“You’ll get a hernia,” she mumbled against his throat.
“Your faith overwhelms me. I’ve wrestled cows that weigh a few pounds more ’n you.” He smiled faintly when, despite her obvious discomfort, she punched his shoulder. He maneuvered her into the bedroom and set her on the bed before pulling off her boots and socks. Her feet were icy. “Pajamas?”
She drew up her legs and pulled the blankets up to her nose. “I’ll be fine,” she said again.
“Sure you will. That’s why I can hear your teeth chattering.” He opened up a few drawers, not letting himself get distracted by the sight of her lacy panties and bras that lay in tumbled disarray inside. He paused only when his searching fingers bumped into something firm and square. He slid away a bra that was so fragile and delicate he was sure it served no useful purpose other than driving a man insane, and stared in surprise at a box of Cracker Jacks. Exactly like the box he’d given her that night in Gillette. Surely it wasn’t. Yet he knew it was and something deep inside him twisted. He glanced back at Jaimie, huddled, and quickly continued his search.
Unfortunately, the only nightwear he found was of the type he’d seen advertised in a lingerie catalog that Emily had received once in the mail. Not a stitch of flannel in sight. Only a few pairs of thermal underwear, and quite frankly, Matthew wasn’t up to peeling those tight-fitting garments onto her. He settled for a dark green T-shirt that looked comfortably loose and a thick pair of socks. “Come on, Jaimie. You can’t sleep in your jeans.”
“Says who?”
“Me.” He sat beside her and tugged her up until she sat. When he reached for the hem of her shamrock-dotted thermal shirt, she pushed his hands away.
“I can do it.”
“Then do it.”
“Not while you’re watching.” Her cheeks were really pink, and this time Matthew knew it wasn’t entirely fever or chapped skin from the incessant wind. Stifling a smile, he turned his back. Then felt a kick of conscience. It was no time for humor. The girl was sick.
Her thermal shirt hit the floor, followed by a minuscule scrap of lace. Then she snatched the T-shirt off his lap. “Okay,” she said a moment later. She leaned over and buried her face in the pillows.
“Now the jeans.”
When she didn’t answer, he touched her forehead. “Sweetheart—”
“Later,” she murmured.
He sat back. She couldn’t sleep in her jeans. They’d been damp around the hem from the snow. Besides, she needed socks on those cold feet of hers. He lifted the blankets and reached under the loose T-shirt.
She batted at his hands half-heartedly.
“Don’t argue with me.” He had her jeans down around her hips before she could summon a response. Then he quickly slipped on the socks and tucked her under the blankets once more. He saw her legs move until she was curled into a ball.
“It’s cold in here.”
Actually, it was practically roasting. But he went into the living room and nudged the thermostat even higher. Then he started a fire. He had to admit that it was several degrees wanner in the living room than it was in her bedroom. When he went back in, he held his hand against the vent. The heat came through, barely.
Jaimie was curled into an even tighter ball when he checked. The only place warmer than the living room would be over at the big house, and no way could he take her out into the cold afternoon. He returned to the living room where the fire licked furiously at the first log, and he added another, stoking it into a good, solid blaze. Then he pulled the couch around until it faced the fire.
He returned to her bedroom. She looked up at him through her lashes. Her voice shook with the chatter of her teeth. “Matthew, I’m so cold.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Scooping her, blankets and all, into his arms, he carried her into the living room, settling her on his lap on the couch. She curled against him like a tuckered-out kitten.
Eventually she fell more soundly asleep, and Matthew slid her around until she wasn’t twisted into a corkscrew. With her cheek pillowed on his thigh, he unbuttoned his flannel shirt and shrugged out of it, careful not to dislodge her. But he was still roasting and he peeled out of his own thermal shirt. Finally, he relaxed back into the corner of the couch, breathing deeply. Nothing like a sauna in the dead of winter.
He smoothed her hair away from her pale forehead. She murmured and shifted, catching his hand in hers, then tucked it against her heart.
