A Worthy Pursuit (9 page)

The caretaker frowned but made no further objection. “If he gives you any trouble, I keep a hunting knife stashed under my pillow. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

As if she could stomach adding more cuts to Stone Hammond’s already too-plentiful collection. But knowing Dobson was simply concerned for her welfare and that of the children, she nodded her agreement. Only then did the grizzled man march off to the barn to saddle a mount.

Stepping into the bunkhouse, Charlotte’s pulse fluttered despite her assurances to Dobson that she’d be fine. Mercy, what was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been alone with the man before. In her bedroom, no less. He posed no immediate threat. Besides, she owed him a
little
trust after his heroic efforts on Stephen’s behalf.

However, when he arched his back and peeled off what was left of his shirt to examine the damage the cat had wrought, Charlotte’s pulse moved from a flutter to a full-out gallop. Her step faltered and her mouth went dry at the impressive display of muscles beneath the wounds.

Oh, dear. Perhaps she was in more danger than she’d originally thought.

8

Stone gritted his teeth against the pain that speared him as he stripped out of his shirt. The stretch of muscles pulled at the injured flesh, causing new blood trails to trickle down his midsection and soak into the waistband of his trousers.

“It’s a miracle you’re still in one piece. Well . . . relatively one piece.” Charlotte Atherton’s eyes raked his chest, concern and a touch of squeamishness evident in her gaze. Along with something a tad bit warmer. Appreciation? Dare he think . . . attraction?

Stone straightened, the pain somehow not quite as bad as it had been a moment ago. A beautiful woman’s regard had a wonderful dulling effect on a man’s pain. The cuts and scrapes still stung like the dickens, but not so bad he couldn’t enjoy a little feminine admiration.

Her footsteps clicked quietly against the wooden floorboards as she crossed to his bunk. For a tall woman, she moved with remarkable lightness and grace. Always so cool and calm, so perfectly tidy. Made a man want to muss her up a bit so she didn’t feel so far above him.

Stone gripped the edge of the bunk, commanding his hands to behave themselves. There’d be no mussing today or any other day. He was here for the girl, not the woman. Besides, Charlotte Atherton saw him as the enemy. She wouldn’t be lowering her guard, let alone her hair, around him anytime soon. And that was fine with him.

“Thank you for what you did.” The woman murmured the words in an offhand manner as she collected a three-legged stool that had been shoved into the corner behind his bunk and carried it to where he sat. She stopped about an arm’s length away from him, set the stool down, then pulled a lacy handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and wiped the dust from the seat. Frowning slightly at the soiled cloth, she arranged it dirty side down on the stool before sitting herself atop it. “Your quick actions no doubt saved Stephen’s life.” She finally looked him in the face. “I’m only sorry that your bravery caused you so much harm.”

“Any other man worth his salt would have done the same.” Of course any other man would’ve had a weapon at his disposal and therefore probably would have avoided becoming a human scratching post, but he had no regrets. He was alive. The kid was alive. Shoot, even the cat was alive. He’d count that a victory.

Miss Atherton glanced toward the open door, a tiny line forming at the edge of her mouth. “Most of the men I’ve known wouldn’t have risked themselves to such an extent.”

“Then most of the men you’ve known haven’t been worth their salt.”

That tight little line at the corner of her mouth relaxed into a hint of a smile. Better. When she turned back to face him, her eyes danced, and his heart drummed out the cadence of another victory. “You may be right.”

Their gazes held, and Stone could swear that something tangible stretched between them. Something he’d never experienced
with a woman before. Almost as if he recognized her. Not her physical appearance, but
her
.

He tore his gaze away, the jerk of his head restoring the throb from his earlier injury. His head. Of course. That would explain the odd feeling of recognition. Some kind of side effect from all the battering he’d encountered today. First a rifle butt to the forehead, then a crack on the back of his skull while he was feigning unconsciousness, and now falling out of a tree and wrestling with a bobcat. Any man would be off his feed after that kind of day.

Charlotte Atherton perched on the stool next to him, her back straight, her skirt smooth. Such rigid schoolmarm posture should make him think of lemon-faced disapproval, corner banishment, and rulers rapping knuckles. Heaven knew he’d experienced more than his share of such puritanical disdain. Yet
Miss Lottie
, as the kids called her, looked anything but rigid. Her posture struck him as composed. Serene. Warm.

