?
* * *
Rafe had divorced his mind from his physical discomfort, focusing all of his concentration on putting distance between himself and Trahern. The bounty hunter would be able to track him to Silver Mesa; Rafe had discovered a bent nail on the bay’s right front shoe that would have left marks like signposts to a good tracker, which Trahern was. The first thing he’d done in Silver Mesa was find the blacksmith and have the bay reshod. He didn’t care if Trahern discovered that, for it wouldn’t make any difference; there wouldn’t be any way to tell which of the myriad tracks around the smithy belonged to the bay, assuming any of the bay’s tracks were left by the time Trahern got to Silver Mesa, and that was highly unlikely. It was impossible to track someone through a busy town, because tracks were constantly being smeared and overlaid with new ones.
At first Trahern would ride a wide circle around the town, looking for that telltale bent nail. When he didn’t find it, he’d go into Silver Mesa and start asking questions, but he’d hit a dead end at the smithy. Rafe had rode directly out of town after having the bay reshod, back in the direction from which he’d entered. Then he had left the bay tethered and reentered the town on foot, taking care not to bring attention to himself. During the war he’d learned that the easiest way to disguise yourself was by mingling with a crowd. In a boomtown like Silver Mesa, no one paid any mind to one more stranger, especially one who didn’t make eye contact or speak to anyone.
He had intended only to get bandages and carbolic wash for disinfectant, and his purpose for doing so anonymously was to keep Trahern from knowing how sick he felt. An enemy could take any small scrap of information and use it to his advantage. But caution had made him check out the entire town first, looking for alternate ways of escape if it should become necessary, and he’d seen the roughly lettered sign of Dr. A. T. Parker.
He had watched for a while, considering the risk. The doctor didn’t seem to be in; a few people had knocked on the door, then gone away when the knocks went unanswered.
He had begun shivering while he watched from concealment, and this further evidence of his rising fever had decided the issue for him. He had gone back for the bay and put it in the shed with what had to have been the doctor’s horse, indicating that the sawbones was somewhere in town. The doctor’s office was set off by itself, a good hundred yards from the next building, and a stand of trees shielded the horse shed from view, so he felt safe in waiting there. From what he had observed, it was customary for folks to knock on the door rather than just go inside, which struck him as odd but suited his purposes. When he entered, he found that the sawbones evidently lived in the back room, which was explanation enough for the strange formality of knocking on the door of a doctor’s office. Maybe the doc was a tad fussy, but Rafe allowed folks their foibles.
The neat little surgery and back room had enforced his impression of fastidiousness. There were no personal belongings left strewn around, other than a serviceable hairbrush and some books; the narrow cot was neatly made, the single dish and cup washed and dried. He hadn’t looked through the physician’s clothes—if he had he would have known that she was female, or at least that a female was living in the back room, maybe to take care of the doctor’s needs.
There were orderly rows of small pots in all the windowsills, with a variety of plants growing in them. The air had smelled both fresh and spicy. An apothecary’s cabinet had been stocked with herbs either dried or powdered, and gauze bags filled with other plants had been hung in the coolest, darkest corner. Each bag and drawer had been clearly labeled in block printing.
Waves of dizziness had kept rolling over him and at length he had had to sit down. He thought about just taking what he needed from the doctor’s supplies and leaving without anyone being the wiser, but it felt so damn good just to rest that he kept telling himself he’d sit there for just a few minutes longer.
That unusual lassitude, more than anything, was what had finally convinced him to stay and see the doctor.
Every time footsteps had sounded on the porch he had eased into a corner, but after the knock went unanswered the would-be patients had gone away. The last time, however, there hadn’t been a knock; the door had opened and a thin, tired-looking woman had entered, carrying a huge black bag.
Now she was riding behind him, grimly hanging on to the saddle, her face white and pinched with cold. He knew she had to be frightened, but there was no way he could convince her he didn’t mean her any harm, so he didn’t try. In a few days, maybe a week, when he was well, he’d take her back to Silver Mesa. Trahern would already have left, having lost the trail with no way of picking it up again until he got news of Rafe’s whereabouts. Rafe intended to make certain that didn’t happen for a while. He’d change his name again, maybe get a different horse, though he hated to get rid of the bay.
Forcing her to go with him wasn’t so great a risk; with her horse gone, folks would just think that she was out treating someone. Maybe they’d get curious when she didn’t show up in a day or so, but there was nothing in the cabin to give alarm, no sign of struggle or violence. Since she hadn’t left her black bag behind, people would logically assume that she was merely attending to some distant patient.