Jaimie’s head felt like it was ready to explode. She opened her eyes, wondering for a moment why she’d fallen asleep on the couch. Then remembrance hit her, and she closed her eyes, stifling a groan. Making a sound would make her head hurt even more.
Honestly, her luck was the pits. Why, oh why, had he come in when he had? It wasn’t bad enough that he’d had to tuck her into bed like a child. But he’d had to witness the way she’d lost her cookies like that.
Jaimie hated being sick. It was mortifying to know that Matthew had been right there with her the whole way.
“Here.”
She looked up to see Matthew standing in front of her. Then decided she had to be delirious. Why else would Matthew Clay be standing over her without a stitch of clothing covering that magnificent chest?
“Come on, sweetheart, don’t flake out on me just yet. It’s been hours now. You need something for that fever of yours.” He bent at the knees and she realized he held two white capsules in his hand, along with a glass of water.
She swallowed the pills and fell back on the couch, practically panting from the exertion. He ran his palm over her forehead, and she caught his hand, holding it against her for a few precious moments. Oh, he was blessedly cool.
“Drink some more water,” he said, drawing away his cooling touch.
“Do this. Do that,” she complained softly. But he held the glass for her and she managed to swallow most of it. “You’re such a dictator.”
Still crouched beside her, he brushed her hair away from her eyes and tucked the blankets around her. “You’re such a smarta—leck,” he murmured, the corner of his lips lifting. But he touched her face again, gently. “You’re still burning up.”
“Mmm.” Dreamily Jaimie snaked her hand out from beneath her cocoon of blankets. She ran it over his shoulder, then curled it around one side of his neck. “Mmm.”
Matthew stiffened beneath her delicate touch. She was clearly halfasleep again. He resumed his position on the couch, with her head on his thigh. “Such a sweet man,” she whispered, snuggling against him.
He snorted softly. If he were a sweet man, he wouldn’t be sitting there, hard as a rock while she was clearly ill. She murmured his name again and he resumed brushing his fingers slowly through her hair. She sighed deeply and grew still.
It was dark and Matthew could hear the wind howling outside when he finally moved Jaimie once more. First of all, Sandy was whining and scratching at the door, so he let her out. He grimaced when blowing snow swirled into the cottage. Sandy did her business right quick, too, dashing back inside and sprawling in between the fireplace and the couch where Jaimie slept soundly.
He had just finished wiping up the snow when the door shook. He yanked it open, only to find his father standing there.
Beneath the cowboy hat that Squire wore, and above the thick scarf wrapped around his lower face, his father’s eyes burned into him with more heat than that which came from the cooking furnace and blazing fireplace.
“What in tarnation are you doing here, boy?”
Matthew pulled his father inside. “Keep your voice down. And what do you mean what I’m doing? For God’s sake, Squire, you know you shouldn’t be out in weather like this. What were you thinking?”
His father unwound his scarf and unbuttoned his coat. “I was thinking that you were s’posed to be out plowing. And that you didn’t have the brains to get outta the storm and in where you belonged. So I go looking for you, only to find you nekked over here.” Squire shoved off his coat. “It’s hot as Hades in h
ere. If you’re trying to prove the furnace works, you’re right.”
“Oh, for God‘s—I’m not naked. And it’s hot in here, ’cause Jaimie’s freezing.” He pointed to the couch. With the back of it to the door the way it was, they couldn’t see Jaimie sleeping on it. “She’s sick.”
“Well now, boy, why didn’t you say so?”
Matthew just shook his head. Sometimes there was no reasoning with Squire. “I should have called you,” he admitted. Truthfully the last thing on his mind had been his old man.
Squire just waved away the words, walking toward the couch. He peered over the back, then returned to the doorway. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it, then.” He pulled on the outerwear that he’d just shucked. His winter-blue eyes snared his son’s. “Don’t be misbehaving now, boy.”
