Hideaway

by Sandy James

  I’ll show her!

  Heading to the door, he jerked it open, not surprised to find her waiting nearby. “Fine.” He growled. “I’m not gonna drink anymore. Not ’til the house is finished.” He inclined his head at the window. “Won’t be working on it today, though.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched as though a smile threatened. “I can understand why that might be difficult with so much snow.” She made a delicate gesture toward the kitchen. “I could make you something to eat now.”

  Drake nodded and murmured his appreciation, following her into the kitchen. He sat at the table and sipped at the cup of coffee she’d offered earlier that was now set in front of him while she whipped him up a meal.

  She hummed softly to herself, appearing quite pleased with the day’s turn of events. No wonder since she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. After a short time, she put a plate full of eggs, pork, and potatoes in front of him.

  His stomach churned cruelly at the scent, but he swallowed hard before forcing himself to eat. He’d bluster his way through this hangover, although he wished he had a drop or two of drink left in the barn to help take the edge off his headache.

  Would he always want just one more drink?

  Well, when this ordeal was over, he could have all the wanted.

  That reminder buoyed him.

  As Kayla went about cleaning the kitchen, Drake finished his meal. He finally took the empty plate to the sink. “Thank you kindly.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” she said, taking the dish from his trembling hand.

  “I’m gonna head to the barn. I need myself some more sleep.”

  Her brows knit as she let her gaze sweep him from head to toe. “I was thinking it might be a good idea for you to stay in the house, at least for a few days.”

  He thought for a moment he’d misheard her. His head was still pounding every bit as hard as it had when she’d awakened him, and he found that his thoughts were as hard to grasp as tendrils of smoke. He’d broken out in a cold sweat, and his legs were now shaking as much as his hands. “Why?”

  “I dare say you might suffer from the loss of your drink. I have seen the like before, and you are showing quite a few of the symptoms.”

  “What in the hell does that mean?” A moment later, his stomach rebelled, and Drake had no choice but to dive for a bucket sitting next to the sink. The meal he’d eaten came up, making his throat and nose burn and his eyes water.

  When he was reduced to dry heaves, he felt a cool, damp cloth draped over the back of his neck again.

  “It is as I feared. You will suffer for a while, Mr. Myers.”

  Suffer was the correct word, but he could only wonder at why this hangover was so much worse than any he’d had before.

  As though her train of thought followed his, she said, “My father went through this malady when he was forced to abandon his habit. I know ways to ease your misery, and it would be best for both of us if you remained in the house. I do not relish the notion of trudging through the snow and climbing a ladder to tend you, which I dare say shall be often in the next few days.”

  As weak as a newborn foal, he pushed the bucket aside and sat back on the floor. He grabbed the damp cloth from his neck and dragged it over his heated face. While he wanted to tell her that he’d be grateful for anything she could do to bring whatever this illness was to a swift end, all he could do was nod at her suggestion.

  “Let’s get you in bed.” Kayla grabbed his elbow and tried to help him get to his feet.

  Once he was up, he leaned heavily against her as he made his way back to the room he’d used the night before. She released him long enough to turn back the bed’s quilt, and he flopped on his back, wondering if death would bring him faster relief.

  “I fear you are going to have some miserable days ahead,” she said, pulling the quilt over him and laying her cool hand on his forehead. “I’ll do everything I can to make you more comfortable.”

  As she turned to leave, he grasped her hand. Through his hazy thoughts, one thing was crystal clear. She was the only person who could help him now. “Thank you.”

  With a weak smile and nod, she left him to his wretchedness.

  Chapter Seven

  Drake smelled a hell of a lot better, but he wasn’t entirely sure the ordeal of the bath had been worth it. At least now that he was stretched out on the clean linens and dressed in freshly washed and mended long johns, he could relax.

