“Mister, you all right?”
That’s when she noticed the bright blotching on the snow.
“Oh, Lord have mercy!”
Forgetting the danger, she raced toward the fallen figure, shoving a growling Boone aside so she could kneel down by the nearly insensible man. Now she knew the destination of that single shot. The entire side of his uniform jacket was soaked with blood. The middle of her front yard, in full view of whomever had done the firing, was no place to check the extent of the damage.
Boone sniffed around the soldier’s feet, rumbling fiercely. If another source of threat was near, he’d be distracted. Still, it wasn’t safe to linger outside any longer than she had to.
“Mister, I’ve got to get you inside. You hear?”
His eyes blinked open and fixed with a brief understanding upon her. His gaze was the color of the slated sky, stormy and intense, mesmerizing her into a long moment of inaction. But then his focus faded, releasing her from that compelling stare to do what needed to be done.
Wedging the rifle beneath one arm, she gripped him by the shoulders of his jacket and began to drag him toward the house. He offered no resistence or complaint, but no help either. By the time she’d pulled him as far as the front porch, she was winded and perspiring despite the cold. For all the long-limbed leanness of his build, he was no lightweight. She paused for a bit to catch her breath, forcing it by habit to come as slow and easy as possible, then she tugged him up the stairs. Not the most gentle of rides but the best she could manage under the circumstances.
The heat from the fire hit like a physical push as she dragged the wounded man inside. Boone bounded in after them, still growling with enough menace to bristle his thick neck. When his awkward legs tangled with Garnet’s, she gave him a swat. With a startled yelp, the pup scuttled away to regard her and their guest glumly from underneath the table.
The floorboards probably weren’t the best place to examine a gunshot wound, but Garnet needed to see what she was dealing with. First, she unbuckled his gun belt and drew it out from under him. Until she knew who’d shot him and why, she couldn’t afford to treat him with anything but caution. She tossed the armaments out of reach. The soldier offered no protest when she unbuttoned his jacket and carefully peeled it away from the site of injury. Powder burns and blood discolored woolen long underwear. Whoever had pulled the trigger had done so at close range. Swallowing grimly, she ripped the saturated fabric to lay bare the wound.
She’d picked shot out of countless fowl and four-legged game without blinking an eye, but this was her first dealing with a human sporting a bullet. She tried to pretend there was no difference—tried, but was not as successful as she’d hoped to be. There was no mistaking the hard contour of abdomen and the warmth of skin as anything but man. Her fingertips were resting on the crisp hair beneath his navel. She yanked them back, blushing in horror even though there was no one to observe her unplanned familiarity with the stranger’s body.
It was an awkward second before she could focus anywhere other than that naked stretch of masculine furring. She’d never seen so much as an inch of an unclothed man before—not even her father. Her insides were all jumpy with the forbidden shock and sudden wonder of it. But this man was going to bleed to death if she couldn’t pull herself together. She drew a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate upon his injury.
The piece of lead had torn a nasty furrow along his ribs before chewing a chunk out of his side and exiting cleanly. It wasn’t terribly deep, which she hoped meant it wasn’t fatal, but it bled something fierce. That she would have to take care of, and quickly.
Gripping the edge of the linen tablecloth, she jerked it toward her, sending her breakfast plate and cup tumbling to shatter on the floor. Boone scrambled out of sight behind the quilt curtaining off her bedroom.
“Coward,” she muttered, hastily ripping the cloth. She wouldn’t think of the mess or the loss of her last piece of good linen. She concentrated instead upon the man’s life’s blood leaking out onto her pegged flooring. She daren’t move him again until she was certain he wouldn’t lose any more of it.
After pressing a wadding against the wound, she rolled him as gently as possible from side to side, working the linen beneath him so she could bind it tightly about his middle.
“There. Let’s hope that holds you.”