“Stephen should be here any minute,” she said as she reached for the cuff on her left wrist. Her slender fingers pushed the button through its hole then rolled the fabric of the sleeve in methodic turns, each fold precise and uniform until it reached a spot just below her elbow. She repeated the procedure on the right side.

Stone watched, mesmerized, until the shuffle of footsteps passing through the bunkhouse door brought him out of his stupor.

Good gravy. Had his mind completely gone to mush?

“Oh, Stephen. Excellent. Bring those things over here.” Miss Prim-and-Proper waved the boy closer and relieved him of the basin he carried, placing it on her lap. A damp circle darkened the blue of the kid’s shirt where the rim of the bowl had pressed against his chest, but she praised him for his steady hands any
way and for not spilling much during his trek from the house. She lifted the washrag from where it lay draped over the boy’s shoulder then pointed a finger at the floor near her feet. “Set my box down there and slide off the lid, please. I’ll need the bandages that are inside.”

Stephen pulled the box from under his arm, arranged it as instructed, then stood like a soldier awaiting orders. “What else can I do?”

Stone caught him stealing a glance at the gashes on his chest and hated the guilt that flickered across the kid’s face. Stone cleared his throat. “Can you fetch me a few sheets of paper, pen, and ink? I’ve got a letter that needs to be written.” Which was true enough. But his real motive was to get Stephen out of the room when the teacher started cleaning. No need for the kid to see more than necessary.

The boy nodded. “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave, but Miss Atherton stopped him. She touched his arm, drawing him close so she could whisper something in his ear. Stephen’s eyebrows arched as he listened, but when the teacher finished, he stepped back and said, “All right.” Then he dashed out the door.

Charlotte Atherton dipped the cloth into the basin and squeezed out the excess liquid. The trickling water echoed loudly in the quiet room. She lifted the wet cloth to a spot above the largest of the wounds and tightened her fist until a small stream of water dribbled into the hole. He hissed a breath at the cold sting. His abdomen sucked in automatically, but he caught himself and willed his muscles still.

“I told Stephen you wouldn’t need those writing supplies for a while.” Her eyes made no effort to meet his, whether from shyness or attentiveness to her task he wasn’t sure. “He’s going to take John to the parlor and let him play on the piano so Lily can start warming up the leftover stew for supper.” She rinsed
out her cloth and flushed out the second tear in his flesh near the bottom of his ribcage. “That will keep him occupied for a while. John will play the piano for hours if I let him.”

Kid seemed kinda young to have that kind of attention span, but some kids liked banging on things and makin’ noise. Odd, since the boy himself was so quiet. To each his own, though. If it kept Stephen away from the gory reminder of what had happened, Stone was all for a little piano banging.

“Good idea.” He fought a wince as she scrubbed the cloth over the smaller cuts on his shoulder. “This mess is too ugly for the kid to have to look at.”

She didn’t say anything, yet the way she tilted her head when he finished speaking felt like agreement. She continued working, and he continued watching her.

The woman never seemed to hurry. Her movements just sort of flowed. No rough jostling. No nervous shaking. Just gentle, smooth motions. By the time she’d finished cleaning his wounds, his breathing had slowed, and the muscles in his neck and back had relaxed in response to her calm manner. If his chest hadn’t been on fire, he would’ve curled up on the bunk and taken a nap.

“I’m afraid this next part is going to be rather unpleasant.” Her hands released the cloth to slip silently into the basin on her lap. She set the bowl onto the floor then reached for the medicine box. Her graceful fingers closed around the neck of a tall corked bottle. The lovely lethargy he’d been feeling vanished.

Whiskey.

He shifted on the cot, steeling himself for what he knew was to come. She looked at him, an apology in her eyes. He flashed his best cocky grin. “And here I had you pegged as the teetotalin’ type.” He dipped his head toward the bottle. “I ain’t a drinkin’ man myself, but if you need a sip for fortification, I won’t judge.”

“How open-minded of you, sir.” Her tone sounded prissy, but her eyes sparkled with humor. His grin spread wider.

