by Caroline Lee
Another choking noise. “You want me to take my pants off.” It wasn’t a question, and Rose didn’t bother repeating herself.
Instead, she clucked impatiently and crossed to his horse, praying that she could remember what to do with the big animal. “I’ll leave you the lantern while I go back to the house for supplies. I expect to be able to examine and work on your wound when I get back.” She fiddled with the strap under the horse’s belly. “And just to make sure you’re still here…” She nodded, satisfied, when the saddle slipped off the gelding and hit the floor. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Not with a bum leg and a saddle-less horse.
And just to be doubly-sure, she scooped up the guns on her way past. He’d be defenseless without them, and she herself could use one to bolster her courage. Since she was taking on the role of lawman—law-woman?—after all.
As she hurried towards the barn door, she called back to the man who somehow managed to be a thick shadow in the middle of the pool of lantern light. “Your pants, sir. Remove them posthaste.”
She closed the barn door on his curse, and resisted the urge to do a little dance on her way up to the house. An outlaw! A real, live outlaw, in her very own barn! Soon, just as soon as he was stitched and not bleeding to death any longer, she’d have her answers! Already, new scenes for Murderous Mitch and his nemesis, the heroic and dashing Sheriff Caraway, were flitting through her mind. Her fingers itched to begin writing again…but first she had to ensure that her new source would survive the night.
Chapter 3
Bear wasn’t about to admit that last night had been the most embarrassing moment of his life, but it’d been up there. When he’d had to rely on her to walk the few paces to the blankets she’d laid out, that had been embarrassing. But when she’d commanded him to remove his clothes? Well, he just hoped to God that none of the other fellas ever heard about it. He’d never live it down.
Because he’d done it. He’d taken off his pants, and cut off enough of his long johns that she’d be able to reach his wound. The hole in his flesh was gaping and ugly and still leaking at an alarming rate, and that was just the front side. Lord knew what the exit wound looked like.
He was lying on his left side by the time she returned, his jacket and hat off, his gun belt a respectable distance away. She’d taken his guns, which would’ve been galling if he wasn’t so near to fainting from the pain anyhow. Lord knows what she’d done with the Winchester, but he noticed the grip of one of his Colts sticking out of her coat pocket as she’d tended him. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take it by force, but why would he? The woman was kind and bossy and all sorts of sweet, and probably already thought the worst of him. But if she did, why did she treat his wound so efficiently, bullying him into rolling into whatever contorted position she imagined? She didn’t mention the Sheriff—this town had one, right?—and didn’t even suggest getting the doctor. Instead, she’d arrived with a big basket filled with blankets, medical supplies, and a book on home doctoring.
Bear almost spoke up, when he saw her threading that needle. If she was reading a book to figure out how to fix him up, surely it’d be better to go find a real doctor? But she’d been so efficient up ‘til then, and he just really couldn’t let word of his presence—wounded and vulnerable—get back to the gang. He needed to lie low, to let them think that he was dead, so they’d get over-confident. In the meantime, he just had to hope that Rose knew what she was doing.
And what kind of name was “Rose White” anyhow? I mean, look at her. All that thick red hair, flowing loose around her shoulders like that? She wasn’t a white rose, no. She was strength and intrigue and… Rose Red would’ve been a better name for her.
After she was through, he had to admit that he did feel a little better. Maybe it was the burning liquid she’d poured over his leg, or maybe the gin in the flask she’d confessed belonged to her mother, or maybe just the fact that she made him prop his leg on a rolled-up horse blanket. But when she’d tucked two more of those quilts around him, he was feeling a heck of a lot better than he’d felt a few hours before.
And then she’d fed him! Chicken broth and bread wasn’t too filling, but mighty tasty. To his dismay, she hadn’t let him sit up to eat, but had instead propped his head on her thighs when she held the bowl for him. In between gulps, he laid in her lap and stared up at her incredible profile and wondered what in the heck had happened to him.