She rocked back on her heels to consider her handiwork. Not an expert dressing, but one that would suffice. Still, the soldier was deathly pale and scarcely breathing. Her worries were far from over.
She couldn’t lift him, so Garnet dragged him over to the fire. There she bundled him in a shaggy bearskin to combat the effects of shock and cold. He never made a sound.
Though she hated to desert him now, she couldn’t leave his horse unattended—or in the open, should someone less friendly be following. She went back out into the swirl of snow.
The animal still stood where it had been abandoned. It went gratefully with Garnet into the shelter of the barn and was soon muzzle deep in grain. She removed its standard military issue tack and rubbed it down. Then, lashing the door shut behind her against the tug of the wind, she took a moment to study her yard. Would someone be able to tell he’d come here? That she’d taken him in? Convinced that fresh blowing snow had already covered all signs of his passing, she hurried back to the house.
Was she crazy to take in this wounded stranger? He could be a deserter. He could be anything, and she’d brought him inside her house, inside her circle of safety. Unwise, perhaps even crazy, but she couldn’t have left him out there to bleed to death. She took a firmer grip on the gun. Besides, she could always add another hole to his hide if he proved to be less than gentlemanly.
She slipped out of her bulky outerwear, then quickly, nervously, cleaned up the broken crockery, which was all that remained of her breakfast. Garnet settled cross-legged near the fireplace and waited for her company to regain consciousness. Either he would die or he would recover. She prayed for the latter as she watched his faint breaths stir the coarse nap of the robe. At the very least she wanted to know his name so she could notify his family and his unit.
And she wanted to hear his voice.
She gave a slight start as Boone burrowed his cold nose under her hand. He whined until she lifted her arm, letting him crawl halfway across her lap. He was content to lie there, keeping a distrustful watch on the figure beneath the robe.
Who was he, this injured stranger? Was he a scout, a messenger? Surely there was no other reason for him to be alone. Which of the Union companies combing the hills did he belong to? She wished she knew so she could contact them to come and get him. Then she could go back to the sameness of her days without the intrigue and interruption.
But where was the thrill in that?
This was the first exciting thing to happen in her valley since duty had called her father from home. And she admitted to herself, ashamed of her own selfishness, that she was in no rush to send the soldier on his way.
Little news wound its way into the lonesome valley Perhaps he would know the direction the war was taking, offering some idea as to when her life could return to normal. She’d never been outside the valley to visit the world beyond except through books. He could provide that link to what she didn’t know but still could long for. Where was he from? She leaned forward, studying the asymmetrical lines of his face as if they could reveal some truth. A city, perhaps. Did he have a family, a wife, or a fiancée waiting? Suddenly, Garnet hungered to know everything about him for the simple joy of connecting with another.
An answer to prayer.
She smiled.
Her father had always told her to be careful what she wished for. But while she was usually cautious, she was rarely careful. Careful allowed one to grow old safely, but it didn’t permit the freedom of realized dreams. Garnet had a lot of dreams, most attached to what lay beyond her valley. While she would never think to abandon the farm while her father was at war, her d
reams remained unfulfilled, though never forgotten. Perhaps she could taste some of them through this man Providence had provided. If only he’d survive.
As if in answer, he muttered softly. Those storm-colored eyes flickered open, wandering briefly before fixing upon her, focusing there with concentrated effort. She offered a neutral smile. He wet his lips to speak, his first words an accusation.
“You’re a woman.”
Garnet glanced down at her masculine garb, understanding his confusion. Wondering why she suddenly wished for the cinch of a crinoline, she answered a bit defensively. “My name is Garnet Davis. You’re on my father’s farm.”
“Where is he?”
“He’ll be back soon.”
He didn’t seem to notice the vagueness of her reply. Or at least, he didn’t question it.
“You’re here alone?”
Alarm bells jangled through her, prompting her to lie. “No. No, I’m not alone. Who are you, and who shot you?”
“Shot me …?” He blinked, clearly struggling to retain his focus.
