by Diana Palmer
So there it was. She knew she shouldn’t have asked. “Can’t your mother do something?” she asked hopefully.
“My mom ran off with Mr. Jackson from the livestock association when I was just a little feller,” he replied, registering Amanda’s shocked expression. “She and Dad got divorced and she died some years ago, but Dad doesn’t talk about her. Will you come, miss?”
“I’m not a doctor,” she said, hesitating.
“Oh, sure, I know that,” he agreed eagerly, “but you’re a girl. And girls know how to take care of sick folks, don’t they?” The confidence slid away and he looked like what he was—a terrified little boy with nobody to turn to. “Please, lady,” he added. “I’m scared. He’s hot and shaking all over and—!”
“I’ll get my boots on,” she said. She gathered them from beside the fireplace and tugged them on, and then she went for a coat and stuffed her long blond hair under a stocking cap. “Do you have cough syrup, aspirins, throat lozenges—that sort of thing?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said eagerly, then sighed. “Dad won’t take them, but we have them.”
“Is he suicidal?” Amanda asked angrily as she went out the door behind him and locked the cabin before she climbed on the sled with the boy.
“Well sometimes things get to him,” he ventured. “But he doesn’t ever get sick, and he won’t admit that he is. But he’s out of his head and I’m scared. He’s all I got.”
“We’ll take care of him,” she promised, and hoped she could deliver on the promise. “Let’s go.”
“Do you know Mr. Durning well?” he asked as he called to the draft horse and started him back down the road and up the mountain toward the Sutton house.
“He’s sort of a friend of a relative of mine,” she said evasively. The sled ride was fun, and she was enjoying the cold wind and snow in her face, the delicious mountain air. “I’m only staying at the cabin for a few weeks. Just time to…get over something.”
“Have you been sick, too?” he asked curiously.
“In a way,” she said noncommittally.
The sled went jerkily up the road, around the steep hill. She held on tight and hoped the big draft horse had steady feet. It was a harrowing ride at the last, and then they were up, and the huge redwood ranch house came into sight, blazing with light from its long, wide front porch to the gabled roof.
“It’s a beautiful house,” Amanda said.
“My dad added on to it for my mom, before they married,” he told her. He shrugged. “I don’t remember much about her, except she was redheaded. Dad sure hates women.” He glanced at her apologetically. “He’s not going to like me bringing you….”
“I can take care of myself,” she returned, and smiled reassuringly. “Let’s go see how bad it is.”
“I’ll get Harry to put up the horse and sled,” he said, yelling toward the lighted barn until a grizzled old man appeared. After a brief introduction to Amanda, Harry left and took the horse away.
“Harry’s been here since Dad was a boy,” Elliot told her as he led her down a bare-wood hall and up a steep staircase to the second storey of the house. “He does most everything, even cooks for the men.” He paused outside a closed door, and gave Amanda a worried look. “He’ll yell for sure.”
“Let’s get it over with, then.”
She let Elliot open the door and look in first, to make sure his father had something on.
“He’s still in his jeans,” he told her, smiling as she blushed. “It’s okay.”
She cleared her throat. So much for pretended sophistication, she thought, and here she was twenty-four years old. She avoided Elliot’s grin and walked into the room.
Quinn Sutton was sprawled on his stomach, his bare muscular arms stretched toward the headboard. His back gleamed with sweat, and his thick, black hair was damp with moisture. Since it wasn’t hot in the room, Amanda decided that he must have a high fever. He was moaning and talking unintelligibly.
“Elliot, can you get me a basin and some hot water?” she asked. She took off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her cotton blouse.
“Sure thing,” Elliot told her, and rushed out of the room.
“Mr. Sutton, can you hear me?” Amanda asked softly. She sat down beside him on the bed, and lightly touched his bare shoulder. He was hot, all right—burning up. “Mr. Sutton,” she called again.
“No,” he moaned. “No, you can’t do it…!”