  Relax? Not hardly. He still suffered from shivers for no reason. Thankfully, his legs had stopped their strange and rather painful involuntary dance, and his hands no longer shook uncontrollably. His stomach had settled enough to allow him to eat the light offerings Kayla gave him each meal time. Toasted bread. Broth. Tea.

  A big, hot bowl of stew would taste mighty good ’bout now...

  A glance out the window told him the snow hadn’t abated. Although it was late in the evening, he could still see the thick, white flakes dancing in the wind. For all he knew, the snow was waist-deep. He’d been stuck inside, battling his body’s reaction to being without whiskey.

  The days had dragged by—days full of sickness of his body and his mind. The worst part was knowing Kayla had seen him at his weakest. The woman had to be disgusted with him.

  Hell, he was disgusted with himself.

  How had he ever allowed himself to sink into such depravity?

  The hinges of the bedroom door squeaked as Kayla nudged it with her hip to force it open a little wider. In her arms were his clothes—all of them—now clean and no doubt mended. She set the pile on the end of the bed just as an exaggerated yawn forced her shoulders back a moment before one of her slender hands covered her open mouth.

  “Beg pardon,” she murmured as she went about putting his clothes inside the bedroom’s bureau as though it belonged to him.

  Then Drake noticed the shadows under her doe brown eyes. The woman was clearly exhausted, no doubt from the constant care she’d given him through his misery. He recalled the cool rags against his feverish face, the gentle words she used to calm him, and the mugs of broth laced with herbs to help him weather the storm. He owed her more thanks than he could ever offer.

  In all honesty, Drake owed Kayla his very life. Had he kept up his steady drinking, he wouldn’t have been long for this world. Only his sober mind could grasp the danger he’d constantly placed himself in by swilling that rot-gut day and night.

  She yawned again, swaying on her feet. “Pardon. I cannot seem to stop yawning.”

  Drake patted the soft mattress. “Come. Sit. I–I need to talk to you.”

  “We can talk quite adequately from here.”

  “Please, Kayla. You’re dead on your feet, but I gotta tell you something.” He patted the spot again. “Please.”

  With a weary sigh he tried not to take offense to, she moved to the open side of the bed, sat down, and leaned back against the headboard. He wasn’t at all surprised when she closed her eyes. She probably hadn’t sat down all day.

  He felt like a cad. Not only was Kayla taking care of his sorry ass, she was also feeding and caring for the livestock, chopping the firewood, and cooking. Doing his chores as well as her own.

  “I–I want to tell you how much I appreciate all you done for me,” Drake said. The guilt was so overwhelming that he couldn’t even look her in the eye, so he stared at the wall in front of him. “I know it wasn’t easy taking care of me. I acted like a wounded bear, but you never quit on me.”

  Her silence gave him confidence to continue. “You were right, you know. I was a–a...mess. A drunkard. I don’t know if I can even find the words to tell you how grateful I am.” He took a quick glance around the bedroom. “You put me up here in the house. Took all my clothes and sewed up the holes and tears.” His gaze came to rest on the pile of clean clothes. “And you washed ’em up nice for me. I just wanted to tell you how much it all meant to me.”

  She still didn’t reply.

  Drake found the cou
rage to glance at her face.

  Damn if Kayla hadn’t fallen asleep. Her chin had dropped to her chest, and her breaths came deep and even.

  The woman hadn’t heard a single word of what he’d said.

  “Serves me right,” he whispered.

  Afraid she’d end up with a nasty crick in the neck if she slept that way, he thought about carrying her into her own bedroom. Problem was he wasn’t entirely sure his returning strength had reached a level to allow him to do so. He wasn’t about to drop his savior on her ass simply because he was trying to make her more comfortable. No, he’d be a gentleman and give up his bed for her. It was the least he could do.

  Drake had no sooner made up his mind to leave when Kayla mumbled something in her sleep and leaned over to drop her head against his shoulder. Knowing that position was likely to leave them both cramped and sore, he eased his arm around her shoulders and guided her to lie down so that her head rested on his lap.

