Almost a Bride (Wyoming Wildflowers Book 1)

by Patricia McLinn

  They came to a slow stop near the porch steps that led into the office. Matty didn't dare risk turning around in the saddle to look at Dave for fear of upsetting his balance.

  "Now what?" Bryan asked anxiously. "How'll we get him off Brandeis?"

  "Gettin' him off's the problem," Jack agreed. "After that, we can carry him inside, but–"

  "Try it and you're fired."

  Dave's words had barely registered before she felt him release his hold on her.

  "He's slipping!" With the other two in the process of dismounting, no one could help Dave. She twisted around trying to grab his shirt or anything she could hold on to, and then she realized he hadn't passed out as she feared, but was trying to dismount. "David Currick, you are the most stubborn–!"

  He'd reached the ground, but his bad ankle gave way, and he started to stumble. She spotted Cal on the porch. "Cal!"

  He'd already seen the situation, and moved in quickly, keeping Dave from going down by grabbing him around the chest. Dave gave a pained grunt and went even whiter.

  "What on earth do you think you were doing, you stubborn idiot!" Matty scolded as she jumped down from the saddle and hurried to him. "I just know you've got broken ribs."

  "If I didn't before I do now, thanks to Ruskoff."

  Cal's mouth twitched at the dry words, as he shifted to get a more secure and less painful hold on Dave. "You can't fire me. I don't work for you."

  All the men chuckled, including Dave, as she glared impartially.

  "He could have killed himself trying to get off Brandeis that way. Cal, did you call?"

  "Yup. Be here as soon as he can."

  "Okay. You and Jack help Dave in. I'll get his bed ready."

  When she reached Dave's bedroom well ahead of their slow progress, she stopped dead at the sight of the bed, with the pillows still imprinted by their heads and the covers still in disarray. The sound of the men behind her made her swallow all she was feeling, and hurriedly smooth the sheets, plump the pillows and fold back the covers.

  It wasn't until the others were gone and Dave was settled back against pillows that he let out a low-voiced curse.

  "What is it, Dave?"

  "You're right about the ribs. Cracked or broken. And, God, my head hurts."

  "I know, but I don't want to give you anything until the doctor sees you."

  "And my foot."

  "It's your ankle, sweetheart."

  "It's my ankle, and it's my foot that hurts."

  "Okay, Dave."

  "Did you call me sweetheart?"

  "Yeah, I did." She waited warily.

  He grunted, leaned back and closed his eyes.

  "Afraid for a minute there that I'd hit my head harder than I'd thought."

  * * * *

  Matty finally started to relax after Doc Johnson checked Dave, finding no sign of internal injuries, and declared he didn't need to go to the hospital.

  Although, Doc added, a mild concussion, cracked ribs, a severely sprained ankle and numerous contusions were "nothing to sneeze at. Besides, sneezing'll make those ribs hurt like the dickens right now. What I want to know is what you were doing out at The Narrows in the middle of the night."

  "A bet," Dave said before Matty could even start to think of an excuse.

  Doc gave a snort that sounded distinctly disbelieving. "How'd you do this to your ankle?"

  "Brandeis was rearing, would've gouged his flank on the rock, so I stuck my foot out to hold him off."

  His stirrup striking rock must have been the metallic sound she'd heard.

  "So you tried to stiff-arm a mountain with your leg. You know the human ankle is not designed for that sort of abuse, David."

  "Neither's Brandeis."

  "The horse isn't my patient. I'd probably get more cooperation if he was." Doc turned to Matty. "He'll need checking on, but nothing you shouldn't be able to handle."

  "Matty's not going to be here to nurse me."

  She cut across Dave's protest. "Of course I am. Cal can handle the work without me until you're better."

  "I've wrapped his ribs. That ankle will turn six shades of black and blue. Give him these pills so he can sleep at night. But all in all, a week in bed ought to fix him up."

  "I'll be fine by tomorrow."

  "A week." Doc answered so fast that he must have known he would need to repeat his order.

