by Prairie Heat
Matilda wondered if he was praying. Did Apaches pray? And if so, who, or what, did they pray to?
And what was he going to do with the knife?
She glanced at McCord and saw the answer in the sudden tensing of his body, in the sweat that appeared on his brow.
Black Buffalo Horn motioned to the Apache woman and she knelt beside Jess and placed her hands on either side of his leg, just below the wound, to hold it steady.
They were going to lance the wound. The thought sent Matilda to McCord’s side and she took his hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
McCord’s face paled and he drew in a deep breath as the medicine man lanced the wound, releasing a stream of thick yellow pus. Matilda felt Jess tremble as Black Buffalo Horn placed his thumbs on either side of the wound, heard him mutter a foul oath as the medicine man forced more pus from the wound.
Jess was breathing heavily by the time the medicine man was satisfied that all the poison had been removed. But the di-yin was not yet finished. He held the blade of his knife over the fire again and then, without warning, he slapped the flat side of the heated blade over the wound.
Matilda gasped and turned away, her stomach churning as the smell of scorched flesh filled the wickiup.
She heard McCord groan softly, and when she looked at him, she saw that he was unconscious.
Black Buffalo Horn spread a thin layer of mustard-colored ointment over the wound, covered it with a square of soft cloth and left the lodge.
“You must stay with your man until he returns from the Land of Shadows,” the Indian woman said. “I will bring you food and water, and wood for the fire.”
“Thank you.”
“I am called Tinaya.”
“I’m Matilda. And this is McCord.”
“I have heard of McCord,” Tinaya remarked. “He is blood brother to Vittorio.”
“Yes.”
“Do not be afraid. My people will not hurt you.” Rising, Tinaya walked to the door of the lodge. “He will be all right,” she said with a reassuring smile. “Do not worry.”
Matilda turned her gaze back to McCord after Tinaya left the wickiup. His forehead was hot to her touch, his breathing rapid and shallow as the fever raged through him, and she wondered why he hadn’t told her he was sick and in pain. Surely this had been coming on for some time. And then she let out a long sigh of resignation. Even if she’d known the wound was festering, what could she have done?
Tinaya returned a short time later with a large gourd of water and a wooden bowl filled with something that looked like beef stew. She also brought several strips of clean cotton cloth.
Matilda immediately soaked one of the rags in cold water and placed it on McCord’s brow.
“Eat,” Tinaya said. “I will look in on you tomorrow.”
Matilda bade the Indian woman goodbye, then sat down to eat, hardly tasting the stew at all except to notice that it was definitely not beef.
She sat with McCord all that night, sponging the perspiration from his face and body, listening to the words he muttered, most of which were incoherent except for a name that he repeated over and over again, Kathleen. It surprised her to discover she was jealous of this unknown woman in McCord’s life.
Jealous and curious. Who was Kathleen? A sweetheart? A wife? Probably his wife, Matilda decided. After all, McCord was an extremely handsome man. Virile. Healthy. Desirable. Of course he was married. And even if he wasn’t, she was.
Jess woke slowly, plagued by a deep thirst. His right leg throbbed dully, his head hurt like sin, and he was warm, so warm. Kathleen. Where was Kathleen?
He was about to call her name when she appeared at his side.
She held a gourd to his lips. “Here, drink this.”
The water was cold, so cold. He drank deeply and asked for more and drank that too.
“Kathleen?” It was dark, too dark to see her face.
Matilda heard the wanting in his voice and realized that, in his fevered state, he had mistaken her for the other woman. She was about to correct him when she hesitated. Perhaps thinking the other woman was here would comfort him and help him get back to sleep.
Hoping she was doing the right thing, Matilda placed her hand on McCord’s shoulder. “Yes,” she answered softly. “I’m here.”
“Lie beside me,” he urged. “It’s been so long.”
