Wild Texas Flame

by Janis Reams Hudson

  Larry, Tom and Erik looked at her again.

  “Right down to his bare skin.”

  “The hell you will,” McCord said, his eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched.

  Erik cleared his throat. Larry took a step away from the bed. Tom looked at Sunny.

  She planted her fists on her hips. “Well, thunderation. You’re three to his one, and he can’t move his legs. Do you need my help?”

  Erik looked startled. Larry frowned and blushed. McCord shot more bullets with his eyes.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Uh…no, ma’am. We can handle it.”

  “Good,” she said. “Thank you. And gentlemen, go easy on him, please. He’s been severely injured.”

  Her last sight of McCord as she turned and left the room nearly buckled her knees. It was plain as day in his face. He hated her.

  Chapter Six

  Ash came awake slowly and stared through early morning grayness at the familiar beams in the ceiling over his bed. The same beams he’d awakened to for years. The familiarity of his own bedroom in the log house he and his father had built surrounded him with welcoming warmth. For a minute there, he felt like it had been years since he’d seen his own room. With a groan, he scrubbed his face slow and hard with his hands. Damn. What a nightmare.

  An instant later he knew. He remembered. Remembered the day his father died, the day that life as Asher McCord had known it had ceased to be. Remembered every single day of the past five years in that hellhole at Huntsville.

  It was a nightmare, all right, but not the kind that faded when a man woke up. This was the kind of nightmare a man lived with day in, day out. The kind that ate at his soul until there was nothing left but the walking, talking shell of a man. Only this shell couldn’t even walk any more. And if he thought about that he’d go stark, raving mad.

  Purposely, he turned his mind to the day three weeks ago when he’d ridden back into town. He’d known what to expect, how the town felt about him. He’d learned the hard way five years earlier what it was like to have every friend you’d ever known turn on you like a pack of starving wolves. The old men on the bench that day hadn’t surprised him much.

  But she had. His first sight of her had filled him with such a rush of feeling, he couldn’t even describe it to himself. She’d been all golden and bright, and he’d inexplicably felt something suspiciously close to hope rise in his chest. Hope for what, he didn’t know. Life, maybe? Peace?

  That spark of emotion Sunny Thornton had kindled in him had been the first thing he’d really felt in five years. And it had only burned brighter that night after the dance when she stopped to talk to him in front of Ella’s.

  Lilacs. Heaven help him, she’d smelled like lilacs.

  She had made him yearn for home and family. Made him hope.

  And it hurt like hell, because he knew that hope he’d felt was out of his reach. Just as far out of his reach as Sunny Thornton herself was to a man with a prison record. A convicted back-shooter.

  What the hell he was doing lying there mooning over her he didn’t know. He regretted now that he hadn’t eaten every scrap of slop the good townspeople of Cottonwood Crossing had brought him in the past week. If he’d eaten, he’d be stronger. If he was stronger, he would have wrung her pretty little neck for barging into his room at Doc’s yesterday and having him tossed out into her wagon like he was of no more use than a sack of flour.

  If that hadn’t been humiliating enough, she’d gotten her ranch hands to haul him into her house, where they had, on her orders, put him to bed like he was some sort of goddamned infant.

  He tugged the sheet up to his chest. Christ! They’d even stripped him. Left him naked as a skinned steer.

  Steer. Damned if he didn’t feel about as useless as a steer. What good was a man who couldn’t walk? He didn’t buy Doc Sneed’s crap about exercise and massage for one frigging minute. They could massage ‘til the cows came home, but what the hell good would it do when he couldn’t feel it?

  He would never walk again, and he knew it. If Doc thought different, then the man was only fooling himself. Ash McCord was paralyzed. Useless. Dead.

  And according to the good folks in town, it was just what he deserved.

  The only people who hadn’t treated him like something to be scraped off the bottom of a boot since he’d ridden into town were Doc, Ella, and Sunny. Doc was a doctor. He was supposed to be nice to people. Ella had been his mother’s best friend, and still thought of him as a child. But Sunny…what was her reason for being decent to him?

