But she did see Thomas Baker loosening the collar of his shirt. He was going to allow her to help him.
Perhaps that was enough of a sign for anyone.
15
THOMAS WOULD BE LYING IF HE SAID HE’D NEVER TAKEN his shirt off in front of a woman before. After his family’s death, the years he spent on the streets of Fort Worth had taken away most of his innocence and all of his modesty.
But he’d also learned that a person’s body was merely a shell that guarded far more important things, at least to him. He now placed far more importance on a person’s heart and soul than on one’s outward appearance.
Spending what seemed like an eternity in a unit of men only reinforced those feelings. Personal space and privacy became things of the past during the war. He’d gotten used to never being alone. He’d seen other men bleed and cry and hurt while standing or lying beside him. He’d grown to know those men almost as well as he knew himself. Actually, he’d probably learned far too much about the men in his company. They most likely felt the same about him.
His time in the prisoner of war camp had helped him remember that all that really mattered about a person’s body was that it worked.
If a man wasn’t dying, that was good enough.
Though he’d matured and learned a lot in the army under Major Kelly’s and Captain Monroe’s guidance, he’d also spent time with the camp women.
He wasn’t proud of that fact, but he didn’t dwell on his faults or baser instincts either. The women had been there for a reason, and his upbringing on the streets hadn’t exactly prepared him to reject anything offered freely.
He was a man who had never expected to live long. He’d also become selfish enough to yearn for instant gratification. Plans and goals usually meant little to him.
It was only during his months on Johnson’s Island that he’d begun to learn the benefits of patience and perseverance. Those attributes paid off when a man yearned to grow into something more than he was.
He’d learned a long time ago to stop feeling guilty about the past and concentrate on looking forward. That was his chief survival skill.
But as he sat down again in Laurel’s kitchen, Thomas experienced a new and fairly forgotten sensation. He felt self-conscious.
As he sat and watched her busy herself with heating water and gathering supplies, Thomas realized he’d rarely felt so exposed. For the first time in his twenty-two years, he was going to knowingly allow another person to see his failings. He hated that. He didn’t want to ever appear anything other than strong and fit.
He wanted Laurel Tracey to think of him as her protector, as a man who would do whatever it took to guard and take care of her. He wanted her to view him as strong and stalwart. Not weak. Not as someone who needed tending to.
Maybe it was because he didn’t have a whole lot of experience in this area, but he was fairly certain if she saw him like this, that memory would be forever burned in her head. Whenever she looked at him in the future, she’d be reminded of a time when he’d sat while she stood, when he rested while she worked.
How could a man of worth ever be all right with something like that?
However, he didn’t have much choice. He worked for her. His back also needed help. It was sore and festering. Only because of those reasons did he resign himself to the inevitability of what was about to happen.
“What would you like me to do?” he asked.
She paused at the stove, looked at him carefully, then seemed to take care to hide her true feelings under a guise of steadfastness. “Take off your shirt and sit down. After this water is heated, I’ll wash your back and put some ointment on your cuts.”
Realizing that she’d see both these new welts as well as a whole mess of older scars, he tried to prepare her. “Miss, my back . . . well, it ain’t pretty.”
“I should hope not,” she teased. “Grown men shouldn’t aim for pretty backs.”
He swallowed. Thinking of his worst wound, the jagged ridge along his neck, he said, “I meant that I have older scars.”
“We’ve already gone through this. I am not attempting to judge you, only help.” Sounding slightly exasperated, she said, “Honestly, Sergeant, I hadn’t pegged you to be so timid or shy.”
“I’m not shy.”
Facing him, her expression one of gentle compassion, she sighed softly. “How about we stop asking questions and giving excuses and just get this over with?”
“Yes, miss.” She was right. Turning so he didn’t have to face her, he began unfastening the buttons. His hands working the small holes were a little unsteady. Sometimes it took him two and three times to manipulate a button through the fabric.
He told himself it was because, despite sleeping through their nighttime visitor’s arrival, he hadn’t slept all that much in three days.
But when he slipped the cotton fabric off his shoulders at last and felt the air kiss his back, he felt pure relief. The burst of fresh air felt wonderful. Cleansing. Like a gift.
Until he heard her gasp.
“Oh, Thomas.”
Embarrassment made his voice hoarse. “If it’s worse than you thought, too much for you, I’m sure I could find a way—”
“Your wounds are terrible. I have no idea how you got through the day without complaining,” she interrupted. “I should have tended to you last night.”
“I’ll be okay.”
After a small pause, she ran cool fingers along his neck. “You certainly do have scars.”
He tried not to notice how welcoming her fingers felt against his skin. How gentle she was. Each brush was featherlight and made him almost wish she wouldn’t stop. So much so, it was almost worth the pain and embarrassment he was feeling.
Seeking to think of more clinical things, he said, “I warned you it looked bad.”
“Some look years old, like before the war.”
They had happened years ago. Well before the war. “Those ain’t nothing to be worried about.”
As if she’d finally put together a puzzle, she cried out, “Thomas, someone whipped you when you were a boy.”
