“Wake up, Grace. Come on, honey.” With mounting dread he placed his fingers on the pulse at her throat, and then he laid his head against her chest. Christ, her heartbeat was so fast and so faint. It seemed to flutter, delicately and much too uncertainly. What had that bastard done to her?
She started to shiver, and Dillon left her just long enough to grab Hartley’s bedroll. Maybe if she were warm and comfortable she would quit shaking and open her eyes. He almost didn’t notice the bottle lying on its side, but when he did he picked it up and sniffed at the open neck. Laudanum.
He hurried back to Grace, only to find her motionless and exactly as he had left her. How much had the bastard given her? Too much. He could see that. Unfortunately Hartley wouldn’t be answering any questions. That had been the reason for that odd smile as he’d died. If Grace died, Hartley won.
Dillon sat in the dirt and lifted Grace onto his lap. Her head lolled against his chest as he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and her hands fell, open and lifeless, at her sides. He placed those hands in her lap, and pulled the blanket snugly around her, cocooning her against the night air.
What if she never woke up? What if she died right there in his arms? He’d never felt so helpless in his entire life. Never.
When he’d first seen the two of them—Grace in the dirt with her legs spread and Hartley on top of her—he’d wondered why she wasn’t fighting him, why she was just lying there. And then, dear God, he’d seen her face, and for a moment he’d thought she was dead. She was so white and still.
“Come on, Grace,” he ordered. He held her so that she was sitting up in his lap, and the dying fire lit her pale face and tangled hair. He didn’t know anything about laudanum, except that too much of the stuff could kill a person. Grace had to wake up. He had to keep her awake and with him until the effects of the drug wore off.
“Talk to me, Grace.” He took her face in one hand and held it close to his. “Come on. Talk to me.” Dillon was nearly shouting, and all Grace did was wrinkle her nose and frown a little.
Better than nothing.
It took several long minutes of steady talking, but finally she opened one eye.
“Let me sleep, Dillon,” she whispered. “Just a little while longer.”
“No. Talk to me. Stay with me.” He shook her slightly when she started to drift away again. “Tell me about…about England. I’ve never been to England. What’s it like, honey?”
Grace’s eyes opened, narrow slits in a colorless face. “I just want to sleep.”
He begged, and maybe there was something in his voice that reached her. She began to talk. Her words were nonsense at times, and she had a tendency to ramble, but she was talking to him about the girls’ school she’d attended in England. Girls’ names, muttered nonsense, something about a piano…
“I liked it, most of the time…when I wasn’t getting into trouble.”
Finally, a sentence that made sense. As soon as she said the words she tried to close her eyes again. Dillon shook her awake. “What kind of trouble?”
“Whatever I could think of,” Grace said dreamily. “At first just…temper tantrums, and not doing my studies…but that didn’t work. So I…did some other things…but it didn’t make any difference. He didn’t come. He didn’t send for me until it was too late.”
Grace made an effort to tilt her head and lift her face to his, and she smiled wanly. “But you came for me,” she whispered. “I love you, Dillon Becket.”
He gathered her into his arms, just for a moment, holding her head against his shoulder. He couldn’t allow her to get too comfortable, to drift away from him again, but he needed to hold her close.
“I love you, too,” he said, knowing that she wouldn’t remember any of this. He smoothed a wayward strand of black hair away from her face as he loosened his hold and looked into her clouded eyes. “I love you.”
“That’s good,” she whispered, and then she fell asleep in his arms, and nothing he could do would rouse her. Her heartbeat seemed a bit stronger, though it was still faint and far too fast, and she snuggled against him rather than lying lifelessly in his arms, as she had before.
Dillon kept her warm, and told her again and again that he loved her, and by the time the sun came up he was almost certain that she would live. Her heartbeat continued to grow stronger, though at times she seemed to have trouble breathing. When that happened he felt as if his own heart were going to stop beating, and he tried to breathe deeply. For both of them.
It was late morning when he heard the approaching hoofbeats. His pistol was at his side, and then in his hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to deposit Grace on the ground and leave her there.