In the meantime, he could do with a few days’ rest. He could feel the fever burning through him, feel the burning ache in his side, though the quality of that ache seemed to be changing as the burn became more of a drawing sensation. She had been right about his condition; only sheer determination had kept him going, was keeping him going now.
There was an old trapper’s sod hut up here some-where; he’d seen it a few years back, before Silver Mesa had even existed. It was damn hard to find; he only hoped he remembered its location closely enough to pinpoint it. The old geezer had partially dug out a bank and buried the back half of the hut in it, and the foliage grew so thick around it that a man had to practically walk into it before he saw it.
The hut was abandoned, or had been when he’d seen it. It wouldn’t be in good shape, but it would give him a place out of the weather. At least the damn thing had a fireplace, and the trees above it would disperse t
he smoke so any fire he lit wouldn’t be noticeable.
His head ached, and his thighbones felt as if someone was pounding them with a dull ax, sure signs of a rising fever. He had to find that hut soon or he wouldn’t make it. Glancing at the moon’s position, he figured it to be about one in the morning; they’d been riding for about seven hours, which by his calculation should put them close to the hut. He looked around, forcing himself to concentrate, but it was damn hard to recognize landmarks in the moonlight. There had been a huge pine, blasted by lightning, but it had probably decayed by now.
Half an hour later he realized that he wasn’t going to find the hut, at least not in the dark and in his present condition. The horses were exhausted, and the doc looked as if she were going to fall out of the saddle. Reluctantly, but recognizing the necessity for it, he looked around for a sheltered spot and chose a narrow little hollow between two huge boulders. He reined the bay to a stop.
Annie was so numb that for a moment she didn’t realize they had stopped. When the lack of motion finally made sense, she lifted her head to see that the man had already dismounted and was standing beside her. “Get down.”
She tried, but her legs were so stiff they wouldn’t work. With a small, desperate cry she simply turned loose and pitched herself down from the horse’s back. She landed on the cold, hard ground with a thud that rattled every bone in her body, and tears of pain started into her eyes. She blinked them back, but she couldn’t stifle a low moan as she forced herself into a sitting position.
He walked the horses away from her without saying a word, and she didn’t know if she should feel grateful or indignant. She was too tired, too cold, to feel much, even gratitude that they had stopped.
She sat where she was, unable to stand or to work up much interest in doing so. She could hear him murmuring to the horses, the sound barely audible above the rustle of tree limbs in the cold wind. Then she listened to his footsteps drawing near, and even through her own physical wretchedness she noticed that his steps were uneven. He stopped right behind her.
“I can’t help you,” he said in a low, harsh voice. “If you can’t stand, you’ll have to crawl over here to these rocks. The best I can do is get us out of the wind and cover us with a blanket.”
“No fire?” Her breath caught with a pang of sorrow so sharp it hurt. She had been imagining a fire all during the long, miserable hours, longing for the heat and light as if it were a lover, and now he was denying it to her.
“No. Come on, Doc, get your ass over to the rocks.”
She managed. It wasn’t elegant, or graceful. She crawled a few feet, then got to her knees, and finally to her feet. After a few tottering steps her legs gave way beneath her and she had to grit her teeth against the pain in her feet, but she managed to repeat the process. He walked carefully beside her, his very precision reminding her that his own strength was almost gone. She was glad that he hadn’t been unscathed by the ordeal.
“All right. Here. Now scrape a big pile of these pine needles together.”
She wavered back and forth as she stared at him, seeing nothing more than a big dark form standing close beside her. But she dropped back to her knees and clumsily did as he said, her frozen fingers blessedly numb to the scrapes and prickles she knew she must be getting.
“That’ll do.” A soft bundle dropped onto the ground beside her. “Now spread this blanket out on the needles.”
She obeyed, again without comment.
“Take off your coat and lie down.”
The very thought of removing her coat and exposing herself to even greater chill almost made her revolt, but at the last moment common sense told her he must mean to use their coats for cover. She began shaking convulsively as she shed the heavy garment, but he was doing the same, so she lay down in silence.
He eased down beside her, positioning himself so she was at his right side. His long legs touched hers and Annie started to scoot away, but he stopped her, his hand closing on her arm with a hard grip that made her wonder if he was truly as exhausted as he had seemed. “Get closer. We’ll have to share our heat, and the blankets.”
It was nothing but the stark truth. She inched closer, until she could feel the heat of his body even through their cold clothing, and the lure of the promise of comfort pulled her even closer, so that she was huddled against his side.
Moving with the care that indicated pain, he twitched the other half of the blanket they were lying on over them, then spread a second blanket on top of that. He arranged her coat over their feet, and his coat over their torsos. Finally he lay back and slipped his right arm under her head. A shudder wracked his big body from head to foot.
