It gave her a start when she realized his eyes were open, his stare wide and unblinking. Before she knew what he was about he'd clamped his hands around her wrists and dragged her close. Their eyes locked. It was as if he were seeing her for the very first time.
"Lorelei?" he whispered.
"No, Kane." She was half-afraid to speak. "I'm Abby, remember? Abby!"
He paid no heed. In the blink of an eye his expression changed to one of sheer disbelief. The hair on the back of Abby's neck prickled eerily. He stared at her, but clearly he saw someone else.
The grip on her wrists tightened painfully. "It can't be," he said hoarsely. "It can't be ..." The muscles in his throat worked rhythmically. "Did you know they're going to hang me?" His tone grew frantic. "They're going to hang me ..."
He released her. "No!" he cried. "You can't do this! Lorelei... I loved her... Don't you know I loved her? You can't do this... I don't want to die--"
Scalding tears slid down her cheeks. She cradled his face between her palms. "Hush," she said raggedly.
"Don't let them hang me." His eyes were wild and glazed and pleading. "Please, don't let them hang me." He threw an arm across his face. Dry, racking sobs tore from his throat.
Abby closed her eyes, as if to drown out the sound of his torment, the tightness in her chest nearly unbearable. She wrapped her arms around him and clung, willing away the tremors that racked his body. But even as her heart went out to him, a bone-deep despair crept over her.
Lorelei, whoever she was, was someone Kane had once loved deeply. For the life of her, Abby didn't know why the knowledge hurt so much.
But it did. God help her, it did.
It was a faint tugging on her scalp that wakened her. Rousing slowly, Abby realized she must have dozed. She raised her head and spied darkly tanned fingers inching through the wild tangle of her hair where it lay on the mattress.
She sat up. Kane was awake and watching her, his eyes shadowed but clear. With his fingertips he skimmed the dampness from her cheek. Although he was foggy and dazed, his heart contracted. Tears? For him?
Abby pressed a hand to her cheeks. Her eyes were scratchy and swollen. No doubt her face was blotchy and red. She felt suddenly shy and awkward. "I must look a fright."
His gaze was moving hungrily over her features—or did she only imagine it was hunger? But she knew she didn't imagine his mumbled, "You look beautiful."
There was a huskiness to his voice that had never been there before. Abby thrilled to it.
"Are you hungry? Dorothy fixed hot broth, in case you woke up—" She broke off at the mute question in his gaze. "Dorothy's the housekeeper. We brought you here to the Diamondback after you passed out. Do you remember?"
He grimaced, shifting a little. Pain like a white-hot brand shot through his shoulder. "I remember the ground coming up at me and that's about it." His voice was low and hoarse.
"The wound in your shoulder reopened. Dr. Foley said it was a wonder you made it this far. He cleaned it and sewed it closed so it wouldn't tear again." She wet her lips. "You must be hungry," she said again.
He shook his head. "Thirsty more than hungry."
Abby poured a glass full of cool water from the pitcher across the room. She sat on the bed and slipped an arm around his shoulders, levering his head up and touching the glass to his fever-parched lips. He drank thirstily, swallowing almost the entire contents of the glass. His head fell back upon the pillow. Abby half-rose, intending to set aside the glass.
Kane turned his head. He blinked at her, his eyes bleary. "Don't go," he mumbled.
Abby sank back down. His hand groped across the blanket, blindly searching. She clasped his palm between both of hers. With a sound that was half- laugh, half-sob, she rubbed her cheek across his knuckles.
She stayed by his side the night through. Dorothy crept in at dawn's first light. Kane was sleeping peacefully, as he had most of the night. Dorothy shooed Abby to her room to lay down. Abby didn't argue; her shoulders drooped with fatigue.
It was late morning when she awoke. She washed quickly and changed into a gaily patterned blue skirt and a white blouse. She was still braiding her hair when she stepped into Kane's room. Dr. Foley was there, bending over Kane, wrapping a new bandage around his shoulder. Dorothy stood nearby.
She entered with a rustle of skirts. "How is he?"
