The Bounty Hunter's Heart

by Jillian Hart

"Oh, my pa," the boy choked out on a sob just as the big shadow of a man tripped over his sluggish, unresponsive feet and went down on his knees to the floor, his blood dripping on the snow-covered wooden planks. His revolver slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a clatter.

  Quicker than thunder rumbling, the boy ran to his father's side and knelt, small hand gripping the snowy and bloody coat. "You can't die, Pa. Please, don't leave me yet."

  Saydee wrestled the door against the strong, inclement winds to close it. The man looked haggard and dying. He struggled to breathe in short, gasping bites of air. He was fighting for life right in front of her. And right in front of his son.

  "I'm gonna help you survive, sir." She knelt at the big man's other side. Her fingers trembled as she plucked at his coat buttons and pushed the garment off him. She gasped at the dried blood she saw there and her hopes sank at the bright spill of new blood staining his shirt and denims. The single slice through the fabric of his shirt clearly showed what had happened. He'd been shot.

  "Pa, please get up." Heartbreak twisted in those words. "Please don't leave me now."

  Pete gave his best effort to comfort the frightened boy with a nudge of his nose, a whine and a kiss, while Saydee ignored her breaking heart and wished with all her might that she could save the man's life. But there was too much blood, and since it was sluicing quickly, she figured that the wound was a deep one.

  Now what did she do? She had him safely inside her home but knew nothing about treating serious wounds, not ones like this. With the storm outside, she couldn't trust that a blizzard wouldn't blow in. That meant he was stuck here. Even if she could move him, this man wouldn't survive it.

  Just use your best guess, Saydee. She grabbed a dish towel from the drawer and pressed it against his shirt, right below his rib cage. She needed to get the bleeding slowed to sew up the wound.

  Gosh, but her stomach twisted, feeling nauseated at the thought of sewing him up herself like a sewing project. But she had to do it, so she would. Her chin up, her spine steeled, she kept pressure on the wound while the towel turned red with blood. The man was running out of life.

  "What's your name, boy?" She hopped up to grab a bowl from the counter.

  "I'm Jack." Frightened eyes turned upward to meet hers with relief.

  "My name is Saydee, and I'm going to help you." She drained the water from the stove's reservoir. "You look very cold. Can you move your fingers and toes?"

  "Yes, but they're mostly frozen feeling." Jack swiped away his tears with both trembling hands. "A bad person hurt my papa and I don't know where he went."

  2

  "I don't know either." Saydee wondered if they'd been robbed on the road. That would explain their situation. She sent the boy in to warm by the stove, grabbed her sewing basket off the kitchen table and fetched a bottle of whiskey from the pantry shelf.

  Nerves fraying, she knelt down next to the wounded man and couldn't help noticing his handsome face was one of classic angles and lines. She admired his high cheekbones, straight sloping nose and chiseled mouth. Made for smiling? She wondered, but didn't know.

  Probably not, judging by the gun. "Let's get you laying down on your back."

  He blinked. "Don't think I can move right now, give me a moment." He panted the words out and they sounded raspy and ragged. Broken. He blinked again.

  "This won't wait, so just turn over so I can help you." When he did so with a broken moan of agony, she unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the sodden fabric aside enough to expose the span of his torso and rib cage and felt flustered by the bulky, muscular nakedness of him. Even that little bit was more of a naked man than she'd ever seen, outside of her marriage. Soft dark hair swirled across his chest and stomach in a downward path that disappeared under his belt.

  She blushed and vowed not to think about what lay further south and was, for the moment, covered by his denims. His rugged, rock-hard man's body was a mystery, and so help her, she was curious. That wasn't a decent thought, but it didn't stop her from thinking it. Not at all.

  Don't look at him or imagine him naked. She lit the lamp and set it on the floor so that the rugged, wounded skin and flesh on his left side was well illuminated. She ran her best sewing needle through the bright flame of the wick and leaned over him.

  He felt sizzling hot to the touch, and her pulse skipped with fear, thundering with awareness of the man. She'd seen her father patch up more than more hired man on their potato farm back home as a little girl, before he took off for parts unknown.