In the lantern light, this close, she really was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that she was some sort of fairy, the little people his grandmother used to tell him about. She sure looked magical. Real woman didn’t have hair that red, and didn’t let it flow free around their perfect cheekbones like she did. Real women didn’t have eyes the color of topaz gems, and a smattering of freckles across their noses. Real women didn’t gently stroke strangers’ brows as they spoon-fed them sustenance, and alternated between sweet-talking and bullying when he got stubborn.
No, by the time Bear realized he was on the verge of sleep, he was convinced that his Rose Red was either a hallucination brought on by blood loss, or some kind of fairy godmother. She was still beside him when he’d closed his eyes, and he decided that he was probably dying. That was the only explanation for this vision of her.
Which made waking up this afternoon a bit of a surprise.
He was still in the barn, still covered by well-worn green and red quilts. Still surrounded by the stink of pigs and the unnatural silence of a lone building surrounded by snow. Still alive.
Beside him was the basket Rose must’ve left last night. After staring at the rafters of the barn for a while longer, Bear forced himself over to one elbow, and dragged the thing closer. The movement didn’t hurt his leg as much as he’d feared, but it wasn’t pleasant.
Inside the basket was a hunk of bread, rolled in a cloth, and he found the jug of water beside his head. It took too much coordination to pour into the nearby mug, so he drank directly from the jug, ignoring the ice that bumped against his mustache while doing so. He’d let his beard get too unruly again, but it was for the best. When a man spent his winters chasing down outlaws, his face needed all the protection it could get, from the weather and recognition.
Drinking left him exhausted, so he laid his head back down on the folded blanket she’d left him to replace her knees, and slowly ate the bread, pondering his situation. He was used to working alone, so it’d be a few more days before his supervisors started to worry. But in the meantime, he had a unique opportunity. Sure, his leg hurt like hellfire, and he had no idea if he’d be able to walk again, but Quigg and his boys didn’t realize that he was still alive. He’d stayed in that gully long after they’d high-tailed it after that coach, and then had forced his horse to walk along the snow-swollen creek to throw off any pursuit.
He was alive, and Quigg didn’t realize it. Even if he wasn’t on his feet in the next few weeks, if he could manage to contact his superiors, another Marshall might be sent after the gang. After all, he knew where they were headed, thanks to those hours spent on the frozen ground, eavesdropping on their conversations before the attack.
But the problem was that he needed to reach a town with a telegraph, and he had no idea where he was now. If they were anywhere close to civilization, wouldn’t Rose have sent for a doctor—and the Law—as soon as she found a near-dead could-be-an-outlaw-for-all-she-knew in her barn with her pigs? No, he had no reason to trust this mysterious savior of his.
But shoot, she was worth looking at, wasn’t she? Bear found that he didn’t mind thinking about her, either. He laid there with his eyes closed, chewing the stale bread and remembering the way her hair curled around her earlobes, and wondering what those red strands felt like.
It wasn’t a real intelligent train of thought, but it helped pass the time.
After a while—an hour?—though, Bear drifted off to sleep again, and woke in the evening, judging by the light coming in from the empty h
ayloft. It was going to be another cold one, but that wasn’t a surprise, this close to Christmas. He tried to sit up, but didn’t get too far. Guess it was too early to push his leg, yet.
Instead, he dragged the basket closer, and found the two books Rose had left the night before, Dr. Gunn’s Domestic Medicine and one of those cheap dime novels. Well, he knew plenty of practical doctoring, and preferred to read the thick law tomes anyhow. Others might think them duller than Domestic Medicine, but he’d always liked learning the nuances of the Law. But, even as a kid, he could never pass up a good yarn about bad guys getting their due. That’s why he’d become a U.S. Marshall, after all. He’d never read this one—Black Bart’s Revenge—so he turned up the lantern and settled down to read.
He was only a few chapters into it, and Black Bart was about to kidnap the girl again, when the barn door opened. He resisted the urge to slap the book closed like some naughty school boy, instead carefully marking his place with a piece of paper he’d found in chapter fourteen, and set it beside him on the quilt.
“I was wondering where I’d left that book. Are you enjoying it?”