The fire of his fever radiated through the layers of clothing, and as she moved even closer she wondered if he would survive the night, lying on the cold ground as he was. True, the pine needles and blanket kept some of the chill of the earth away, but in his weakened condition he might die anyway. Her hand moved to his chest and then upward, searching for his neck. She found his pulse and was relieved somewhat by the strength of the throbbing beneath her cold fingers, though it was too fast.
“I’m not going to die on you, Doc.” There was faint but unmistakable amusement in his voice, overlaid with fatigue.
She wanted to make some reply, but the effort was beyond her. Her eyelids would not stay open. Her feet were tingling painfully, but not even that seemed to matter. Fever or not, the heat of his body was saving her, and her mind was too tired to object to the highly improper sleeping arrangement. All she could do was slide her hand down until it rested over his heart; then, reassured by the steady beat, she felt unconsciousness sweep over her like a black tide, wiping out everything.
CHAPTER
3
Rafe came awake with a rush of panic, though only the leap of his pulse betrayed him; his muscles didn’t even twitch. He didn’t usually sleep so soundly, especially under these circumstances, and he was silently cursing himself even as he took stock of his surroundings. The birds were chittering without alarm, and he could hear the horses munching on some bit of greenery they’d found. Everything was secure, then, despite his lack of alertness.
The doc still lay against his right side, her head pillowed on his shoulder and her face pressed to his shirt. Glancing down, he could see that her soft blond hair had slipped from its pins and was tousled all over her head. Her skirt was tangled around both her legs and his, and he could feel the enticing softness of breast and hip and thigh. He slowly drew a deep breath, trying not to wake her. Her right hand was lying on his chest, but it might as well have been on his crotch, for the warm weight of it was making his morning erection grow that much harder. The pleasure of it spread through his body like warm honey. So he hadn’t imagined the strange, tingling energy in her hands when she had touched him; he felt it now, tightening his nipples, even through his clothing and even though she was asleep.
The temptation was strong to lie there and enjoy the touch, or even to move her hand down to his loins so he could feel that strange heated energy on his shaft and balls, but he liked for his sexual pleasure to be mutual, and more than that they needed to find the trapper’s hut. He closed his hand around hers and lifted it to his lips, then gently replaced it on his chest and shook her awake.
Her brown eyes opened drowsily, then her lashes fluttered back down. Dark brown doe eyes, he thought, having seen them for the first time in good light. He shook her again. “Wake up, Doc. We can’t stay here.”
This time her eyes opened wide and she sat bolt upright in their nest of blankets and coats, looking around in panic. He saw on her face the exact moment when she remembered the night before, saw the fear and desperation as she realized it hadn’t been a dream. Then she got control of herself, and twisted around to face him. “You have to take me back.”
“Not yet. Maybe in a few days.” He got to his feet with some difficulty, though the sleep had done him good and he felt a little stronger. Still, as he moved his body rem
inded him that he needed far more than just a few hours of rest. “There’s a hut close by; I couldn’t find it in the dark, but we’ll stay there until my side is healed.”
She looked up at him, brown eyes wide with apprehension. Dark shadows still lay under her eyes, bruising the translucent skin and making her look frail. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but instead he said, “Roll up the blankets.”
Annie moved to obey him and winced at the pain in her stiff, sore muscles. She wasn’t accustomed to such long hours of hard riding, especially when she had been forced to use her legs to stay on the horse. Her thigh muscles trembled with the effort as she squatted to roll the blankets.
He had walked a few feet away, just enough that he was shielded by the rock but could still see her. She heard a splattering sound, like water running, and looked up in curiosity before she realized what he was doing. His pale gaze met hers without a flicker of expression, but she jerked her head down as a fiery blush burned her cheeks. Her medical training noted that at least the fever hadn’t impaired his kidneys.
He came back to her side and said, “Now you. Don’t try to get out of my sight. I want to see your head at all times.” To make certain she didn’t try to run, he unholstered his pistol.
She was appalled that he expected her to perform such a function with him standing there listening, and started to refuse, but her bladder insisted that she couldn’t wait. Her face felt scorching hot as she sidled around the rock, watching where she was putting her feet.
“That’s far enough.”
She battled with the restrictions of her clothing, trying to reach under her skirt and petticoat to undo the tapes of her drawers without revealing either herself or her underclothing, just in case he was looking. Then she realized that of course he was looking, for how else could he know if she was in sight or not. If only she had worn drawers with an open crotch, but in fact she seldom did, for she never knew when she would be riding and she didn’t care to have her bare inner thighs rubbed raw.