  He could hear her out there now, in the kitchen, clanking away at the stove and humming like she didn’t have a care in the world.

  Would she bustle in here in a few minutes on a breeze of lilacs and flop his food down on the bedside table, then leave, like others had done during the past week? Leave it there, expecting him to be able to reach it, drag it to his lap, and feed himself while lying flat on his back? Forcing him to humiliate himself by dribbling food all over himself and the bed?

  Well, by damn, he wouldn’t do it. Not in front of her. He’d rather starve.

  The anger that had been building like a bank of thunderheads in his gut calmed instantly at his first whiff of bacon frying. His mouth watered. His stomach rumbled. Damn. The aroma was so powerful he could taste it on his tongue. Nothing in the world smelled better than bacon. Unless it was lilacs.

  Sunny stopped humming abruptly. Thunderation. She’d done it again. When was she going to remember there was no one around any longer to drink coffee? In anger, she reached for the pot, then stopped.

  Ash McCord.

  Ash McCord would drink coffee, she’d bet her life on it.

  Funny how she’d lain awake half the night thinking about him, then forgot he was there when she woke.

  The mere reminder of his presence, of what she had to do to follow Doctor Sneed’s instructions, made her hands tremble. She started humming again, hoping to relax herself.

  Inside, she still trembled, but when the girls came in for breakfast she was able to join them with some semblance of calm. They seemed not to notice anything was wrong. Still, she would have felt better if they had found something to talk about besides the man in their father’s bedroom.

  Not until they left for school did she prepare a tray for McCord. Surely he’d be starving by now. When she’d taken him his supper last night, she’d found him asleep. She had left him that way.

  But now she couldn’t. It was time to start, and a good meal was what he needed first. Tray in hand, she marched herself to his room and through the door, then came to an abrupt halt, sloshing coffee into the scrambled eggs.

  She’d seen a man’s bare chest before. Of course she had. Maybe it wasn’t his bareness that made her breath catch in her throat and her heart pound in her ears. Maybe it was the tight, corded muscles mocking his thinness. Maybe it was that blatant male pose, hands folded behind his head, armpits staring at the ceiling, hard jaw stuck out in challenge.

  But no, she realized, it wasn’t any of those things. It was the blank, expressionless look in those cool blue eyes. The hate and resentment were still there, she knew. But now he chose to hide his feelings. She wondered frantically how to break through to him.

  Deciding it didn’t matter how he felt about her, only that he recover, she forced herself to move. She placed the tray on the bedside table. “Good morning.”

  No answer. His expression changed from blank to wary. Then he narrowed his eyes—in anger?—stared at the tray a moment, then rolled his head and looked away. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Of course you are.” But how was he going to eat, flat on his back like that? She wasn’t about to feed him. He’d probably spit the food back in her face.

  Pillows. That’s what he needed.

  Since he wasn’t looking at her, she didn’t speak again. She left the room, gathered every pillow in the house, then returned. She caught him staring at the food. She’d been right. That was the look of a starving man. B
ut as soon as he saw her, he looked away. She pretended not to notice his look of resentment. “This should help.”

  Without looking at her, and with a bored tone, he said, “Help what?”

  “Help you sit up so you can eat.”

  He looked at her then, slowly, cautiously. A lump rose in her throat at the fleeting glimpse he allowed her in his eyes. A glimpse of what? Hope? Gratitude? Pain? She wasn’t sure. She only knew something inside her responded.

  With a mental shake, she reached to stuff the pillows behind him. She could raise his head, but his shoulders were too heavy. Gritting her teeth, she climbed onto the mattress beside him and practically wrestled with him to get the other pillows behind his back. He didn’t seem to be helping a whole lot. But when she was finished, he was more sitting than lying.

