by Cindy Nord
Her heart squeezed, stealing what breath remained in her lungs. Never before had she seen a man’s naked torso, and his looked as hard as the rock wall behind him. Then she caught sight of the blood oozing from his shoulder wound. “You’re still bleeding!”
“Bullet’s in there somewhere.” He shifted, spreading his legs wider to brace himself. “It’ll have to come out.”
“What?” she gasped, blinking fast and lifting her gaze to his.
“I said, you’ll have to dig the lead out.”
Heart pounding, she stared dumbstruck at the blood drizzling past a dusky nipple. “Di-Dig it out? But...I know nothing about digging anything out.” Her whisper quivered on the edge of a squeak as her whole world careened into disorder once more. Between her near-death experiences, this man’s miraculous arrival, and the sight of his naked chest, Alma could barely find control of logical thought.
The belief that she could doctor anyone was incomprehensible.
“Then I’ll make it simple. You either help remove it, or I bleed out. And,” he said on a groan as he slid down the wall, “if I die, you’re all alone out here.” He settled on his hip, his breath a series of panting rasps. His hair draped in a disheveled, sable curtain in front of his face.
Alma grasped for the closest reaction.
Anger.
Yes. Anger she could hold onto, use to shove aside the fear clawing to break her fragile grip on sanity. She clenched her hands at her sides. “You were paid good money to complete your task, Mister Reed. Don’t you dare die now…n-not after you’ve just found me.” She cringed at the harshness in her voice, yet the statement brought back much-needed order.
Dillon shuddered as his mouth shifted into a contrite half-grin. “I’ll take that as your willingness to help, then. And no one paid me to bring you back, Princess,” he growled. “I was just following orders.” He collapsed onto his elbow, struggling for each breath. “Use the knife. But, don’t cut off your damn finger. You’re no good to me injured.”
How dare you mock me! “Well, you’re no good to me dead.”
Another strained laugh. “Fetch my saddlebags. They’re on the big bay tied at the end of the line.”
With a shaky nod, she stumbled backward, then turned and hurried out. Terror drove each step. Wind slapped her face as she exited the cave. A minute later, insides churning from the sight of the dead bandits, Alma reentered the dank chamber. She settled the saddlebags near him as she knelt at his side.
He didn’t move.
God, no! Fear coalesced into a hard knot inside her throat. “Dillon?”
“Empty ‘em,” he muttered.
Relief coursed through her and she blinked back the building tears. Hands shaking, she dumped the bag’s contents beside the knife. A silver flask and small metal tin clanked to the ground alongside a blanket, the outfit he wore to the Custers’ party, a tiny blue bottle, and some kind of round metal cylinder.
He gestured to the flask. “Take a big drink, then pour whiskey over the blade and then my wound. Needle and thread in the tin.” He stretched out long legs, his spurs chinking against the ground. Alma stared at the rowels. One spun in silent rhythm with her escalating panic. “Now, I’m just gonna lie down here. And let you get to work.”
Furious he could make light of this dire situation, she shot him a cold glare. “If I didn’t need you to guide me out of here, I swear, Dillon Reed, I’d kill you myself for getting shot.”
A barely audible laugh, muffled and pain-filled, reached her ears. “And after I’m stitched up, dump more whiskey over the site. Then, get rid of the bodies. Push ‘em into the ravine. That’ll keep the wolves busy for a while.”
Wolves?
Her heart banged inside her chest.
She wanted to argue.
To deny.
Deny what? That she cared for this man more than she should? As if emphasizing that disquieting truth, the nearby fire crackled and popped. The logs inside the ring of stones shifted deeper into the flames.
Moisture blurred her eyes. Beyond all reason she wanted him to live. And if he died…
She swallowed hard, refusing to linger on that terrifying thought.
He couldn’t die.
He wouldn’t.
Dillon gave a rattling cough. “Did you get all that, Princess?”
She nodded, terrified by the pain now reflected in his eyes. Vacant and hollow, they were empty of the spark that’d been the driving force behind everything shared between them up till now.
