Best of Cowboys Bundle

by Vicki Lewis Thompson, Barbara White Daille, Judy Christenberry, Christine Wenger, Shirley Rogers, Crystal Green, Nina Bruhns, Candance Schuler, Carole Mortimer

  “Sure wish you had some whiskey,” he muttered as she sat down beside him.

  “Me, too.” Even though she didn’t drink, she was certain a shot of straight whiskey would help to steady her hand and calm her nerves. “Okay, hold still. I’m sure this is going to hurt you a lot more than it does me.”

  “I’m sure it will,” he muttered, and closed his eyes.

  Taking a deep breath, Dana closed her mind to the fact that she was sewing human flesh. She was always reading news stories about people who had done things far beyond what they thought impossible because there was no one else to do it. She was about to find out if she was one of them.

  Murmuring a silent prayer for strength and a steady hand, she bent her head to her task.

  After what seemed like hours, but was more like twenty minutes, she took one last stitch and tied off the thread. Not too bad, she thought. Still, it was a nasty wound. What if he had a concussion?

  She taped a gauze pad over the stitches, then went to the sink and washed her hands. She pulled a clean towel from the drawer, dried her hands, then glanced at her patient to find him watching her.

  “You should get out of those wet…ah, trousers,” she suggested.

  He made a soft sound of agreement and rose to his feet.

  Her eyes widened when he began to unfasten his jeans.

  “Wait! I didn’t mean here. You can undress in the spare room. There’s a bed in there, too.” She studied him a moment, noticing how pale he looked. “Do you think you can make it on your own?”

  “Sure.” He took a step forward, staggered, and caught hold of the back of a chair.

  “Oh, yeah,” she said dryly, “you don’t need any help at all.”

  Slipping her arm around his waist, she helped him down the hall to the back bedroom. She was practically carrying him by the time they got there. Sweat dripped from his forehead. His chest was sheened with perspiration. Had she been interested in such things, she would have said that it was a very nice chest.

  “Hold still,” she said. Then, trying to ignore what she was doing, she unfastened his jeans and dragged the wet denim down over his long, long legs.

  She glanced at his briefs. They were wet, too, but if he wanted them off, he was on his own. She helped him into bed and drew the covers over him.

  He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.

  She stared down at him for several moments, thinking how handsome he was. And then she realized why he looked so familiar. He was the cowboy who had come to her aid in town that afternoon.

  Chapter Two

  M uttering a mild oath, Chay kept his eyes closed in an effort to ignore the naggingly insistent voice that was demanding he open his eyes.

  “Mr. Elk? Mr. Elk! You’ve got to wake up.”

  With a low groan, he opened his eyes. Squinting against the flickering light of the candle on the bedside table, he stared at the woman kneeling beside the bed. “Dammit, woman, go away and let me sleep!”

  “Do you know who you are?”

  “What?” He looked at her as if she was one flake short of a bale. “Is that why you woke me up? To ask me who I am?”

  “Yes. What’s your name?”

  “Go away.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  He glanced around the room. The walls were sea green; green-and-white flowered curtains hung at the window. “Your bed?” he asked hopefully.

  Her cheeks turned a pretty shade of pink. “In your dreams!”

  “A man can hope.”

  “You’re not helping! What’s your name?”

  “Chay.”

  “Does your head hurt?”

  He snorted softly. “What do you think?”

  “Do you feel sick to your stomach?”

  “No. Listen, I’m fine. Just a little tired.” He stared at her. He recognized her now, the uptight woman from town. Amazing how different she looked with her hair down. It fell over her shoulders in riotous waves of honey-gold silk. Her eyes, those eyes he hadn’t been able to forget, were bluer than a robin’s egg and still the prettiest eyes he had ever seen, even now, when she was regarding him with what could only be described as resentment. In spite of the fact that she had taken him in and stitched him up, it was obvious she didn’t want him there.

  “Thank you, ma’am, for looking after me,” he said, easing into a sitting position. “If you’ll bring me my clothes, I’ll get the hell out of your way.”

  “What? You can’t go out in this storm.”

  “I can, and I will.”

  “But…”

  Chay swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, grimacing as pain lanced through the side of his head. “I make it a point never to stay where I’m not wanted, ma’am.”

  “Stop calling me that,” she said waspishly.

  “I don’t know what else to call you.”

  “My name is Dana Westlake.”

  “Sorry to be such a bother, Miss Westlake. If you’ll just tell me where my clothes are, I’ll get out of your hair.” He stood up, then made a grab for the bedpost as the room began to sway around him.

  Lunging forward, Dana grabbed his arm to steady him. “You’re not going anywhere except back to bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and fell back on the mattress. “Sorry,” he said with a lopsided grin. “It just slipped out.”

  Fighting back the urge to smile, Dana pulled the blankets up to his chin. She was turning away from the bed when his hand snaked out and caught hers. His palm was callused, his fingers long and strong. The touch of his hand sizzled through her like a bolt of lightning.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked sharply.

  “Thanking you for stitching me up,” he replied, bemused by the electricity that had arced between them the moment his fingers closed around hers.

