California Caress (21 page)

There was no chair on which to sit in the close confines of the wagon, so Drake scrunched down in what little space was free on the floor. His legs were drawn up to his chest, his elbows pillowed atop his knees as his hands dangled helplessly between his calves. His backrest was a fifty-pound sack of flour.

She was quiet again, he thought as he watched the thick fringe of ebony lashes flicker against a deathly pale cheek. For now. Who knew when she’d call out again, when she’d throw the comforter to the floor and try to run from the wagon, as she had just now?

He’d been lucky. So far Hope’s fits, as he’d begun to call them, were confined mostly to the night hours. That gave Drake time during the day to drive the ox and wagon he’d bought. Considering the circumstances, he’d made good time. In the two weeks since the fire, he’d put the worst of the journey behind them. The Mother Lode was nothing more than a memory, a ragged outline of jutting mountains in the distant horizon. Ahead stretched the dry, flat plains.

Drake let his chin sag to his chest. Driving the ox and caring for Hope by day, coupled with snatching a few catnaps between fighting her fits at night, was taking its toll. Even his teeth felt tired.

Not for the first time did he wonder at his reasons for bringing Hope along. At the time it seemed a rational thing to do. Now, however, when he had one foot in the waking, and one foot in the sleeping world, he wasn’t so sure.

He could never have left her in the dirt to bleed to death. That decision went without question. But why had he brought her up on the horse with him in the first place? He’d recognized Tubbs immediately, and he knew the vile creature’s bullets were meant for himself, not Hope. On the ground she would have been safe. He could just as easily have mounted the horse alone and ridden for safety without her.

But he hadn’t. He’d scooped her unwilling body up in the saddle with him, and had gotten her shot in the process. If she died from the infection that raged through her body, it would be his fault, no one else’s.

Except Tubbs,
his mind insisted. Tubbs! He’d kill the scrawny little reptile if he ever had the misfortune to meet up with him again. And if Hope died....

His hands tightened into fists. If Hope died, he’d make finding Tubbs his life’s goal. And after he’d squashed the life out of him, Drake would turn his sights on his brother. Surely any man who employed a man like Tubbs to do his dirty work deserved no better than to die the same agonizing death as his hireling.

Again, Drake’s thoughts turned to Hope.

I should have left her behind, where she was safe. Why didn’t I?
As his eyelids wearily blinked shut and his head rolled back to be cushioned by the sack of flour, Drake found he was no closer to an answer now than he had been two weeks ago.

Hope’s mouth felt like the inside of a ball of cotton, her stomach like a yawning, empty pit. Her eyes stung as she slowly opened them.

She tried to lift her arms, to wipe the sleep from her eyes, but the pain that shot through her shoulder stopped her cold. Relaxing, she squinted and took her first real look at her surroundings.

On closer examination, what she had first thought to be a murky gray sky turned out to be canvas stretched taut over the arched, skeletal ribs of a wagon. The interior was cramped, the pegs on its sideboards holding everything from a rifle to a skillet. Sacks of nameless foodstuffs were strewn wherever space allowed. Beside the straw mattress on which she lay was a table made of three pieces of wood, crudely nailed together. The top of it was dark with water stains. The shelf-like fixture was nailed to the floor and the bottom was crammed with half-filled jugs of water, a few rags, an empty bowl, and a pile of white cloth that had been cut into strips, then neatly folded and stacked.

The wagon wasn’t moving, and it took Hope a few seconds to realize that the pale orange light surrounding her was not a product of the sun, but the glow of a lamp swinging from a hook attached to the center beam overhead.

Closing her eyes, she let the sights wash through her mind as her hearing tuned in to the sounds of the night.

Outside she could hear the gentle whicker of a horse, maybe two. A hoot owl’s call drifted on the cool night air, accompanied by the annoyed trill of a bird. In the distance, if she listened close, was an occasional gurgle of water. A campfire crackled. The aroma of fresh biscuits and the sizzle of frying bacon alerted her to the hunger that gnawed within.

Her tongue felt thick, like it was coated with fur, as she tried to moisten her dry, cracked lips. Her stomach voiced a complaint, but Hope ignored it as she tried to focus her thoughts on where the ache seeping through her body originated. Her shoulder. No, her arm. No, somewhere just in between. Yes, that was it, she decided as she felt the wagon sway with a sudden weight. Opening her eyes this time was not nearly as difficult.

