His Wild West Wife

by Lauri Robinson

  There wasn’t any now, either. She’d simply been waiting for him to leave, so she could, too. But he’d be the one to leave this time. Once she signed the papers, he’d return to Chicago where he’d built himself a good life, despite all the obstacles.

  “Sitting on the floor can’t be good for your leg,” she said. “I better help you back into bed.”

  “I can do it,” he said, already pushing off the floor.

  “No, let me—”

  Blake dodged her hands and got back into bed himself—it didn’t hurt that bad—and then he tugged the sheet out of her hands to cover himself. The little smirk on her face said she’d seen him—all of him—and that made him fluff the sheet a second time.

  As the end fluttered over his feet, she stuck her hands beneath it. “I’m sure you’ll be more comfortable,” she said, snagging the bottom of the pant leg he’d managed to get half on one leg, “without these on, too.”

  He was relieved of the pants with a single tug. The movement didn’t hurt as much as it goaded. If he had too good legs he’d—the thought stalled as he caught the spark in her eyes. She wanted him, and that made him want to pull her onto the bed again. He’d become a lawyer because he loved a good challenge, and he rarely lost. Namely because he rarely gave his opponent what they wanted, not until he got what he wanted, anyway.

  He wanted a divorce, but along with it, he wanted answers. There were two ways to play every hand dealt. For as much as he didn’t know about Clara, he’d learned a lot about her in their short time together, and right now he’d use every bit of it. He’d have to take a new approach, and the realization of that had a grin pulling at his lips. It was a struggle to keep it contained. There could be consequences to it, but, in truth, he had nothing to lose.

  Besides, having her in his bed one last time could be his final reward. He deserved it after all she’d put him through.

  “Thank you, Clara,” he said. “That is much more comfortable. So much I think I’ll take a nap now.”

  “A nap?”

  He nodded, biting the inside of his cheek at her startled frown. “Yeah, the leg is really hurting. Too much movement. The hard floor. Feels like it’s bleeding pretty good, too.”

  Genuine concern—which should make him feel guilty but didn’t—flashed in her eyes as she went into action, flipped back the sheet. He counted his blessings there was blood on the bandages. His luck had turned, for the good.

  After a moment of tender examination, she said, “I don’t dare remove these, but let me get some more. I’ll double wrap them. That should stop the bleeding.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” he said, trying his best to sound sincere and in pain. “Maybe another bump of that bottle of Mrs. Sinclair would help, too.”

  Her eyes grew wide. He wasn’t a drinking man, and she knew it, so that, too, played into his hand. Had her thinking he was in serious pain.

  “Are you sure?” she asked. “When did you eat last? Maybe that would be better for you.”

  There were a few things about her he still believed in, and one was her tender heart. She’d worn it on her sleeve when they’d first met, and it was there again, for him to manipulate, as any good lawyer would do. He shrugged, trying to look as solemn as a lost dog. “I can’t say when the last time I ate was.”

  Everything about her softened and she laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll have Auntie fix you some eggs while I’m gathering the bandages.”

  “Thank you, Clara.” His tone was so sickening sweet he wanted to groan.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  “Okay,” he said meekly.

  She massaged his skin, whispered, “Promise me you won’t move this time.”

  He closed his eyes as if it was too hard to keep them open. “I promise.”

  When the door clicked shut, he opened one lid, then the other, and then stifled a chuckle. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? When had he forgotten using people to get what you want is what makes the world go around?

  Sighing Blake closed his eyes. He’d get his answers, and her signature, and his life back. Which he’d never lose again. No woman was worth losing what he’d worked so hard to gain. He’d known that for years, growing up as he had. Someday he might even remember Clara fondly for the lesson she’d taught him. There wasn’t a female on earth who could be trusted. And love, well, it truly didn’t exist.

  * * *

  Clara’s heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Blake was injured and she’d— Air snagged in her lungs and she tried to reroute the thoughts still dancing in her head. She wanted him to pull her onto the bed again and this time do a lot more than kiss her, especially after catching a glimpse beneath the sheet. In order to stop that thought, Clara held her breath and tightened every imaginable muscle.

  For a moment, while he’d been sitting on the floor, so quiet and thoughtful, she’d thought about asking him who the woman was, but reality had stopped her question. Whoever the blonde was, dressed in her finery, she belonged in Blake’s world, whereas, she—an outlaw’s daughter—didn’t. She’d been fooling herself since the moment she’d met him, and they both would be better off when this was all over.

  What she needed was for him to get well enough to ride. She’d sign his papers and send him on his way—hopefully before he discovered the truth. Deep down, she still loved him, and along with that came protectiveness. If any of his colleagues ever learned who he’d really married, he’d never be able to hold his head up in Chicago.