  "Three days."

  "A week."

  "All right, all right, I'll stay in bed four days, but you can't expect–"

  "A week. That's what I said, and that's what I mean. I'm giving orders here, not dickering."

  "Now why didn't I think of that approach," Matty murmured from the other side of the bed.

  Dave cut her a sharp look. She raised her hands in surrender.

  "Well, I got some advantages in the dickering. I brought the stubborn cuss into this world," Doc said with self-satisfaction. He chuckled and winked at Matty as she came around the bed to escort him out. " 'Course, Matty, you got some advantages I don't."

  * * * *

  "Matty, quit tip-toeing around me for God's sake."

  Dave had definitely reached the cranky-patient stage of recovery.

  "I'm not tip-toeing. I'm simply trying to walk quietly so you can rest."

  "I've been sleeping for four days. I'm fine."

  "You're not fine, and you haven't been sleeping. You've had more people come by than would show up for an Elvis sighting." Which might explain why they hadn't talked about what had happened–not about his accident, not about his following her, not about her pre-dawn departure, not about making love.

  Or maybe cowardice explained it.

  At least if it was cowardice, she knew she wasn't alone, because he'd steered as far away from the subject as she had. However, as an avoidance method it had left a lot to be desired, because all that time of not talking had left way, way too much time for thinking.

  "You hardly touched lunch." She picked up the tray from the table next to his bed. "And when Doc Johnson comes this afternoon, I'm going to have him write down every single thing he says to do, so there's no confusion, and from now on you're going to do whatever he says if I have to tie you down–"

  "Tying might be fun." He used a version of that old calm, mocking voice, although it didn't sound quite right. "But it might work better if I tie you, since you're the one who's prone to leaving suddenly."

  Realization hit her so hard she had to put the tray down. It landed with a clunk, and surprise showed through Dave's assumed amusement.

  Assumed was the key word.

  She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before.

  Maybe because he was still hurting and hadn't done it as well as usual. Maybe because she had more experience with people. Maybe because she'd come to know him in these past weeks in a way she never had before. Maybe because she'd been so concerned with his physical condition that she'd stopped worrying about protecting her own feelings every second.

  Maybe all those things together, and more, but it seemed so obvious now—Dave used that calm amusement to protect himself, to keep people from knowing what he was really feeling. He'd done it when they were kids, and he was doing it now. Had he been doing it all along in these weeks they'd been together?

  Almost certainly. But she would examine the past against the light of that theory later, when she had time. Right now she had to deal with right now.

  She sat on the side of his bed, crowding his sweats-covered legs under an afghan. She could see that surprised him. She'd been so careful around him up 'til now. Careful to not crowd him, to not touch him if possible. Tip-toeing–sometimes literally, at all times metaphorically.

  "We have to talk, Currick."

  That surprised him, too. But he came back with that same tone. "Going to renegotiate our deal because you didn't bargain for nursing duty? You did promise in sickness and health–at least for two years."

  "Cut it out, Dave. Stop hiding behind that damned mocking. That's what we've bee
n doing–both of us–hiding behind things." Words were tumbling out too fast for her to even think about censoring them.

  He pushed himself up against the pillows to sit straighter with barely a wince.

  "Okay, Matty, we'll stop hiding. I love you. I've loved you as long as I can remember. I want to stay married to you–to have a real marriage, and what happened Friday night shows you want that, too. You can't deny what's between us."

  "I don't deny that what happened Friday was...incredible." He took her hand between both of his, and she didn't resist. It was comforting to feel the rough warmth surrounding her flesh. "But it's not as simple as you make it sound. For a long time, I was so angry at you. So hurt and disappointed. I let it cloud my thinking about too many things. Even if the grant wasn't making such a huge difference for the Flying W, I'll always be glad we made this marriage bargain, because we've taken care of so many of those old questions and arguments and scars. Now we have the good things from the past. We didn't used to have that."