  When she climbed off the bed—with very little grace—she didn’t dare look at him. She placed the tray in his lap and shook out the napkin. Then she stood still a moment as she realized he didn’t have a collar she could tuck the napkin into. He didn’t even have a shirt. With a nonchalance she didn’t feel, she bent and draped the napkin over his chest.

  The instant the soft linen landed against his skin, she saw goose bumps raise along his arms. “Are you cold?”

  With his eyes on the plate before him, he cleared his throat. “No.”

  She studied his plate. Bacon, scrambled eggs, biscuits, blackberry jam, and coffee. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “No.” He reached for his coffee. “Thank you.”

  “Do you need any help?”

  “No.” Again a long pause, as though the words were difficult for him. “Thank you.”

  She searched for something else to say and found nothing. “Well, I’ll see you later, then. If you need anything, just yell.”

  If I need anything, Ash thought to himself. What I need is to get the hell out of here.

  But he couldn’t. He was good and stuck, and he knew it. He wanted to curse and yell and throw something. A man ought to be able to walk to a table and sit down to eat, not lie in bed and worry about embarrassing himself. At least she’d propped him up. Propped him up like a useless rag doll.

  But damned if she hadn’t smelled like lilacs when she’d leaned over him the way she had. He wished she hadn’t braided her hair. He wanted to see it glowing down her back and across her shoulders in golden waves. Waves he knew would part to let her breasts peak through. Her hair would feel warm and soft. Her breasts, firm and full. He inhaled, trying to catch another whiff of her fragrance.

  Instead of lilacs, he caught bacon. And coffee.

  His stomach rumbled.

  One thing at a time, McCord. He couldn’t walk, but he could by God eat.

  And eat he did. It had been so long since he’d eaten much of anything that he was full before his plate was half empty. But that didn’t stop him from eating every single morsel and draining the last drop of coffee from the cup.

  With a painful, satisfied sigh, he put his fork down, lay his head back on the pillows—he could smell the lilacs now—and closed his eyes. God, what a meal. He didn’t remember anything in his life tasting so good.

  A soft rustling came from the doorway. He opened his eyes. There she was again, this time carrying a stack of towels under one arm. With her other arm, she hugged a large bowl against her waist. Pressed against her that way, the bowl pulled her dress tight across her breasts, revealing their full shape. He felt sweat bead along his upper lip. A rag overfilled the pocket in an apron so white it hurt his eyes. She had the sleeves of her pink gingham dress rolled halfway to her elbows, like she meant business. Suspicion bloomed in his mind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you sleeping? I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “What’s that stuff for?” he demanded, nodding toward the things she carried.

  Her cheeks turned beet red.

  His suspicion grew.

  “It’s for your bath.”

  “How the hell am I supposed to manage that?”

  She placed the bowl on the bedside table, and he saw it was full of water. Steam rose from it.

  “You’re not,” she answered. Her cheeks turned even redder. “I am.”

  “The hell you are.”

  She stared at the towels she held in her hands. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t swear at me, Mr. McCord.”

  “Mr. McCord? Don’t you think that’s a bit formal, seeing as how you’ve already been in bed with me once this morning, and now you say you’re going to bathe me?”

  Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes to his eyes.

  What the hell made you say a damn fool thing like that? he wondered. It wasn’t her fault he was stuck flat on his back and hating every minute of it. Damn. His rudeness and crudeness would probably make her cry, when hurting her was the last thing he wanted. He wanted to hurt something, or somebody, but not Sunny.

  And if she started crying, he’d have to make himself apologize. If there was anything he hated in the world, it was apologizing. Especially when he knew he’d been wrong.

  She closed her eyes and made a slight sound behind her hand. Damn. Here it came. She was crying.

  But when she lowered her hand and opened her eyes, she wasn’t crying, she was laughing! Between bursts of giggles she managed, “When you put it that way, I guess you’re right.”

  She placed the towels on the edge of the bed, then removed the tray from his lap and set it on the floor. She straightened and smiled at him. The sudden shyness of her smile after her burst of laughter was enough to make his head spin.

