Wildfire in His Arms

by Johanna Lindsey

  His gaze swiftly shifted to her. “You’re joking, right?”

  She grinned. “Yeah.”

  “It still sounds like I put you to a lot of trouble. You should have just fetched a doctor.”

  “I thought about it. But it would have taken two days, getting there and back. I’m pretty sure you would’ve bled out by then.”

  She glanced back at the wounded area. She’d tried to press the blade only against the bullet hole, but she’d still burned about an inch of skin on either side of it.

  “I don’t suppose it’s still numb?” she asked hopefully.

  “Still?”

  “On the way here you said you didn’t feel any pain. That really worried me.”

  “Not something you need to be concerned with now.”

  She winced again, imagining the pain he was experiencing, and turned toward the fire. “Food’s hot if you think you can sit up a little to eat it. Or I suppose I could spoon-feed you.”

  He snorted. That was a reassuring sound and one he’d never before made in her presence. It figured he’d let down his guard a little in his weakened condition.

  She brought him a bowl of stew and dug into his food sack for the remaining bread so Degan could dip it into the stew. She needed to go through Artemus’s supplies to see if he had the fixings for more bread, or if he just existed on meat, fruit, and wild vegetables as she’d been doing. She’d seen a lot of mushrooms and dandelions in the woods. She could bring some of those back tomorrow.

  Degan had managed to sit up a little to eat, leaning back against the wall behind the bed with just a pillow to cushion him. The bed had no headboard and just a box frame, but at least he had a mattress. It was better than the floor, which is where she would be sleeping. She had no idea how long it would take for him to recover and be able to ride again. But he was a strong, healthy man, so maybe no more than a week or two. Just seeing him sitting up holding a bowl of stew made her happy.

  She got another bowl of stew for herself and dragged the one chair over to the bed so she could eat with Degan. At least he had an appetite. That was a good sign, she supposed.

  “What did you put in this?”

  She grinned. Conversation! “Plantain, mushrooms, and dried rabbit meat, so don’t expect it to be tender. I’ll take stock of what’s here and make something fresher tomorrow. Already have quail soup planned for lunch.”

  “You went hunting?”

  “Not really. I was just scouting out the woods a little. But I surprised some quail. Got one before they all scattered.” Then she took a chance that his guard was down enough for him to talk about himself some. “You think your lady friend has given up on you and gone back home?”

  “She’s not a friend—anymore.”

  “But she used to be?”

  “My siblings and I grew up with her.”

  His tone had turned frigid, so she steered away from his old friend Allison. “How many siblings do you have?”

  “My sister died in her teens. It’s just my brother, Flint, and me.”

  “Is he anything like you?”

  “No, we’re nothing alike. We never were.”

  “So Flint laughs, smiles, and doesn’t end up killing folks in his line of work?”

  She said it with a smile so he’d know she was just teasing, but he still gave her a nasty look. “He doesn’t work.”

  “Ah, that’s right, your family lives in the big city and is rich. What does that make him, a pampered do-nothing?”

  “Are you trying to rile me up by asking about my family?”

  “No, I just have no idea what that sort of life is like. It sounds boring. Is it? Is that why you came West?”

  He didn’t answer that. She supposed he found his brother a more palatable subject because he said, “Flint is a charmer. He could survive on that alone, rich or not. He’d make an excellent politician if he had any ambition, but our father never pushed him in that direction.”

  “So you were groomed to take over, as you said, but he wasn’t?”

  “He should have been, but, no, he wasn’t. Which my father probably regrets now.”

  “Tell me about your father and why you hate him?”

  “I don’t hate him.”

  “You just don’t care about him one way or the other?”

  “We merely had a falling out.”

  “About?”

  He didn’t answer, merely handed her his empty bowl. She headed to the door and the water barrel outside, so she barely heard him say, “He asked something of me that I wasn’t willing to do. He was adamant, but so was I. That’s why I left.”

  Just like that? Max thought, perplexed. What kind of disagreement between a father and a son could be powerful enough to make a man turn his back on wealth and privilege—and everything he’d been groomed for?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  DEGAN WAS KISSING MAX, but he knew he shouldn’t be. He’d sworn he wouldn’t do that again. He had better resolve than this. What had happened to change his mind? He couldn’t think, didn’t want to when she was clinging to him so sweetly. But then he smelled the roses mixed with the scent of hay. Max didn’t smell of roses. . . .

  He glanced up and saw the hay spread out around them and Allison lying beneath him. He shouldn’t be making love to her in the stable, but she’d kissed him there and it was the happiest day of his life, the day she’d picked him, so he couldn’t help himself.

  She was his first love. She was his only love. Flint had loved her, too. Their competition had been fierce but friendly, but it had gone on too long, from the time they were children, when they’d started vying for her attention, to the present, when they both wanted to marry her. She’d encouraged their rivalry because she enjoyed having the two most eligible men in town pursuing her.

