by R. C. Ryan
The old cowboy was already halfway across the room. With a chuckle, he called over his shoulder, “Your stranger, your problem.”
His laughter grew as her curses followed him out the door.
Left alone, Ingrid gathered whatever supplies she could. Several thick bath towels. A basin of warm water and soap. Then she set to work washing the blood from the back of his head. That done, she folded a dry towel and placed it under his head before moving on to his clothes. Her attempt at unbuttoning his flannel shirt, which was completely soaked, was a huge effort. Next, she turned to his boots, but because they were so wet, she could barely budge them. It took long minutes of pulling and tugging, while muttering curses through gritted teeth, before she got them off. Then, with much tugging, she finally managed to get him out of the last of his clothes.
By the time old Mick returned with an armload of firewood, the stranger was wrapped in a blanket, and his clothes lay in a heap on the floor.
Once the fire was blazing, Mick walked to the sofa to stand beside Ingrid. “I brought his saddlebags inside.” He hooked a thumb toward the doorway. “Tossed ’em over a chair in the kitchen. They might give you a clue to just what kind of cowboy you dragged in from the storm.”
“Good idea.” She huffed out a breath. “I just hope the idiot who was shooting at mustangs isn’t also an ax murderer.”
“I doubt he’d carry that kind of information in his saddlebags.”
She turned away and headed toward the kitchen. “You never know.”
“He wasn’t your shooter.”
She paused. Turned. “And you know that because…?”
“His rifle was still in its boot. If he was trying to take down a mustang, the rifle would have been in his hands.” Mick poked and prodded the flames, adding another log to the fire before ambling back to the other room, where Ingrid had spread out the contents of the saddlebags across the kitchen table.
“Find anything interesting?”
She looked up. “Where’d you get this?” She held up the camera.
“It was hooked to the saddle horn.”
“German. Expensive. Not what I’d expect from a wandering cowboy.”
The old man shrugged. “Maybe he’s a professional photographer.”
She opened a worn leather wallet and began sorting through the cards stored inside. She picked up one. “Lucas Malloy. Twenty-eight. Height six feet two inches. Weight one hundred eighty-five pounds. Hair black. Eyes blue. Doesn’t need glasses.” She looked over. “Ring a bell?”
Mick shook his head. “The only Malloy I know is Frank. Owns one of the biggest spreads in Montana. Frank Malloy’s my age. Got a famous wife. Some kind of photographer.”
“Now this makes sense.” She pointed to the camera. “Maybe he’s their son?”
“What makes sense is he’s probably a grandson. Unless she made medical history.”
They grinned at each other.
“Okay. He’s a long way from home. With a head injury, you never know what might happen. If I could find his cell phone, I’d notify his family.”
“It could be back there on the mountain.”
She nodded. “And trampled by a herd of mustangs.”
“I’m sure you can find a number for the Malloy Ranch.” Mick filled two mugs with steaming coffee. Handing one to her, he said, “Lily and Nadine have been asleep for hours. You going up to your room, or are you planning on keeping an eye on your guest?”
“He’s not my guest, Mick.” She picked up her mug and headed toward the parlor. “But since I was the one who brought him here, I guess it’s my job to see him through the night.”
“You got that right, girl.” With a grin the old man shuffled off to his room next to the kitchen. “If you need me—”
“Yeah.” She didn’t wait for him to finish.
It took her several minutes to move an overstuffed chair beside the sofa. She draped an afghan over her lap and cradled the mug in both hands as she watched the steady rise and fall of the stranger’s chest.
Her head nodded, and she felt the hot sting of coffee on her skin before setting aside the mug and snuggling deeper into the warmth of the cover.
After the day she’d put in, she was asleep before she could form a single thought.
Chapter Two
Now that’s what I call a hunk of burning love.” The female voice was rough, fog shrouded, like someone who had consumed an entire pack of cigarettes in an hour while downing half a dozen whiskeys.
“Why am I not surprised?” A softer voice. One Luke had heard before, though he couldn’t recall where or when. “He’s more dead than alive, but all you can see is your next conquest.”
“I’m seeing a killer body and the face of a devil. Honey, he can park his boots under my bed anytime. But for now, I’ll wait ’til he has more fire in his chimney. I’m off to Wayside. Don’t wait up.”
“I never do.”
As the door closed, a strobe light shot bursts of color across Luke’s closed eyelids. A strange bell rang nearby. And his head ached with the worst hangover ever.
Had he been in Clay’s Pig Sty in Glacier Ridge? He couldn’t recall. But since it was on his mind, he must have made it there. But where was he now?
He’d been in enough saloon brawls to know how the next day felt. He touched his face. No tender eye, no swollen cheek.
There was something sharp poking him in his back. He reached a hand around and located a metal coil of some sort, covered in cloth. He opened his eyes, as gritty as sandpaper, and saw the odd-colored lights flickering across the ceiling of a room, coming from a fire on the grate. And there was a terrible ringing in his ears. When he moved his head, he became aware of the pain throbbing in his temples.
He sucked in a breath and tried to remember what had happened. The herd of mustangs, the shot…
He’d been shot?