Using one hand to steady his balance, and the other to hold on to his plate, Drake pushed himself into the wagon. He didn’t notice her, and Hope remained still, doing nothing to indicate she was alert. She watched as he hunched beneath the lamp, taking a seat on the hard wood floor. He was so close she could feel the heat of his body, and smell the masculine scent of his flesh. The fragrance mingled with the tantalizing aroma of his meal.

Her hand itched to reach out and feel that muscular shoulder bunch beneath her palm. She cursed the weakness in her limbs that forbade her to give in to the wicked temptation.

Drake must have sensed her perusal. As his fingers brought the piping hot biscuit to his lips, his gaze hesitantly lifted to Hope’s. His expression did not change, but the hand stopped, poised in midair.

“Hope?” The voice cracked as the biscuit was lowered. The plate was quickly set atop the table beside the mattress, and just as quickly forgotten as he knelt beside her.

She tried to smile, but it was a weak gesture at best. “Where have you brought me, gunslinger? Never mind.” She averted her gaze to the half-filled jugs. “Is that water? I’m dying of thirst.”

Drake fumbled with a jug, and Hope let him lift her head and raise the neck of it to her lips. The water was stale, but it tasted good nonetheless. “Small sips,” he directed, eying her carefully as she let the soothing liquid trickle down her throat.

“Just a little more,” she pleaded when he pulled the jug away and tucked it back under the shelf.

Drake shook his head. “You’ve had plenty. In fact, I probably shouldn’t have given you that much. You’ve been pretty sick.”

“So I gathered.” She picked up a hand and forced it to her forehead. The movement sapped what little strength she had. Her flesh, she was relieved to find, was cool, but the dampness of her hair told her how recently her fever had broken. Her gaze shifted from his frown of concern to the biscuit that wafted tendrils of steam in the air. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share your food, would you?”

“You’re hungry? Already?” Drake gulped. Henry Mead, the doctor they’d passed a week back on another train heading west, had told him what to do about the fever. But the man hadn’t given instructions for when she woke up. Drake hadn’t thought to ask. He’d harbored his doubts as to whether that moment would ever come.

“Of course I’m hungry,” she smiled weakly. “What did you expect? How long as it been since I’ve had anything eat?”

The reality that she was awake, and speaking, was only now beginning to register, in slowly building waves of elation. The extent of that relief, as it swept through his blood, shocked Drake. “I gave you some broth at noon.” He grinned. “You gave it right back.”

“Sorry,” she murmured. Her cheeks flooded with color as she averted her gaze to the lamp swinging overhead.

“Don’t be. You were sick; it couldn’t be helped.” Taking the biscuit from his plate, he broke it in half and handed the larger chunk to Hope.

Her embarrassment subsided long enough for her to accept the warm piece of bread. She took a small, hesitant bite. Although her gaze rested elsewhere, she could feel the heat of Drake’s eyes watching her carefully. The biscuit slipped down her throat with apparent ease. The next bite was bigger. And the next.

“Is that bacon?” she asked, a grin curling her lips as she eyed the plate hungrily. “
Real
bacon?”

Drake returned the grin. Satisfied that she wasn’t going to be sick again, he pulled the plate from the shelf. “Real? As opposed to what?”

“Don’t get fresh with me, Frazier. I’ve been sick.”

The bacon was still warm from the cooking fire. To Hope, it tasted richer than any apple pie she’d ever baked. She licked the grease from her fingers as she eyed the other strip.

“I think I liked you better when you were senseless,” he griped good-naturedly as he handed over the plate. “At least then you didn’t eat all my supper.”

“Where are you going?” she asked around a mouthful of food as she watched him make his way to the end of the wagon.

“For more food,” he replied over his shoulder.

Pulling back the curtain he’d hung over the canvas opening to keep out the cool night air, he disappeared. In less than a minute, he returned with another plate of food, this one heaped with more than enough for two.

“I had a feeling you’d wake up tonight,” he said, as he leaned over her and dropped some of the contents onto her almost empty plate.

