by Linda Howard
Rafe thought about giving her a fictitious name, but decided that it wasn’t necessary. He would use another name after he carried her back to Silver Mesa, and there wouldn’t be any connection. “McCay. Rafferty McCay. What’s yours, Doc?”
“Annis,” she said, and gave him a faint, soft smile. “But I’ve always been called Annie.”
He grunted. “I’ve always been called Rafe. Makes me wonder why folks don’t name their kids what they intend to call them.” Her smile widened and he watched it, unwillingly fascinated by the movement of her lips. Her hand still lingered on his hair, fingers lightly combing through the strands at temple and forehead, and he almost sighed aloud with pleasure at that warm, tingling touch. His headache eased more with each brushing contact.
But then she moved away, and he had to restrain the urge to grab her and hold her hands to his chest. She’d probably think he had lost his mind if he did, but he felt better when she was touching him, and God knew he needed something. He felt like hell.
Annie poured the willow-bark tea into a battered tin cup and dutifully tasted it so he could see that she hadn’t poisoned him. He struggled up on his elbow and took the cup, drinking the tea with four strong gulps and shuddering only a little from the bitterness. “It’s not as bad as some medicine I’ve tasted,” he commented, lying back with a stifled groan.
“The honey and cinnamon made it taste better. Both of them are good for you too. Just rest and let the tea work, while I make some soup. Liquids will be easier for you to digest for a while.”
She was feeling better herself, now that she had food in her, though she was still inordinately tired. The hard work had loosened her muscles, at least for the moment. She sat on the floor beside him and peeled a few potatoes, then chopped them into fine pieces, and did the same with a small onion. There wasn’t a pot big enough, so she used his skillet, adding water and salt and a bit of flour for thickening, and soon the fragrant mixture was bubbling. The fire had burned down enough that it wasn’t in danger of scorching, so after adding a bit more water to make sure, she turned her attention back to her patient.
“Feeling a bit better?” she asked, placing the back of her hand against his face.
“Some.” The deep ache in his thighbones had eased, as well as his headache. He felt tired and limp and a little drowsy, but warmer and—better. “Keep a pot of that stuff brewed up.”
“It does better fresh,” she said, though she smiled again. She folded back the blanket. “Now let’s get you comfortable and see how your side is looking.”
Maybe she had put something in that drink after all, because he lay there and let her undress him, stripping him of shirt and boots and even his pants, leaving him clad only in his socks and long flannel underwear, which was so soft it didn’t do much of a job in disguising the outline of his loins. At her direction he eased onto his right side and she rolled his underwear down until it barely covered him. He swore under his breath as he felt his male flesh stir. Damn it, this was why women shouldn’t be doctors. How was a man supposed to keep himself from getting hard with a woman’s soft hands touching him all over? He watched her face, but she seemed oblivious to his lengthening erection. He reached down and twitched the blanket across his hips to hide his involuntary response.
Annie snipped through the tight cloth binding the poultice to the wounds, her attention totally absorbed by what she was doing. Carefully she eased the pads away, making a satisfied noise in her throat as she saw that the angry red color around the wounds had lessened. The pads were stained with yellow and brown; she cast them aside and leaned over to closely examine the torn flesh. There was a spot of dull metallic gleam close to the surface of the front wound, and she made another sound of satisfaction as she reached for her tweezers. Carefully she grasped the sliver of metal and drew it out. “Another piece of lead,” she announced. “You’re lucky you haven’t already died of blood poisoning.”
“So you’ve already told me.”
“And I meant it, too.” She continued with her inspection, but didn’t find any other bullet fragments. The wounds looked clean. To be certain she cleaned them again with carbolic, then carefully set two sutures in each wound to close the worst of the tears but still leave them open so they could drain. He barely quivered when the needle bit into the soft flesh of his side, though a faint sheen of sweat broke out on his body. She noted the sweat, for it indicated that his fever was breaking as well as the extent of his pain.
