The Outsider

by Rosalyn West

  “Poteet Dermont rubs your face in the fact that he shot you and you just sit there.”

  Wincing at the vicious thrust of words, Dodge replied, “What did you expect me to do? Hit him with my crutch?”

  “Go to the law if you can’t take care of him yourself.” The fact that she didn’t think he could was clear in her condescending tone.

  “There is no law in Pride except the military, and I’m not in uniform anymore. And there’s no proof, other than his bragging. I didn’t see who pulled the trigger. I doubt that his brothers—or yours—would come forward with the facts.”

  His mention of her brother brought a deep flush to Starla’s face, but her tone remained crisp and cold. “So you’re just going to let it go?” You’re going to let them laugh at you in front of the whole town?”

  His gaze narrowed. “You can laugh with them, if you like.”

  “I don’t think it’s funny.”

  “You think I’m a coward for doing nothing.”

  Her silence was his answer.

  “Your belief in me is truly touching.” With that wry observation, he started down the walk toward the bank, planting his crutches and swinging through them in aggressive arcs. He didn’t think anything could darken his mood until he saw the front of the bank.

  The shutters had been torn from the windows. He didn’t need to look closer to know all the glass was gone. Cursing under his breath, he pulled the keys from his vest pocket and unlocked the heavy door. He crossed into a sea of red.

  The scent was unmistakable: thick, metallic, carrying him back to the battlefield, to the drone of flies and the screams of the dying.

  “Oh, my God,” Starla gasped from behind him. “What is that?”

  “Animal blood. Someone’s idea of a joke.”

  Starla pushed past him, lifting her skirts so they wouldn’t drag through the pools of crimson staining the floorboards and splattering the walls amid shards of glass. While Dodge surveyed the damage, she went out the back, returning with a bucket of water, rags, and a broom. Seeing her intention, Dodge’s jaw tightened.

  “You don’t have to—”

  She cut him off bluntly.

  “If I don’t, who will? You can hardly open for business with the place looking like a slaughter-house. It’s not exactly confidence inspiring.” She waited for his reply, but he just stared at her, his eyes a glaze of uncertain emotion. “Well, don’t just stand there. Go about your regular business while I tend with this mess,” she said.

  For the next few hours she soaked and scrubbed the stains and swept up the broken glass, all with a somber determination that humbled and rankled her husband. Dodge watched her work, seeing her frustration with him in the fierce way in which she tackled the job. His pride prickled at allowing her to clean up after him, but he was warned to say nothing by the furious way she punished the floorboards into yielding up all but the faintest tint of red. He tried to concentrate on his daily accounts, but the figures before him weren’t nearly as enticing as the one that bent over to create a hypnotic sway of skirt and hips.

  What a fool he was for treating her so badly. It wasn’t her fault, any of it, yet he’d hammered her with the full force of his anger. And she’d taken the abuse without complaint. What a strong woman he’d wed, strong and stubborn, and so gorgeous, even on her knees, rubbing her knuckles raw; it hurt him to draw a decent breath.

  “Starla, that’s enough.”

  She continued to circle the cloth with a single-minded vengeance.

  “It’s not going to come clean.”

  She looked up then, her features flushed from exertion and taut with unvoiced concerns as she considered his statement, then answered flatly, “It never does.”

  With that she stood, pressing her palm into the small of her back as she surveyed the extent of the vandalism. The floor held a pinkish tinge, but the walls looked good.

  “I’m going home,” she announced with a weary finality.

  “You’ll meet me at Doc Anderson’s?”

  She nodded.

  His apology should have come then, or at least his thanks, but when he said nothing, Starla left without a backward glance.

  “You keep pushing so hard, and you’re going to end up paralyzed or dead.”

  Dodge took a long draw on his cigar, refusing to give credence to the words as he waited for the same doctor who gave him that prognosis to finish his examination of Starla.