He felt around his body for fresh dressings. None. He touched a hand to the back of his head and felt the swollen mass. Not a bullet, he realized. He must have taken quite a fall. He could almost recall flying through the air and landing hard. Rocks. Yes, a solid rock ledge. Had he actually fallen off the edge of the cliff? But he wasn’t there now. He was in a room, naked under a soft blanket.
How did he get here?
The shooter?
He struggled to sit up and felt the room spin at the same instant that a shaft of pain sliced through his head. Strong hands pressed him back against a springy cushion. The woman with the rusty voice? Or the one with the soft voice?
He tried to fight back but lost the battle. In his mind he was uttering a string of fierce oaths as the intense pain dragged him under.
“Good. You’re awake. Try to drink this.” It was the soft voice.
He struggled to focus. At first there were several blurred images swimming into his line of vision. Gradually they merged into a single woman perched beside him. She put a hand beneath the back of his head and gently lifted it high enough that he could drink from the cup she held in her other hand.
He liked her touch. Gentle. And he knew he wasn’t dying when his body reacted instinctively.
At his first sip the mood was shattered. He gagged and pushed her hand aside. “You trying to poison me?”
She chuckled. A low, warm sound like the purr of a kitten. He would have taken the time to enjoy the sound, if it weren’t for the fire sliding down his throat.
“Some crazy witch’s brew Mick concocted. He swears it’ll kill pain anywhere in the body.”
“If it doesn’t kill me first.”
“You’re angry. Good.” She stood. “Sounds to me like you’re feeling better than you did yesterday.”
“Yester…?” His voice trailed off as he struggled with the implication of that. Had he been here overnight? “When…? How…?”
She held up a hand. “According to Mick, you’ll be out in a matter of minutes. But you should wake next time in a lot less pain. When you’re feeling up to it, we’ll talk. For no
w”—she turned away—“sleep tight.”
Luke tried to summon the energy to be angry at her patronizing tone. But in truth, he was already fading.
The world went soft and gray as he drifted off.
The room was in shadow. The only light came from the fireplace, where a log burned, giving off the comforting fragrance of wood smoke.
Luke had heard voices on and off during the day between his bouts of waking and sleeping. An old man’s growl. A child’s whisper. The two females, one soft, one rough as sandpaper, engaged in a slap-down of sorts, though he couldn’t figure out what it was about. He only recognized the anger in their tones.
He was thirsty, but the thought of that vile drink he’d been given hours ago put him off. He could probably eat something, though at the moment nothing appealed to him. He felt vaguely restless, and he knew it was time to saddle up and head for home. But since he didn’t know where he was or how badly he’d been injured in that fall, he figured he would just lie here a while longer.
“Mick said you’d be waking up soon.”
The woman was little more than a shadow in the doorway, but he knew the soft voice now. As his memory cleared, he knew, too, that she was the one who’d offered him something to drink after his fall. The one who’d managed to get him to safety. The one who’d brought him here.
The shooter.
She switched on a light and he muttered an oath before lifting his hand to shade his eyes.
“Sorry. But I need to check your head wound.” She eased down beside him on the sofa and gently lifted his head. “I’m Ingrid Larsen.”
“Luke Malloy.”
“Yes. I checked your saddlebags for ID and notified your family that you’re recovering from a fall at my place.” She seemed distracted as she poked and prodded. “Good. As Mick said, the bleeding stopped on its own, and the swelling’s gone down by half. I guess we won’t need a medevac after all.”
“Is Mick a doctor?”
“Of sorts. He doctors the herd and for years kept all our wranglers in good condition.”
She pulled a chair beside the sofa and sat facing him.
It was his first real look at her, and he couldn’t look away.
Despite the faded denims and a plaid baggy shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, she was stunning. Pale corn silk hair cropped close to her head. Eyes the color of a summer sky. A dimple in each cheek whenever she smiled, which he suspected she did rarely. There was something stiff and unyielding in her demeanor, as though his very presence here annoyed her.
Maybe it did. But this was all her fault. She was the one to shoot at the mustangs, sending them into a frenzied stampede.
She was studying him as closely as he was studying her.
“So. Why did you shoot at the mustangs?”
Her question caught him completely by surprise. “Me? You’re the one who shot at them.”
She shook her head, sending a lock of pale blond hair dipping over one eye. She brushed it back absently with her hand. “I heard the shot and came running. When the herd vanished, I saw your horse, reins dangling, and realized its rider was nearby. You’re lucky I took the time to search or you’d still be out there. I doubt you’d have survived in that storm.”
He remembered the rain falling on his face as he’d been transported across the meadow and, later, the sound of a furious storm howling in the night. The storm was still ongoing, though now there was just the steady tattoo of rain on the roof and the occasional flash of lightning, followed by a rumble of thunder that shook the house.
“If you didn’t shoot, who did?”
She shrugged. “All this time, I thought it had been you, even though Mick disagreed. Now I haven’t a clue.”
He studied her slender frame, which she tried to camouflage beneath the baggy clothes. “How did you manage to get me here? Did you have help?”
“I made a travois out of tree limbs and tied it to my horse.”