She moistened some plantain leaves and placed them on his side, then put bandages on top of that. He gave a low murmur of relief as the soothing, healing leaves began to work their magic. “That feels good.”
“I know.” She drew the blanket up to his shoulders.
“All you have to do now is lie there and rest, and let your body heal. Sleep if you want; I’m not going anywhere.”
“I can’t take that chance,” he replied harshly.
She gave a small humorless laugh. “You’d wake up if I tried to take the blanket, and I’d freeze to death at night without it. I don’t even know where I am. Believe me, I’m not going to leave here without you.”
“Then let’s just say I’ll keep you from temptation.” He couldn’t afford to trust her, or to relax his guard for even a minute. She said she didn’t know where she was, but how did he know if she was telling the truth or not?
“Suit yourself.” She checked the soup and added more water, then settled down on the floor. She had no idea of the time. After noon, surely. It had taken her a long time to clean the hut. She stared out the open door at the long shadows cast by the trees. Why, it was late in the afternoon. “Don’t the horses need more feed?” If he expected her to carry it to them, it would have to be soon, because after dark she wasn’t venturing past that door.
“Yeah.” His voice was weary. “Give them a little more grain.” With an effort he sat up and reached for his pistol, drawing it out of the holster. Wrapped in the blanket, he struggled to his feet.
Annie was surprised by the surge of anger that shook her. It wasn’t just his refusal to trust her, for she supposed she couldn’t blame him for that, but because he wouldn’t let himself rest. He needed to be lying down, sleeping, not following her every step. “Don’t bother coming all the way out to the lean-to,” she snapped. “Just stand out here in front, and you can shoot me in the back if I try to make a run for it.”
For the first time, a flash of temper flared in his pale eyes. His cold control had been what had frightened her the most before, but now she wished she hadn’t let her own rare anger flare, if this was what it had called up. Anger should be hot, but this man’s eyes went even colder, until she felt the chill even across the width of the hut. And still he didn’t lose control. He merely said, “I can shoot anything else that might be out there too,” as he thumbed back the hammer and motioned for her to exit ahead of him.
She hadn’t thought of that. If he was her kidnapper and an inherent danger to her, he was also her protector, for he knew how to live in these mountains, while she would have frozen to death the first night without him. He was also her only hope of getting back to Silver Mesa. On the other hand, she hadn’t considered the possibility of facing danger just by stepping through the door of the hut. She hoped it was still too early in the year, and too cold, for snakes and bears to be active, but she simply didn’t know. It wasn’t something she had worried about in Philadelphia. She wouldn’t even have known that bears hibernated if a miner hadn’t mentioned it in the rambling monologue he’d been delivering to take his mind off the broken bone Annie had been setting.
Without a word she walked briskly to the lean-to, where the horses nickered at her arrival and immediately began chomping on the grain she gave them. She hauled two more buckets of water from the stream and poured them in the trough, settled the saddle blankets over the two broad backs to help keep them warm during the night, and after a pat on each nose trudged wearily back to the hut. He was still standing just in front
of the door, as he had been while she performed the chores, and at her approach he stepped aside so she could enter.
“Close the door and cover the windows,” he said quietly. “It’ll get cold fast now, with the sun going down.”
She did as he said, though it enclosed them in a cave of darkness eased only by the small lick of flame in the fireplace. She wished for a stout bar to place across the door, but there wasn’t one, though there were wooden brackets to testify that there had been at one time. McCay was easing back down onto the blanket. Annie went to the fireplace and removed the skillet of potato soup. The potatoes had cooked to mush; the soup was a little too thick, but she added water and took care of that problem. Satisfied, she poured his cup full and handed it to him.
He sipped it with the total lack of enthusiasm that told her he still had no appetite, but he did say, “That was good,” when he had finished.
She ate her share right out of the skillet, smiling inwardly at how shocked all of her old acquaintances back in Philadelphia would be at her manners. But there was only one cup, one tin plate, one skillet, and one spoon, so she imagined she and her patient/captor would be doing a lot of sharing in the next few days. She cleaned the skillet, cup, and spoon afterwards, then brewed him another dose of willow-bark tea. She tasted it without comment, and he drank it down.