  Dana stared at the hand holding hers lightly but firmly. It was big and brown, the back crisscrossed with tiny white scars. She was startled by the wave of heat that ran from her palm to her heart as his grip tightened. “Let me go.”

  “Sorry, Miss Westlake, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t. I…I just don’t like being touched.”

  “By me? Or by men in general?”

  She glared at him, wondering why she found him so attractive. Hadn’t Rick taught her anything? With a sigh of self-disgust, she jerked her hand out of his, then turned on her heel and left the room.

  Chay stared after her, wondering what he had done to upset her. Wondering why he cared. Women didn’t usually treat him as if he was dirt. Even though he didn’t consider himself to be particularly good-looking, he had never had any trouble attracting the opposite sex. Girls and women alike had come on to him since he turned fourteen. And being a man who liked women, he did what he could to make them happy. He’d had his pick of girls, first in school and later on the rodeo circuit, and now in town.

  But this woman looked at him as if he were some kind of vermin.

  He laughed softly. There was always one stray in the herd. Still, her standoffish attitude brought out the hunter in him. For some reason he didn’t understand, he wanted to make pretty Miss Dana Westlake smile, wanted to hear her laugh. He wanted to run his hands through the honey-gold wealth of her hair, feel her body pressed close to his.

  He followed that thought to sleep.

  Dana sat at the kitchen table, a cup of hot coffee cradled in her hands. A glance at the clock showed it was a few minutes after nine. Her mind felt like mush. Fearing that her patient might have a concussion, she had set her alarm to wake her every hour through the night so she could check on him. It was a toss-up as to which of them had been more irritable the last time. She didn’t know the man and didn’t want him here, but here he was and, right or wrong, she felt a sense of responsibility for his welfare.

  Earlier that morning, she had tossed his clothing and her robe and nightgown into the washing machine. She had returned the Colt to the top shelf of the c
upboard.

  Drinking the last of her coffee, she carried the cup to the sink and rinsed it. A glance out the window showed the horse was still standing in the yard. Reins dragging, it was nibbling on a patch of grass, apparently oblivious to the wind and rain. Chay’s hat made a splash of black in the gooey brown mud. She felt a twinge of guilt for leaving the animal outside the night before and then shook her head. The horse didn’t look any the worse for spending the night in the open. His wild cousins had managed to survive in similar weather. Surely one night in the rain wouldn’t hurt this one.

  Her heart fluttered in her chest when she heard footsteps behind her. It could only be her houseguest. Turning, she saw him standing in the doorway. He had wrapped one of the blankets around his lean waist. Knowing he wore nothing underneath but a pair of briefs made her mouth go dry.

  He jerked his chin toward the stove. “Think I could have a cup of that coffee?”

  With a nod, she waved a hand toward the table. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a cup.”

  She took a clean mug from the shelf, filled it and then refilled her own. When she handed him his cup, she was careful to make sure their hands didn’t touch.

  “Thanks. Is my horse still here?”

  “Yes. Outside,” she said, and then felt herself blush. Where else would his horse be?

  “I need my clothes.”

  The memory of helping him undress the night before made her cheeks grow hotter. “They’re in the dryer. I’ll get them.”

  Hurrying into the laundry room, she pulled his clothing and her gown and robe from the drier. Seeing his jeans tangled up with her robe caused a funny feeling in the pit of her stomach. She shook out his shirt and jeans, folded his socks and T-shirt, her nightgown and robe, and then, taking a deep breath, she returned to the kitchen.

  “Here.” She handed him his clothing.

  “Obliged.” Rising, he left the room.

  Dana stared after him, bemused by her feelings for a man she didn’t even know. And then she shrugged. It was probably just a case of old-fashioned lust combined with her concern for his welfare. After all, she had taken care of him last night, which explained her concern. And even though she had sworn off men forever, that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a good-looking man when she saw one. And this man was far too good-looking for her peace of mind! She assured herself that any woman looking at him clad in only a blanket would have felt the same rush of feminine appreciation for his wide shoulders and broad chest.

  She was still standing there when he returned a few minutes later. Picking up his cup, he finished his coffee, then turned toward the back door.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To look after my horse.”

  “It’s still raining. I don’t think you should go out. I’ll take care of it.”

  He looked skeptical. “What do you know about horses?”

  “Not a thing,” she said, though that wasn’t entirely true. She knew how to ride.

  “That’s what I thought. I’ll take care of her.” Moving slowly, he plucked his jacket from the hook. “Thanks again for stitching me up.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He studied her a moment before he shrugged into his jacket and went outside.

  She stared after him, wondering if he was coming back. With a shrug she opened the refrigerator and pulled out a couple of eggs and a package of sausage, wondering if Chay liked French toast, and then wondering what difference it made. She wasn’t cooking for him. She looked at the two eggs in her hand and put them in the sink. After a moment she picked up four more.

  She was surprised when, twenty minutes later, the back door opened and he came in.

  He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, along with his hat. They both dripped water onto the floor. To her surprise, she didn’t even mind.

  Wordlessly she handed him a towel so he could dry off. A corner of his mouth turned up in a half smile as he took it from her hand.