She pulled out the cork, the small
pop
echoing between them. Her nose crinkled at the pungent fumes. “As tempted as I am, I’m afraid this particular spirit has been set aside for medicinal purposes.”

Stone shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Miss Atherton retrieved the water-soaked rag, squeezed it out, then met his gaze, all humor gone from her eyes. “Are you ready?”

Stone braced his arms on the bunk behind him to make the torn flesh more accessible. Then he tightened his jaw and gave a quick nod.

She held the cloth below the first gash and dribbled the liquid fire from the mouth of the bottle into his wound. Stone’s fingers clenched around the edge of the bare mattress. Every muscle in his body pulled taut. But he didn’t make a sound. Not even when she repeated the procedure on the second gash. Pride intact, he barely even flinched when she dabbed some of the liquor on his other scrapes. Breathing in through his nose, he forced his body to relax as she finished.

“All done.” Something in her voice brought his focus to her face. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “I’m sorry I had to hurt you.” And she was. Genuinely.

His gut twisted in response. He hoped to heaven he didn’t have to return the favor and hurt her as well. Stone frowned and turned his face away. What did he have to feel guilty about? She was the one who had stolen the kids, not him. If he ended up taking Lily away from her, it would all be above board with the full blessing of the law.

So why was he starting to hope that her claim superseded Dorchester’s?

The teacher capped the near-empty whiskey bottle and returned it to the box at her feet. “I don’t want to put any of Mr. Dobson’s greasy salve on your wounds until the doctor has a chance to examine them. However, it will be at least an hour before my caretaker returns from town, and I don’t want any dust or dirt to undo the cleaning we just did. So I thought we’d go ahead and bandage you up. It will help stem the bleeding as well.”

Stone eyed the worst of the gashes. Most of the alcohol had already evaporated from his skin, but a new wetness oozed from the openings. It had a pinkish hue as new blood mixed with whatever other fluid was leaking from his body. “Seems like a sound notion.”

She shifted on her stool. “If you’ll just . . . ah . . . hold these two dressings in place, I’ll . . . ah . . . wrap the bandage . . .”

Stone shot a gaze at his nurse. Was the always-serene Miss Atherton actually flustered about something? Her cheeks were definitely turning pink. And her eyes were making a valiant effort to look everywhere except at his chest. Which, of course, meant that was exactly where she wanted to look. Was it the anticipation of touching
him
instead of just his wounds that had her suddenly ill at ease?

He straightened a little, ignoring the painful pull of the skin around his injuries, and reached for the cotton pads she offered. Biting back a grin, Stone glanced down to fit the dressings over the center of each of the large gashes. By the time he raised his head, he had his expression fully stoic and under control. “Ready when you are, teach.”

She startled a bit at his voice then rose off her stool to stand over him. “Of course.” She pressed the end of the bandage against his side, her fingers cool against his overheated skin. Slowly, she unrolled the cotton strip and passed it over the
dressings. The back of her hand brushed against his, the touch sending odd little prickles down into his belly. Then she leaned close in order to reach the bandage behind him. Suddenly he was the one trying to look everywhere but at her. He stared at the ceiling as she continued binding his wounds. His breaths grew shallower with each pass she made. Even when he didn’t look at her, he could smell her. Clean. Like fresh-washed linen. Probably because of the laundry she’d been doing earlier in the day. But there was something else there, too. Something sweet he couldn’t quite name.

“There. All done.” She stepped away, and Stone finally managed a full-sized breath.

He had just mumbled his thanks when Stephen showed up in the bunkhouse doorway.

“I brought the stuff you asked for, Mr. Hammond. Miss Lottie told me to bring her travel desk. Said it would have everything you needed inside.” He held up an oak stationery box that had a series of flowering vines carved into the sides.

Stone waved him in. “Thanks, kid. Set it over here next to me.” He cast a sideways glance at the teacher, who was busily packing up her supplies. Should he thank her, too? He opened his mouth to do so, but she gathered up her medicine box, propped the basin on top, and retreated toward the door.

“I’ll go check on Lily and the stew. Stephen, keep Mr. Hammond company, would you?”