  Her determination grew as she marched through the house, into the kitchen, where the entire family sat and watched her walk through the doorway.

  A weight landed on her shoulders. Not a one of them could keep a secret.

  “Is Blake all right?” Emily asked.

  “Yes,” Clara answered. “But his wounds are bleeding again. I need to rewrap them, and he hasn’t eaten in days. Auntie, I need you to make him some eggs, please.” She was already at the cupboard, digging out the rest of the sheet she’d torn up earlier. “And, Charlotte, I need you to get me a basin of water in case fever sets in.”

  Everyone jumped to do her biddings, thank goodness because her throat was burning from how she’d fought to keep her words from cracking. Fever was a real possibility, why she hadn’t thought about it before now was beyond her.

  “Fever?” Auntie asked. “I’ve seen gunshot wounds before, so have you. His aren’t bad.”

  “There’s always that chance,” Clara insisted sternly.

  “Nathan brought his saddlebags in,” William said. “I’ll take them into your room.”

  “No.” Though it might break her, she’d see to Blake’s welfare, only her. He was a proud man and wouldn’t want anyone else seeing him in such pain. She was amazed he’d let her see it or hear how weak he was. His last promise had been little more than a whisper. Furthermore, she couldn’t take the chance of someone talking to him.

  “Just set it outside the door. I don’t want him disturbed more than necessary,” she said. “I’ll be the only one seeing to his needs.”

  Gazes shot across the room, amongst each other, those old enough to wonder, anyway, and Clara met them, when they landed on her, with an earnest stare.

  “All right,” William said. “Just don’t wear yourself out. We’re all willing to help.”

  “I won’t,” she assured, piling things onto a tray so she could carry everything at once. “Auntie, just knock on the door when the eggs are
ready.”

  Blake was resting peacefully when she reentered the room, and she questioned disturbing him. Blood had seeped through the other bandages in a few spots and she did want to rewrap them, but he needed his rest.

  The little moan he emitted had her setting down the tray to press a hand to his forehead. It wasn’t overly warm, but the worry of him becoming ill, amongst everything else, had her hands chillier than usual. Her heart was so heavy it just couldn’t pump blood all the way to her fingers. She’d been so callous about his injuries, about his arrival and about who he was right from the beginning. A dashing lawyer with the world at his disposal.

  What had she been thinking?

  She hadn’t been, not with any resemblance of sense, for a long time. From the moment she’d left Chicago, she’d hoped he’d come looking for her, proclaim his undying love.

  He groaned slightly and she leaned over to whisper, “I know you’re tired, Blake, but you should try and stay awake long enough to eat. It’ll make you feel better.”

  His nod was lethargic, which tugged harder at her heart.

  “I’ll try to be as gentle as possible with the additional bandages.”

  “I know you will, Clara,” he muttered quietly. “You were always gentle.”

  That stung, too. He was the one that had been kind and gentle, patient, and she had to blink back a tear before carefully lifting the sheet. She wasn’t a crier. Never had been, not even when she really wanted to. There’d been no use. Tears never solved anything and wouldn’t now.

  Clara was just finishing with the new bandages when a soft knock sounded on the door. She reached out to touch Blake’s shoulder. “Your food is here.”

  His nod, as well as the smile on his lips, were both faint.

  She wrapped her hands around one arm. “Here, let me help you sit up a little.”

  “No,” he said. “I can do it myself.”

  His will was so strong, and that made her want to smile, though how he struggled tore at her. She helped, but pretended not to, knowing how stubborn he could be. Once she had him settled with an extra pillow and blanket helping him sit against the headboard, Clara went to gather the tray sitting outside the door. Then she sat beside his bed as he ate, which seemed to use up all his fortitude.

  When his plate was clean, she set it aside and helped him lie down, then covered him with the sheet. “You try to sleep now.”

  “Are you leaving?” he asked softly.

  “No, I’m just going to put this stuff in the hall. I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

  He nodded, offered a tiny smile again, and then sighed heavily.

  So did she.

  Clara did set the trays, both the food and the one with extra bandages, in the hall, and then picked up his saddlebags, carried them into the room. Blake appeared to already be sleeping, and she sat in the chair she’d positioned beside the bed while he ate. His breathing was slow and even, and the urge to crawl onto the bed, lie her head on his shoulder grew inside her. She’d never slept as well as she had while lying next to him. He’d made her feel safe and protected, even when asleep. Fighting the desires, which were growing to include other things, she finally reached down, opened the flap on one of his bags. His clothes surely needed to be laundered after his travels.

  She found two sets, full of dust, and stood to carry them into the hall, pausing when something fluttered to the floor.