He recognized the rider in the lead, and reholstered his six-shooter. Billy hadn’t wasted his time bothering to collect the sheriff from Plummerton. He had formed his own posse, better than half a dozen Double B hands who rode behind him. When Billy looked down at Grace he jumped from his horse with an agility rare for a man of his years.
Billy looked around the campsite, at Hartley’s body and at Grace, still sleeping in Dillon’s arms.
“Is she…” He couldn’t finish the question, but Dillon shook his head.
“She’s alive. Barely,” Dillon said gruffly. “Son of a bitch doped her up with laudanum.”
Billy dropped down so that he was face-to-face with Dillon. He reached out to touch Grace’s shoulder, a tentative touch as if to reassure himself that she was still warm.
Grace reacted to his touch, sighing and rolling against Dillon, burying her face against his chest.
Dillon held her tight, and didn’t even try to hide his feelings from the older man and the hands who sat their horses, solemn and silent, beyond him. It wouldn’t have done any good, he told himself.
“I’d kill him again, if I could,” Dillon swore harshly. He barely recognized the sound of his own voice.
Billy just shook his head. “Let’s take her on home, boss.”
Billy offered to carry Grace back to the ranch on his horse, insisting that Dillon was too exhausted after holding her and staying up with her all night. But Dillon would have none of that. When he was seated on his stallion, Billy handed Grace into Dillon’s arms.
Grace opened one eye in response to the prodding she was being subjected to. There was an unfamiliar head, shiny bald in the center with steel-gray fringe all around, bent over her. He had his hand on her chest, and Grace tried to push him away. The balding man lifted his head, and she caught a glimpse of the wooden tube in his hands. A doctor. She relaxed and took a deep breath. He’d been listening to her heartbeat.
Dillon stood at the foot of the bed—her own bed at the Double B—trying to give her a reassuring smile through the dark stubble on his face and his obvious exhaustion. It was a poor effort, but that smile meant more to her than every jewel in her precious carved box.
“She’ll be just fine,” the doctor said, looking down at her with a concerned frown. “She needs to rest for a few days.” The balding man gave her a fatherly smile. “You’re a very lucky girl.”
Grace’s memory returned in a rush, and she bolted upright. That was a mistake. Her head swam, and she felt dangerously close to passing out.
“Hartley,” she croaked.
Dillon came to her and lowered her gently onto the pillows. “It’s all right. He won’t bother you anymore,” he said gruffly.
Grace found that she still had a hard time keeping her eyes open, even though she wanted to talk to Dillon, wanted to tell him everything that had happened. Poor Dillon, he looked so tired, so worried.
“He…he was going to kill me,” she said softly, “but I guess he didn’t.” She finally gave in and closed her eyes. It was impossible to keep them open, but she could hear everything that was going on around her. Dillon was here. He had found her and brought her home.
“I tried to stop him, Dillon, really I did,” she whispered. She frowned, remembering Hartley’s hands on her, her inability to mo
ve, the darkness that had swallowed her.
And Dillon had told her that he loved her. She remembered that much. But was it really a memory, or was it a piece of a dream? She wanted to believe that it was a memory. It chased away all the rest.
“You’re sure she’ll be all right?” She heard Dillon asking the question, and knew that he had returned to his post at the end of the bed. He was looking out for her, and she didn’t wait to hear the doctor’s reply, but allowed herself to slip into a deep sleep.
It was fully dark before Grace opened her eyes again. She’d been so deeply asleep it took her a moment to realize exactly where she was. It was a bit like coming back from the dead.
A warm breeze filled the room, making the curtains at her window dance. She was alive, and she was home.
The quilt had been kicked to her feet, and Grace looked down at the nightgown she wore before she pulled the cover over her legs. Who had stripped off the calico and placed the nightgown on her sleeping body? Dillon? He had been so cautious, never hinting to Olivia or Billy that there was anything between them. Olivia perhaps. She would have been the one to send Dillon into the hall to wait while she prepared Grace for bed.