"Better than I expected," Dr. Foley said, smiling cheerfully, "especially since Dorothy tells me he had quite a fever yesterday. I'd say his temperature is just about back to normal, and his color is good." He winked at her. "Anytime you'd like a job as a nurse, just let me know."
He turned back to Kane. "You can have broth today, solid food tomorrow. I'll stop by and take those stitches out in a week. By then you'll be good as new. Just don't take it in your head to get too frisky on these two ladies. You can get up and take a turn around the room this evening, but no further." He started toward the door, then waved Abby off when he saw she meant to follow. "I can see myself out. No need to bother."
Dorothy left as well. She smiled briefly at Abby and closed the door quietly behind her.
Their eyes caught and held. Dr. Foley was right, Abby thought fleetingly. He was much better. He lay propped against a mound of pillows, watching her approach. His features were gaunt but there was an alertness about him that hadn't been there yesterday. Abby laid a tentative hand on his forehead. His skin was cool to the touch.
"How are you feeling?" she asked softly.
"Like hell," he muttered in his usual blunt manner.
Abby smiled. She couldn't help it. The relief that flooded her was immense. He was going to pull through. She could have shouted with relief and happiness.
He glared at her. "You think it's funny? I suppose you like seeing me in pain."
She banished the urge to grin from ear to ear. "You must be starving," she murmured smoothly. "I'll bring you some broth."
"I had broth this morning," he informed her crossly. "Frankly, I'd like something a little more substantial—no, make that a lot more substantial—"
"Not a chance," Abby said firmly. "The doctor said not until tomorrow and that's that."
She smiled He glared. "Now then," she said lightly, "I'm sure Dorothy has some broth warm in the kitchen."
"Who's Dorothy. The housekeeper?"
"Yes. The lady who sums up the extent of our household staff—" She couldn't quite keep the censure from her tone. "—the lady who didn't run screaming out the door when she discovered that you, dangerous outlaw that you are, would be spending the next few nights under our roof."
He had the grace to drop his eyes. Nevertheless, he managed to have the last word. "She's as bossy as you are," he muttered. Abby didn't mind, though. She picked up her skirts and swept from the room. Kane was going to be fine and nothing could dim her joy right now.
She soon discovered Kane was smarting because he couldn't feed himself. Rather than have him waste his energy arguing, she decided to let him try it. But it was obvious the slightest movement pained his shoulder. By the fourth spoonful, his hand began to shake so dreadfully it spilled all down the front of the napkin she'd placed on his chest. He let out a vivid string of curses. Without a word Abby took up the handle and spooned the fragrant broth into his mouth.
He voiced no protest when she brought a basin of warm water to the bedside table and announced her intention to give him a bath—at least not until she lathered a cloth with soap.
He swore. "Dammit, I don't want to smell like a two-dollar whore—"
She whirled on him, fire in her eyes. "For heaven's sake, watch your tongue," she snapped. "Besides, as I recall you demanded I use this very same soap the last time you . .. the last time we ..." She stopped, realizing that particular memory was better left undisturbed.
It was too late. Their eyes caught and held endlessly, reflecting the same sizzling awareness that kindled inside both of them. Kane was the first to glance away. Abby lowered herself to the edge of the bed, her
posture unnaturally stiff.
Kane didn't look at her as he spoke. "Maybe you should call Dorothy."
As hesitant as her expression was, her response came swiftly. "I'll do it." I want to, she almost said, only barely curtailing the words. Relegating such an intimate task to someone else, even Dorothy, just didn't bear thinking about.
She soaped his arms first, careful to avoid jarring his shoulder, trying hard to distance her mind from the task at hand. Her heart fluttered—and so did her breath. His skin was very dark against the white sheet folded flat against the plane of his belly, just below the hair-enclosed hollow of his navel. He was lean and tough, all strong, hard male.
Not once did she allow her hands to touch his bare skin. She kept the barrier of the washcloth between them, but her fingers displayed an embarrassing tendency to linger along the roped hardness of his muscles. Trying to subdue her feelings was even harder. Twice she glanced up to find Kane's eyes on her face, his features strangely somber. His scrutiny flustered and disturbed her. If only she knew what lurked behind those silver eyes; if only she could see into his mind and discover his very thoughts.