“Mr. Sutton…”
He rolled over and his black eyes opened, glazed with fever, but Amanda barely noticed. Her eyes were on the rest of him, male perfection from shoulder to narrow hips. He was darkly tanned, too, and thick, black hair wedged from his chest down his flat stomach to the wide belt at his hips. Amanda, who was remarkably innocent not only for her age, but for her profession as well, stared like a star-struck girl. He was beautiful, she thought, amazed at the elegant lines of his body, at the ripple of muscle and the smooth, glistening skin.
“What the hell do you want?” he rasped.
So much for hero worship, she thought dryly. She lifted her eyes back to his. “Elliot was worried,” she said quietly. “He came and got me. Please don’t fuss at him. You’re raging with fever.”
“Damn the fever, get out,” he said in a tone that might have stopped a charging wolf.
“I can’t do that,” she said. She turned her head toward the door where Elliot appeared with a basin full of hot water and a towel and washcloth over one arm.
“Here you are, lady,” he said. “Hi, Dad,” he added with a wan smile at his furious father. “You can beat me when you’re able again.”
“Don’t think I won’t,” Quinn growled.
“There, there, you’re just feverish and sick, Mr. Sutton,” Amanda soothed.
“Get Harry and have him throw her off my land,” Quinn told Elliot in a furious voice.
“How about some aspirin, Elliot, and something for him to drink? A small whiskey and something hot—”
“I don’t drink whiskey,” Quinn said harshly.
“He has a glass of wine now and then,” Elliot ventured.
“Wine, then.” She soaked the cloth in the basin. “And you might turn up the heat. We don’t want him to catch a chill when I sponge him down.”
“You damned well aren’t sponging me down!” Quinn raged.
She ignored him. “Go and get those things, please, Elliot, and the cough syrup, too.”
“You bet, lady!” he said grinning.
“My name is Amanda,” she said absently.
“Amanda,” the boy repeated, and went back downstairs.
“God help you when I get back on my feet,” Quinn said with fury. He laid back on the pillow, shivering when she touched him with the cloth. “Don’t…!”
“I could fry an egg on you. I have to get the fever down. Elliot said you were delirious.”
“Elliot’s delirious to let you in here,” he shuddered. Her fingers accidentally brushed his flat stomach and he arched, shivering. “For God’s sake, don’t,” he groaned.
“Does your stomach hurt?” she asked, concerned. “I’m sorry.” She soaked the cloth again and rubbed it against his shoulders, his arms, his face.
His black eyes opened. He was breathing roughly, and his face was taut. The fever, she imagined. She brushed back her long hair, and wished she’d tied it up. It kept flowing down onto his damp chest.
“Damn you,” he growled.
“Damn you, too, Mr. Sutton.” She smiled sweetly. She finished bathing his face and put the cloth and basin aside. “Do you have a long-sleeved shirt?”
“Get out!”
Elliot came back with the medicine and a small glass of wine. “Harry’s making hot chocolate,” he said with a smile. “He’ll bring it up. Here’s the other stuff.”
“Good,” she said. “Does your father have a pajama jacket or something long-sleeved?”
“Sure!”
“Traitor,” Quinn groaned at his son.
“I hate you,” Quinn snapped at her with his last ounce of venom.
“I hate you, too,” she agreed. She had to reach around him to get the jacket on, and it brought her into much too close proximity to him. She could feel the hair on his chest rubbing against her soft cheek, she could feel her own hair smoothing over his bare shoulder and chest. Odd, that shivery feeling she got from contact with him. She ignored it forcibly and got his other arm into the pajama jacket. She fastened it, trying to keep her fingers from touching his chest any more than necessary because the feel of that pelt of hair disturbed her. He shivered violently at the touch of her hands and her long, silky hair, and she assumed it was because of his fever.
“Are you finished?” Quinn asked harshly.
“Almost.” She pulled the covers over him, found the electric-blanket control and turned it on. Then she ladled cough syrup into him, gave him aspirin and had him take a sip of wine, hoping that she wasn’t overdosing him in the process. But the caffeine in the hot chocolate would probably counteract the wine and keep it from doing any damage in combination with the medicine. A sip of wine wasn’t likely to be that dangerous anyway, and it might help the sore throat she was sure he had.