“Good,” he muttered. “You’re stronger than you realize…now hold out your hand.”
Fingers shaking, she obeyed.
He dropped the flask to her palm, then collapsed onto his side, eyes closing. “You can do this, Alma. I believe in you.”
Outside, thunder rumbled.
She stared at him.
The fear of being without his guiding influence, the need to keep him by her side, the joy she’d felt upon seeing him again engulfed her. She scanned his bleeding body, his angular face, his…lips. Her throat tightened nearly strangling her. She would never survive in these mountains without him. And all that stood between living and dying for them both was...her?
A cold, clammy sweat broke out across her forehead. Her hands shook. Another burst of thunder vibrated the air. And a second later, rain pounded the ground outside the cave’s entrance. The scents of earth and pine and smoke reached her. She inhaled, drawing the trio of smells deeper into her lungs as she struggled for calm.
You can do this, Alma. I believe in you.
His remembered words lent her strength. If only she were as sure inside. Uncorking the flask, she took a big swallow.
Whiskey scorched a path down her throat.
She gasped, then coughed as she jammed the cork into place. What he asked of her was nothing like sewing passementarie, and until now, that mundane pastime represented the only reason she’d ever in her life lifted a needle.
Alma laid aside the small container and glanced around the cave. “We’ll need bandages, Dillon.” Silence. The scout was long past hearing, but talking aloud helped her focus. “But, where shall I find those?” She scanned the pile of goods stacked against the wall, her traveling case, and then the gray blanket near his elbow.
No. I’ll need that to cover him.
She marveled at her ability to quell her fears. Marveled further that she held her panic at bay. Finally, a thought swam to the surface of her frustrations. “Yes, I do believe that will work.”
Alma grabbed his bundle of clothes and pulled out the new shirt. Dillon’s fresh scent at the party wafted over her, conjuring up his powerful voice, an arm banding her waist, dark eyes narrowing beneath the moonlight before he kissed her.
She took in his sweat-soaked chest, now veiled in firelight. Y-You can’t die. A desire to sweep aside his tousled hair tugged at her soul.
Stop this! Responsibility demanded she center her efforts. More so now than ever before in her life.
She wrapped her hand around the Bowie’s grip, then whacked apart his linen shirt. In a matter of minutes, a large pile of misshapen bandages lay before her.
She exhaled a shaky breath.
So far, so good.
Alma selected several strips and piled them into a small heap. As he’d instructed, she angled the knife over the cloth and poured whiskey onto the blade. The mound of material beneath caught the excess liquid.
Unbidden, a tear slipped down her cheek, and then another, tracing cool paths to her jaw. She swiped the moisture away and then looked at the scout.
Firelight illuminated the redness rimming the bullet hole. With each precious heartbeat, a stream of blood oozed from the wound. She swabbed away the excess. How much more could he afford to lose?
“Hold on,” she whispered. A fortifying breath later, she poured whiskey onto the swelling mess.
Dillon groaned as his body lurched upward.
She gasped, then stiffened back and caught his shoulder. “Yo
u must lie still if I’m to do this!”
As if he could hear her. Nonetheless, he mustn’t move while she wielded the knife.
With care, she pushed aside her bustled skirt and climbed across the lower half of his body. Pushing with her hands, she centered herself, and finally straddled him. The impropriety of their closeness burned her cheeks. Yet, there was no one here to reprimand her.
Or even care if this man lived or died.
Except me.
The tragic thought frightened her. No one had counted on her before in her entire life, ever.
She had always counted on others.
“Now this ought to hold you.” Her taut whisper brushed his face, stirring a lock of hair. She bit back a brittle laugh, realizing if the scout had all his faculties, she would be a mere feather in the wind against his strength.
Leaning forward, she again dribbled the amber liquor into his wound.
He shuddered beneath her.
Thankful she’d kept him from moving, she rested her forearm against his ribs. His weak heartbeat fluttered beneath her hand. “Now, I’ve never done this before, so I cannot promise perfection.”