He closed his eyes even though he couldn’t see her reaction. “Yeah. A boy sometimes needs persuasion from his boss.”
She paused, then said, “I’m sorry to say that cleaning these new wounds might cause you further pain.”
Her voice sounded so aggrieved, so thin, he began to get a little worried.
After another endless moment, she gently touched his shoulder. “I’m going to get started. I’ll try not to hurt you.”
So far, both her voice and her touch had been sweet. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d received so much care. “You won’t hurt me.”
“I might. If I’m too rough, let me know.” She added, “It’s just that, well, I think I’m going to need to clean them real good. Dirt and who knows what else are embedded in your skin.”
Unfortunately, he knew exactly what else he’d been exposed to. The jail cots were infested with all sorts of vermin. “Do your worst, Miss Laurel. Just, well, whatever you do, please get started.”
He heard her dip a cloth into the hot water she’d prepared, then felt a sharp sting as she placed it on one of his lash marks.
Unable to help himself, he flinched.
Her voice hardened. “Who did this to you?” She gasped. “Sheriff Jackson said there was some ‘miscommunication’ at the jailhouse, but who was it? Another prisoner? One of the guards?”
She sounded so incredulous. She was so naïve. Did she really have no idea what cruelties befell men in captivity? Swallowing back a curse as she rubbed hot, soapy water on another cut, he muttered, “You know there ain’t no way I’m going to start telling you names.”
“Why not?”
“Because it doesn’t matter. It’s all over with, thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry it happened in the first place,” she murmured as she washed his wounds with soap.
The abrasive soap stung. He welcomed the fee
ling. It cleared his head, helped him focus on the present and not the past. When she ventured to a particularly bad spot, he flinched again.
And she apologized.
“Come now, hasn’t anyone ever told you regret is for fools? It happened and it’s over with. Done.”
He was right too. What had been done was done. Fretting and talking weren’t going to change the facts. Especially since he aimed to live in relative peace and comfort for the next year.
Sounding resigned, she murmured, “Move sideways, please. You have a few welts I can’t quite get to.”
Feeling vaguely like a boy again, he moved to the side and then leaned forward. Closed his eyes as she continued her ministrations. Little by little, he realized the pain wasn’t so bad if he concentrated on other things.
Like the smell of Laurel’s skin, for example. Or the way her soft touch felt on his skin. Or the way he was in her kitchen and was going to be sleeping in a bed just down the hall from her. Not on a pallet in a barn or in a stinking jail cell.
As the minutes went by, Laurel also seemed to relax. She got up once to rinse out her bowl and get more hot water, then continued.
“Whatever man you are protecting never should have harmed you like this,” she muttered. “I wish you’d tell me his name.”
Still leaning over, he found himself smiling at the thought of her rushing to his aid. “I’m not exactly protecting anyone. Merely saving you from worrying about something you can’t change.”
She harrumphed. “Didn’t he realize you aren’t violent?”
She made him sound like a mule for sale. It almost made him smile. “I ain’t violent, but I sure am no saint either. I fought in the war, you know.”
“That was different. You had no choice. You fought for the Confederacy.”
She made that sound like a good thing. If she were anyone else, he’d point out that their side lost. But if he did that, he was liable to hurt her feelings. He’d rather take another lash than do that.
Therefore, he continued to sit silently while she tended to his back. Again and again, he felt the heat of hot water and the sting of soap. Though he tried his best, he was unable to prevent a gasp and a flinch every now and then.
Her hands paused. After hovering over his shoulder, she at last laid a palm on his bare shoulder. “I really am sorry.”
Knowing his suffering was almost as painful for her as it was for him, he attempted to think of something good. Something free and sweet. Anything not to focus on the movements of her hand or the sharp pain that surrounded each dab she made.
But the only thing he could seem to think about was her smiling at him when he was on the chain gang and mending her fence. Or the way she looked at him so sure and true when he was in that blasted cage and she told the judge she wanted him.
Or the way she’d said she trusted him.
But, of course, he shouldn’t be thinking of such things. He shouldn’t be giving in to his feelings toward Laurel Tracey.
He let his mind drift back to the family who had loved him and to the lifelong friendships he’d made in a prisoner of war camp. He had to depend on the good memories he already had when he needed them, not try to make more with a woman who would never be his.
16
THOMAS?” MISS LAUREL REPEATED, HER VOICE TURNING A bit panicked. “Are you all right?”
Blinking, Thomas realized he’d done it again. He’d taken refuge in memories. And in doing so, he’d scared his new employer just a little too much.
She was facing him now, her eyes filled with worry. Her hands were clenched together. The worn cloth she’d been cleansing his wounds with was lying abandoned on the tabletop, bloody and soiled.
He cleared his throat. “Forgive me. Sometime along the way I picked up a bad habit of indulging in daydreams.”
Her eyes widened, almost as if she was surprised he would admit such a thing. Then she composed herself again. “Oh. Yes.” She straightened, absently ran her hands over her gown. “I must admit to getting lost in thought a time or two myself.”