  It wasn’t as though he didn’t know the risks. With the bullet still lodged so close to his spine, the slightest shift could accomplish what Poteet Dermont had failed to do on that dark night at the Glade. It wasn’t as though the grinding pain didn’t remind him quick enough when it was time to ease off.

  It wasn’t his inability to walk that was foremost among his worries. It was his inability to do other things.

  Could anything be worse than having to spell everything out to the inquisitive and suddenly dense-as-a-brick doctor?

  “The spinal cord’s a funny thing. As I said, most wouldn’t have survived what you did; the rest would never have stood, let alone thought of walking. You suffered a traumatic injury. Things are going to recover at their own pace—if they do at all. Pushing as hard as you are and worrying about it on top of the rest isn’t going to help matters.”

  “What is?”

  “Letting time do its work, letting nature take its course. For now, just be glad to be breathing.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  Dr. Anderson had grinned at his growly claim. “You’re welcome. Rest. Let the lovely lady wait on you awhile. Give her a chance to get your full attention—if you know what I mean.” He winked.

  Dodge knew. It wasn’t that he had no patience with the wait; he just had no tolerance for the uncertainty.

  His strength was coming back, but not fast enough. Not when he had a job to do and a wife to take care of. Not when men like the Dermonts could shame him in front of her with impunity.

  Not when his desire to have a real marriage increased with every restless night spent alone while his bride slept in a separate bed on the floor above him.

  Dodge levered up on his crutches when Starla emerged from the doctor’s back room. She didn’t look at him. Alarmed, he cast a questioning stare toward the physician, who eased his worries with a smile.

  “Congratulations. You’ll have a healthy new mouth to feed come spring.”

  Dodge shook the man’s hand as if he’d accomplished the act himself. Of course, Anderson knew that wasn’t the case, but Dodge didn’t fear the doctor would spill the truth. He was the type who favored his oath over opinion and gossip.

  “Anything special we need to do?” Dodge asked, giving consideration to Starla’s wan features.

  “You, rest. For her, plenty of fresh air and exercise. Take care of each other. This is a special time. Enjoy it.”

  But as Dodge watched his wife climb the stairs of their too quiet home without a word to him, a bittersweet sorrow spread through him. A child in the spring … that knowledge quickened all sorts of eager anticipation. But Starla’s lack of excitement dampened the joy of the occasion.

  Did she still love him, that fool who filled her with his child, then refused to wed her? Did she wish to share these special moments with him, rather than with a surrogate husband and father? Dodge hadn’t considered how those questions would chafe at heart and mind when he’d taken on the care of woman and child. He hadn’t realized how fixed he would become on the life his wife had led in the four years she was gone from Pride, how he couldn’t stop the comparisons between himself and the baby’s father and Starla’s relationship with both of them. She saw him as her rescuer and the source of her future security. He’d told Reeve that would be enough.

  Now he was fighting to convince himself of it.

  And it wasn’t a fight he was winning.

  Chapter 9

  Sound shattered through him, its impact almost physical. His eyes sprang open only to squeeze quickly
shut against a glare of dazzling light. In a heartbeat he recognized the danger.

  They were under fire.

  Mortar shells lit up the night sky as they screamed toward their encampment like banshees. Dodge scrambled out of his tent into the chaos of men dying. He tried to call out orders to organize the panicked soldiers, to ready them to return fire, but his words couldn’t compete with the deafening roar of the artillery barrage cutting them to pieces. Within moments he was the only one standing among a litter of corpses.

  Brightness continued to light the sky in eerie flickers as Dodge knelt beside the first body lying facedown in the mud. He gripped the man’s shoulder and rolled him over, rocking back in horror at the sight of his friend Reeve Garrett’s face twisted in a grimace of death. Dodge stumbled back, bumping against another of the fallen. His breath coming in hoarse, anguished bursts, he flipped that man over, revealing the face of another friend. And so it went as he crawled through the mud and gore among the dead, turning over man after man, staring down into the still faces of not only those he’d commanded, but friends from childhood, faces of family, until the sobs of grief and guilt choked him.

