Chase the Fire

by Barbara Ankrum

  At times, he clung to her hand as if it were the only thing keeping him in this world. Despair rimmed Elliot's tired eyes when he ministered to his friend and Libby steeled herself for the very real possibility of Chase's death.

  Tears of exhaustion and frustration coursed down her cheeks that night as she once more changed his poultice. Her movements were stiff with fatigue and weighted down with the knowledge that she might never be able to right things between them. She alternately cursed him and pleaded with him to live and finally, sometime during the third night, she fell into an exhausted sleep beside him on the bed.

  * * *

  Chase cracked an eye open and stared into the semidarkness of dawn. Pain rolled over his body like the wheels of a heavy cart. There wasn't a place on him that didn't hurt, though some hurt considerably more than others. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes. He was in Libby's bedroom, in her bed, naked beneath the sheet that covered him to the waist. Sweat soaked the bedding and pooled in the curves of his bare torso. He vaguely realized that the blessed coolness he felt was in sharp contrast to the furnace he'd felt inside him a short time ago.

  He glanced at the barred window, wondering if it was morning or night. How long had he been out? Hours? The last thing he remembered was asking Libby to sit with him.

  Candlelight danced across the smooth adobe wall, creating flickering shadows. It came from a stubby, nearly spent candle beside the bed. The air was scented with the slightly medicinal fragrance of herbs and witch hazel. These mingled pungently with his own sweat. In the corner, he saw El sprawled negligently in a chair, head thrown back in exhaustion, snoring softly. Gradually, he became aware of something else.

  Someone was holding his hand.

  He turned his head on the damp pillow and found Libby sprawled across the bed in a cloud of tangled blond hair. Her fingers were twined with his as naturally as if they belonged in them.

  He ran his thumb across her smooth knuckles, tightened his fingers around them and gave her a gentle squeeze. "Libby..."

  Nothing. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her back.

  "Libby."

  Her head came up with a jerk. "Huh?" A curtain of hair fell over her face and she pushed it away with her free hand. She seemed astonished to find him watching her. She looked, in fact, as if she were seeing a ghost.

  "Chase."

  "Hi." His voice was rough as sandpaper and barely a whisper. "Have we been holding hands like this for long?"

  She glanced down at their joined hands and let out something between a laugh and a sob, then covered their clasped hands with her free one. "Oh, my God, Chase. I was afraid—" The word was choked off and tears gathered in her eyes. She noted the sheets, drenched with his sweat. "Your fever broke."

  "How long have I been here?"

  The blank look on her face suggested she'd lost track herself. "This is the fourth day. Elliot and I... we thought..."

  "Four days? You were here with me that whole time?" he asked, amazed.

  "She was, you stubborn cuss." Elliot appeared at Chase's bedside, struggling to hide his own powerful emotions. "And you can thank her for keeping you alive. It's about time you kicked that fever."

  Chase grinned at the sight of him. El's hair stuck up at odd angles and his shirttail was half-in and half-out of his trousers. "You look like hell, Elliot."

  "That's the thanks I get." El's relief showed clearly through the lines of fatigue on his face. He crossed to the bed and put a hand on Chase's forehead. "For a while there I thought you were going to do some permanent damage to my medical reputation by dying on me, brother."

  Chase moistened his parched lips and smiled. He could see from the tethered expression in El's eyes, he'd come mighty close to doing just that. "Next time I nearly die, I'll make sure I have another doctor," he parried weakly.

  The rising sun had peeked through Libby's window, washing the room with soft golden light. Turning his gaze back to her, Chase noticed the bruise that darkened her cheekbone. His stomach took a plunge. He reached up to touch it, but she flinched away from his hand. "Did I do that?" he asked, horrified.

  Her fingers brushed over the spot. "It's nothing. You were out of your head," she told him dismissing it. "You were thrashing around and—"

  "I'm sorry."

  His apology covered more than just the bruise and they both knew it.

  "How do you feel?" she asked, changing the subject.

  One corner of his mouth tipped up in a parody of a smile. "How do I look?"