  Chapter Four

  It was late that night while Clara was once again sitting in the chair beside his bed with nothing but dim moonlight gracing the room that she dug into her pocket to pull out the picture that had fallen from Blake’s clothes. He’d slept all afternoon, right through the evening meal. She was thankful he was still cool to the touch, and knew sleep was the best thing for him, yet she wanted him to wake, just to make sure he was indeed all right.

  The yearnings she’d had earlier were still with her, too, those of lying down beside him, and that’s why she took out the photo, embracing the memories it evoked. They were both smiling in the picture. Taken on their wedding day. A glorious day for sure. He was well-known in Chicago, and though the event—another fairy tale—had come about quickly, many people had attended the ceremony.

  Her dress had been beautiful. White silk overlaid with lace and fastened up the back with pearl buttons, and store-bought from an expensive boutique. He’d insisted upon that, and had attended the fittings with her, making sure it was perfect. What she was remembering now was how he’d taken it off her. So tenderly. He’d introduced her to the love shared between a man and woman that night, and their commitment and adoration had grown in the weeks following. In all aspects. Just knowing he was coming home every evening, to her, where they’d share a meal and laugh, and he’d tell her about his day and ask about hers, had been extraordinary. The nights, though...

  Pressing a hand to smother the groan trying to escape, she slipped the picture back in her pocket with her other hand. She’d been so entrenched in the fairy tale her life had become she’d started to believe it would work. But he was too perfect, too prominent and legitimate to associate with the likes of her. The few weeks she’d spent in Chicago with her grandfather had made her think she was someone else. Someone like the blonde at the train station.

  Swallowing didn’t help, the groan came out, but it sounded more like a sob, and did so again when one of his hands folded around hers.

  “Clara, honey, come to bed.”

  He couldn’t know how badly she wanted to, yet probably did. He’d always had a sixth sense when it came to that. There were times he’d simply look at her and then take her hand, lead her to bed, knowing what she needed even before she did. The thought of him kissing that other woman, touching her, burned a hole through Clara’s heart.

  “No. You—”

  “You can’t sleep all night in that chair,” Blake interrupted. He’d been watching her for some time, saw how their wedding picture trembled in her hand as she’d stared at it. He’d stared at it, too, many times the past few months, while lying in countless hotel rooms or bedded down on the plains.

  The picture had captured her perfectly, and one of the things he’d always found so remarkable was that she didn’t realize how beautiful she was. Even at their wedding, when men and women alike complimented her, she’d insisted it was the dress. It wasn’t. Even wearing an everyday cotton gown she was breathtaking.

  For a moment he questioned his plan. Maybe he should ask her to return to Chicago, try to make their marriage work. That thought dissolved. It hadn’t worked once, and wouldn’t a second time. Nothing had changed. His strategy was still the best, and he’d stick to it.

  She’d never left his side. At least the few times he’d awakened she’d been sitting in the exact same spot. “Come on,” he coaxed. “You’re exhausted.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not,” he insisted.

  “Yes, I am.” She stood as if that proved something. “You need to go back to sleep.”

  “Why?” Her stubbornness was going against his plan. “So you can leave again?”

  “This is my home. I have no reason to leave.”

  He scooted into a sitting position to give himself more authority. The leg barely hurt now, actually other than when it gave out beneath him, it hadn’t bothered him a bit. His collapse, had been because he’d jumped out of bed, trying to chase her down, and got one foot caught in the sheet. He’d have managed if the room ha
dn’t filled up with strange women seconds later. Right now, if she ran for the door, he’d be able to chase her down, so therefore said, “You left our home readily enough.”

  The moonlight was bright enough to show him the grief in her eyes before she spun around.

  He’d been so proud to escort her around town and had readily agreed when other men complimented him on his luck. He hadn’t been looking for a wife when she came along, but he’d changed his mind. His goals. He’d wanted a family—someday—but the chances of his background being discovered had prevented him from growing too intent on it happening. The women in the circles he’d affiliated himself with held pedigrees and expected to marry so. The fact Clara had inherited a substantial amount of money from her grandfather had put her in those same circles, and it had put her in the sights of several other eligible bachelors, which had increased Blake’s urgency.

  Oscar Wells had been an average man until he’d patented a cistern pump that had made him comfortably wealthy, and having no family but his granddaughter, Clara, left no one to question her suitor’s pedigrees—namely him.

  Her inheritance was of little concern. Money had never been an issue. Still wasn’t. Though now he earned it. Not like when he was in any of the numerous boarding schools and colleges he’d spent his life at. There the money to pay his tuition had arrived in packages. Cash, hidden amongst the tailored clothes his mother sent regularly. Secretively.

  “Was it the middle of the night when you left there, too?” he asked before Clara reached the door.

  She stopped.

  “You can’t run forever.”

  Turning around slowly, to face him, she said, “I’m not running.”

  “Really?”