Angel Creek (26 page)

Etta was sitting by the bed, keeping a cold cloth on Dee's forehead. Olivia could see the worry plain in her eyes.

“Has she been awake?” Olivia asked, agonized.

Etta shook her head. “She hasn't stirred since Lucas brought her in last night.”

Olivia swiped at her wet cheeks. “You must be so tired you can hardly sit up,” she said. “I'll sit with her while you rest.”

*  *  *

Tillie rode out to the Bar B. Though there was activity around the ranch house, there was a strangely abandoned feel to it. All of the men looked exhausted, even those who hadn't taken part in the fight, for they had been chasing the scattered cattle for most of the night.

“Where's Mr. Bellamy?” she asked one of them.

“In the house, ma'am.”

She knocked, but no one answered, and after knocking a second time she opened the door. “Kyle?”

There was no answer. She walked through the downstairs and found it deserted, then went upstairs. Kyle's bedroom was on the left. She tapped on the door, which was ajar, then stepped inside.

He lay on the bed, fully clothed except for his boots. His shirt bore reddish-brown stains. She walked over and stood beside the bed, looking down at him. Compassion turned her eyes black. He had tried to clean his face, for a stained cloth lay on the floor, but dried blood still caked one of his nostrils and was splotched in his hair and on his neck.

His poor face was so swollen and misshappen she could barely recognize him. Both eyes were blackened and puffy, his nose was broken, and huge knots distorted his cheekbones and jaw.

“Kyle,” she said softly.

He shifted a little and groaned. One of his eyes opened a slit.

“I'll get some water and clean you up,” she murmured, bending over him so he could see her without turning his head.

He sighed, then muttered, “Ribs.” His mouth was so swollen that the word sounded mushy.

“Your ribs are hurt?”

“Yeah.”

She touched his arm. “I'll be right back.”

She got what she needed from downstairs and returned to his bedroom with her supplies. He didn't look as if he had moved an inch.

She took a pair of scissors and deftly cut his shirt off of him, then probed his ribs. His midsection was mottled with black and purple bruises, testimony to the power of Lucas Cochran's fists. As gently as possible she probed his ribs, searching for breaks. He cried out when she touched a certain place, but she couldn't feel anything out of place and decided they were only cracked.

“Your ribs need to be wrapped,” she said. “Kyle, darling, you'll have to sit up. I know it hurts, but I can't do anything with you lying down.”

She gently coaxed him into a sitting position, supporting him as much as she was able, but Kyle was a big man, and she didn't have enough strength to give him much aid. When he was sitting unsteadily on the side of the bed she wrapped a wide band of cloth around him, pulling it tight. He groaned but then gave a sigh of relief as the tight wrapping supported his ribs and kept them from moving.

While he was sitting up she washed his face, taking care to use only the lightest touch, then cleaned the blood from his hair and neck.

“Thirsty,” he mumbled.

She got him some water. He took a cautious sip and rinsed it around in his mouth, then spat it out into the bowl, turning the water inside an even darker red. Then he slowly drank the rest of the water.

“If you can stand up, I'll undress you,” she said, but he couldn't. She helped him to lie down and struggled until she had wrestled the rest of his clothing off, then covered his nude body with a sheet. “Sleep,” she said. “I'll stay here with you.”

She was as good as her word. She held his hand while he slept, and every time she looked at his face her eyes blurred with tears. She knew she had done the right thing, but that didn't make it easy.

She loved him so much, had loved him for years. He thought it was only coincidence that they had both settled in the same area, but she had found out where he was and left her luxurious house in Denver, where she had been the pampered mistress of a very wealthy man, without a backward look.

He had wanted respectability so much. She knew how he had grown up and knew how he had wanted to put all of that behind him. Kyle wasn't a bad man, though he could easily have been, considering what his life had been like. It was just that the ranch and what it represented had come to mean so much to him; he had lost all perspective when it had been threatened, and now he had destroyed the reputation he had worked so hard to build.

