She nodded. “I hear you.”
He nodded, too. Realized he was again staring too long into her eyes. Realized that somewhere in the depths of those dark pools, she too knew it was more than just a look. He wondered if she also knew that he was starting to feel something he shouldn’t, something that had a lot of heat to it, something that manifested itself in the vicinity of the whisky bottle leaning heavily against the button-fly opening of his denims.
But still, he didn’t look away. No, he wanted her to see it. In fact, he felt a driving need to know what her reaction would be. He was soon rewarded. The longer he held her gaze, the more her mouth turned down. The more she blinked … and swallowed.
Jack chuckled, breaking the spell. Made her edgy, did he? Good. It was enough for now. He pulled himself upright and quipped, “You’d kill me if I even tried, wouldn’t you?”
Her reply came with a slow nod. “Yes, I would. Ask anybody.”
* * *
It’d been three days now. Angel didn’t know what to think as she stood there on the second floor of the Circle D ranch house and faced Jack Daltry’s closed bedroom door. Just as he’d said, it was the first one, on the left, at the head of the stairs. Twice now she’d put a hand out, meaning to test the brass knob. Was it locked or not? Both times she’d pulled her hand back without trying it. She grimaced fleetingly as she realized she’d been undone by something as simple as a doorknob. But the man hadn’t come out of his room for two days now. Except to get more liquor and act more belligerent.
On his last pass late last evening, he’d been all slack-jawed and weaving. And had smelled to high heaven. He’d also sported a heavy growth of beard. At the rate he was drinking and grieving, Angel figured, she’d be burying him next to his father in a day or so. And that’s what she told herself she was doing outside his bedroom door … checking to see if he was dead and needed burying.
But she knew different. She was concerned. Concerned he would drink himself to death. And that’s what had her flummoxed—her concern. Why should she care if he drank himself to death? Or finally just stumbled and fell and broke his fool neck? If he did, her problem would be solved. There’d be no one left to dispute her claim to the Circle D. At least, no one else had shown up yet to lay another claim to it.
So, that should have settled it for her. Yes, if she had any sense, she’d leave him lying in his own filth until he died and thereby saved her the trouble of having to kill him. That was what she ought to do.
But ought to didn’t seem to cut it today. Because what she was going to do—she still couldn’t believe it herself—was go in there and get the man back on his feet. Why? Angel tried to tell herself she was doing no more than she had for the horse he’d left tied to the railing out front. Hadn’t she had enough compassion to lead the helpless animal to the barn, brush it down, and turn it out to the corral with her roan and the other horses already there? If she’d do that much for a dumb critter, why shouldn’t she do it for a dumb man who wouldn’t even help himself?
But Angel’s shoulders sagged with the truth, with the answer to the question she’d wrestled with repeatedly over the past two days … why was she so danged intent on saving the man from himself? Because, she railed at her rebelling conscience, it’s the right thing to do. Because, no matter how much she’d wished for it or longed for it in her own growing-up years, she’d never had anyone do the right thing by her. Until this man’s father came along.
So, quite simply, she owed Wallace Daltry one good deed, one act of human kindness. Something that, before him, had never been extended to her. Something that she’d never thought herself capable of doing for someone else. Or even caring about doing for someone else. Until Mr. Daltry. So, it seemed pretty straightforward. She would try to save the life of the son of the man who’d saved her life.
Angel shook her head, still resisting this high-and-mighty notion that had taken hold of her. But the hard truth was … if Wallace Daltry could grieve a bit for her mother, even when she herself couldn’t, then she should see his son through his grieving for his father. She grimaced, pulling her lips tight against her teeth. Just the idea of soothing another’s hurt went against her independent nature. But try as she might not to like it, she knew this was the only way she had left to repay Mr. Daltry.
Returning to the moment, Angel realized that not only was she staring at the doorknob, she was gripping it. This time, feeling more sure of her intentions, she didn’t let go. Instead, she exhaled a deep breath, tested the knob … felt it give. Felt her heart lurch. May as well get it over with.