“You can’t be too comfortable down there.” She raised a fresh biscuit to her lips and watched him settle back onto the hardwood floor. There was barely enough room to sit, though she had to admit he made good use of the accommodations. Slipping his long legs beneath the low platform on which she reclined, Drake settled the plate on the firm pillow of his thighs and began to eat with a vengeance.

They finished the meal in silence, though both eyed the other when they thought they weren’t being watched. For the first time, Hope noticed the dark circles beneath Drake’s eyes, and the pronounced hollows under his cheeks. His hands were dirty and his hair was shaggy and rumpled. He looked like he hadn’t seen a bar of soap in weeks.

With his hunger slaked, Drake wearily settled his empty plate on top of the shelf. His questioning glance flickered over her half-finished food, and she handed over her own plate. “Guess I felt hungrier than I really was,” she apologized.

Drake settled back on the floor. His thoughts drifted to the pot of coffee sitting close enough to the fire to stay warm, but not close enough to burn. The strong brew would’ve done him good right about now. Too bad he didn’t have the energy to go and fetch it.

“Drake?”

Hope’s soft voice penetrated the tired cloud that had settled over him. One eye opened and regarded her skeptically. “Hmmm?”

“You can’t sleep down there.”

Funny, but she hadn’t stopped to wonder where he’d been sleeping while she was sick. “I’m fine, Hope,” he mumbled wearily. Pulling his hat from the floor, he placed it over the upper portion of his face and rested back against the sack of flour. “Go to sleep. The doctor said you needed plenty of rest.”

Doctor? What doctor?
It didn’t matter, she decided. She’d ask him about it in the morning. Right now, she had to get him off the floor. He couldn’t sleep down there, and even with all her strength intact she wasn’t strong enough to pick him up!

“Drake?” He grumbled, shifting but not answering. Sighing, she lifted the comforter invitingly. The cool night air wafted over her naked body, and pain shot through her shoulder as she huddled back against the wall, stealing the focus of her concentration. “Come on, gunslinger, there’s room enough for two.”

Without conscious thought, Drake whipped the hat from his head, uncoiled his legs from beneath the platform, blew out the lamp, then climbed tiredly onto the mattress. He mumbled something about saving the dishes until morning as Hope flipped the blanket over them both, then rolled onto her right side. She kept her back to him for fear of putting any undue pressure on her wound. But that didn’t stop her from snuggling into the warmth his body offered. The hand that draped her hip was a heavy, thoroughly welcome presence.

“We should talk,” he murmured into her hair. “There are things you have to know about—”

“No.” She reached around her waist with her right hand and let it rest atop the one that possessively rode her hip. Her reaction to pain was fast and sure from years of practice. “I remember what happened. That’s enough. Talking about it won’t change it.”

Hope felt Drake stiffen, as though he meant to challenge the words. But sleep won out in the end. As they lay there, bathed in silence and the pale glow of moonlight, she could feel his body gradually relaxing. The breath that warmed her ear and neck eased into a deep rhythm.

Stifling a yawn, Hope basked in the feel of his body snuggled against her, and in the wave of sensations that feeling evoked. It wasn’t long before she joined him in sleep.

Hope awoke to find Drake working free the buttons of his sleep-wrinkled shirt. She was not unmindful of the way he kept his back to her as he slipped the shirt from his shoulders. She was treated to a fine display of a rippling back and muscular shoulders before a clean shirt was shaken loose from a wooden crate and the sleeves slipped up over his arms.

“What doctor?” she asked, stifling a yawn.

He glanced over his shoulder, and the surprise that flickered in his eyes soon melted to warmth. “Morning, sunshine,” he said with that infernal, lopsided grin. “And aren’t we talkative today? You must be feeling better.”

“I am, thank you,” she answered with light sarcasm. She shifted on the mattress, and winced at the pain that shot down her arm. “And what doctor? Where is he?”

“Probably in California by now. We passed another wagon last week.” He pulled the paper collar around his neck and worked the buttons closed. “Damn good thing we did too,” he added, his hand poised over a fresh pair of trousers. Apparently he thought better of changing his pants in front of her, for he left the clean ones in place and unbuttoned the ones that hugged his lean hips. “As luck would have it, there was a doctor with them. You wouldn’t have made it if it weren’t for Henry Mead, not that we’ll ever see him again for you to thank.”