  I can do this. Even if her hand shook, but not worse than his, as she gathered her courage, breathed in a deep lungful of air and pulled the soaked dish towel from his wound. The flow of blood had slowed to a seep, and that had to be a good sign. She prodded the wound with the tip of her needle.

  "Ow, that hurts," he murmured, his words dulled by pain and shock, and his head rolled back to rest against the wood floor. The tension drained from his clenched jaw and tense, hardened body.

  It looked like he'd passed out, which was good for him. At least he couldn't feel it anymore. Saydee gritted her teeth, steeled her resolve and hoped for a steady hand. She stuck the needle into the wound and felt a bullet wedged against a rib, and bright, fresh blood welled. Her head went woozy.

  Don't you dare faint, Saydee, she told herself and ignored her shaking hand. She trembled from head to toe with the effort as she prodded the spent bullet out of him like a muffin from a baking tin and splashed a good dollop of whiskey into the gaping round hole. Even unconscious, his body moved in pain, and she felt the hard ropes of his muscles clench beneath her fingertips and her heart softened toward him. It was hard not to care listening to his groan of agony.

  She moved the needle, felt her own pain gather at the back of her neck. That's how tense and scared she was. What if she did harm? What if she made things worse? What if the bullet hole was too deep and her efforts would do him no good? She guided the tip of her needle through one side of his gaping wound and gave a tug to draw the thread through. Not exactly like sewing a seam, but not unlike it either.

  Saydee tugged the thread taught and made another stitch into his ragged flesh. She winced, and this time her stomach clenched in protest. A bead of sweat popped out on her forehead and she felt her woozy head begin to tilt. Fighting to stay conscious, she pulled the pink thread through his skin and kept going.

  More blood sluiced from the wound, but she didn't stop sewing. She prodded the needle into his flesh yet again, tugged the thread taut and the wound closed a fraction and held. It was working!

  She knotted the thread carefully and, exhausted, slumped against the table leg and relaxed against the wood, wrung out, breathing shallow and feeling clammy from head to toe. She felt so weak, she didn't think she could move but she'd done it. The wound was sewn up tight.

  Looking over at the unconscious man, she hoped he would be just fine. But fear gripped her in its hard, icy clutches and she shivered, afraid for him. She was no doctor and so her best sewing skills could never be anything close to good enough.

  * * *

  Jack gazed up over the bowl of steaming chili, watching the sleeping man on the floor with unblinking eyes. She'd rolled the man onto a feather tick, one of many she kept for when her cousin's or her aunt's family stayed over. Worry creased the boy's button face.

  Even though Jack was now warm and dry, he still looked flushed. Too red of cheek, the rest of his face too ashen. He wheezed in and out with each breath. He scooped in another mouthful of chili and chewed. He looked exhausted.

  "Do you want more of that?" she asked, scraping the last of the beans and broth out of the bottom of her bowl.

  Jack bowed his head, and a hank of dark hair bobbed, sticking almost straight up out of the back of his cowlick. He sank his spoon back into the bowl and came up with it loaded full of beans and beef. He gave a forlorn sigh. "I'm not real hungry, Miss."

  "Of course not, you must be real worried." Saydee pushed away from the
table and carried her empty bowl with her to the sink. "You can take your food with you if you want to go sit down by your pa."

  Silently, Jack crept out of his chair at the table, circled Saydee, his cute face tight with fear. His eyes, painfully shadowed with need, searched hers. "Where am I gonna sleep?"

  "Not on the floor." She filled the dishpan with water from the stove. "I can make up a bed on the sofa for you."

  The boy merely nodded. He said nothing more, remaining hunkered down on the floor next to his sleeping father. When he was done with his chili, she took the bowl and spoon and washed it.

  Time had gotten away from her. It was later than she realized, so she grabbed clean sheets and blankets from the linen closet and carried them into the parlor.

  The poor boy. Saydee ached for him as she shook out the sheets and tucked them into place around the cushions. She paused to peer around the corner into the next room, she saw that Jack had drifted off, slumped with his back against the wall, in an exhausted sleep.