With a steadying breath, Alma began her probe, the blade widening the bullet hole as the sharp-edged Bowie slipped deeper and deeper into the wound.
Dillon moaned. And she drew another ragged breath.
Blood, warm and sticky, smeared the blade and splattered across Alma’s hand, but she kept her focus and worked swiftly. With the rain pounding at the cavern’s entrance and the fire crackling nearby, she continued her exploration. One minute turned into five as she searched for the deadly bullet.
“Where are you?” she snarled as the rip in his puckered flesh widened. An eternity later, the tip of the knife scraped a hard surface.
Relief swept through her. “I-I think I’ve found something.” She stared at his pale face, engulfed in the shadows.
No comment.
Nothing. His face was as bleak as an Eastern winter. His eyes closed. Oh how she longed for the glint she’d seen in his dark gaze back in the corridor of the Rale House Hotel when he’d spotted her. An unreadable message full of…something.
The bittersweet pang deepened.
Swallowing hard, she refocused on her ungodly task. Using the knife tip, she pried the slug upward until the glob of misshapen metal popped out of the wound and slid across his chest. The bullet came to a stop against the hemline of her skirt. “I did it!”
She scooped up the piece of lead. How could such a tiny object fell this hulking man?
Thankful the ordeal was over, Alma dropped the bullet. Taking the flask, she poured the whiskey into the raw, mangled opening.
As before, he didn’t move. Not even a groan.
Her gaze slid from her task, settling on his features. Masculine. Intimidating. His hair lay in a dark swath beneath his head, his nose as straight as an arrow, his jaw firm and steady and strong. Again, Alma felt the conflicted stirrings she’d first known when he’d stepped into the hallway at the dance...two-hundred pounds of unwavering stubbornness relentlessly drawing her to him.
To lose this man now was unthinkable.
“P-Please, don’t die,” she begged, the hollow void inside her heart widening into a cavern as pronounced as the one in which they now huddled. Another roll of thunder shook the cave as the rain intensified, forming puddles at the entrance like the pooling of her own insistent tears.
She rested her head on his chest, her words a wracking whisper, “I-I did the best I could for you, I promise. Now p-please come back to me.”
From the moment they’d met, she’d been transfixed by this man’s brashness, his complete and utter indifference...toward her, her position in society, and everything else she deemed important. He was a mystery, the wrong man for her tears, and yet, she could not tamp back her grief. She sobbed out her fear, her anxiety, and her uselessness. He needed her to be so much more. He was a mountain to her meadow, a hawk to sparrow, a lion to her weak little lamb.
Their worlds and lifestyles – so opposite.
And yet, from somewhere deep inside, a startling, never-used strength, a forte he’d mumbled earlier that she possessed, breathed fully into life. Determination to save him bore with immense force into Alma. She swiped her hand across her face, firm in her resolve to at least finish the task he’d asked of her. She shoved aside the truth of her perplexing feelings for this man – too frightening, too complicated to face.
Outside, the storm intensified as another roll of thunder pulled her back to this moment. Rain dumped in torrents, but all her secrets were safely locked behind the veil of water that now curtained the entrance.
Shaking, she slid off Dillon and reached for the sewing tin. Nothing else mattered right except saving this man’s life.
Threading the needle took three tries.
She leaned forward. With firelight illuminating Dillon’s shoulder, she pierced the flesh. The needle met only slight resistance, then the thread skimmed through. She compressed her lips and drew the ragged edges of his wound together. This kind of sewing really wasn’t that different from needlecraft after all. Ten minutes and twenty impeccable stitches later, her handiwork was complete. Alma poured whiskey over the jagged line of black, and then covered the site with the bandages.
“You know, don’t you,” she said, tucking in the final piece, “I thought you were a knuckle-dragging mongrel when first we met. And rightly so...” She paused, then with a sigh, she retrieved the bullet and stared at it. “Now I know nothing could be further from the truth.”
She wanted to say so many more things to this fearless beast of a man, but didn’t quite know where to begin. She rolled the lead between her forefinger and thumb and swallowed hard.