  “Hello, Ash,” she said holding her hand out to him. “I’m Sunny.”

  He bit the inside of his mouth to keep from answering her smile. Damn, he didn’t want to smile. He didn’t want to take her hand in his and feel it’s warmth, its softness. But he couldn’t help it. His hand found hers all on its own. He gave up the struggle and let his smile come. “Hello, Sunny.”

  He held her hand longer than he should, he knew. He felt its warmth, its strength, its gentleness. He’d never known a hand could be soft and callused at the same time. He’d never known a simple touching of hands could make the backs of his eyes sting.

  With the exception of a big hug and a maternal pat on the cheek from Ella, this was the first time anyone had touched him in friendship and kindness in over five years.

  He let go of her hand and closed his eyes. He felt raw, exposed, and suddenly weak. He hated it.

  He heard her walk out of the room. In less than a minute she was back. A low thud and scrape sounded like she was setting something on the floor. He kept his eyes closed.

  “Mr. McCord?”

  He ignored her, feigning sleep.

  Then her hand touched his shoulder and he shivered involuntarily.

  “Ash?”

  He blinked his eyes open.

  “I’m sorry. I know you’re tired, but I need to remove most of the pillows, then get some towels under you.”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Bathing you?”

  “You’re not going to bathe me.”

  She cocked her head, a determined set to her jaw. “Yes, I am.”

  “Why, dammit?”

  “Because you stink?”

  “Why did you bring me here? Why are you so determined to take care of me? I’d think you had your hands full, like Doc said.” As her expression changed, he felt his anger and frustration growing again. She felt sorry for him. And he hated it!

  She started removing pillows from behind his back. The lower he sank, the more helpless he felt.

  “Someone has to take care of you until you can take care of yourself,” she said calmly. “Who better than me? If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be in this position.”

  “You mean you feel guilty.”

  She pulled another pillow from behind him. “I…I feel responsible to a certain degree, yes.”

  “That’s bull and you know it. You didn’t ask me to run out into that
damn street.”

  “I know.” She straightened and hugged a pillow to her chest while looking at him. “And I have to ask myself why you did it.”

  He looked away toward the window in the far corner of the room and stared at the familiar old cottonwood for which his father had named the ranch so many years and lifetimes ago. He wasn’t sure why he’d run out into the street that day. It had seemed…necessary. She’d been about to stumble right smack into the middle of more trouble than she could handle. Somebody had to help her. Somebody had to pull her out of the way and shield her.

  The soft slide of the linen napkin slipping across his bare chest drew his thoughts back to the present. Before he realized what she was up to, she had a towel beneath one side of his back—he winced when she touched a sore spot—and was soaping up a wash rag.

  “I know you’re tired. Feel free to sleep through as much of this as you want. It might be less embarrassing that way.”

  “Less embarrassing for who?”

  “Whom.” With a crooked grin she said, “Both of us, I think.” Then she reached for him.

  He closed his eyes and braced himself.

  She was going to touch him. He knew it. She was going to touch him and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. Unless he wanted to get mean and ugly. But he didn’t want to get mean and ugly. He wanted…he wanted…

  She touched him. Warm gentle fingers on one cheek, warm, wet cloth on the other. He couldn’t help it; he sighed. Behind his closed eyelids he felt a stinging.

  Good God, who would have thought the mere touch of a young woman’s fingers could make a grown man feel like crying.

  He didn’t want to feel. He didn’t want his muscles to relax. He didn’t want the image of her soft smile and long, golden hair to haunt his mind.

  But neither did he want to fight any of it. He uncurled his fingers from where they gripped the sheet and let himself feel.

  She washed him from face to navel, left hand to right. It felt so damn good to be clean, he couldn’t begin to tell her. He didn’t try.

  He smelled the sunshine freshness of the towel she used to gently pat his skin dry. He imagined the soap smelled like lilacs. When had anyone ever taken such gentle care of him? His mother must have when he was a child, but he’d lost those memories long ago. This one, he knew, would never fade.