  A tremendous punch of agony tore through his back, propelling him facedown into the sea of mud. He wallowed helplessly until he managed to tip his face up to the flashing heavens. He tried to lift himself out of the mire.

  But he couldn’t move. His body was as useless as a length of cordwood, the muscles deadened, unresponsive.

  “No.”

  That’s when the smell reached him. Above the scorch of gunpowder, over the stink of the mud.

  The scent of death.

  It rose all around him, the mud and rain becoming a fast-rising tide. He struggled to get his elbows under him, to find enough leverage to lift his head out of the ever-deepening pool. But his body wouldn’t obey the frantic commands of his mind.

  It rose up to his ears.

  “No.”

  He lifted his chin, fighting to keep his mouth and nose clear, but the level surged up too fast, closing off his light, his air.

  As he drowned in the blood of those who’d fallen.

  “Dodge?”

  It had taken all her courage for Starla to enter the darkened room, to sit on the edge of the bed beside the thrashing man.

  His stark cries had awakened her—horrible, harsh sounds of dread and pain and fear that scared a rash of gooseflesh along her arms and had her trembling. Horrible memories of her own made her cower in the dark while shocks of lightning heightened the nightmarish quality of her recall: memories of another man’s voice, wild and rambling in the throes of narcotic delusion, of irrational temper and sometimes violence when she dared to interfere. Those reminders held her helpless for a long moment until she recalled that this wasn’t that man; this was Dodge. And he’d promised never to hurt her.

  But what if in response to his pain, Dodge relied on the same opiates that she’d watched destroy another?

  Don’t go to him! No man is as good as his word! He’ll make you regret it if you intrude. Didn’t he say he didn’t need or want you?

  But her conscience betrayed her, goading her into snatching her robe and creeping down the stairs, hugging close to the rail as the low, anguished sounds led her toward the back bedroom.

  She could see him tossing in a tangle of sheets, eyes closed, his features taut beneath a sheen of sweat as he struggled against whatever haunted his dreams. Asleep, not insensible. Relief left her weak. She should have withdrawn then and left him to his subconscious battle, but something about those tortured pulls of breath played harmony upon her own remembrances of what it was to feel helpless and alone. She crossed over to him, all the while chiding herself for becoming involved in his nightmares. She’d had enough of her own. She didn’t need to fight his as well.

  At the first light touch of her hand upon his shoulder, he came awake. His eyes flashed open, his gaze darting wild and disoriented about him until it fixed on her face with a desperate fear. She jumped in alarm as his fingers clamped over the top of hers, squeezing convulsively into an inescapable grip.

  “Reeve? Is Reeve alive?”

  Though his question seemed ludicrous, his fractured tone had Starla answering with a gentle assurance.

  “Reeve is fine. You were dreaming.”

  “Dreaming,” he repeated both in doubt and tremendous relief.

  Starla tried to twist her hand free, but his hold on her tightened until her panic began to grow.

  “Dodge, let me go.”

  Her increasingly urgent pulling had no effect.

  “Let me go!”

  The fright in her voice finally reached him. His hand opened, allowing her the freedom to surge back, to scramble warily to her feet, rubbing her wrist.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, scrubbing shaking hands over his face to dry the sheets of cold terror clinging to his skin. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I have dreams sometimes. I’m fine now.”

  But a sudden crack of thunder had him cringing back, his fists balling over his eyes to shut out the light that accompanied the sound. His breath escaped him in a jagged rush.

  “It’s just a storm.”

  He nodded, understanding her explanation, yet still responding to the next flash and rumble with irrational panic, crossing his arms over his head as if to protect himself against some sort of expected fallout.

  “Dodge?”

  “I’m sorry I woke you. I’m—I’m all right. These things never used to bother me—oh, God—” He braced against the next rattle of sound, tensing until it was over, then letting go in a shuddering relief. He was breathing hard—distraught, still caught in the fearful throes of his nightmares.