Her gaze shifted back to Dillon, his face as pale as moonlight. “Thank you for finding me.” The whispered words seemed paltry for the price he’d paid to save her.
She would properly thank him tomorrow...
...if he still lived.
Chapter Fourteen
Alma awoke with a start as thunder rumbled in wicked fury. Sometime during the night, she’d fallen asleep while resting her head upon the saddlebags. Through tired eyes, she glanced toward the cave’s exit. Rain still pummeled the earth as flashes of lightning illumined the rocky walls. Dank smells and endless dripping accentuated her misery. She opened her palm, and more closely studied the blue bottle that had slipped from her makeshift pillow during the night. Even in the low light, the silver-topped vial looked familiar.
She brought the bottle closer. House of Guerlain Parfumeurs lay scrawled in an elegant font across the label. More specifically, their expensive Parisian brand Voleur de Roses.
Stunned, her gaze cut to Dillon.
My scent.
Alma’s heart sank beneath the weight of sadness. Was there someone waiting for him in Tucson after all? Regardless the scout’s bravery, the risks he’d taken to save her, or the way he made Alma feel…he wasn’t hers to claim.
As if it mattered. She was en route to meet her betrothed.
More confused than ever, she returned the vial to his saddlebags, and then straightened her legs to banish the cramps. She leaned over and laid her finger along the curve of his mouth, resting her knuckle beneath his nostrils. His mustache was so soft to the touch.
When she felt the damp passage of air, she sent a silent thank you heavenward. He was alive, but still gripped in the throes of a fever. For hours she’d swabbed his body with freshly-caught rainwater as incoherent words spilled from his mouth. And as she moved the cloth, she memorized every crease, every mark, every single scar abrading his hard-edged body. A time or two she even had to lay across him to contain his thrashing.
Her gaze once more drifted to his prone form.
Other than the swift, back-and-forth darts of his eyes beneath his closed lids, Dillon now lay still. The shallow rise and fall of his chest had become her lifeline, the only indicator that he lived.
When he
breathed in…she breathed out.
She closed her eyes and lifted another prayer.
Please, live, I. . .
What?
Frustrated, she glanced toward the fire. During her fitful slumber, the flames had died, leaving only an orangish glimmer to taunt her. Alma scooted to the fieldstone ring and her ever-dwindling stack of firewood.
Carefully, she laid fresh logs across the embers, leaned closer, and blew soft puffs of air against the coals. An bright glow warmed her face and then wisps of smoke swirled upward seconds before flames danced into life. Soon, the pop and crackle of the dry tinder echoed as the fire grew.
Satisfied, she shifted to alleviate the pinch of her corset. The measure of her discomfort loomed large as green material wrapped her frame in a damp constriction. And yet, no matter how uncomfortable she felt, she would not cast aside her comportment. If she gave up who she was, she might as well be lying lost and helpless on the ground beside the scout.
Before her harrowing trip westward, tidiness ruled supreme in her world…and one day, it would again. Slowly, she drew up the hemline of her dress and nearly sobbed at the mud staining the bottom of her underslip. The hand-stitched pattern of hollyhocks she’d spent weeks completing last fall now wallowed in a filthy garden all their own.
Her white cuffs were equally soiled…with dirt and muck and Dillon’s blood.
Alma raised a hand to the nape of her neck, smoothing back tendrils that lay in wild disarray. She couldn’t even imagine the sight that would greet her if she chanced a glance into a looking glass. Nonetheless, a quick twist piled her unruly tresses into a chignon atop her head, and a few well-placed hair pins returned order to her coiffure. If only they could do the same for her world.
A sigh slipped past her lips, and she rolled her shoulders to work out the kinks.
From the far side of the cave, the horse and mule snorted, drawing her gaze. “Quit complaining over there and be grateful I brought you both inside.” Late yesterday afternoon, after pushing the bandits over the side of the ravine as Dillon had requested, she’d spent additional time in the pouring rain coercing the stubborn mule and a horse into the cave. Her body still ached from the ordeal. “I’m just thankful neither of you ran away from me like your other three friends.”