  Degan and Flint had fought over Allison, even coming to blows a few times. But while they both wanted her, they were still brothers. Their bond was stronger. Degan would have been sorely disappointed but still glad for Flint if Allison had chosen him instead. And Flint had given in graciously when she’d finally chosen Degan to be her husband. Degan had expected no less.

  Degan’s happiness faded. Adelaide Miller was yelling at him, “If you can’t hit it, you die. Pay attention, boy!”

  He didn’t like guns. The last one he’d held had been his father’s dueling pistol. After what he’d done with it, he’d sworn never to touch another gun again. But it was in his hand now. And there it was again, the scream that had caused him to fetch it from the study. He ran upstairs to find out why she was screaming, up the curved stairs, the endless stairs. Why couldn’t he get to the top of them? And the heat was everywhere. It felt as if the house were burning down it was so hot. Was that why she was screaming? But no smoke filled the air, just the smell of roses. Her smell. Leading him upstairs. Her scream, and he couldn’t get to her no matter how fast he ran! But he had to save her. She meant everything to him, but the damn stairs wouldn’t end. . . .

  “I wasn’t going to use it,” a female voice was saying. “Don’t trust him farther than I can spit. It could have been poison. But I got desperate when your fever got worse instead of better. Can you hear me? Damnit, Degan, I thought you were waking up.”

  It was Max’s voice, and her endearing annoyance, which made him want to smile. Degan could feel her moving a cold, wet cloth over his chest. He didn’t open his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. If he was, he’d rather continue with this dream than that nightmare.

  “Don’t trust who?”

  “Oh, thank God!” Max gasped. “You need to eat this while you can.”

  He opened his eyes to see her thrusting a bowl at him. “What is it?”

  “Turkey and dandelion soup, with some nettle stalks.”

  He carefully leaned on his side to eat her soup. He still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming, and she still looked anxious. “Did something else happen?”

  “You wouldn’t wake up for two days, Degan,” she said ac
cusingly. “Scared the bejesus out of me. Now drink the soup. You need to regain your strength. Having some food will help you to sleep normally.”

  He did, and thankfully without any more dreams. When he woke again, the cabin was mostly dark, only a low light coming from the fireplace. Max was sleeping on the horse blankets laid out on the floor in the corner. She wasn’t covered, for with the windows and door closed, the fire kept the room warm. She was fully dressed, curled on her side, using her coat for a pillow. She was probably worn-out, tending to him. One more thing he owed her for.

  Taking the sheet with him, he carefully made his way outside to relieve himself. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so weak before. He swayed quite a bit. He wasn’t even sure he could make it back to the bed, he felt so drained. And sore. He ached all over, not just on his left side. But Max would be angry with him in the morning if she found him passed out outside, so he forced himself to get back to the bed.

  He managed not to wake her and sat for a few minutes staring at her. She should just look adorable lying there so innocently, curled up like a child, her feet bare. But she looked sexy, too, with her bandanna off, her shirt unbuttoned to her breasts, one curve partially visible—and he was never going to get that night they’d shared in Montana out of his mind.

  After their first kiss that hot day in Montana, he wasn’t at all surprised by what had happened that night. Too much had led to it, too many times seeing her in scanty attire, too many times wanting her even when she was fully dressed. Like now.

  It had been the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life, asking her that night if she wanted him to stop. And the next morning she wouldn’t let him do the honorable thing, had even gotten angry about his offer to marry her. So be it. It had been a mistake and she wasn’t going to let it lead to a bigger one. What had she said? That she’d wait for some good, happy reasons to marry. She was absolutely right. That was the only right reason to marry—because you’d found the person who could make you truly happy and you believed the other person felt the same way about you.

  Max had probably saved his life by taking that bullet out of him. She might have saved his life in Butte, too. He owed her a resolution to her problem in Texas, not more complications.

  He slept again, and the nightmare returned. But this time he reached the top of the stairs. . . .

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  MAX WOKE UP DRENCHED in sweat. She probably shouldn’t have closed the windows before going to sleep last night. But the flies hadn’t wanted to leave Degan’s wound alone. It had taken her over an hour to kill them all, and then she’d been afraid the cool night air might bring back his fever.

  She headed to the pond with her bar of soap for a quick scrubbing. She wanted to be there when Degan woke up again because she was still worried about him. The past two days had been awful! She’d thought he was going to die on her. She’d never felt anyone that hot before. And when he wouldn’t wake up no matter how loud she yelled at him, she’d been terrified. She’d even cried, she’d felt so inadequate to nurse him. She’d almost opened his wound again, had even thought of cauterizing it again. Rubbing his chest and face with cold cloths didn’t work either. Nothing helped!

  Finally, she’d been desperate enough to try Jackson’s powder yesterday afternoon. It had worked faster than she could have hoped. The redness fanning out around his wound had started to recede, and this morning the last signs of the inflammation were gone. And after three days, scabs were forming, so maybe she hadn’t burned him as badly as she’d thought.