Fine, I’ll do it. But it didn’t come easy. She needed a hedge, she knew, against this nasty streak of caring that had apparently lurked, unbidden, unheeded, inside her until now. She thought a moment, and then came up with it. She promised herself that once Jack Daltry was back on his feet … well, then she’d kill him.
Why? Because she surely didn’t see him just letting her have the Circle D, his home. Would he just hand it over and ride away, after thanking her for her help and telling her he was sorry for the bother of the past few days? Hardly. But, by God, neither would she leave for him. So this galling mission of mercy she was on, she now recognized, was no more than a delay of the inevitable, a tiny bandage stuffed into a cannonball-sized hole in the man’s heart. And in hers.
Enough thinking. Get in there and do it. Pushing her body forward as she came to a decision, Angel twisted the brass knob as far as it would go. The door opened, her momentum swept her inside. She took a breath, preparatory to announcing her presence, but the darkened room’s smell took her by surprise, and she reeled back a step and gagged. Reflexively, her hands sought her mouth, covered her nose, bent her forward.
Spilled liquor, man-sweat, unwashed body—and other noxious odors she didn’t care to identify—had Angel gagging and running for the closed window, one hand still covering her mouth. Trying her best to hold her breath, fighting the tearing of her eyes, she ripped aside the heavy drapes and fought and fumbled with the latch until she could shove the lower casing up and stick her head outside. Bracing herself against the sill, her mouth agape, her lungs burning, she took in gasping, grateful breaths of fresh spring air.
And ignored the slurred grumbling and mumbling coming from the man lying atop the dirty, disheveled bed behind her. But finally, when she felt stronger, Angel turned around and stared at the pitiful sight the big man made, sprawled there on his bed, on his back, one arm and one leg hanging off the covers. He surely did not look anything like the determined stranger who’d ridden in here a few days back. He wasn’t full of piss and vinegar anymore. Well, not vinegar, anyway, she decided, wrinkling her nose against the acrid miasma of odors that still pervaded the room.
Some mighty powerful demons ate at Jack Daltry. Angel understood that. Could even respect it. After all, hadn’t she lived with some of the same all her own life?
She cut that thought off at its inception. She wasn’t here to dwell on her own problems. Nor did she want to. She wasn’t one to give in to pity for herself. But she could pity the snoring jackass on the bed who needed some help. Angel bit at her bottom lip, felt her skin crease between her eyes as she frowned. This was going to take some doing, she realized.
And some scrubbing and some bathing. She pulled away from the window. Her … bathe him? She headed for the door. No. And then stopped.
Yes. She fisted her hands, wanted to stomp her foot. Yes. She gritted her teeth to keep from screaming out her frustration. She couldn’t help the man if she couldn’t stand to be near him. So there it was. She had to clean him up. It was that simple. And that hard. Well, then—she squared her shoulders—so be it. She just needed to get some things, didn’t she? Yes, she did. And it was reason enough to hurry out of the room. Things like soap and water, she assured herself. A lot of soap and water. And some towels. And clean clothes for him.
And a razor. Angel’s knees weakened at the thought, had her groping with her outstretched hand for the s
upport of the solid wall to her left. Her other hand found its way to her thumping heart. A razor. She’d seen one in another bedroom, probably Mr. Daltry’s. She also recalled a shaving mug and a brush beside a porcelain basin and a pitcher on a dry sink there. She’d get that one.
Again she rushed off, heading to the other end of the hall, to the large bedroom facing her. She’d get a razor. A sharp one … to cut Jack Daltry’s beard—if not his throat for putting her in this position, damn him.
* * *
When Jack woke up—or more likely, came back to consciousness—he was suprised. True enough, plenty of times in the past he’d awakened sprawled on a bed. Sometimes, like now, even his own. But always before—and there were a lot of befores—he’d been raunchy dirty, sweat-soaked, and in a mean mood. But not this time. His sense of smell, his awareness of himself, the physical sensations, all told him he was clean. Him, his bed, his body, and—He felt under the sheet … where were his clothes?