If only she could see deep within his heart!
Next she soaped the beard-roughened stubble on his face and throat. Picking up a long, glinting razor and strop, she drew the edge down the strop several times. When she turned back to Kane she found him still watching her, one brow raised high.
"I don't suppose this is a good time to ask if you know how to use it." He spoke from the corner of his mouth.
Her smile was slow but breathtaking. Tiny lights appeared in her eyes, lighting them to blue silver. Kane felt as if he'd been kicked in the gut. This was the first time he'd seen her smile—really smile. A purely selfish pleasure rushed through him. He felt greedy and intoxicated.
"Let's just say this is not a good time to pick a fight with me." She couldn't quite keep the thread of amusement from her tone. "Just hold still and don't move, all right?"
The razor scraped slowly from his sideburn down to his jaw. Kane couldn't have moved if he wanted to. Her brow was furrowed in concentration. The tip of her tongue darted out, pink and wet, as she applied herself to her task. The neckline of her blouse gaped slightly, offering him a glimpse of white satin and the delectably rounded top of her breast, tantalizingly close to his chest. He branded himself a cad for looking, yet what else could he do? He didn't dare turn his head.
A delicious fantasy burst in his brain. He saw Abby astride him, her hips clamped tight around his own. Her hair was glorious and unbound, rippling over her naked shoulders, her nipples peeping impudently from between honey-gold strands that brushed the taut skin of his belly. Her breasts swayed gently in tempo with the eager glide of her body over his thrusting rod.
Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead by the time she finished. Sick or no, his body displayed an all-too-familiar reaction to her nearness.
He swallowed. He'd cut his own throat before he'd let her shave him again. He'd never considered shaving an erotic experience--until now.
She finished blotting the last of the soap from his cheeks, then paused.
"What is it?" he asked gruffly. "Don't like what you see?"
"It's not that," she said quickly. She smiled slightly. "I'm just not used to seeing you clean-shaven."
The admission slipped out before she could stop it. She flushed, all at once uncomfortably warm, when she realized her hand still rested on the sun-bronzed hardness of his chest. It looked dainty and fair, curled against the dark forest of hair on his chest and belly. Despite his illness, he made her feel small and weak, not that she minded, oddly enough. He had only to look at her and she felt all shivery inside.
"I don't imagine your brother is thrilled I booted him out of his room." Kane glanced around the bedroom. The furnishings were tall and spare, of dark polished wood. A pair of antique rifles hung on the opposite wall. Clearly it was a man's room.
Abby withdrew her hand to the safety of her lap. "Not at all," she said quickly. "Dillon doesn't sleep here at the ranch. In fact, he hasn't lived here for years. He has a small house in town. It makes it easier—with him being marshal and all."
Kane digested this news silently, watching as she moved to straighten the lace doily on the bureau. She'd have liked to stay and keep him company, but she sensed he was tired. She quietly withdrew and left him to nap.
She returned that evening with more broth. He talked her into bringing him a portion of the stew that she, Lucas and Dorothy ate for dinner. It certainly seemed to do him no harm. In fact, he seemed much stronger than he had all day. She decided this was a good time to get him on his feet.
She tapped a fingertip against one pearly-white tooth. "Maybe I should get Lucas."
"Lucas?"
"Dorothy's husband. He's the ranch foreman."
"What for?" he demanded. "There's not a damn thing wrong with my legs. Just help me get on my feet and I'll be fine." Abby wasn't so certain, but she decided to keep quiet. He pushed back the covers with his good arm and lowered his legs to the floor. Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. His naked chest seemed to jump out at her. Despite his illness, his raw masculinity leaped out at her, making her feel all jittery inside. She was sincerely grateful he still wore his drawers.
He got to his feet. He swayed unsteadily and Abby instinctively slid her arm around the steely expanse of his waist. When his head cleared, he took several short steps.
"Damn! My legs feel like mush."
"It's because you've been off your feet so long. You're doing fine. The next time you're up you won't feel so weak."