  Saydee gently woke the child and steered him into to parlor. He climbed in between the covers where, safe and warm, he laid his head on the fluffy feather pillow and closed his eyes.

  It was a sweet feeling to blow out the light and leave him snugly there for dreams to find him. She kept an ear out as she went into the kitchen to make a poultice for the father, but no more sounds came from the parlor. Outside, the wind howled along the eaves and the very early season snow scoured angrily at the window. She lit another lamp, before she began chopping more onions, and set the base on the end of the table.

  Golden light washed over the man on the mattress. He was very handsome, and her heart skipped a few beats as she reached down to tug the blanket up to cover the width of his bare chest.

  She tried not to notice his sun-burnished complexion and the well-defined muscles beneath. His skin was a rich, deep bronze, as if he'd spent many summers laboring beneath the sun. He slept, motionless, the blanket barely rising and falling with each breath. He lived still.

  She shivered, feeling the draft from the nearby window. Boy, it was really blowing out there, but he was oblivious to it. He was a powerfully built man, one who looked like he was used to working hard for a living. That was easy to see. With her pulse thrumming, she turned up the wick.

  But the man's presence made her jittery, as if off balance, and she bumped against the scalloped edge of the glass chimney and it tilted a bit. She caught it, but the brighter light brought her attention right back to the man's face ashen against the embroidered pillowcase.

  As she soaped up a wash cloth, her mind kept wondering about him. What had happened to his horse? Why was he wandering on her property during a storm with a child in his arms? Why did he have so many guns?

  Not only was there the one he'd dropped on the floor, but she'd found another one in his coat pocket. Not to mention the third one that was still strapped into holsters she'd untied from his powerful thighs.

  Three guns. She tried not to imagine a reason for that. She tried even harder not to judge him. What kind of man was he? She had no idea but he was injured and, when he'd met her gaze, she'd seen integrity in him. Helping him was one thing, but trusting him was different. No, she would be wise not to trust him.

  Look at him. This man had chiseled, granite-hewn features, handsome but masculine and intimidating, even in his sleep. His strength and power radiated off his well-built physique like heat from a stove.

  What was she doing noticing? She was a governess. She had a morals agreement in her employment contract. She simply could not go around eyeing a man's halfway undressed body, but since she had to wash him she may as well look.

  She gently scrubbed the soapy washcloth up the length of his hot, muscled arm, she took her time savoring the view of his face. The hard, sharp perfection of his high cheekbones, the lean slope of his cheeks, the straight slope of his nose, the generous cut of his mouth and the unyielding line of his jaw all could make a woman sigh. Not that she would.

  The rough stubble from the whiskers dark on his jaw rasped against her knuckles. He smelled like winter snow and clean man, and as she soaped dried blood and mud from his bare side, she shivered deep inside. Her gaze caressed the width of his broad chest and torso, and heat scorched her like a flame to kindling, she felt ignited all the way down to her toes.

  Whew, the man sure drew her interest, and he was a complete stranger. Was something wrong with her? She should not be having these thoughts about an injured man, a stranger, even if he looked like perfection. Like he was made of muscle and strength, of goodness and danger, who looked as hard as stone. And definitely out of place asleep on her light pink rosebud patterned sheets.

  Awareness charged through her body like electricity through a telegraph wire, a fine, hot trembling that sped straight through her entire being. She wrung out the cloth over the steaming basin, taking deep breaths of fresh air hoping that she could drive out the heat in her veins. But no such luck.

  Her attention drifted back to the man sprawled out unconscious on her flowery sheets. The contrast only made him look more manly, as if he'd been cast of stone and perfection. She hadn't seen a man's naked chest in a long time, what felt like ages, and she knew she ought to be prudent and keep her gaze averted, but she was too weak.

  This man drew her attention against her will, and like a moth to light she was helpless to fight the fascination. The sight of him could captivate, look at that sun-bronzed skin polished in the lamplight, dusted with soft hair that fanned across his chest and the center of his ridged abdomen.