“You’ve been shot. I brought you inside and bound your wound. I need to know who shot you. Are we in any danger I should know about?”
But his eyes had closed upon her questions.
Garnet sighed in disappointment as her visitor slipped off to sleep. Her answers would have to wait until he was stronger, but did the delay put them in danger?
She rose and went to the front window, gazing out upon the undisturbed landscape. Was his assailant even now watching the house, waiting for a good time to finish what he’d started? She let the curtain drop and shot the bolt on the door. For the first time, her isolation caused her worry. Who would know if something bad befell her? How long would it be before a neighbor thought to check upon William Davis’s daughter? If someone came for the soldier sleeping before her fireplace, could she—should she—fight them off?
Be careful what you wish for …
She grimaced and clutched the old rifle to her chest. Too late for caution in this case.
Her troubles were already here.
Chapter 2
Harp music.
I really am dead.
The sweet tones soothed his initial panic. Gentle sounds, plucking at emotions of regret and wonder and a strangely disassociated relief. He drifted upon the strains of wistful melody, his memories floating, entwined with the heavenly score. Images of long ago, of childhood dreams and adolescent longings never realized. Of the family he would never see again. Of the family he would never have. So sad. So unfair. So … unacceptable.
He had work to finish.
He couldn’t die and abandon those who depended upon him. But the music was so beautiful, so pure. How could he surrender it to return to the harshness of living?
And then there was that face. That heavenly beauty with the tempting mouth and dark, soulful eyes. How could he let her go without exploring the sweet mystery of those lips?
As if in answer, he felt the moist touch of that kiss upon his cheek, cool against his fevered skin, an irresistible invitation. Opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of his angel, he turned toward the kiss and was met by a wet black nose and flaring nostrils.
“What the—?”
The music stopped.
“Boone, get away from him!”
Remembrance returned as Deacon jerked back upon a wash of fresh pain. His movement startled the lanky dog into leaping back as well, setting up a din of barking that pounded through Deacon’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the returning swells of sickness.
Dog toenails scrabbled against wood flooring followed by a baleful yip, a rush of cold air, and blissful silence. Then came his angel’s voice.
“I’m sorry. He doesn’t like strangers.”
Deacon slit his eyes to gaze up at the figure who was both stranger and strangely familiar. The baggy clothing, the short black hair, and the easy movements belonged to the quarry he’d been studying all week.
But the soft voice—so like music itself—and the sinfully lovely features were those of a tempting siren. He stared, amazed that he could have made such a glaring error.
From a distance, the mannish clothes and cropped hair disguised what could never be questioned up close—that this was no man, no boy. The bulky shirts and trousers couldn’t conceal a form so ripe with curves. The hair couldn’t detract from the gentle contour of her wind-burned cheeks, the mysterious slant of dark eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes, the full lips pursed as if awaiting a man’s attention.
Good God, what a beauty hidden away in this isolated hole in the mountains beneath the inappropriate garb. Such beauty was meant to be captured on canvas, in marble, or by some lucky aristocrat who would adorn her with silks and lace. The cruelty of fate distracted him long enough for her to grow concerned.
She bent to touch her work-roughened palm to his brow, to his unshaven cheek. Air sucked through his teeth in a noisy hiss.
“A fever’s started,” she pronounced in dismay. “I’d better check your wound again.”
In his rapid reassessment, Deacon figured her to be Davis’s wife or perhaps his sister, but when she reached out to peel back his shirt, he realized the truth. It was inexperience coloring her cheeks in fiery embarrassment. It was youth that made her hesitate before placing a hand upon his exposed torso. The maturity ripening her face and form had not yet touched her spirit. She was little more than a child in that regard. Yes, now he remembered. This must be Davis’s daughter.
“It’s not my wish to discomfort you, Miss Davis. You needn’t compromise your delicate nature. I can tend myself.”