He turned his head. His chin grazed feathery-soft wisps of hair at her temples. The scent of wildflowers and her soft, yielding body against his did nothing to ease his dizziness. By the time they'd walked around the room three times, his shoulder was throbbing and his head whirled so he could scarcely think. He collapsed onto the bed with a muttered curse.
"Hell! I can't walk. I can't even feed myself. What the hell kind of man am I?" He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the blackness that threatened to snare him once again.
A gentle hand brushed a lock of hair from his brow. Small fingers interlocked with his. My kind of man, whispered a voice as soft as fleece.
His mind spun and drifted. Surely he was dreaming. Abby never would have uttered such foolishness. Never in a million years...
Chapter 17
The next day Kane showed a remarkable improvement, the third still more. Abby decided he was well enough to eat in the dining room with the rest of them. Lucas had joined them for dinner. Abby explained that he and Dorothy had always eaten with the family.
A week ago Kane would have accused her of lying if she'd told him she ate with the hired help. Suffering pangs of guilt, he now shamefully ducked his head as she said the blessing.
He was downright nervous, though he hated to admit it, even to himself. It had been a long time since he'd sat down to a meal with decent people. But at least Dorothy wasn't the fire-breathing dragon he'd first thought. And Lucas was friendly and amiable. It wasn't long before the tight knot in his stomach was gone. He listened quietly when the conversation turned to ranch business. Abby and Lucas discussed the expected yield for next year's herd—and the market price as well. It was clear Abby was no novice when it came to building a herd. When he commented on it, Lucas gave a shout of laughter.
"Son, this little gal was up in the saddle when she was three and riding herd when she was no bigger than a beanpole. Her pa used to brag she was a match for any cowhand a hundred miles around."
Heat scorched Abby's cheeks. Kane absorbed this latest bit of news with mounting insight. Somehow, it fit. She wouldn't be content to sit on the porch and give orders. And he knew for a fact she wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty.
But he'd done her a disservice, he realized grimly, for nothing about this woman was as he'd thought. She wasn't spoiled and pampered. She was smart and strong and sassy, a woman quite u
nlike any other.
All along he'd reviled her for what he'd considered her preconceived notions about him. But he was just as guilty—no, far more guilty—of judging her unfairly than she had been of judging him.
The knowledge left a bad taste in his mouth.
Dorothy and Lucas insisted on cleaning up. A hand curled inside his elbow, Abby showed him into the parlor, a warm, cozy room filled with sunshine, braided rugs and several big overstuffed chairs. She returned to the kitchen after he eased into the settee opposite the huge stone fireplace. Kane glanced around, calling himself every kind of jackass, because even in this he'd been wrong. He'd expected her home to be far more grand and pretentious. Instead it was homey and comfortable.
The kind of place he would have liked to call home.
Where the thought came from, he didn't know. But he was thoroughly annoyed. Damn! What was wrong with him? He might have been a homebody once, but that was years ago—and with Lorelei. A lot had changed since then—everything had changed since then.
Abby returned carrying two cups of coffee. She placed his on the small table before him, then perched on the other end of the settee. "That was quite an enlightening meal, wasn't it?" Her tone was falsely bright. "I suppose I should have warned you Lucas can be rather frank, sometimes a little too frank. But at least you know the truth about Abigail MacKenzie ... I'm afraid she's not much of a woman."
Kane stopped in the midst of reaching for his coffee. He glanced at her sharply. "Why on earth would you say that?" he demanded.
"Why else? Because I'm twenty-one years old, I grew up on this ranch, and just about the only man I've ever spent time with was Pa." Abby looked away and whispered, "I've never really had a man come courting me." Her lips trembled slightly. "Dillon says it's because most of the men in town are scared to death of a woman who's better with a gun and a lasso than needle and thread."
Some strange emotion unfurled in his chest. This was a side of Abby he had yet to glimpse. He had seen her vulnerable, yes, but never quite so exposed and powerless to fight back. Usually she was so brave and capable . . . His heart twisted. Didn't she know she was sweet and softly feminine, all a man could ever want? Any man worth his salt wouldn't be threatened by her starch and sass. He certainly wasn't. It merely made her all the more exciting.
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