  Once again, her gaze lingered there, where that soft path of hair arrowed down beneath the band of his denim trousers. The sheet mysteriously hid that part of him, and she blushed thinking of that ridge beneath the denim of his trousers and muslin of the sheet. Her face flamed, hot as fire.

  What if he doesn't wake up? She would have to wash his entire body and the very thought of seeing his...his... much less washing, well, embarrassment flamed through her. She felt hotter than the fire in the stove in every way, and desperately turned away to the basin.

  At least she could busy herself soaping the cloth and give herself more time to cope with being his nurse. Maybe he would wake up and then he could take care of that personal task on his own.

  The white bandage that hugged him around the lower ribs contrasted against his bronzed skin, dark blue denims and the light pink sheet beneath him. Her heart wrenched, remembering the sight of him in the storm, on his knees, head down, unable to have the strength to lift it, and fainted.

  She knew he had to be cared for and deserved to be. She was the only one who could do it. So, do it she would. She loosened the belt buckled at his lean hips. Interesting that made him stir, he moaned deep in his throat and his head rolled from left to right against the pillow.

  Her fingers kept working, and her stomach clenched tight as her knuckles brushed his hot skin and soft fur of his abdomen. Deep in her lower stomach, she felt a tingle, a deep pull of attraction. Best to ignore that display of sexual desire, she thought, and unbuttoned the top button of his trousers.

  Pete's bark shattered the stillness. A second bark of alarm echoed sharp against the walls of the parlor and drown out the howling sounds of the storm. The shepherd's third bark had Saydee hopping to her feet and dashing into the dark parlor. The clock on the mantel ticked away as she grabbed the Winchester from its pegs above the archway between the rooms.

  "What is it, boy? Show me where the trouble is." She tightened her grip on the rifle's wooden stock, it felt cold and clammy against her damp, nervous palms.

  The dog hit the door with a front paw, mouth pulled back to show bared teeth. It wasn't the same way he acted when the bear showed his face or even the mountain lion. What could it be this time? She peered around the lace-edged curtain into the dark storm.

  The heartless wind blew the snow to the ground, making the swirling dark mantel of snow too heavy to see through. She squinted, barely able to
see her porch rail, and shivered. Warning snaked down her spine as the hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.

  The floorboard creaked behind her. She whipped around to see a broad, substantial shadow limp out of the shadows, as if avoiding the light's glow. The steel of a revolver gleamed for a brief moment, reflecting the lamplight.

  Saydee whistled to Pete and caught hold of his collar as the man stalked closer, his uneven and pained steps whispering on the wooden floors, wide shoulders tensed into an unyielding line and his shadowed, grim face set.

  She shrank back against the wall, staring at the gun he held, feeling helpless compared to his overwhelming dominant power, predatory and territorial, as uncompromising as justice. He marched up to her and pushed the nose of her rifle down safely to the floor. Pete sat, his eyes searching the man who commanded respect.

  "Put him safe in the kitchen, put away the rifle and close the door." He moved out of the reach of the lamp.

  Saydee gulped, caught between terror and awe, trembling from head to toe. She nodded and stumbled forward to do as he asked. He was even more dangerous awake than he'd looked asleep, but packing a loaded gun he was lethal, pure authority and might. Even though he walked, favoring his injury and unable to stand fully straight and tall, he still emanated strength and not weakness, might and nothing but honor.

  Saydee eyed the gun he held and remembered how well armed he'd been. Apparently for a good reason. No wonder Pete was acting strangely. The danger outside wasn't any kind they had seen before and definitely not a bear. "What sort of trouble are you, Mister? A lawman? An outlaw with trouble hunting him?"

  "You're not too far off the truth. Now, be good to yourself and your dog and keep out of my way, please. Do what I say, okay?" He gave no other explanation, but the rich rumble of his words, his tone cello-deep echoed in the room and lingered inside her.

  What did she do? She stepped back, feeling small compared to his mightiness. The lamp's glow barely touched him as he kept to the dark shadows at the edges of the room. Like a hero of old, like story and legend, he steeled his broad shoulders and pushed the curtain aside to gaze out the front window.