  "That sounds like a line from Casablanca," he accused

  She summoned a ghostly smile. "It does, doesn't it? It's a little like that, too–we'd lost Paris, but now we have it back."

  "I can't remember how many times you've told me there should've been a way to end that movie with Bogart and Bergman getting together."

  "Maybe a sequel."

  "We've already waited six years, Matty. I want us to make this marriage real. To have you in my bed every night, not down the hall or at the Flying W or in Chicago."

  So much in her wanted to give in to the wanting, his and her own, to fall into his arms and feel his love. But the same doubt that had driven her out of his bed Friday night held her now. The worst of it was, it wasn't a doubt with definable edges that sat in her heart like an iron box; it was a fog that slipped through her fingers each time she tried to grasp it, burning off under the heat of their passion, but always sliding back in.

  She bit the inside of her lip. "Dave, this is a big step. You agreed to marry me for a certain time and for a special reason. Before we consider changing that–"

  "There's a special reason for that, too." Still holding her hand in one of his, he stroked the other palm along the curve of her thigh. "To have a family and a life. The one we dreamed about all our lives. Just the way I've loved you all my life."

  "If you've always loved me, if that life together is what you've always wanted, why did you break up six years ago?"

  "I was an idiot, that's why. I listened to the adults–Mom and Dad and Grams–and let them talk me into worrying that you didn't have dreams of your own, that you were just following along with mine. But that's not true. You said it yourself Friday night, ranching's your dream. We share it. I never imposed it on you."

  "No, you didn't impose the dream on me." The heat from his touch on her leg was so much deeper than friction could ever explain. But the fog nudged at her. "But it's so unlike you to listen to other people when–"

  "Hey! Anybody home!"

  Doc Johnson's voice came down the hall toward them. Matty jumped up off the bed, though sitting beside Dave, holding hands and having his hand on her thigh were far from indecent, even if he hadn't been her husband in the eyes of the law and the community.

  Dave's gaze was direct and intent on her, promising that he would not let these issues die even if this particular discussion was over.

  "Doc! Come on in," she called. "We're back here."

  "Hope you don't mind me being early. I got out of a meeting up in Sheridan, and I thought I'd swing by on my way to the clinic. So, how's the patient? Impatient, I bet." The doctor chuckled at his own joke as he set down a hard-sided case he used as a medical bag. "Matty, could you spare a thirsty man something to drink while I take a look at how this young man's healing?"

  "Oh, of course. I'm sorry. I should have asked. Iced tea?"

  "Sounds good. You, too, Dave?"

  "Yeah. Please." His eyes were still on her.

  Matty pivoted, finally breaking eye contact with Dave, and hurried to the kitchen. The automatic motions of preparing the iced tea didn't make a dent in the thoughts whirling through her mind.

  If Doc hadn't come, might they have somehow discovered the source of her doubt? A doubt that had kept her fighting her feelings, even as she knew Dave was the one person on earth she could turn to when she needed help. Or would the warmth of his touch, and the heat of their desire have led her to ignore the doubt, and make love to him as she had wanted to do long before Friday night, and still wanted to do now?

  She didn't regret making love with Dave.

  She hadn't faced that truth until she'd told him so on the trail. Maybe at some level she'd been letting herself think he'd rushed her into making love. But that wasn't true. With all the talking she'd done that night she'd never said the words that would have stopped him.

  Because she hadn't wanted to stop.

  Because she'd wanted to make love with him more than she'd wanted her next breath.

  Because she loved him.

  That was a hell of a thing to realize about the man you were supposed to divorce in twenty months.

  If Dave had his way there'd be no divorce. But they'd started under false pretenses; how could they ever erase that? Could a marriage shift from a business proposition to something real?

  She froze with her hands wrapped around the frosty glasses she'd just put on a tray.

  Oh, no.

  What if at some subconscious level she'd been in love with Dave when she'd asked him to help her out by marrying her? That would mean she'd tricked him into marriage in the hope of tricking him into falling in love with her. How could she have done that to him? How could she have lied to herself and him that way? What kind of basis was that for a marriage?