Matthew felt a slow flush climb his neck. He’d already misbehaved plenty. He definitely didn’t need his father pointing it out to him, though. And he didn’t figure it was any of Squire’s business what he did. “Nearly forty is no boy.”
His father snorted. “Don’t matter how old you get. You’re still my boy. And I’m right fond of Jaimie. I don’t want to see her get hurt.”
“Squire, just leave it, would ya?” Matthew shook his head. “I don’t want her to get hurt, either.” Fully exasperated, Matthew eyed the back of the couch. “If she’s not better tomorrow, I’ll drive her in to the doctor.”
“Let’s hope this snow stops then. Else you won’t be driving her anywhere. Makes a body wish we could tempt some doctor to staying in Weaver, don’t it?” Squire rewrapped his scarf around his neck. “Well, give a holler if ya need something. Me and Dan’ll take care of the chores best we can.”
Matthew closed the door after his father departed. Having a doctor permanently located in Weaver was an old wish. Leaning against the door, he couldn’t help but think of all the times that the presence of a local doctor might have changed the outcome. Might have saved lives. As it was, the area ranchers contracted with an emergency helicopter service. But there was a lot of land to cover and only one pilot.
He raked back his hair from his sweaty brow and went into the kitchen, pouring himself a tall glass of ice water. Jaimie still slept soundly, and Matthew finally retreated to her cooler bedroom, shaking his head over the irony. Lying back on the coverless mattress, he folded his arms beneath his head, stared at the ceiling and listened to the wind howl outside the snug cottage. He forcibly tried blocking out the memory the sound of that wind raised.
It had been blowing and snowing like this the night his mother died.
He didn’t sleep at all that night.
Jaimie’s fever hadn’t broken by morning. Matthew didn’t need a thermometer to tell him that. One touch to her forehead had nearly singed his fingertips. Clamping down hard on the alarm that wanted to rise in him no matter what he did, he pulled the covers off her, fending off her unconscious protests to grab them back. He placed cool cloths over her neck and arms, murmuring softly to her when she moaned and pushed at him.
Finally, she relaxed again and he sat back on his heels. What he wouldn’t give for a good healthy dose of her sassiness right now. “Come on, Red.” he murmured. But she made no response, and he sat there for a long while, until his toes went numb and his legs cramped, gently brushing her vibrant hair away from her pale, pale face.
Finally, he rose stiffly, went into the small kitchen, stared out at the blanket of white through the window, and called the doctor.
The news wasn’t entirely discouraging. Since the mountain of snow that had fallen in the night precluded Matthew’s ability to drive her to him, the doctor asked Matthew a couple dozen detailed questions. A couple dozen that had Matthew returning to Jaimie’s sleeping form to pull up her twisted T-shirt to look at her torso—that was the doctor’s word—for any type of rash.
All Matthew saw was a slender expanse of creamy white skin.
Finally, armed with a list of instructions from the doc, Matthew hung up and returned to his vigil by the couch. Sometime in the afternoon, Squire came by. Then Daniel a while later. But Matthew warned them with the doctor’s cautions, and they remained at the door, not coming inside.
Around six in the evening, Jaimie’s fever started to break and he sponged her down again, then changed the perspiration-soaked sheet and blankets for fresh. He even managed to get her to drink some water. She’d stared at him as if she were hallucinating, then curled into a ball and fell asleep once more.
But the sleep was more natural. Her breathing easier, and her color less pasty. Around midnight, too weary to examine the utter relief he felt, he finally went into her bedroom and sprawled across the narrow mattress, finally sleeping.
Jaimie wasn’t sure what woke her. She bolted upright, staring at the glowing logs in the fireplace. Her head ached.
There. The sound that had awakened her. Like a wounded animal. “D.C.?” she whispered past her dry throat. But the noise hadn’t really sounded like the pregnant cat. She moistened her parched lips and swung her legs down from the couch. A sport bottle sat on the floor beside the couch, looking vaguely familiar. She thought maybe she’d been drinking from it at some point. Moving gingerly, she reached for the bottle and drank deeply.