Bear watched her move across the barn to the pig pens—they were squealing and hollering again—to dump her bucket, and then float towards him. Still a little surprised that he hadn’t imagined her, Bear shrugged, not liking the pull in his shoulders that he felt all the way down to his thigh. “I am, yeah.” No need to deny the truth. “I think I lost your place, though.” He held the book out as a sort of apology, but she waved it away as she sunk to her knees beside him, the grip of his Colt again poking out from her pocket.
“I’ve read it dozens of times. I borrowed it from Mayor’s Books just because her latest delivery hasn’t arrived yet.” When she spoke, she began to peel away the quilts covering his wound, and Bear resisted the urge to move away from her prying eyes. And hands. Instead he licked his lips and stared at the underside of the hayloft. “I’m glad you like it. I’m a bit surprised, actually.”
“That I like to read?”
“That you like to read that particular genre. The good guys always win in the end, you know.”
What an odd thing to say. But Bear had to admit that just about everything that had happened since he’d let his horse have free rein yesterday had been odd. This was just one more thing to add. “Well, it was that or Domestic Medicine.”
She snorted slightly, intent on the wrapping around his wound. “Yes. Black Bart is much more exciting reading, isn’t he?”
More out of a desire to distract himself from her prodding than anything else, Bear asked, “How does it look?”
She was chewing on her lower lip when she glanced up at him. “Better than yesterday, but not good. The bullet went all the way through, Bear.” Shoot, did she have to look so sympathetic? “There were pieces of bone where it came out, although I think I was able to pick them all out.” So it had hit the bone. Walking again wasn’t guaranteed. “We need to keep a close eye on it, to make sure infection doesn’t set in. I think I did a good enough job—I’ve read Domestic Medicine cover-to-cover, after all—that it’ll eventually heal, if it doesn’t go gangrenous.” Bear gulped and focused on the roof again. God, please let me keep my leg. Please let me walk again.
Rose sat back on her haunches, and he felt her gaze on him, even though he couldn’t look at her right then. Not with the fear of never walking properly again so fresh. “Tomorrow, I’m taking your horse into town.” So he was near a town? “There’s just not enough fodder here for an animal his size, and we can’t afford to keep him. When you’re better, he’ll be at the livery.” Bear would happily pay whatever the livery-owner asked for keeping the horse fed in the meantime. He’d been able to see that the animal was suffering today.
So he nodded his thanks. “I appreciate all that you’re doing for me, miss.”
Was it his imagination, or did she blush before she busied herself with cleaning up? “Here’s some more food for you, when you’re ready.” She rolled to her feet, and he caught a glimpse of her boot under her heavy winter skirts. She had lovely feet, like the rest of her. And that foolish thought told Bear that he’d lost way more blood than he’d feared. Either that, or it was all pooling in a currently useless area of his anatomy.
She hurried out of the barn without bothering to say goodbye, and Bear was left there in the lantern’s light, wondering why she’d looked so guilty when he’d thanked her.
Chapter 4
Maybe the bandit in her barn had given Rose some sort of confidence-by-proximity, because she was getting really good at sneaking around these days. Two evenings in a row, she’d managed to go out to the barn with supplies for Bear without her mother or sister being the wiser. Although Snow did give her an odd look this morning.
And now, after saying her goodbyes to Snow in the study and getting her sister’s latest package to ship, Rose was on her way to town. With a horse. Bear had still been asleep, when she’d managed to drag the animal out of the barn by its bridle, whispering furiously all the while, and then lead it the long way around so that there was no threat of Mama looking out her window and seeing it. Because heaven knew how Rose would explain this new adventure to Mama.
She wasn’t even sure if she could explain it to herself, but it was certainly profitable. Just being in the stranger’s presence seemed to excite her; in between her chores yesterday she’d written nearly half of a journal’s worth of words. Four chapters on Murderous Mitch’s chase and gunfight with Sheriff Caraway. She’d even decided to introduce a lovely and bold heroine, with the same bright red hair Rose herself had been cursed with. After all, a girl could dream, couldn’t she? But in her story, Miss Molly would be rescued by the Sheriff, and they’d live happily ever after. Because the good guys always won, in stories, and Murderous Mitch would have to go to prison.