  “Looks like it’s gonna rain all day.” He tossed the towel over the back of a chair, then sniffed the air. “Something sure smells good.”

  “French toast, scrambled eggs and sausage,” she said, uncovering a platter. “Sit down. What do you want to drink? I’ve got coffee, milk or orange juice.”

  “Coffee’s fine.”

  She refilled his cup, poured herself a glass of orange juice and sat down at the table across from him. He helped himself to three slices of French toast and six pieces of sausage.

  She wondered if she should have made more.

  Silence stretched between them, taut as an electric fence, so strong it was almost tangible. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at his hands, wondering what they would feel like on her skin. The thought brought a rush of heat to her cheeks.

  “So, what brings you to the Hollow?” he asked after a while. “You on vacation?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “They’re having a barn dance in town next week. Would you like to go?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He grunted softly. “Is it just me, or do you dislike everyone?”

  “I don’t dislike you, Mr. Elk. I came up here to spend some time alone.”

  “Guess I put a crimp in that, didn’t I?”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “As soon as I finish up here, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Don’t go. It’s still raining, and—” she gestured at his head “—you’re hurt.”

  “Don’t worry about me—I’ve had worse. Besides, the home place will be wondering what happened to me.”

  For the first time, she wondered if he had a wife, a family, waiting for him. “What were you doing out in the storm last night, anyway?”

  “One of the pasture fences was down and a couple of our horses got out. I was trying to find them when the storm broke. This is mighty fine French toast.”

  “It’s the cinnamon. Did you find the horses?”

  “No. I’ll pick up the search on the way back to the ranch.” He took another bite of French toast. “Cinnamon, you say?”

  She nodded. “How did you hurt your head?”

  “I was on my way back to the Bar W when lightning hit a tree alongside the trail. One of the branches broke and knocked me off my horse. Guess I hit a rock.” Swallowing the last bite of French toast, he pushed his plate aside and stood up. “I’m obliged to you for looking after me.”

  Dana gazed up at him, stunned by an almost overpowering urge to beg him to stay. “Goodbye, Mr. Elk.”

  He regarded her for several seconds, then he crossed the room and plucked his jacket and hat from the peg. Opening the door, he stepped out into the rain. The closing of the door seemed unusually loud.

  She stayed where she was, her hands curled in her lap as she imagined him climbing onto the back of his horse and riding out of the yard, and out of her life.

  “Rubbish,” she muttered. “You’re just feeling maudlin, that’s all. You don’t even know the man. How can you be missing him already?”

  Missing Chay? It was beyond ridiculous!

  She shook the thought from her mind. How could she be lonely for a man she had just met? How could she be missing any man after what Rick had done?

  Reminding herself that she was through with men forever, even a drop-dead gorgeous one in tight jeans and a cowboy hat, she threw herself into scrubbing the mud from the kitchen floor.

  Chapter Three

  C hay found himself thinking about Dana Westlake on the long ride home. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t shake her image from his mind. Sure, she was pretty, with her honey-colored hair and those big blue eyes, but he had met a lot of pretty women in his time. Some of them came on to him shamelessly because he was an Indian, some liked him because he was a genuine cowboy. But he wasn’t looking for a woman, pretty or otherwise, at least not the kind of woman who wanted to settle down and raise a herd of kids. Not just yet anyway.
/>
  He found three of the four missing horses grazing along the side of the road about a quarter of a mile from the ranch. After rounding them up, he herded them down the road until he reached a gate in the pasture fence. He opened the gate and the horses trotted on through, as docile as sheep. When he got back to the ranch, he would send one of the men out to look for the fourth horse.

  Chay felt the same sense of homecoming and bitterness he felt every time he rode into the yard of the Bar W. Big John Wardman was standing on the front porch, a cigar clenched between his teeth, when Chay rode up. Big John lived up to his name. He stood a good six feet four inches tall and had shoulders as wide as a barn door. He was in his mid-sixties, his thick brown hair just now going gray at the temples. His eyes were as green and sharp as ground glass. As always, tension crackled between Chay and the boss.

  “I was just about to send someone out looking for you,” Big John said, speaking around the cigar.

  “Yeah?”

  Big John nodded. Taking the stogie from his mouth, he tossed it into the brass spittoon that had been on the porch for as long as Chay could remember. “I should have known you could take care of yourself.”

  “That’s right,” Chay said. “I always have.”

  Big John’s eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to speak and then, apparently thinking better of it, he turned away and stalked into the house, letting the screen door slam behind him.

  Chay stared after him, one hand clenched on the saddle horn. He took several deep breaths, then turned his horse toward the barn.

  “Someday, old man,” he muttered. “Someday we’re gonna have it out.”

  But not today.

  A couple of the cowhands waved to him as he approached the barn and he waved back.

  In spite of the trouble between himself and Big John, Chay loved the ranch. It was a part of him, like the color of his skin, deeply ingrained and unchangeable.

  Dismounting, Chay tossed the reins over a fence post, and unsaddled the mare. He gave her a good brushing, cleaned her hooves, then led her into the barn. He put the mare in one of the stalls, gave her a bucket of oats and a forkful of hay, made sure she had water, and finally made his way to the bunkhouse.