Again she heard the sound. Low. Male. Joe?
She set down the bottle and pushed to her feet, waiting for the wave of dizziness to pass. Then she padded toward the master bedroom, realizing belatedly that the sound came from the bedroom she used. She altered course and paused in the doorway, absently rubbing an itch on her stomach. ‘Matthew lay flat on his back, one arm bent over his eyes. “Matthew?”
He just made that low, sad sound again. So sad that it made her eyes tear. She moved to the bed and sat on the edge, tentatively reaching for his bare shoulder. “Matthew, wake up. It’s just a dream,” she murmured.
He didn’t start. Didn’t tense. He simply opened his ice-blue eyes and watched her wordlessly from beneath his arm.
She slowly withdrew her hand. “Are you all right?”
Matthew blinked the remnants of the nightmare from his mind. “You’re the one who’s sick,” he returned.
Her eyes were green bruises in the whiteness of her face. And the tumbling waves of her hair accentuated her pale coloring even more. “Matthew,” she chided softly.
“You should be asleep.”
“I was.”
For someone sick with God knew what, she certainly had enough energy to watch him like she knew exactly what ticked inside him. He jackknifed off the bed and nearly tripped over Sandy when he headed for the living room. “Think you can eat something yet?”
“No. Matthew—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He could feel the warm weight of her gaze. “Maybe you should,” she murmured, slowly following him. She made it as far as the couch while he continued into the kitchen.
“It was just a dream,” he muttered.
Jaimie didn’t respond, and he looked out to see her watching him. “A dream,” he repeated.
She propped her arm on the couch and rested her head on her hand, as if it weighed too much to hold it up otherwise. “About what?”
Matthew didn’t talk about the nightmare. He simply did not. “My mother.” The words came out and he couldn’t pull ’em back in. He swore to himself and reached for the can of coffee. With any luck at all, Jaimie would fall asleep again. It was nearly three in the morning.
He thought maybe he’d been granted that small wish when she didn’t say anything else as he waited for the coffee to brew. But when he carried his mug back into the living room, she scooted her legs out of the way so that he could sit on the couch, too.
“Your mother must have loved you all very much,” she said softly.
That wasn’t something he’d ever doubted. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asked pointedly.
She smiled faintly, rubbing the tips of her fingers across her stomach. “I feel like I’ve been sleeping for
a day.”
“Nearly two.”
Her eyebrows rose slightly. “Have you been here all that time?”
He nodded, burying his nose in the coffee mug.
“Oh. Well. Thank you,” she murmured faintly.
Matthew looked at her. Caught the hand she was rubbing across her stomach before he knew what he was doing, and tangled her fingers with his. “I’m glad you’re startin’ to feel better,” he said with severe understatement.
Her sleepy eyes softened. And once again she slept.
By morning Jaimie’s headache was nearly gone. But her limbs felt like wobbly gelatin. Except for the occasional hiss and pop of the fireplace, the cottage was quiet. And hot.
She didn’t want to be disappointed that Matthew was gone, but couldn’t help it. She made it over to the thermostat and turned down the heat, then looked out the window. Fresh snow blanketed everything in sight. Talk about March blowing in like a lion.
Another form of nature prompted her to head for the bathroom. When she came out again, she felt marginally better. Brushing her teeth had helped immensely. Unfortunately, her legs felt shaky by the time she returned to her cocoon on the couch. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she stared into the glowing fireplace.
“You’re awake.”
Startled, she looked over to see Matthew standing in the doorway of the bedroom she ordinarily used. His hair was sleep rumpled, and his jeans were barely fastened over his hips. In fact, she could see...too much. She dragged her eyes upward. But meeting his translucent gaze was even worse. “You’re still here,” she said, stating the obvious, and flushed.
He leaned against the doorjamb, crossing his bare feet, crossing his arms over his bare chest. Oh, Lord. The man was just too...bare. “How’re you feeling this morning?”
The Rancher And The Redhead Page 21