She stared at the long, lean body outlined beneath the blanket for a long moment, knowing it was wrong to even consider lying beside him. But she couldn’t resist the gentle pleading in his voice and so she stretched out beside him, her heart pounding as his arm went around her shoulders, drawing her body closer to his.
Now, she thought, now he’ll realize his mistake.
“I’ve missed you,” he murmured, and she felt his lips brush her cheek, felt his hand move in her hair, then stroke the curve of her breast.
His touch went through her like fire and she went suddenly still, knowing she had to get away before he took any more liberties.
“Don’t go,” he begged as she started to pull away. “Don’t leave me again.”
Matilda bit down on her lower lip, knowing she should get up immediately.
“Please don’t go.”
His voice, filled with pain and unshed tears, touched a deep, responsive chord within her heart. “I won’t.”
“Promise me?”
“I promise.”
He held her tight for several minutes and then, gradually, his hold loosened, though he didn’t release her. His breathing grew slow and even and she knew he was asleep again.
She started to ease away from him, but he held onto her, mumbling incoherently, and she settled down beside him once again, resigned to spending the night in his arms. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and long-legged. His body was warm against her own, its contours hard, unfamiliar. And yet she found it oddly pleasant to lie there beside him with his arm around her and her head pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder.
Was this what it was like to be married, this chaste intimacy in the still of the night? McCord’s scent filled her nostrils; the soft sound of his breathing whispered past her ear. Turning her head, she studied his profile, admiring the sheer masculine beauty of his beard-roughened jaw, his patrician nose and finely chiseled lips.
Closing her eyes, she tried to imagine what it had been like for her parents. Had Ruth Conway ever slept in her husband’s arms and found pleasure there? Had she ever reached out to caress the man lying beside her as Matilda longed to caress Jess McCord? Had her mother’s heart ever skipped a beat as she waited for her husband to take her in his arms and…
Matilda shook the notion from her mind, unable to imagine her parents sharing a bed, making love in a cocoon of darkness. But they must have done it, she thought, at least once.
A soft sigh escaped her lips as she pretended she was lying in Josiah Thornton’s bed, that it was Josiah’s arm around her shoulders. But it was Jess McCord’s ruggedly handsome image that followed her to sleep.
Chapter Eight
McCord was much improved in the morning. His fever was down, and the swelling in his leg had virtually disappeared. Looking at him, Matilda felt a surge of admiration for the healing skills of the Apache medicine man.
Tinaya brought them food and water and, after inquiring after McCord, slipped out of the lodge.
Matilda had little appetite for the thin soup and ash cakes, but Jess ate heartily and drank several cups of water.
She finished her soup, took a last drink of water, and put her dish aside, wondering if McCord remembered anything of what had happened the night before. She could feel him watching her from time to time, and she was glad she had managed to roll away from him and crawl into her own bed before he woke up.
Jess frowned as he finished his breakfast. He had a hazy recollection of spending the night with Kathleen, but that was impossible. And yet someone had slept beside him. He hadn’t imagined it.
He looked over at Matilda, w
ondering why she refused to meet his gaze, and then he knew. She had shared his blankets the night before. Had he talked in his sleep? Mentioned Kathleen? Kathleen. Even now, after all this time, her memory tore at his heart. She had been so young, so damned young. And he’d loved her so much.
He swore softly as he tossed his empty bowl aside, then struggled to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Matilda asked anxiously. “Do you think you should be up so soon?”
“I need to go outside.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot as she realized what he meant.
“Think you could give me a hand?”
“Me?”
“Never mind.”
She scrambled to her feet as he started for the doorway and slipped her arm around his waist when he swayed unsteadily.
“I can make it,” he said gruffly.
“Sure you can,” Matilda agreed. “Just take it slow.”
It was bright and clear outside, the air already warm as a brilliant yellow sun climbed above the faraway mountains. Matilda felt her cheeks flame as she helped McCord make his way beyond the camp toward a stand of tall timber, certain that every man and woman in the camp knew where they were going, and why.