She covered her face with her hands. It came back to her in a rush, just as it had when she’d awakened earlier. Hartley, pressing her against the ground, his hands all over her. Thank God she could remember nothing more than that. Her hands dropped slowly, and she took a deep breath, driving that memory from her mind. She couldn’t face it. Not now.
From her throbbing head to her feet, she ached all over. It was a good ache, because it reminded her she was alive. She sat up and stretched her arms over her head, thankful that she could move freely again.
She wasn’t even surprised when she looked down and saw Dillon’s head resting there on the side of the bed. It looked as if he’d sat on the floor at her bedside, leaned his head against the mattress, and fallen asleep. With the moonlight on his face she could see the dark stubble on his cheeks, and the stern set to his jaw. Did he never relax? Not even in sleep?
She laid a hand over his head, ruffling his soft chestnut hair with her fingers. He was her guardian, her love, the constant that had been missing from her life.
He stirred under her fingers, and lifted his face to hers. “You’re awake?”
Grace nodded. “I can’t believe I slept all day.”
Dillon rolled up and turned to face her, on his knees beside the bed. “All day, hell. You’ve been out for two days, Grace. You’ve worried the devil out of me,” he accused.
“I doubt that.”
Dillon took the hand that had been resting in his hair, and he held it possessively. “The doctor said you’d be fine, but I wasn’t sure. You were so damn still.”
Grace lifted the quilt and scooted over, inviting him in.
Dillon shook his head. “You’re sick.”
Grace smiled at him. She couldn’t help it. “Just to sleep, Becket. The floor doesn’t look too comfortable.”
Dillon slid under the quilt and wrapped his arms around her to squeeze so tightly she couldn’t take a deep breath. Gradually his grip loosened, though he continued to hold her close.
Grace buried her face against his chest. All the comfort she would ever need was here in his arms. Only Dillon could fill her once-empty heart, could make her put aside her fears.
He sighed deeply, and nuzzled his face against the top of her head. “One of us had better wake up early in the morning, before Olivia shows up and tries to feed you again.” He already sounded drowsy, and almost as if he didn’t care if they were caught in bed together or not.
It went against everything she’d ever known, but she didn’t care either. She was going to marry him, anyway, so what did it matter?
Of course, he hadn’t asked her yet. That nagging thought was with her as she fell asleep, snuggled in Dillon’s arms.
When she opened her eyes again, Olivia was bending over the bed, her lined face concerned, a cup of steaming hot liquid in her hands.
A smile broke out on her face, deepening the lines and making her hazel eyes dance. “So you are awake! Dillon said you’d stirred a bit last night.”
“Dillon?” Grace lifted her head slightly and looked around the room. He wasn’t there. So he had managed to slip out before Olivia’s arrival after all.
“He sat up with you last night, you know. You’ve given us all quite a scare, young lady,” she said kindly. “Dillon said you might be able to keep down a bit of tea this morning.”
Grace sat up slowly and took the warm mug from Olivia’s hands. She sipped cautiously, cradling the heavy mug. Her stomach wanted to revolt, so she took just a portion of the sweet tea. Not even half.
Olivia busied herself around the bed, straightening the quilt over Grace’s legs, fluffing the pillows.
“Where is Becket, anyway?” Grace tried to keep her voice casual.
“Working, of course. He stayed with you all day yesterday, and the day before, so he was a bit anxious to get back out there. You know Dillon. If he’s not got a hand in it he can’t be sure that it’s being done properly.”
Grace set her mug of tea on her bedside table. “Do you know what happened?”
Olivia stopped her bustling and clasped her hands as she looked down at Grace. She pinched her lips together and furrowed her brow.
“It’s just that…I don’t remember much after Hartley gave me the laudanum. What…where is he?” Grace felt a moment of rising panic. Dillon was away from the house. What if Hartley decided to come back? What if Dillon didn’t find her this time?
“The man who carried you off is dead,” Olivia said sternly, refusing to speak Hartley’s name. “Dillon shot him.”