Those brown eyes of hers flooded with concern and compassion, filling him with gratitude. Filling him with a want he didn’t dare acknowledge. He tried to force himself to look away. Instead, he examined the rest of her face. Noticed that a tendril of her burnished hair had sprung free from its confines and rested on her temple. It teased him, practically taunting him to reach out and brush it back.
Before he could do such a thing, he turned away. Breathed deep.
And realized that Laurel Tracey was a veritable minefield of distractions he needed to stay away from. She smelled good. Like roses.
It drew him to her. It was the same scent he’d caught when she brought him water that day at the fence. That same scent they’d all caught.
The scent more than one man had talked about in lewd terms late that night in their cells.
He needed space. Distance.
He really needed to get his shirt back on.
Scrambling to his feet, he shoved one arm through a sleeve, then the other.
With a cry, Laurel attempted to halt his movements. Reaching out, she batted at his arm. “Thomas, no! I need to apply the ointment and bandage you.”
He most certainly did not need her hands on him again. “Ointment and bandages aren’t necessary.” Jerking his shirt together, he fumbled with his buttons.
“What is wrong?” Distress filled her eyes. “Did I hurt you that badly?”
She had enough to worry about. The last thing she needed to be thinking about was hurting a convict’s back. “I’m fine.”
“Then what is wrong? Why are you being so stubborn?”
He exhaled. Thought about fibbing yet again. Then decided it might be best if he was a little more honest. Given the fact that they were going to be living in each other’s pockets for the next year, if she had a better idea about his feelings, things might go easier between them in the future.
“Miss Laurel, forgive my bluntness, but the fact is, I’m only a man.”
“Yes?”
He waved a hand at her. “I am a man and you . . . well, you are a beautiful woman.”
She blinked. “I don’t understand.”
Of course she didn’t. Gritting his teeth, he attempted to maintain his composure and conduct himself in a way that would do the officers who’d become his friends proud. “You see, the thing is . . . I’ve been in jail, miss.”
“I know that.”
Lord, have mercy. “At the risk of being blunt, I’ve got to admit that it’s been a real long time since I’ve, uh, enjoyed any feminine companionship. So while I am sincerely grateful for your ministrations, I think from now on it would be best for both of us if I kept my shirt on around you.” And if she didn’t touch him again.
“Oh! Yes, well, of course. I see.” Looking down, she began to gather the rest of the cloths she’d had out to clean his wounds.
“If you don’t mind, I think it would be best for both of us if I went to my room now.”
She turned, picked up the bowl and a towel, and walked to the basin. “Of course. It’s the one with the folded blankets at the foot of the bed. If you need anything, please let me know. And if you get thirsty or anything, help yourself.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
Then, like the coward he was, he turned and walked up the stairs and started searching for his room.
The scent of beeswax and lemon oil captured his senses. Little by little, his head cleared and his muscles relaxed. Feeling more like himself, he walked down the empty hall. Heard his boots clatter on the wood floor that needed to be sanded and smoothed.
Then, to his misfortune, he looked into her bedroom. And stepped inside. Immediately he was besieged by everything that was Laurel, including that same scent. Saw her bed, covered with two quilts and a great many down pillows. On one side of the room stood a full-length mirror. And on a chair rested a discarded white chemise, the bodice threaded with a pale-blue ribbon.
> Startled, he turned away, but it was too late.
The memory of seeing something he shouldn’t have, of entering her bedroom, would now be burned brightly in his mind. He’d had no business there. He should have turned around the moment he’d realized this was her personal space, not staying for even a second.
Hardly aware of what he was doing again, he darted into one of the other bedrooms, saw the blankets she mentioned, and shut the door behind him.
He pulled off his boots and pulled off the shirt already sticking to his back. Then, clad only in his denims, he climbed onto the bed, curved his arms around a down pillow that smelled like sunshine, and stretched out on his stomach.
He’d just embarrassed himself, but he’d done worse things. Therefore, it didn’t really matter.
What mattered was that he was in a room all by himself. He was holding a real pillow, and soft sheets and blankets and fresh, sweet-smelling air surrounded him. His wounds were clean.
More important, he wasn’t running anymore. Not from his mistakes and not from his past. In short, he was in a better place than he’d been in a very long time.
With great care, he shifted, pulled over one of the light blankets Laurel had set out for him. As the soft fabric swooshed around his lower body, he enjoyed the clean scent that wafted upward and held him close.
It smelled like a faint memory, like a time before he’d learned to be afraid.
Feeling better and more content than he could remember being in years, Thomas gave thanks and counted his blessings. He had many. Even better than enjoying physical comforts, he knew where he was going to be sleeping tonight. He had a great many things to be thankful for indeed.
Only then did he allow his eyes to close and his mind to drift.
17
ONE FULL HOUR HAD PASSED SINCE THOMAS HAD PRACTICALLY run from the kitchen. He’d cited exhaustion. Laurel had been concerned that she’d done more harm than good to his back and that he was suffering from her best efforts.
An Uncommon Protector Page 12