Words meant to soothe her agitation instead braced her with a new determination.
“That’s all right, Sergeant. I’m hardly delicate, and this war has left little room for modest sentiments.”
Sergeant? He was about to correct her when she pulled the crude dressing away, tearing at the edges of his wound, making him gasp. The shock of hurt restored his clear thinking. Sergeant. Yes, of course. He remembered the rank sewn upon his stolen coat. He’d almost betrayed himself in his rare distraction over a pretty girl.
He’d have to be careful.
The girl chewed her lip as she surveyed the wound. “It’s still bleeding something fierce. I’m afraid I don’t know what else to do. You can scarce afford to lose any more blood if you’re going to pull through.”
That was quite the comfort.
Deacon ground his teeth as he came up on his elbows. He blinked hard into the watery waves of sickness, forcing them to ebb back to a manageable level. One look down told him everything she said was true. He wouldn’t last until morning unless something drastic was done.
“Miss Davis—it’s Miss Davis, right?” At her jerky, wide-eyed nod, he continued in a tight voice. “If you’d be so kind as to hand me that stick of kindling …”
She followed his gaze to the fireplace, but not his reasoning. With a frown of confusion, she drew out the slender piece of glowing oak and delivered it into his unsteady hand. She waited, expecting some explanation.
“Miss Davis, you might want to step outside for just a minute.”
She absorbed the quiet caution in his tone while searching his gaze for answers. He could tell the moment she arrived at the correct one. Her face lost all color.
“Oh, my. Surely, you don’t mean to—”
“It’ll cauterize the wound and stop the bleeding. If you can think of another way, I’d be glad to hear it.”
Breathing in quick agitated snatches, she thought long and hard, then reluctantly shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Leave now, Miss Davis.”
She looked wistfully toward the door and its offer of escape from what was to come, but after forcing a hard swallow, she said, “No. I think I should remain, in case … in case you should need me for anything.”
He paused, unable to phrase his admiration. Such courage for a young creature! His voice gentled.
“At l
east look away.”
Garnet turned her head, steeling herself for the worst.
Coward! Do something!
Chiding herself for being unable to aid him in the horrible deed, she vowed not to behave squeamishly, even as her stomach ached with anticipation of his screams … screams that never came. A sudden sickly sweet smell reached her. She clamped her lips together when she realized it was the scent of burning flesh.
A quiet thump sounded as he fell back into unconsciousness.
Still fighting nausea as the scorched scent overwhelmed her, Garnet looked back, then quickly snatched up the discarded bit of kindling as it singed the wool of his uniform jacket. She tossed it into the fire, then forced herself to examine the grisly injury.
No bleeding escaped the seared edges of the wound. She let her breath go in a rattly gush. In the face of his incredible bravery, she couldn’t excuse her own hesitation. Controlling her breathing into a practiced rhythm, she also conquered her panic. She could do this.
By the time the soldier came to again, Garnet had washed around the wound and redressed his side with clean linens. She smiled at him as his eyes blinked open, unable to conceal her awe. When he put a hand to his ribs, she answered his unspoken question.
“The wound is closed. Hopefully, there’ll be no problem now with its healing.”
His hand fell away as he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Do you think you could stand with my help? I’d like to get you in bed.” A fierce blush suffused her face when she considered what she’d said. With a stammer, she amended, “You’ll be more comfortable than here on the floor.”
“Don’t go to any trouble on my account, Miss Davis.”
“It’s no trouble.”
It would be a blessing to get him out of the front room, where she was constantly distracted by his presence.
With her assistance, he was able to sit up. With an arm looped about her shoulders, he struggled to get his feet under him, while she hauled back and steadied him. She’d guessed at his height before but had been unprepared for the way he dwarfed her. Lean and long-limbed, he was nonetheless solidly made. That she discovered as she slipped her arm tentatively about his middle. His fingers bit into her upper arms as he swayed.
The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Page 2