  Letting out a resigned sigh, he relaxed against the feather pillow propped behind his back. If she needed him to be her pillow so that she could rest, he’d be glad to accommodate her. She deserved no less than any kindness and comfort he could offer.

  Admitting that he was wrong hadn’t been easy, especially when he’d also had to admit Kayla had been right all along. When she was awake enough to listen, he’d simply have to open himself up again and spit out the words he somehow knew she needed to hear.

  Why had she done all she had to help him, especially when he’d been nothing but a pain in the ass from the moment he’d arrived at the farm? Shameful as it was to admit, Drake had treated her with such disdain, never once offering her a kind word or action. Despite his cruelty, she’d nursed him through what had been the worst time of his life. And she’d done so even knowing he’d brought his wretchedness on himself.

  As gently as he could, he smoothed the hair away from her face. Then he stared at her as she slept, amazed at how unguarded she now was—how the lines of worry faded while she rested.

  She was young—awfully green for someone who was wanting to have a house all to herself. Instead of worrying about a homestead, she should be doing what other young women did. Flirting and sparking with young men. Talking with her friends about ribbons and dresses. Going to church picnics with her family.

  Instead, she lived far away from town, caring for two men who could never care for her as anything approaching a wife. And she’d seemed to have given up on being with a man. No one in town had claimed her.

  Or had she refused to be claimed?

  Perhaps she hadn’t stumbled across the right man yet.

  Exactly what kind of woman was this Kayla Backer?

  With a smile, he traced the lines of her dainty ear with his fingertip and figured it might be a good idea to find out.

  * * *

  Kayla was sure Drake had taken a turn for the better.

  Despite the late hour, he was still sleeping, which wasn’t unusual. For the better part of a week, he’d been asleep more than awake. The difference this morning was that his slumber was peaceful.

  As his body adjusted to the loss of the alcohol, he’d suffered badly. When he slept, he tossed and turned as what she assumed were nightmares made him call out in fear. There were hours spent at his bedside, smoothing her hand across his furrowed brow, stroking his hair, and whispering softly to try and chase the demons away.

  Whenever he’d been awake, Drake was angry. Since Kayla understood the irritation wasn’t about her, that she was simply the lightning rod for all his misery, she took his insults and profanity with grace. Not that she enjoyed his tirades. But she’d endured worse with her father, and Drake had never once become physical. In that, he was much better than her father. The only thing that had prevented her from major injury was her father being trapped in his bed or his chair, his legs useless. He still found ways to strike out at her, often with words, which could seem every bit as hurtful.

  With a shake of her head, she set the physic she’d prepared for Drake aside. She’d used a special mixture of herbs that her aunt had taught helped balance a person’s body. A pinch of calendula to ease his raw throat. Some elderberries, dried and ground to powder, to ease his fever. Ginger to soothe his stomach. Garlic—something her aunt swore by, despite the pungent smell that tended to offend—because it seemed to help many different problems.

  Thankfully, her herb and flower gardens had done well this summer, not only yielding healing supplies but giving beauty to what had been a stark piece of land close to the house. She’d planted everything from the seeds she’d carefully gathered from her aunt’s garden. Licorice. Milk thistle. Nettle. And so many more. Each new item she’d harvested had been dried and preserved to rebuild the supply.

  She could have been content in Chicago with her uncle and aunt, but she’d had to flee their home. Chantal Carrington had made sure that Chicago would never be safe, which was why Kayla had been forced to run to St. Louis and now found herself in the obscurity of the Montana Territory with no chance of seeing any of her family again.

  A tear spilled from Kayla’s eye. She swiped it away with the back of her hand. Her aunt had been such a gentle, kind soul, and her uncle had treated her like one of his own. She might’ve been happy with them.

  “Kayla...”

  Grateful to have something to pull her from her sad memories, she forced a smile. “You look as though you are feeling much better this morning.”