  Cautiously Starla sat beside him, clasping her hands together to restrain herself from the want to touch him, to soothe his fears, imagined or not. Abruptly he rolled onto his side, tucking up against the wall, rocking himself in short, hard thrusts as the foundation of the house vibrated from the fury of the storm.

  “I can’t make it stop. I can’t make it stop.”

  The torment in his wrenching claim broke Starla’s reserve. She touched his shoulder, feeling shivers of reaction as she slowly rubbed the taut muscles of his arm. Another sharp crack and sizzle made him clutch at her, dragging her down across him. The threat of that sudden closeness eased with the evidence of his distress.

  “I can see their faces.” He moaned in despair.

  Carefully Starla fitted herself to his strong contours, encircling him with her embrace as she had her brother, when they were younger and he was troubled by fitful dreams.

  “Close your eyes.”

  He rolled toward her then and she held his dark head to her breast, blocking out the lightning dance with the wrap of her arms. His jerking breaths blew hot and uneven against the curve of her bosom, heating through thin silk, warming deeper with their erratic pattern of anguish. She pressed her cheek to the soft bristle of his hair and murmured, “It’s all right. Just close your eyes. It’ll all go away.”

  She held him while the storm raged, absorbing the fierce shocks racking him with each loud percussion. Finally the roars ebbed to a gentle timpani, and his breathing slowed and deepened into restful slumber.

  She should have returned to her room, but while giving him comfort, she’d begun to receive it in exchange. As her fingertips stroked from her husband’s brow to his stubbled jaw and back, she took a quiet pleasure in the repetitions. The cadence of his breathing, the steady throb of his pulse, calmed her spirit. The act of easing his demons helped quiet her own.

  She thought of what he’d said, that their marriage was a partnership, like brother and sister, where each could depend on the other. For the next few hours, while rain tapped on the glass and Dodge slept in her arms, Starla let herself relax and enjoy the simple act of closeness without fear.

  Which perhaps was why, when she woke to the pastels of dawn with the feel of his kiss on her lips, she responded with a quiver of curiosity.

>   In all her flirtations, in all her coy encouragements, never had she allowed the familiarity of a kiss. Just the thought of that grinding pressure mashing tender lips against her teeth, the slobbering aggression of a tongue thrusting down her throat, startled feelings of helplessness and invasion. It was a gesture of greedy domination that sickened her more than all but the most personal of exchanges, one she swore would always have to be taken from her, never given.

  So why was she giving back to Hamilton Dodge as they lay side by side in the warm haven of his bed, when it was threat, not capitulation, that should have controlled her reactions?

  He’d awakened to the unfamiliar delight of not being alone.

  The realization that it was Starla sharing his sheets shocked him to his soul, until, with an embarrassing flush of memory, he recalled what had drawn her into his room. He hadn’t had that particular nightmare for a long while. It must have been the stale scent of blood in the bank, the frustration of his own helplessness, that had lured it back to taunt him.

  Starla had come to comfort him and had stayed to console him.

  Looking into her face scant inches away on his pillow, he was neither comforted nor consoled. A strange, shivery panic flooded through his chest and closed fistlike around his heart. A more primal heat scorched along his veins, trailing fire and longing, then stopped just short of full-blown passion. What stirred his emotions into a frenzy of need left his loins frustratingly unaffected.

  Right now, it was for the best. He would never have dared touch the soft spill of her hair if not in complete control of his more basic responses. It wasn’t his intention to claim his bride with ungovernable lusts. He needed to win her with restrain and respect … and trust.

  But wisdom couldn’t quite win out over the desperate desire to taste the soft mouth denied him before the judge … a quick taste to satisfy all that massed in complex yearning as her warm breath caressed the part of his lips.

  Sweet. She tasted sweet as his every urgent dream, as tender as the uncertain sentiment unfurling in his heart as he lingered just a bit too long to savor the sensation.