  "Matty?" Doc called. "You've got a couple parched men here."

  She picked up the tray.

  Twenty months.

  She didn't have to answer all these questions for twenty months.

  At the very least, she could make the best of what she had now. Twenty months of loving Dave.

  * * * *

  "Dave! What are you doing?"

  All confusion dropped from Matty's eyes as she zeroed in on him. He was glad to see the confusion go, but he sure would have preferred if it hadn't been there at all when they talked about a future together. Just like the doubts he'd known she had before they made love Friday night.

  "I'm getting up."

  "Doc, you said he had to stay in bed a week!"

  "It's a week–a work week." Standing beside the bed, Dave grinned. "A short work week."

  "David Edward Currick–"

  Doc patted her on the arm. "It's all right. He needs to be getting up a little more every day, as I'm sure he's been doing no matter what he's been told or how you tried to keep him tied down."

  Tied down... If I have to tie you down... Tying might be fun.

  He met Matty's eyes and saw his own reaction mirrored there, a jumble of desire and uncertainty.

  But Doc was going on. "I counted on that when I told him a week. He's done better than I expected. Though you don't look as well rested as I'd hoped." He looked from one to the other. "Neither of you. Well, I suppose that's to be expected with a couple just married. You don't expect them to get much sleep at night anyhow, and–"

  "Doc." Dave tried to stop the flow because the message now in Matty's eyes was that she wished the floor would open beneath her.

  "–with something like this happening and you two having to be more inventive–"

  "Doc!"

  "What?" The older man looked at Dave half a minute, then turned to Matty before he started shaking his head. "Good Lord, you're telling me–no, don't tell me. I'm sorely disappointed. I never would have thought a little obstacle like a few sore ribs and a sprained ankle would get the better of you two."

  "Dave had a bad blow to his head," Matty started, as if protecting his image.

  He had to fight to keep from ordering Doc
out of the room right now. Because it had hit him, hard and hot, that the one time Matty hadn't had doubts was when the passion was flaring between them, when she was in his arms and they were making love. If that was the way to fight her doubts, he'd volunteer for duty every time. And soon she'd see there was no reason for doubt or confusion.

  "Hogwash. He's got a head like a rock, as you should know better than most. I would have thought better of you two." Doc's stern expression abruptly dissolved into a chuckle. "That you'd be better at being a little wicked, anyway."

  * * * *

  She came back from escorting Doc to the door and receiving a number of encouraging reassurances about Dave's recovery to find the bed empty and the bathroom door half open.

  "Dave?"

  "I'm in the shower. At least I will be if these pants will..." His voice trailed off into a grumble of curses.

  "What on earth–?"

  He was standing in the bathtub with the shower curtain pulled open. He'd discarded his shirt and socks. Now he seemed intent on taking off his sweatpants and boxers, which so far involved precarious hopping around on one foot on the slick tub surface.

  "Be careful! You're going to fall! If you hit your head again or bang your ankle, even your ribs–"

  "I won't do any of that if you'll come in here and help me. I want a shower, a hot, steamy shower."

  Her lips parted. She fully intended to scold him again, except the heat inside her changed sources without even a blink.

  "I'll help you get undressed if you'll promise you'll hold onto the faucet with one hand while you–Dave!"

  Not only had the shower come on full-force, but his awkward hopping had been replaced by smoothly efficient motions that had him out of the rest of his clothes, starting on hers, and the shower curtain closed in no time.

  "I told you I wanted a steamy shower." He was grinning that wicked Dave grin as he dragged her sodden shirt off her shoulders, tossed it over the curtain rod and started on her jeans.

  She cooperated. Because she was still afraid he might fall. Because she wanted to.

  "Remember the swimming hole?"

  She stepped out of her jeans and panties. They, too, went over the rod, with the slap of wet fabric. But the wet fabric of her bra was frustrating him. He turned her around and finally released the hooks, sliding his hands over her in place of the cloth, while she tossed this final barrier over the rod.