She left him propped against a tree and walked away, leaving him to his privacy while she tended to her own needs. She’d never get accustomed to taking care of such a personal matter while standing out in the open, she thought irritably. Anybody could come walking up and see her, anybody. It was so uncivilized.
McCord was waiting where she had left him, and they walked slowly back to camp, her arm around his waist, her cheeks still flushed.
They saw Kane as they approached the village. He was still tied to the tree stump. He looked up as they drew near. His face was haggard, his hair mussed, his once impeccably clean brown suit now stained with dirt and urine.
Matilda looked away, embarrassed.
“McCord.” Kane’s voice was hoarse.
Jess grunted in reply.
“Dammit, McCord, you’ve got to get me out of this.”
“Do I?” Bending over, Jess searched Kane’s pockets until he found the handcuff key.
“Dammit, man, they’re gonna kill me an inch at a time.”
“Yeah,” Jess agreed with a feral grin. “I know.” He unlocked the handcuff on his left wrist and let the handcuffs fall at Kane’s feet.
“I didn’t mean to kill her!” Kane cried. “It was an accident.”
“She’s still dead.”
Kane turned pleading eyes in Matilda’s direction. “Mrs. Thornton—Matilda, you’ve gotta help me. You don’t know what these Indians are like. They’re gonna torture me, carve me up into little pieces until there’s nothing left. For God’s sake, make him help me.”
Matilda looked up at McCord and saw the truth of Kane’s words in his eyes, but before she could speak, Jess was pulling on her arm, forcing her back to their wickiup.
Inside, he released her. Dropping down on one of the buffalo robes, he closed his eyes.
“Mr. McCord, you can’t let these savages torture Mr. Kane. It isn’t right.”
“He deserves to die,” Jess replied flatly.
“No one deserves such a cruel death. It’s barbaric.”
Jess nodded. “I reckon so.”
“And you don’t care?”
“Not one damn bit.”
Matilda stared at him, unable to believe her ears.
Feeling her censure, McCord opened his eyes and looked up at her. “He’s got it coming.”
“Why? What has he done?”
“Among other things, he robbed a bank in Lordsburg, killed three people, then took off for Chicago. It took me six months to find him and bring him back. He’s guilty as hell, and he was going to hang anyway. But this is better.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“I do mean it. He deserves whatever he gets.”
Matilda stared at him for several minutes and then very quietly asked, “Who’s Kathleen?”
Pain. She saw it flicker in the depths of his eyes, deep and raw, saw it in the sudden whitening of his knuckles as he clenched his fists.
“I’m sorry,” Matilda said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“She was my wife,” Jess said, and Matilda heard the anguish in his voice, saw it in the muscle that twitched in his jaw. She wished suddenly that she’d never mentioned the other woman’s name.
“She was only a kid when I met her,” McCord went on doggedly. “Just turned eighteen. She was the best thing that ever happened to me, pretty and full of life. She didn’t care that I was a half-breed, didn’t care that some of her so-called friends snubbed her after she married me.”
He stared at the wall of the wickiup, his thoughts turned inward. “She loved me, just me. She’d gone shopping that day and bought a new dress. She was on her way to show it to me when Kane ran out of the bank. He shot my deputy and then fired at me and missed. The bullet ricocheted off a wagon wheel and hit Kathleen. She died in my arms.”
“I’m sorry,” Matilda said. “So sorry.”
Jess nodded. “He killed a little girl too, trampled her when he rode out of town.” He turned to look at Matilda then, his eyes filled with bitterness and hatred. “If the Indians will let me, I’ll peel the hide from Kane myself, an inch at a time.”
*
Matilda sat on her pile of furs, gazing at McCord. He was asleep again, had been for most of the day, giving her lots of time to think about what he’d said. She had never known hatred, nor felt the kind of bitterness she had seen in Jess McCord’s smoky gray eyes. He had always seemed so easygoing, it was hard to believe him capable of doing anything as cruel as skinning a man alive. Was such a thing even possible? She shuddered at the mere idea.