“Here’s the cocoa,” Harry said, joining them with a tray of mugs filled with hot chocolate and topped with whipped cream.
“That looks delicious. Thank you so much,” Amanda said, and smiled shyly at the old man.
He grinned back. “Nice to be appreciated.” He glared at Quinn. “Nobody else ever says so much as a thank-you!”
“It’s hard to thank a man for food poisoning,” Quinn rejoined weakly.
“He ain’t going to die,” Harry said as he left. “He’s too damned mean.”
“That’s a fact,” Quinn said and closed his eyes.
He was asleep almost instantly. Amanda drew up a chair and sat down beside him. He’d still need looking after, and presumably the boy went to school. It was past the Christmas holidays.
“You go to school, don’t you?” she asked Elliot.
He nodded. “I ride the horse out to catch the bus and then turn him loose. He comes to the barn by himself. You’re staying?”
“I’d better, I guess,” she said. “I’ll sit with him. He may get worse in the night. He’s got to see a doctor tomorrow. Is there one around here?”
“There’s Dr. James in town, in Holman that is,” he said. “He’ll come out if Dad’s bad enough. He has a cancer patient down the road and he comes to check on her every few days. He could stop by then.”
“We’ll see how your father is feeling. You’d better get to bed,” she said and smiled at him.
“Thank you for coming, Miss…Amanda,” Elliot said. He sighed. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I didn’t mind. Good night, Elliot.”
He smiled at her. “Good night.”
He went out and closed the door. Amanda sat back in her chair and looked at the sleeping face of the wild man. He seemed vulnerable like this, with his black eyes closed. He had the thickest lashes she’d ever seen, and his eyebrows were thick and well shaped above his deep-set eyes. His mouth was rather thin, but it was perfectly shaped, and the full lower lip was sensuous. She liked that jutting chin, with its hint of stubbornness. His nose was formidable and straight, and he wasn’t that bad looking…asleep. Perhaps it was the coldness of his eyes that made him seem so much rougher when he was awake. Not that he looked that unintimidating even now. He had so many coarse edges….
She waited a few minutes and touched his forehead. It was a little cooler, thank God, so maybe he was going to be better by morning. She went into the bathroom and washed her face and went back to sit by him. Somewhere in the night, she fell asleep with her blond head pillowed on the big arm of the chair. Voices woke her.
“Has she been there all night, Harry?” Quinn was asking.
“Looks like. Poor little critter, she’s worn out.”
“I’ll shoot Elliot!”
“Now, boss, that’s no way to treat the kid. He got scared, and I didn’t know what to do. Women know things about illness. Why, my mama could doctor people and she never had no medical training. She used herbs and things.”
Amanda blinked, feeling eyes on her. She found Quinn Sutton gazing steadily at her from a sitting position on the bed.
“How do you feel?” she asked without lifting her sleepy head.
“Like hell,” he replied. “But I’m a bit better.”
“Would you like some breakfast, ma’am?” Harry asked with a smile. “And some coffee?”
“Coffee. Heavenly. But no breakfast, thanks, I won’t impose,” she said drowsily, yawning and stretching uninhibitedly as she sat up, her full breasts beautifully outlined against the cotton blouse in the process.
Quinn felt his body tautening again, as it had the night before so unexpectedly and painfully when her hands had touched him. He could still feel them, and the brush of her long, silky soft hair against his skin. She smelled of gardenias and the whole outdoors, and he hated her more than ever because he’d been briefly vulnerable.
“Why did you come with Elliot?” Quinn asked her when Harry had gone.
She pushed back her disheveled hair and tried not to think how bad she must look without makeup and with her hair uncombed. She usually kept it in a tight braid on top of her head when she wasn’t performing. It made her feel vulnerable to have its unusual length on display for a man like Quinn Sutton.