  She realized her question was ridiculous. His drawn face was shadowed by a four-day growth of beard that emphasized the new hollows in his cheeks. Dark blue smudges beneath his eyes were his only claim to color, save the green in his eyes. He'd lost weight in the past few days. Chase Whitlaw's sheer size insured he could never appear frail, but he looked, just now, as close to being so as Libby could imagine.

  "You look like... well, you look like the rest of us," she said, including El in her gesture. "Only worse. Here, have some water."

  She slipped a hand behind his head and helped him sip from the tin cup she held. Her nearness made his heart skitter along his ribs. Her fingers were warm against his skin and he wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her for all her gentleness.

  Instead, he let out a long sigh and tipped his head back against the pillow. Weariness pressed down on him like a weight. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open, but he couldn't fall asleep. Not yet.

  "Libby, I need to talk to you," he said groggily.

  "Later. You must sleep right now," she argued.

  "Libby's right, Chase," El agreed. "Don't tax yourself now. Get some rest. When you wake up again, we'll ladle some broth down that ornery throat of yours and get you back on the mend."

  Chase didn't have the strength to fight them both. He was disgusted by the weakness that assailed him and surprised when his eyes slid shut as if they had a will of their own. Later, he decided as he gave in to the need to rest. I'll tell her later.

  When he opened his eyes again, he guessed it was late afternoon. Sunlight slanted into the room from the south-facing window, warming the air. Outside, cicadas buzzed in the cloying heat.

  He rolled over onto his back cautiously. There was still pain, but nothing that wasn't manageable. He felt better—considerably better—than he had that morning.

  "Ma! He's awake!"

  Tad's shrill voice jolted Chase and he looked over to see the boy sitting up close to the bed on a straight-backed chair, watching him intently.

  "Hi, Chase! You're awake," Tad informed him.

  "Hi ya, Tadpole."

  Tad grinned at the nickname Chase had given him. "You got shot, huh?"

  Chase nodded.

  "Did it hurt a lot?"

  Chase grinned. "I wouldn't recommend it."

  "We all thought you was gonna die. Ma stayed up all night with you. I seen her cryin', too. She didn't want me to know. But I did. She told me to come in and watch you. I was real quiet, wasn't I? I didn't even wake you up."

  At that moment, Chase caught sight of Libby, standing in the doorway, holding a bowl of steaming soup. A blush tinged her cheeks. She'd clearly overheard her son.

  "Tad, Chase is in no shape to be answering all your questions now."

  "He's not bothering me," Chase told her.

  She smiled at Tad. "You did a good job of watching Chase for me. Why don't you run out to the paddock now and tell Elliot he's awake."

  "Okay." Tad tilted his head at Chase. "You're gonna be all right now, ain't you?"

  Chase let out a small chuckle. "Yeah. I guess I have your Ma to thank for that."

  The soup bowl rattled against the plate as Libby set it down on the bedside table. Libby avoided his eyes but felt them on her.

  Tad slipped off the chair. "If you get bored, I've got a checkers game. And Straw and Early taught me how to play five-card draw the other night when I had to sleep in the bunkhouse."

  Libby's mouth dropped open
. "They what?"

  Tad grinned sheepishly. "Oops. I wasn't s'posed to tell ya that. I'll go tell Elliot now." He slipped out the door.

  Chase smiled when she turned back to him. "Cute kid."

  "Too adorable for his own good sometimes. I brought you some broth. Can you take some?"

  "I'm hungry," he admitted.

  "That's a good sign."

  She eased him up gently and propped him up with an extra pillow. A shock raced through him at how weak he really was. Though his left shoulder was the injured one, his right arm shook so he wasn't able to manage the spoon on his own. She fed the steaming broth to him slowly. Surprisingly, half a bowl was all he could manage. He eased back down on the bed as she gathered up the soup bowl, preparing to go.

  "Do you have to go?" he asked. "I'd like to talk to you."

  "No, I can stay here for a minute."

  He was hungry for the sight of her, hungry for something he couldn't even name. Chase let his gaze drift down her—over her face, her breasts, the shapely denim-clad legs she'd tucked beneath her. At that moment, it didn't have so much to do with his overwhelming desire to enfold her in his arms and show her what she meant to him—though that desire was undeniably compelling. No, it was more a need to affix her in his memory, like postage on a letter about to be mailed. He watched the color heighten in her cheeks as his gaze went back to her face.