He smoothed his hand up to his bare chest and rested it there as he tried to pull up the memory of cleaning himself and his bed. And found he had no such recollection. Well, what about his mood? He focused inward, checked that. Nope. Not even the meanness to see him through the hangover. Just the aching headache, the roiling gut … and the brightest damned sunshine he’d ever seen in his life.
He grimaced against the pain of the light hitting his pupils and brought a shaking hand up to rub over his eyelids and then down his jaw and his neck. Over his Adam’s apple, his hand froze as he realized what he felt. Clean-shaven skin. What the—? Now, wait just a damned minute … he’d been too drunk to risk shaving. That much he knew. What was going on here? He edged his eyes open, glimpsed again the bare ceiling, the glare of sunlight, and immediately squeezed his eyes shut again.
“Sorry about the nicks and cuts on your throat. I never—”
Jack’s entire body jerked at the sound of the female voice. He wrenched to his left—paid the hefty physical price of a pounding heart and burning muscles—and saw Angel Devlin pulling up a chair to sit beside his bed. “I was just saying I’d never shaved a man before,” she finished.
Jack stared at her and considered her words. She’d shaved him? And undressed him and bathed him, too? Why? But beyond that, how’d she do all that, and even change the linens, with him in the bed? He blinked, tugging on the top sheet, trying to distribute it more evenly over his lower regions. Even that bit of movement hurt. Still, he managed to croak out, “You’d never shaved a man before? And you just thought you’d start with me?”
“Yep,” she drawled. “Thought I would.”
“Why?” he asked as he rolled onto his back. He winced, and his gut clenched. It hurt just to talk.
“Why? Well … because you needed it,” came the practical response from the woman in the chair beside his bed.
Jack remained silent for a moment, concentrating on breathing, until he felt equal to the task of turning his head to see her. “I did?” he got out, taking in her appearance as she nodded her answer.
Her hair was pulled back behind her ears and tied at her nape, making the marks around her neck, though fainter, more stark in appearance. Her longish bangs brushed against her eyelashes, making her blink. And her attire … it was all his. His blue chambray shirt, which was much too big for her slender form, was open at the throat and unbuttoned enough to expose a white bit of her undergarment. It’d taken about three turns of the sleeves, he noted, to expose her hands and wrists.
His gaze slipped down to her belted denims. Well, his denims … which were also too big. The belt fit her. It must be hers, he concluded. This was mighty interesting. He’d seen women in men’s clothes before. The prairie and mountains were full of women making do with what was at hand. He’d been surprised early on by the sight, but hadn’t given it too much thought after that. Until now. Angel Devlin looked good in his clothes. And he liked it.
Afraid his scrutiny of her had given away his thoughts, Jack sought her gaze, saw she’d calmly been watching him notice every detail about her. And yep, he’d given himself away, if her slightly raised eyebrows were any indication. In sudden irritation, Jack wondered why she wasn’t the least bit embarrassed or squeamish about him gazing at her. After all, most young girls her age—he judged her to be about eighteen or nineteen—would be.
Then he realized it was hardly surprising. Angel Devlin wasn’t most young girls. She hadn’t led the protected life they usually did.
And that only made him wonder what thoughts did lurk behind those wide and amazingly black eyes of hers, whenever he raked his gaze over her. To his surprise, especially given his present state, he found he really meant that. He really wanted to know. And couldn’t have said why. Or didn’t want to own up to why. And so, in an effort to avoid his own awareness of her, he asked, “How long have I been out?”
She shrugged. “Off and on since late last evening. It’s mid-afternoon now, so I expect you’ll live. But before that, you’d been drinking for two days.”
Two—no … three days, all told? He’d lost three days? Damn. What had put him on this bender? He tried to come up with the answer, but couldn’t. It hurt too much to think. But still, he’d known instantly who she was. So, at some point, they’d been introduced. Introduced? Was that all they’d been? Jack flicked a glance her way. He was in bed naked. And she didn’t seem the least bit concerned that he was. Shouldn’t his conclusion be the obvious one?