“Your son is only twelve,” she answered him belatedly. “That’s too much responsibility for a kid,” she added. “I know. I had my dad to look after at that age, and no mother. My dad drank,” she added with a bitter smile. “Excessively. When he drank he got into trouble. I can remember knowing how to call a bail bondsman at the age of thirteen. I never dated, I never took friends home with me. When I was eighteen, I ran away from home. I don’t even know if he’s still alive, and I don’t care.”
“That’s one problem Elliot won’t ever have,” he replied quietly. “Tough girl, aren’t you?” he added, and his black eyes were frankly curious.
She hadn’t meant to tell him so much. It embarrassed her, so she gave him her most belligerent glare. “Tough enough, thanks,” she said. She got out of the chair. “If you’re well enough to argue, you ought to be able to take care of yourself. But if that fever goes up again, you’ll need to see the doctor.”
“I’ll decide that,” he said tersely. “Go home.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that little thing.” She got her coat and put it on without taking time to button it. She pushed her hair up under the stocking cap, aware of his eyes on her the whole time.
“You don’t fit the image of a typical hanger-on,” he said unexpectedly.
She glanced at him, blinking with surprise. “I beg your pardon?”
“A hanger-on,” he repeated. He lifted his chin and studied her with mocking thoroughness. “You’re Durning’s latest lover, I gather. Well, if it’s money you’re after, he’s the perfect choice. A pretty little tramp could go far with him… Damn!”
She stood over him with the remains of his cup of hot chocolate all over his chest, shivering with rage.
“I’m sorry,” she said curtly. “That was a despicable thing to do to a sick man, but what you said to me was inexcusable.”
She turned and went to the door, ignoring his muffled curses as he threw off the cover and sat up.
“I’d cuss, too,” she said agreeably as she glanced back at him one last time, her eyes running helplessly over the broad expanse of hair-roughened skin. “All that sticky hot chocolate in that thicket on your chest,” she mused. “It will probably take steam cleaning to remove it. Too bad you can’t attract a ‘hanger-on’ to help you bathe it out. But, then, you aren’t as rich as Mr. Durning, are you?” And she wal
ked out, her nose in the air. As she went toward the stairs, she imagined that she heard laughter. But of course, that couldn’t have been possible.
Amanda regretted the hot-chocolate incident once she was back in the cabin, even though Quinn Sutton had deserved every drop of it. How dare he call her such a name!
Amanda was old-fashioned in her ideas. A real country girl from Mississippi who’d had no example to follow except a liberated aunt and an alcoholic parent, and she was like neither of them. She hardly even dated these days. Her working gear wasn’t the kind of clothing that told men how conventional her ideals were. They saw the glitter and sexy outfit and figured that Amanda, or just “Mandy” as she was known onstage, lived like her alter ego looked. There were times when she rued the day she’d ever signed on with Desperado, but she was too famous and making too much money to quit now.
She put her hair in its usual braid and kept it there for the rest of the week, wondering from time to time about Quinn Sutton and whether or not he’d survived his illness. Not that she cared, she kept telling herself. It didn’t matter to her if he turned up his toes.
There was no phone in the cabin, and no piano. She couldn’t play solitaire, she didn’t have a television. There was only the radio and the cassette player for company, and Mr. Durning’s taste in music was really extreme. He liked opera and nothing else. She’d have died for some soft rock, or just an instrument to practice on. She could play drums as well as the synthesizer and piano, and she wound up in the kitchen banging on the counter with two stainless-steel knives out of sheer boredom.
When the electricity went haywire in the wake of two inches of freezing rain on Sunday night, it was almost a relief. She sat in the darkness laughing. She was trapped in a house without heat, without light, and the only thing she knew about fireplaces was that they required wood. The logs that were cut outside were frozen solid under the sleet and there were none in the house. There wasn’t even a pack of matches.
She wrapped up in her coat and shivered, hating the solitude and the weather and feeling the nightmares coming back in the icy night. She didn’t want to think about the reason her voice had quit on her, but if she spent enough time alone, she was surely going to go crazy reliving that night onstage.