“Are you certain that he’s really…”
A soft, reassuring look passed over Olivia’s face. “The boys buried him where he fell. Don’t you worry none. That man was right dead.”
Grace felt a rush of relief…and then a hint of guilt. A man was dead. She shouldn’t feel so relieved that any person had died a violent death.
But she did. She remembered too well the way he had looked at her. The gleam in his eyes as he’d poured the laudanum-laced water down her throat. The way his hands had pushed her against the ground.
“Lord, Grace,” Olivia said as she forced her back against the pillows. “You’re white as a ghost. Maybe I should send Billy for the doctor….”
“No.” Grace stopped Olivia with a reassuring hand on the woman’s arm. “I’m fine. Just a little weak, that’s all. The tea helped. It really did.”
Olivia visibly relaxed. “It’s too bad that you’re going to miss the festivities tomorrow. The Fourth of July is always a merry day in Plummerton. There’s a big picnic, and fireworks. Seth Plummer brings them in every year. Oh, and there’s a band. They’re not very good, but they’re very enthusiastic.” She smiled at Grace, a motherly smile that told Grace everything would be all right. “There’s always next year.”
Next year. Yes. She would be here next year, and the next, and the next. Forever.
“We’ll just stay here and have a quiet celebration all our own,” Olivia said.
“Don’t you dare miss on my account,” Grace admonished. “Imagine. Fireworks and an enthusiastic band. And a picnic. You’d better not stay here. I’d feel just terrible if you missed all the fun.”
“We’ll see,” Olivia said as she patted Grace’s hand. “We’ll see.”
Grace slipped to the stairs quietly, her bare feet silent. She wrapped the dressing gown around her body and tied the too-long sash. It was Dillon’s favorite color, a blue the color of his wildflowers. Bluebonnets.
The house was so quiet she began to think that everyone had gone to Plummerton for the Fourth of July celebration, leaving her completely alone. But she knew Dillon wouldn’t leave her.
She hadn’t seen him since she’d awakened to find him sleeping at her bedside. She’d waited for him to come to her again that night, but he hadn’t, and
she’d finally fallen asleep without him. She’d thought perhaps to see him at breakfast, but Olivia had brought her a tray and said that Dillon had persuaded her and Billy to go to Plummerton for the day.
Leaving, she assumed, the two of them at home alone.
But he hadn’t come to her room, not even to stick his head in the doorway and say good morning.
He was sitting at the dining room table with an unopened bottle of whiskey in front of him, and if he heard her coming down the stairs he gave no notice of the fact.
Grace stood just a few feet away, afraid to take another step forward. She’d never seen Dillon like this. Angry, but without fire. There was a desolate, stony resignation in the eyes that continued to stare at the bottle of whiskey before him.
“Dillon?” She finally found the nerve to speak, even though she was afraid to interrupt him. She was more afraid of the expression on his face.
“Go back to bed, Grace,” he said gruffly.
She shook her head and stepped forward. “No. What’s wrong?”
It was worse than she had thought. Dillon lifted his head, moving his eyes from the bottle to her. There was no tenderness in his eyes. No life at all.
“It’s over, Grace,” he said emotionlessly.
She moved without thinking to stand behind him, and rested her hands on his shoulders. “What’s over?”
He didn’t answer for a few moments, and Grace waited. The tension in his shoulders didn’t abate beneath her hands, but he didn’t move away, either.
“Us. We can’t…I can’t…” Dillon cursed under his breath, and finally he did shrug off her hands. “I’m getting married,” he said coldly. “To Abigail Wilkinson. You remember her. You wore a sheet to the party she gave for us.” His words were clipped and distant.
This was a nightmare. Some horrid delusion. An aftereffect of the drug Hartley had given her. Any moment she would wake up and Dillon would be there, and she would tell him what a terrible dream she’d had.
But it wasn’t a dream. It was real.
“You can’t marry her,” Grace whispered. “You love me.”
She could see the tension in his neck and his back as he reached out and took the bottle in his hands. “No, I don’t.”
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