  "What I said earlier," he began awkwardly, "I meant it. I'm sorry for bringing all this trouble down on you. I wouldn't have blamed you for leaving me out there."

  She looked shocked by the suggestion. "Don't be ridiculous. I could never have—"

  "No, you couldn't. I know that." His fingers brushed hers with the barest of touches. "I had a lot of time to think, lying out there, Libby. Time to wonder what I'd done with my life. It didn't amount to a hell of a lot. I've been running from the past, myself and everyone else for so long now, I'd forgotten what it was like to feel anything.

  "You made me feel something again," he continued. "You made me feel alive for the first time in years. I don't want to run from that anymore." He paused, moistening his lips. "I took the easiest route of escape by leaving the other day instead of facing what I'd come here to do."

  Libby stopped him. "Chase, Elliot told me."

  He frowned. "Told you...?"

  "About Lee. About the locket. Everything."

  He leaned his head back against the pillow. "Oh."

  "I understand some things now I didn't before," she said quietly. "I was wrong not to let you explain, but I was angry and... hurt. I'm still not sure what I feel."

  "I didn't kill him, Libby. God knows I killed my share of men, but your husband wasn't one of them. The rest of them, I never knew. Having your husband die like that next to me—and nearly dying myself that time—stopped me cold. Froze me up like a rusted hinge. I lost track of who I was. In fact, what I'd been doing with my life seemed to make no sense at all."

  "How long did you fight?" she asked.

  "Four years in every hellhole on earth, it seemed. Shiloh, Bull Run, Chancellorsville, the march through Atlanta with Sherman, where we burned everything in sight; houses, barns—some with innocent people still inside." His voice caught as he made the admission. "Then... The Wilderness. Four years of hell until that shell took me out with your husband." He laughed, a bitter, weary laugh. "I was almost grateful when it happened. I was ready to die and get it over with. Lee gave me something to live for, as strange as that sounds."

  Libby's heart tightened at the thought of the pain he'd known. Not only physical but emotional. It answered so many questions she'd not understood about him; the strange reactions he'd had to the fire popping that first night, the deep, bitter emotional wounds that kept him safely hidden from others. She touched his pale fingers and they curled around hers.

  "What happened between Lee and me," he went on, "I don't suppose you can forgive me for it. I never even expected that. But I promised you I'd help you see this contract through. Let me do that when I get back on my feet again, Libby. Just, please, let me do that for you."

  "You're in no shape to help anyone."

  He paused, taking in the wary look in Libby's smoky, passionate eyes, her mouth, the shadow that pulsed at the base of her throat. "Just give me a minute or two. I will be."

  Libby's skin tingled at every point Chase's gaze touched. Despite his weakness, his look was stunningly powerful, seductive. She found she couldn't deny him that after all he'd been through on her account. But she couldn't lie to him either.

  "You can stay. But, Chase... I think you should know this. After the herd is delivered, I'm going to marry Jonas Harper."

  If he hadn't been lying down, her statement would have knocked him flat. "What?"

  "I was coming from his ranch when I found you. I agreed to marry him in ex—" She stopped abruptly, thinking better of what she was about to say. "He's already sent men over to help with the roundup. I'm going to marry him as soon as the order is delivered."

  "Do you love him?"

  Libby dropped her gaze. "I..."

  He grabbed her hand. "Do you love him, damn it?"

  The look she flashed at Chase was hollow, suddenly angry. "What's love got to do with anything? It's not practical and it certainly won't save my ranch from the bank or give my son the kind of life I want for him. I owe him that much." She looked down at his hand on hers. "I can't give it to him if I remain here. Jonas can. He wants me—us. He'll give us a good home. It's the best thing for everyone."

  A muscle jumped in Chase's cheek. "What about you, Libby? Is it what you want? Are you willing to sacrifice yourself to a man you don't love?"