Damn. Me and Angel Devlin. Whew. Jack wished he could remember that. But with every muscle—every hair even—aching and burning, and his abused stomach threatening to empty itself with his next movement, all he could do was lie there. And settle for deep, gentle breathing. After a moment, when he was more able, he licked his lips and swallowed, then asked, “What the hell is going on?”
Her answer was slow in coming. Her very silence did nothing to relieve Jack’s mind. He rolled his head just enough to see her, just enough to send her a questioning look. “You don’t remember?” she finally answered … with a question.
Exasperated, Jack answered, “If I did, I wouldn’t be troubling myself right now with conversation.”
“Fair enough. You’ve been drinking to forget.”
“Well, I must have done a good job because I have forgotten. What exactly have I forgotten?”
Angel Devlin firmed her lips together and stared at him. Jack’s senses went on the alert. Whatever she had to say, he wasn’t going to like it, he could tell. Finally, she spoke, saying, “I hate to be the one to tell you again but … your father … well, he’s dead.”
Jack stared at her, tried to absorb her words, and their meaning. Your father’s dead. What did that mean? He’d expected her to tell him that they’d had themselves quite a time together right here in this bed. But not this. He’d never expected this. Then, like a gut punch, it hit him, came rushing back at him. All of it … everything since he’d ridden up three days ago. He squeezed his eyes shut, fought back the pain.
“I see you remember now. I’m real sorry,” she said.
Jack didn’t—couldn’t—respond. His father was dead. His mind couldn’t stand the words and flitted to another reality. She was still here. He opened his eyes. She hadn’t moved. She sat there, her hands clutched together in her lap, her expression composed. “Why are you still here?” he said.
She cocked her head, raised her chin. “You mean on the ranch? Or in this room?”
“I mean on the Circle D.” Then he thought about it. “Well, both, I guess. Neither one makes much sense. Not to me.”
Her first response was a careless shrug, which annoyed the hell out of Jack. Did she always have to appear so calm and unruffled? But her attitude didn’t prove half as upsetting as did her simple answer. “I’m on the Circle D because I live here. I told you that. And I’m in this room because I felt a need to save your sorry ass from your drunken self.”
Jack bolted up onto an elbow, forcing himself to ignore the throbbing that pounded at hi
s temples. “If my sorry ass needs saving, I’ll do it,” he all but snarled, adding, “And like hell you live here. You do not.”
Her eyes narrowed. Her lips firmed. But she didn’t say anything. Jack concluded that she didn’t have a comeback. A slow grin of triumph curved his lips, but then she said, “We’ll see about that, Mr. Daltry.”
Jack’s grin fled. A challenge, if ever he’d heard one. Then, she added, “Once you’re back on your feet, we’ll straighten this out.” With that, she made as if to rise from the chair.
Jack snaked out a cautionary hand, grabbing her arm and holding her in place. “Wait. I’m back on my feet enough for you to answer my questions right now.”
Frozen in position, she looked pointedly at his hand on her arm. Then she slanted her head until her gaze met his. Her long hair slithered over her shoulder. Something in her dark eyes glinted, warning him. Jack released her arm. Still holding her gaze, he waited on her, thought he knew her struggle. She’d said her piece. She should walk out. Her other option was to let her curiosity get the better of her and sit back down.
The moments dragged by. Then, she made her decision … and resettled herself on the chair.
Jack exhaled, realized he was relieved. A flash of surprise, almost subconscious in nature, told him he’d been holding his breath, hoping she’d stay. Now that’s crazy, he chastized himself. He squinted to prove it, massaging a hand over his face and telling himself he’d closed his eyes against the sunlight … and not her stare. A little voice inside his head asked him if he was afraid of her. Jack’s hand stilled. Afraid of her? He lowered his hand to his side and stared at the ceiling, telling it, Hell no. So ask her your question, the voice persisted.
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