But he was alive, and that was all that mattered to her.

It was late that night before he woke again, and she supported him while he used the chamber pot. He asked for more water but didn't want anything to eat. He went back to sleep.

By morning he was more alert, and Tillie fed him some bread softened in milk. When he indicated he
didn't want any more she knew she couldn't put if off any longer.

She had learned to face everything in life without flinching, especially the hardest parts, so now she didn't look away from him. “I couldn't let you kill Dee Swann,” she said. “People may never forgive you for what you did, but if she had been killed or raped, you'd have hanged. I'm the one who got Lucas Cochran to stop you.”

His left eye was swollen completely shut, and his right eye would open only a slit. Carefully he looked up at her, his gaze devoid of anger. He just looked empty. “I had to do it,” he said, the words indistinct. “The water . . . but it didn't work. I didn't mean to hurt her. But I lost. I lost it all.”

“No,” she said fiercely. “You haven't lost it all. You're still alive, and that's what matters most. Even if this ranch turns to dust, you'll be able to start again. Maybe not here, but there are other places. I have money, and you've always been able to win at the card table. We'll get by.”

“We?” he asked. His one good eye didn't move from her.

“Yes, we. We make a good team.”

Almost imperceptibly he nodded.

L
UCAS STOOD BESIDE
D
EE'S BED, LOOKING DOWN AT
her. Despite her fever her face was deathly pale.

“Has she woke up?” he asked Etta, and his voice was harsh.

The doctor's wife gave him a concerned look and shook her head. “But that isn't surprising. She's very sick, and rest is the best thing for her.” She dipped a cloth in cool water, wrung it out, and placed it across Dee's forehead. Dee never stirred.

Lucas wearily rubbed his eyes. It had been almost two full days, and she still hadn't so much as opened her eyes or said a word. After losing so much blood how could she have any strength to fight the fever?

Beneath the nightgown Etta had clothed her in Dee's shoulder was covered by a bulky bandage. He suspected that the shoulder wound was the main source of the fever, but Doc said that he'd cleaned it
good and that it was no more inflamed than any of the cuts. It was just that all together her wounds had been a tremendous shock to her system. Added to that, she had exhausted herself trying to fight off the Bar B men. Recovery would take time.

But she was so damn still. Even when she had fallen out of the loft she had still been full of spirit despite the fact that she could barely move. Dee was a fighter, but how could she fight when she wasn't conscious? He was so used to her strength and fierceness that this utter helplessness, this complete absence of her fire made him sick with fear.

In his mind she had always been formidable as both foe and lover. It was a shock to look at her now and realize that she was both smaller and more fragile than he'd ever imagined. He'd always thought of her as a tall woman, even though he knew he could look down on the top of her head; it was the impression that she gave, the way she carried herself, the arrogant tilt of her head, her towering pride—all of these combined made him see her as larger than she truly was. She was of only medium height, if that, and her bones were as slender as a child's. He was stunned at how frail she looked.

He was full of rage at what had happened to her, a rage that burned far deeper and hotter than the anger he'd felt when she had fallen out of the loft. None of it would have happened if she lived like other women. On a rational basis he knew that it wasn't her fault, that accidents happened, that she wasn't to blame for Kyle Bellamy's murderous stupidity. But for as long as she lived out at Angel Creek things like this would
happen, her fault or not. The land invited greed with its very perfection, and there would always be someone who thought he could take it away from her. And being herself, Dee would always fight rather than try to protect herself by running.

It was the water that made the Angel Creek valley what it was, and water that was the cause of all this.

He stared down at her, lying there as still as death. If he didn't do something to stop it, the next time really might kill her.

He nodded to Etta and strode out, his face set in lines of grim determination.

The root of it all was the water. Without it the valley would lose its value. Dee wouldn't have any reason for clinging to it, and she would have to live a more reasonable way. There wouldn't be a reason for anyone to shoot at her, or for her to work like a man.