No, she’d never known such hatred. Or known the kind of love Jess McCord had obviously felt for his wife. She wondered what it would be like, to have a man love her so completely, so desperately. Would she find that kind of love with Josiah Thornton?
Reaching into her reticule, she withdrew the small portrait Josiah Thornton had sent her. He was not the most handsome of men, but he had a pleasant face and kind eyes. She tried to imagine what it would be like to be held in his arms, to feel his kisses; instead, she found herself remembering what it had been like to lie beside Jess McCord, and she let her gaze linger on his mouth, wondering what it would be like to be kissed by a man who was capable of such love—and such hate.
He was a half-breed, she reminded herself. A bounty hunter. Hardly the kind of man she had dreamed of marrying, yet she was attracted to him nonetheless, probably because he was not the kind of man she had expected to wed.
McCord stirred restlessly in his sleep, his face contorted with pain and rage. She heard him murmur Kathleen’s name, heard the anguish in his voice.
“Kathleen, no,” he whispered. “Oh God no. Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me.”
Matilda’s heart went out to him. She’d never seen such grief on a man’s face. His lonely plea brought tears to her eyes and she moved to his side, taking his hand in hers.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “Don’t think of it now.”
“Kathleen?” His eyelids fluttered open and he gazed up at her, not really seeing her. His hand cupped the back of her head and he drew her down, his mouth closing over hers in a long, impassioned kiss that left Matilda shaken and breathless.
Her heart was racing like a runaway locomotive when he released her. “Mr. McCord,” she gasped, “you mustn’t.”
Jess stared at Matilda for several seconds before he realized who she was and what he’d done. And then, very slowly, he drew her toward him a second time and kissed her again.
Matilda meant to pull away. He was in love with a ghost, and she was a married woman. But somehow, for the life of her, she couldn’t seem to move. His mouth was warm, inviting, exciting, and as the kiss deepened, it seemed as if her limbs had turned to water and her blood to liquid flame. Her c
heeks grew hot, her stomach quivered in a most peculiar way, and then she was kissing him back, truly kissing a man for the first time in her life. And it was wonderful.
When they finally drew apart, Matilda’s cheeks were scarlet with embarrassment.
A slow smile spread across McCord’s face. Sometimes when you scratched below the surface, you hit bedrock, and sometimes you hit pay dirt. And Matilda Thornton was solid gold through and through.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Matilda said when she was in control of her emotions again. “I’m a married woman.”
Jess nodded solemnly. “And a mother of six.”
Her cheeks burned a little brighter. “Yes.”
“Liar.” He said the word so softly, so affectionately, that she couldn’t take offense.
“It doesn’t matter if I have one child or a dozen,” she replied quietly. “I’m still a married woman. Anyway, it isn’t me you want, it’s her. Kathleen.”
“And what if I wanted you?”
Matilda shook her head vigorously, frightened by the riot of emotions his words aroused in her. She felt hot and cold all over, and she knew her cheeks were flaming. A familiar fluttering stirred low in her belly as he reached for her again and she scrambled out of reach.
“No, Mr. McCord.”
“Jess,” he reminded her.
“No, Jess.” She liked the way his name sounded on her lips—soft, like a sigh.
“Okay, Mattie.”
Mattie. No one had ever called her anything but Matilda. “Why did you call me that?”
“I don’t know. It suits you.”
“I think you’d better call me Mrs. Thornton,” she said, feeling the need to remind herself, and Jess, that she was married to someone else.
He lifted one thick black brow in amusement. “Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, Mrs. Thornton. Do you think you could help me outside?”
Matilda nodded. Taking McCord’s hand, she helped him to his feet, then slipped her arm around his waist, acutely conscious of the solid masculine flesh beneath her hand, of the latent strength of the man beside her. He draped his arm around her shoulders and the heat of their bodies seemed to meld them together.