They both had to make a trip outside before turning in for the night, and the experience was just as humiliating for her as it had been the first time.
Her face was still red when they reentered the hut, but all of her color fled when he pointed the pistol at her and said in that flat, calm voice, “Take off your clothes.”
CHAPTER
4
She stared at him in disbelief, her eyes huge. A dull roaring dimmed her hearing and for a moment she wondered if she might faint, but that escape was denied her. The barrel of the pistol looked enormous, and it was pointing right at her. Above it, his eyes were remote.
“No.”
She whispered the word, because her throat was so tight she could barely speak. Several confused, fragmented thoughts skittered through her mind. He couldn’t be thinking—no, surely he knew he wasn’t in any shape to—he wouldn’t shoot her, he needed her to take care of him—
“Don’t make it any rougher on yourself than it has to be,” he advised. “I don’t want to have to hurt you. Just take them off and lie down.”
Her hands knotted into fists. “No!” she repeated fiercely. “I won’t let you do this to me.”
He looked at her white face and tense body, poised as if she would flee into the night, and amusement quirked his mouth. “Honey, you must think I’m a lot stronger than I feel,” he drawled. “There’s no way in hell I could do what you’re thinking.”
She didn’t relax. “Then why do you want me to take off my clothes?”
“Because I won’t be able to stay awake much longer, and I don’t want you sneaking out while I’m sleeping. I don’t figure you’ll leave without your clothes.”
“I wasn’t going to try to run,” she assured him desperately.
“It would be dangerous for you to try to make it on your own, and that’s a fact,” he said. “So I’ll just make sure the temptation doesn’t get to be too much for you.”
She couldn’t even imagine taking her clothes off in front of him; her mind shied away from the idea. “Can’t you t-tie me or something? You have a rope.”
He sighed. “It’s obvious you don’t know how damn uncomfortable it is to be tied up. You wouldn’t be able to rest like that.”
“I don’t care, I’d rather—”
“Annie. Take your clothes off. Now.”
The warning was plain in his voice. She began to tremble, but she shook her head obstinately. “No.”
“The only alternative is for me to shoot you. I don’t want to do that.”
“You won’t kill me,” she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “Not yet, anyway. You still need me.”
“I didn’t say anything about killing you. I’m damn good with a pistol, and I can put a bullet anywhere I want it to go. Which do you prefer, in the leg or shoulder?”
He wouldn’t do it. She told herself that he wouldn’t do it, that he needed her healthy so she could take care of him, but there was no hesitation at all in his face, and his hand was rock steady as he lifted the pistol.
She turned her back on him and began unbuttoning her blouse with trembling fingers.
Firelight gleamed on her satin smooth shoulders as she removed her blouse and let it drop to the floor. Her head was bent forward, revealing the delicate furrow of the nape of her neck. Rafe felt a sudden urge to press his mouth to it, to wrap his arms around her and shelter her against him. He had had to drive her to the limit of her endurance all day long, just as he had done the night before, even though she was hollow-eyed with fatigue. And she had managed, somehow finding sufficient strength in her thin body to do the things he had demanded of her. She had fought down her natural fear of him and done her best to make him well, and he repaid her by humiliating her and terrorizing her, but he didn’t dare relax his guard. He had to make certain she didn’t try to run, for her sake as well as his.
She removed her sturdy half boots, then, still keeping her back turned to him, lifted the front of her skirt and fumbled with the tapes that tied her petticoat around her waist. It dropped around her feet in a froth of white, and she stepped out of it.
She was trembling visibly, even in the dim light.
“Go on,” he said softly. He regretted that she was so frightened, but he’d be lying to himself if he tried to deny being interested in seeing her skirt drop as well. Hell, he was more than interested, he was already hard, his erection thrusting against the flimsy covering of his longhandles. Only the blanket wrapped around him kept her from seeing his condition, if she had happened to turn around. He wondered briefly just how sick he would have to get before his cock got the message that he wasn’t capable; sicker than he was now, that was for sure, and he felt like hell.