  "I love my son, Chase. That kind of love I can trust; it's something I can hold on to. The other," she said, avoiding his eyes, "is just a romantic fantasy. You said yourself I was crazy to try to hang on to this place by myself."

  "That was before I knew you," he replied quietly. "Before I knew what you were capable of."

  She let out a sigh of frustration. "I'm tired of being the one everyone depends on. I've made a promise to Jonas and I intend to keep it."

  "I see." Tension stretched tautly between them.

  Damn! He'd bloody well pushed her into Harper's arms by leaving. She'd done the only sensible thing. After all, what could he offer her? Certainly not what Jonas Harper could. He loved her, but love wasn't what she needed, wasn't enough to hold her to him. "You're probably right, then," he said at last. "It's for the best."

  She turned her face away from him and studied the foot of his bed. "It is."

  Chase absently ran a hand over his sore shoulder. "I'd still like to stay, if it's all right with you."

  Libby stood and picked up the bowl of soup on the table. "Do you think you'll be up to it?"

  He nodded curtly.

  "All right. I'll need all the help I can get." She turned to go, but Chase's voice stopped her.

  "Just tell me one thing, Libby."

  She looked back at him.

  "Was the boy telling the truth? Did you cry when you thought I might die?"

  Libby's lips parted briefly in surprise, but her mouth snapped shut quickly. "What kind of a question is that?"

  "An honest one. Just answer me. Do you feel anything for me, Lib?"

  "I... don't know what you mean."

  "When I woke up that first time, you were holding my hand. And you did that at other times. I remember now. Why?"

  Her cheeks paled. "I would have done the same for any man as badly hurt as..." The lie died on her lips and she stared at him, flustered. "I held your hand because it was the only thing that seemed to calm you, help you. Because the last time you were badly wounded, El said you were alone and I... I didn't want you to be alone."

  Chase's face remained grim and he closed his eyes, weary beyond words. "That's all I wanted to know."

  "Let it be, Chase. Just let it be."

  Libby turned on her heel and fled the room, leaving Chase alone to brood over what she
'd told him—and everything she hadn't.

  Chase frowned. She'd saved his life for a second time. Only this time, she'd been there beside him, holding him, urging him to live. Why? Who was he to judge her for marrying Harper? And what did he know about love and marriage? He was more of a stranger to it than she was. She'd been married once to a man who did love her and look where it had gotten her. He had no right to mess in her life anymore. That was what his head told him. The twisting in his gut told him something else.

  Let it be. That was what she'd said. Let her be, was what she'd meant. Undoubtedly, good advice. The problem was, he wasn't sure he'd be able to do that, even if he wanted to—which he didn't. The problem was, he was in love with her.

  Chapter 18

  "Hold still, will you?"

  "I'm trying, woman, but you keep coming at me with that thing like you want to slit my throat."

  Tempted, Libby lowered the hand that held the straight razor and she glared at Chase's soap-lathered face. His expression was perfectly serious, so she did her best to hide the grin that crept to her lips. "Believe me, Mr. Whitlaw, the last thing I intend to do is incur any more injuries that I'll have to nurse. Now, I'm perfectly capable of doing this."

  He grabbed her arm before the lethal-looking razor could touch his face. "Had a lot of experience shaving men's faces, have you?" he jibed.

  "As a matter of fact," she said, shaking his hand off, "I have." She didn't expound on the fact that she'd shaved Malachi nearly every day after his first heart attack until he'd passed away. She decided she'd rather let Chase wonder.

  "Well," he grumbled, running a hand through his damp, freshly washed hair, "I told you, if you'd just give me a mirror, I could do it myself."

  She raised one unbelieving eyebrow and decided to let him leap into that muddy water on his own. Thrusting a small tin-framed mirror into his left hand and the razor into his right, she smiled. "All right, Mr. Sunshine. Go right ahead."

  His scowl traveled from the mirror he now held to her. Libby recognized the determined set to his jaw. Less than two days had passed since his fever had broken, but that was long enough for her to realize he was a man who had no patience with being bedridden. He was bored and sore and his temper was as foul as a wet cat's. He certainly wasn't used to having to rely on someone else to do for him.