So why did the thought of her own burly outlaw—“Bear,” indeed—in prison make her stomach ache a little bit? Surely justice and law was more important than the fact that he made her heart pound when he watched her? In the lantern light, he had the most compelling eyes; dark around the edges but lightening to a gray at the middle. She should be slapped for noticing the color of a bandit’s eyes, much less admiring them… but that hadn’t stopped her.
She’d admired a lot more about him, all the while trying to convince herself that she was just doing her Christian duty by caring for him. His thigh was as big around as her waist, covered in hair that she didn’t let herself touch more than necessary. It was hard to forget how close her hands were to…well, to other parts of him that no respectable lady should even think about. And why had she put herself—and him!—through such delightful torture? Because she wasn’t ready to turn him over to Doc Carpenter and Sheriff Cutter yet. And if there’d been any doubt that he was an outlaw, a man who didn’t want anyone to know that he was there, it fled as soon as she remembered that he hadn’t demanded a real doctor’s care either.
He was a real, live bandit, who was going to help her write her books. So why did she feel so guilty lying to him about why she’d helped him? Why she hadn’t told him about Everland—and medical help—being so close? Rose sighed, and tugged the horse a little harder than necessary, stomping her way through the snow towards Mr. B. G. Foote’s livery.
It took some creative story-telling—not quite lying, but close—to convince Mr. Foote to board the horse in return for later payment. Hopefully Bear could pay. Outlaws had money, didn’t they? Part of her hoped that he was at least a semi-successful outlaw, despite how horrible that wish sounded. After all, it would be downright embarrassing to discover she’d been lusting after the thigh of a mediocre outlaw. On the other hand, maybe a bad outlaw was really a good guy? Rose rubbed her temple. Oh, this is getting confusing.
Even in this snowy weather, there were plenty of Everland residents out and about. Rose plastered a smile on her face and nodded politely to the ladies that she recognized. She had to admit that, with her love of books and writing, she w
as known as the more reclusive White sister. Beautiful—she heard whispered—but snooty. Snow at least had her best friend Zosia Spratt, but Rose had never really made herself comfortable here in this town. Probably because Mama had so many rules and opinions about how she should conduct herself.
Today, though, she needed to make a few stops, and thus made sure to be as friendly as she could manage to the people she only saw a few times a month. Some smiled back at her timid overtures, while some just hurried on with their Christmas errands, heads down against the wind.
First was a visit to the train station. Besides Snow’s package that needed mailing, she had to know when her next delivery would arrive, and John Henry the train master would be able to tell Rose what the schedule would be. He was a big black man—rumor had it he was a bit infamous back east—who smiled hugely when he saw her, but just shrugged when asked. “Sorry, Miss White. It ain’t here yet, that’s all I can tell you. Wednesday, or the one after, maybe?”
“The Wednesday after next is Christmas Eve!” Surely Snow needed her embroidery floss before then? But it wasn’t Mr. Henry’s fault, so she wished him a Merry Christmas and ducked back into the December wind.
Crowne Mercantile was a cozy place to get out of the cold, and Rose was happy for the respite. Still, as she pushed her way inside the orderly store, she couldn’t help but think of her prisoner—I mean, guest—back in her barn. Was he warm enough? He was large, and had his jacket; surely he could handle a little cold? Outlaws must be used to sleeping in rough situations.
“Rose! It’s good to see you!” Ian Crowne was seated on his usual tall stool behind the counter, within easy reach of the ropes he used to get around his store. But Rose smiled to see the change in the rust-haired man; nestled in one large forearm was a tiny bundle. “Have you come to see my little Erik again?”
“No, and don’t get up.” She waved the shop-keeper back into his seat. With one missing leg, it was already a bit of a challenge for Ian to get around, but doubly hard with the tiny baby in his arms. “I cooed over him last week at church. Is Ella recovering well?”