She unbuttoned the waistband of her skirt and the garment fell to the floor.
She was still covered, still wearing her stockings, knee-length drawers, and shift, but the shape of her body was revealed. Rafe inhaled deeply, fighting the sudden restriction in his chest. His loins began to throb. She wasn’t thin so much as dainty, with slendar, delicate bones and a sweet curve to her hips and thighs that made him break into a sweat.
She stood rigidly, as if incapable of continuing. He could let her stop now; she wasn’t going to run off anywhere dressed in only her stockings and under-wear.
“The stockings.”
She bent down and untied the garters above her knees, then removed the white cotton stockings. Her bare toes curled on the plank floor.
“Now your drawers.” He heard the hoarseness of his voice, and wondered if she noticed it too. Damn, he didn’t have to take it this far, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He wanted to see her, wanted to feel her lying naked in his arms even though he wasn’t well enough to do anything about it. He wondered if that strange hot tingle was restricted to her hands, or if he would feel it all over if he lay on top of her. Would it be more intense inside of her? The thought of feeling that unique sensation on his shaft almost made him groan aloud.
She was shaking like a leaf now, all over, from head to foot. Her shift came down to mid-thigh, but still.. . She felt utterly exposed and vulnerable as she stepped out of her drawers. The rush of cool air on her bare buttocks was shocking, and even though she knew her bottom was covered by the shift she couldn’t stop herself from reaching back to make sure. Her one remaining garment was too thin for her to feel reassured.
He wanted that shift off. God, he wanted her naked. The sleek line of her legs almost drove him to madness, but he wanted to see the curve and cleft of her bottom, the sweet fullness of her breasts, the pouty folds of her sex. He wanted to be well so he could thrust into her, spend hours between he
r legs and feel her release deep inside, shivering around his hardness. He wanted to make love to her every way he’d ever done it before, and try everything he’d ever heard of.
He wanted to taste her, to drive her crazy with his mouth and fingers and body. He was shaking with lust.
And she was shaking with fear.
He couldn’t make her remove the shift, couldn’t terrorize her any more than he already had. He dragged the blanket from around himself and draped it over her shoulders, wrapping her snugly in it. She clutched it with pitiful desperation, her head still bent forward so he couldn’t see her face. Rafe ran gentle fingers through her hair, searching out all of the pins and releasing the soft, fine mass to tumble over his hands and swing forward to hide even more of her face. He pulled it back over her shoulders, where it reached almost to her waist.
Wincing against the pull in his side, he bent down and added more wood to the fire, then gathered her discarded garments, except for her petticoat, and placed them under the blanket he had been lying on, putting a bit more padding between them and the hard floor and making it damn certain she couldn’t get to them without waking him up. He added his own clothing as a safeguard. Her petticoat he rolled into a pillow, and placed it at one end of the blanket.
“Lie down,” he said gently, and in mortified silence she moved to obey.
She would have lain down still wrapped in the blanket, but he caught it and pulled it from her nerveless fingers. She froze, then realized that they would have to share the blanket, just as they had done the night before. She sank to her knees and held her shift close to her body as she stretched out on their crude bed, but she still felt painfully exposed. She turned on her right side, with her back to him.
He lay down beside her and also turned onto his right side. He drew the blanket up over them, then settled his left arm over her waist. The heavy weight of it made her feel pinioned. She could feel him all against her back, the hair on his naked chest brushing against her shoulder blades. He pulled her closer, nestling her buttocks to his loins, cradling her thighs to his. Annie’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps. She could feel his . . . his manhood, covered only by the thin flannel of his longhandles, pushing against her bottom. Her shift might as well have not existed, for all the protection it offered. Had it ridden up, leaving her totally uncovered? She almost cried out, but she didn’t dare reach down to find out.