  When she returned to the cabin feeling somewhat refreshed, she found Degan still asleep. She considered heating some water and bathing him with a cloth before he woke. She hadn’t wanted to do it last night. With him finally sleeping peacefully, she didn’t want to disturb him. That fevered sleep had been exhausting for both of them. He’d tossed, he’d talked, he’d even yelled at one point, all the while delirious. And she’d been afraid to leave his side, had even slept in the chair next to him until she fell out of it and bruised her elbow.

  Rubbing him down with a cool cloth when he was in the throes of delirium was one thing. But doing something so intimate when he could wake and his eyes could land on her was a different thing altogether. She decided against it. If he really was better, he could wash himself. So she went to cook instead.

  “I need a bath.”

  Max smiled to herself. Awake and sounding normal, he could do some real recovering now. “No baths for you, fancy man. You don’t want to get your scabs wet. I’ll bring you some water to wash with after you eat this.”

  She handed him a bowl of corn mush, then grabbed one for herself and sat down in the chair she’d kept by his bedside since the fever had started. “So how do you feel this morning?”

  “Tired, like I haven’t slept in a month.”

  “Yeah, fevered sleep isn’t restful sleep. I had a fever when I was a kid, but Gran knew how to get rid of it fast. Wish I’d asked her how.”

  “How long did I have a fever?”

  “Nearly three days.”

  “And I was poisoned?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said something about poison, or did I dream it?”

  “Oh, that. You might recall Jackson was here when we arrived. He helped me get you into the bed and left me a pouch of powder. He said it was good for wounds, but I didn’t believe him so I didn’t use it—until nothing I did helped. Turns out the powder worked well.”

  “Is he still here?”

  “No, he left. I sort of insisted.”

  “Why, because he’s a coward and a liar?”

  “Yeah, he admitted he was the Nolan gang’s town man. Said he tried to quit when he heard they killed someone, but they wouldn’t let him. He used you to solve that problem for him. He should be paying you for the job, if you ask me, not the other way around.”

  “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  She blushed a little, uncomfortable with his gratitude. “Don’t mention it.” But then she grinned and teased, “I was just ensuring that you stay alive long enough to help me out in Bingham Hills.”

  “That didn’t require such tender care.”

  She really blushed now. She hadn’t been all that tender with him. She’d been so frantic and afraid of losing him that she’d even hit him at one point to make him wake up.

  She quickly changed the subject. “So who smells like roses?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said I didn’t and I know I don’t, so who were you talking to that smelled like roses?”

  “When?”

  “In your sleep.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Did he just lie to her? His guard must still be down if he was so obvious about it. She might be able to get him to talk about himself again if she casually led him into it. And if it wouldn’t tax him. His recovery was more important than her curiosity right now.

  But he wanted to know, “What else did I say?”

  “Not much. You had such a high fever most of what you said was garbled. You said you hated guns. I thought that was pretty funny. You really used to hate them?”

  “Where’s mine?”

  She chuckled as she fetched his Colt and put it on the small crate beside the bed that the trapper had been using as a nightstand. “Don’t think you’re not answering my question,” she warned teasingly.

  He stared at her for a moment. She wondered if he was actually debating with himself about answering her. If he was, he probably wouldn’t. But then he did. “I never had cause to think about guns in Chicago. They aren’t worn or carried in the city except by officers of the law—or criminals. My father had a pair of dueling pistols that he kept loaded in his study, but they were merely for show, a prized possession that had belonged to his own father in the days when dueling for honor was still practiced. Father never had occasion to use them himself. But then my sister, Ivy, was shot and killed, caught in the crossfire of a fleeing thief and the law
officer chasing him down a city street.”

  Max gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  “It shouldn’t have happened. My mother had taken her shopping. Ivy had just stepped out of a store. Mother was right behind her and saw it happen. She blamed herself.”

  “Why? Something like that is tragic, but—”

  “Because Ivy was supposed to ride with Flint and me in Lincoln Park that morning. Mother usually shopped alone, but that day she wanted company and insisted that Ivy join her. I suppose I hated guns because a gunshot killed my sister.”

  Yet he’d taken them up when he came West, even became notorious because of them, Max thought. So he must have hated something else even more, something that had sent him in this direction to a completely different way of life.

  “Is your mother still alive?”

  “No, she died less than a year later. She let her health decline, just lost the will to live. She couldn’t let go of the guilt.”

  Max sighed. She would never have guessed that Degan had experienced so much tragedy in his life. No wonder he kept his emotions locked away. Had he done that for so long that he’d lost the ability to feel anything? Well, she knew he could still feel passion. She could vouch for that! But that was more a natural reaction, an instinct rather than an emotion. Maybe she was reading too much into his sister’s death. Maybe he didn’t show his feelings because of what he’d implied to her before, that he couldn’t afford emotion in his line of work.

  She took his empty bowl and refilled it. After handing it back to him, she sat down again and said casually, “You mentioned that your father probably regretted not raising your brother the way he raised you. But couldn’t he have remedied that by teaching your brother everything he taught you? It’s never too late to learn.”

  “It is when you grow up without taking responsibility for anything and never expect to have any responsibilities. Flint’s biggest decisions concerned which party to attend—and who to bed afterward. He shies away from anything more serious than that.”