He thought about the effort it must have cost her to rescue him, bring him down from the mountain, and then get him to this place. “Sorry I caused you so much time and muscle.”
She smiled, showing those dimples. “See that you don’t try that again.”
“This Mick. Is he your husband?”
“No.”
“Is this Mick’s ranch?”
She arched a brow. “It was my father’s. I hope soon it will be mine.”
“Oh. I thought…”
Her smile faded. “Yeah. I get it. What woman in her right mind would want to take on all the work of running a ranch without a man by her side?”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s just…you mentioned Mick a lot.” Luke shrugged.
“When my dad was alive, Mick was in charge of the wranglers. I’m grateful he stayed on, even though he’s doing triple duty for half the pay. He tends the herds, keeps all the buildings and equipment in repair, feeds me, and keeps me from ripping Nadine’s head off.”
“Nadine?”
“My mother. She’s in town tonight. If you’re lucky, maybe she’ll stay there until you’re well enough to leave. If not, you’d better be prepared…” She didn’t finish her sentence as a girl of about six or seven rushed into the room.
“Mick says supper’s ready. Oh.” The girl skidded to a halt when she realized Luke was awake.
“This is my sister, Lily.”
“Hi, Lily. I’m Luke.” Luke managed a smile at the girl, who looked nothing like her older sister. Her hair, a wild tangle of thick, dark curls, fell nearly to her waist. Her eyes were the color of chocolate. She wore faded, patched denims and a shirt that was missing a sleeve.
“Hi, Luke. Are you going to eat with us?”
Ingrid got to her feet. “I think tonight I’ll bring a plate for Luke in here. Maybe by tomorrow he’ll feel strong enough to join us in the kitchen.”
When her older sister walked away, the little girl remained, staring intently. “Are you a bad man?”
“Do I look like a bad man?”
She shrugged. “You look funny with all that hair.”
He touched a hand to his heavily bearded face. “I guess I look more like a big old hairy bear.”
“You do. Or a bad man. But if you say you’re not…” She smiled, displaying the same dimples as her sister. “Do you like roast beef and potatoes?”
At the little girl’s question, he winked at her. “It’s my favorite.”
“I’ll tell Mick.” As she started to scramble away, she paused and turned. “I believe you. I don’t think you’re a bad man.”
“Any reason in particular?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s your smile.”
“Thanks. I like yours, too.”
He lay listening to the sounds of voices in the kitchen and found himself reliving the scene on the mountain, when the herd of mustangs had scattered at the sound of a gunshot. He was pretty sure he’d suffered a concussion. It was the only explanation for this feeling of malaise. It wasn’t like him to willingly lie around doing nothing.
“Here’s your supper.” Ingrid shoved a scarred old coffee table close to the sofa and placed a plate on it before turning away.
“Thanks. And, Ingrid…”
She turned back.
“Thanks for saving my hide and for contacting my family.”
She shot him a look of surprise mingled with pleasure. “You’re welcome. That’s not what you said when Mick and I dragged you in here.”
“What did I say?”
“You condemned us both to…” Her smile was quick and brilliant. “I’d better not repeat it while Lily is apt to overhear. I believe there were a few amazingly inventive curses even I hadn’t heard before.”
“Yeah. That’s me. Creative.” Luke tried to remember. Bits and pieces of being half dragged, half carried across the room, leaving him feeling more dead than alive, played through his mind. His entire body had been on fire by the time they got him to this sofa. He could only imagine how man
y curses he’d lashed out with. Probably as many as he’d been able to think of before passing out cold.
Ingrid returned a little later with a cup of steaming coffee. She glanced at the plate and then at Luke. His eyes were half closed, the remains of most of his dinner still untouched.
Her sister, Lily, trailed behind her. “You didn’t like Mick’s roast beef?”
Luke struggled to rouse himself. “It was good. So were the mashed potatoes. But I didn’t have the energy to finish.”
Lily glanced at Ingrid. “That’s how I felt when I fell off the hay wagon and hit my head. Remember?”
Her older sister’s smile disappeared. “Yeah. You scared me half to death.” She turned to Luke. “Mick wants to know if you want any more of his medicine.”
“You mean his poison? Thanks, but I’ll take my chances without it.”
She bit the corner of her lip to keep from grinning. “I’ll tell him not to bother mixing up another batch.”
“Does he draw a skull and crossbones on it when he’s through?”
Lily stepped closer. “What’s a skull and crossbones?”
“A warning sign for dangerous, poisonous substances.”
“Oh. Like paint thinner and stuff?”
“Yeah. In fact, my first taste of Mick’s medicine reminded me of paint thinner.”
She glanced at Ingrid. “He’s making a joke, isn’t he?”
“I’m glad you recognized that. Proof positive that he’s feeling much better.” She shot a meaningful look at Luke. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yeah. Feeling like a million dollars.”
Ingrid stepped closer and picked up the plate. “Do you need anything?”
Enough energy to get off this lumpy sofa and head home.
Aloud he merely said, “No. I’m good. Thanks.”
“All right. Good night, then.”
“’Night.”
Lily hung back, staring at him as though he had two heads.
He tried for a smile, though his energy was definitely at low ebb. “What’s wrong, Lily?”