He rode back to the Double C and told William to get ten of the men and some shovels and be ready to ride in fifteen minutes. Then he went to the storeroom and got a couple of sticks of dynamite, in case they were needed.

He already knew how the creek forked up in the mountains, sending most of the water down the east side of the range and into the valley. It had been years since he'd been up there, but he could see in his mind just how the creek beds split. With any luck he'd be able to take away the one thing that made Dee's land so valuable.

God, she'd be mad, but there wouldn't be anything she could do about it. Since it would be his fault that the land had lost its value he would give her the same
amount he'd already offered her, and she wouldn't have any choice but to take it and move to town. Eventually she would cool down, and then he'd start courting her again, out in the open this time. He figured by Christmas he'd have her talked around to marrying him, because she couldn't deny the fire between them any more than he could. They'd make love and babies and probably fight like two wildcats tangled up in a pillowcase, and they'd enjoy every minute of it.

They found the gap in the mountain where Angel Creek forked and the lower creek bed cut to the east. “Just look at that water,” William said, shaking his head. “Straight from the snowcaps.”

Lucas walked the bank, examining the fork. Up there it was big enough to be called a river, and it still flowed strong and clear, deep enough that there was some overflow into the fork that ran down onto his property, though it had been greatly reduced. If he could dig the western creek bed lower at the fork, then the water would divert onto the western side of the mountain.

He pulled off his boots and waded out into the western fork, catching his breath at the icy water. He dug his toes into the soft silt and cursed because just under the thin layer of silt was bedrock. He moved up and down the fork and found the same thing. There was no way they were going to dig through rock, and the dynamite fuse wouldn't burn under water.

He waded out again and stood looking at the water, thinking. The only way to blow that bedrock was to dry out the western fork.

He got a shovel and hefted it in his gloved hand. “Start digging,” he told the men. “Pile dirt here at the fork and divert all the water to the east.”

“Boss, that'll dry up our water completely,” William said, looking at him as if he'd lost all of his senses.

“Temporarily,” Lucas said. “When it's dry I'm going to blow the bedrock and lower the creek bed.”

William turned back to the river and studied it, then a grin spread across his weathered face. “You're gonna turn that water our way.”

“I sure am.”

“Dee Swann ain't gonna like it worth a damn.”

“I'll handle Dee Swann,” Lucas said.

It took them three days. They dug up shovelfuls of dirt and packed the west fork, closing it off. The river swung happily eastward, emptying all of its crystal water into the Angel Creek valley. When the west fork was dry Lucas drilled holes in the bedrock and set the dynamite in it, then strung a long fuse and lit it. He and the men ran like hell for as far as they could before the dynamite blew with a thunderous explosion that shook the ground beneath their feet.

The explosion destroyed the earth dam they had built, and the river split once more, water tumbling down both sides of the mountain. The majority of the flow now went down the west side.

“Close off the east fork,” he said. “I want a dam packed so solid that not even a trickle goes down the east side of the mountain. We'll seal it off with clay.”

The force of the water would erode the dam, and
he'd have to have it repaired regularly, but that would be a small price to pay for peace of mind. At least he'd be able to sleep at night without worrying about Dee's safety.

By late afternoon of the third day the eastern fork was blocked.

Despite his exhaustion he had been riding into town every night to see Dee. Olivia and Etta had been taking turns sitting with her, and the worry etched on Olivia's face made him break out in a cold sweat every time he thought about it. The night before Dee had awakened briefly for the second time, but the fever still hadn't broken. Four days of a high fever had taken a visible toll on her body, wasting away flesh she hadn't needed to lose. She had recognized him, whispered his name. Lucas had held her hand and talked to her, but she had slipped back into sleep almost immediately. Olivia had touched his shoulder in comfort. “She'll be all right,” she said, her voice breaking a little. “She has to be.”