  Pushing up on his elbows, Drake found the first smile she’d seen from him in a week. Locks of his hair hung over his forehead, long enough to almost hide his eyes. She’d insisted he bathe and wash his hair the day before, and he’d taken it upon himself to shave since his hands were steadier. Now, with that crooked smile, he was so appealing that he stole her breath.

  “I brought your morning tonic.” She stumbled over the words, unsure as to why she was suddenly so nervous, especially after she’d awakened with her head in the man’s lap. Her hand was trembling as she handed him the mug.

  His smile turned to a grimace. “I can’t abide the way that tastes.”

  “So you have told me. Over and over. Yet look at how much my potions have helped you heal.”

  “Heal? Is that what you call sleeping off my drinkin’?”

  “That is exactly what I call it. You had an illness, Mr. Myers, and—”

  “Damn it, Kayla...” Drake took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You’ve nursed me near to a week. Why in the hell can’t you call me Drake?”

  He had her there. For the entire time she’d cared for him, she’d kept as much emotional distance as she could. Last night, she’d simply been too weary to keep her eyes open and had fallen asleep in his room. When she’d awakened, she’d been so embarrassed that she was sure she’d blushed to the roots of her hair.

  One thing that helped her maintain some aloofness was not using his familiar name. With a small smile, she admitted to herself she enjoyed how much it irritated him. “Fine. I will endeavor to call you Drake from this moment on—if you drink your tonic without a fuss.”

  “You got yourself a deal.” Taking the offered physic, he gulped it down quickly. As he shuddered, he handed it back to her. “Tastes like sh...er...terrible. Tastes terrible.”

  “I would imagine it does. When you rise and come to the table to eat, I shall have fresh water for you to chase away the flavor.”

  “Oh, goodie. More water.”

  “Water cleanses the inside as well as the outside, Mist...um...Drake.”

  “Drunk enough of it to fill a lake.”

  “And that water has improved your health, has it not?”

  Drake chuckled. “Gotta admit that it has.” He tossed the quilt aside and stood. He wore nothing but his gray long johns, and the back flap had loosened so that only one button held it in place.

  Kayla caught a good look at his tight backside before she glanced away. “I shall leave you to dress.”

  He laughed and was buttonin
g the loose flap when she turned to go.

  A hand snaked around her upper arm. “Wait. Please,” he pleaded.

  Since he was no longer showing her the better part of his derriere, she acquiesced, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.

  “I... I...” He dragged his foot across the wooden floor. “I just wanna thank you. If you hadn’t helped me... Well, I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that before when I was sick.” He gave his head a shake. “Wasn’t really sick, either. I was drunk, and I’m ashamed of myself.”

  A bit surprised at his epiphany, she didn’t try to pull away, even as his hand moved down her arm to grasp her hand. If she was honest with herself, she’d have to admit how much she liked feeling her hand encased in his.

  “You were right. I was a pig.”

  “I do not believe that I ever called you a pig,” Kayla protested.

  “No, but I was one. You just said it nicer.” He cleared his throat roughly. “You made me look at myself. Made me see what I was doin’.” Slowly, he raised her hand until he was able to brush a kiss over her knuckles. “Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome. I’m happy to have helped.”

  “I’m not gonna get drunk like that again.”

  “I believe it might be prudent,” she advised, “not to drink at all.” Drake took a long time thinking over her words, so she squeezed his hand. “Would you wish to find yourself right back in this situation?”

  He shook his head, but the fierce frown didn’t leave.

  “I am of the opinion that even one drink could be enough to cause you to abandon all you’ve achieved here.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what? Why would it toss you back into that storm?”

  He shook his head again. “Why do you know that?”

  Aware that she was opening up a part of herself, she didn’t hesitate to reply. “Because of my father.”

  Drake’s frown eased, and a softness came into his eyes. His thumb began to rub gentle circles on her palm. “Your father was a drunk?”