California Caress (22 page)

Tucking the tails of the red flannel shirt inside the waistband of his denim trousers, he worked the buttons shut then turned to face Hope. She was sending him an accusingly skeptical glare as he slipped a leather vest over his shoulders, then reached for a plain red bandanna. The latter was tied around his neck with supple fingers.

Hope scowled. “A week? I was sick for that long?”

“Longer.” Drake reached for the gunbelt. He buckled it around his waist and tied the holster straps around a sinewy thigh. “We’ve been on the trail for almost three.”

“Trail? Three weeks!” She struggled to sit, but the pain in her shoulder drove her back to the mattress. “Now wait just a cotton picking minute. Where the hell do you think you’re taking me? I have a claim to work, Drake. I don’t have time to be traipsing around the country in a wagon.”

Drake’s expression darkened, and to Hope it looked like thunderclouds blocking out the sun. “Don’t be a fool. I’m sure Oren Larzdon and his band of merry misfits were all over that claim before the ink on your father’s death certificate dried.” Hope winced at his bluntness, and Drake’s tone softened. “I’m sorry, sunshine, but it’s the truth. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later. It might as well be now.”

The familiar ache tugged at her heart with icy fingers. Hope resolutely pushed it away. “You saw them take the claim, then?” she asked, her voice as flat and lifeless as her expression.

“In case you didn’t notice, there was a man shooting at us back there,” he informed her briskly, his look guarded. “Once we got on that horse, I didn’t think stopping was in either our best interests.” A glint of cynicism touched his eyes. “For some crazy reason I thought getting you patched up was more important than sticking around to fight for a claim that wasn’t paying dirt.”

“It would have paid,” she replied tightly. Her cheeks, already pale, lost whatever color had returned. Her hands clutched the comforter beneath her chin in a death-grip. “It showed more color than all the other mines combined. It
would
have paid. I know it.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, running a palm along his stubbled jaw, “maybe not. That’s something we’ll never know.” Drake kept his tone neutral. He was treading on thin ice and he knew it. While he didn’t want to upset Hope any more than she already was, he was having a devil of a time keeping his anger in check. Goddamn, but she was the most unpredictable woman he’d ever met! He wouldn’t put it past her to pull some hot-headed stunt that would pop the stitches that doctor had so carefully sewn into her shoulder. And all for want of a claim that wasn’t paying enough to survive!

Drake cleared his throat, and tried to clear his mind as well. He had to keep her calm, even if it meant kicking the daylights out of the wagon wheel later to vent his frustration. If he allowed her to get too upset, he risked jeopardizing her recovery. Drake didn’t need a doctor to tell him that Hope’s recovery was still too new to jeopardize.

“I’m going back.”

Her words fell over him like a dark cloud. His eyes narrowed angrily as he growled, “Over my dead body.”

Hope’s eyes glistened with raw challenge. “If that’s what it takes.”

“Don’t try it, sunshine,” he replied, holding a firm hand over his mounting annoyance. “I don’t care if I have to hogtie you to the bed, you’re not going anywhere.”

“Get out your rope then, Frazier,” she taunted, her gaze boldly holding his, “because as soon as I’m well enough, I’m going back to work my claim.”

A cold smile played on Drake’s lips; a smile that was not mirrored in his eyes. “Sunshine, by the time you’re well enough, I’ll probably be more than happy to see you go.”

She opened her mouth to retaliate, but he had already stalked from the wagon.

Balling up a fist, she slammed it into the sideboard. The force of the blow sent a bolt of pain ricocheting through her shoulder, slicing down her other arm. Hope gasped, inwardly swearing at the injury that forced her to lie immobile, unable to do anything but listen to Drake Frazier’s threats.

But I won’t be immobile forever,
she swore beneath her breath, determined to teach the damn gunslinger a sorely needed lesson just as soon as she regained her strength.

Thick smoke curled around her legs like dense fog. It stung her eyes and clogged her lungs until she could barely breathe. What little air she was able to draw was filled with the thick, acrid scent of charred wood.

Hope opened her mouth to scream. No sound escaped her lips. Her throat burned and felt like it had been briskly rubbed with sandpaper.

She ran. There was no seeing through the sheet of smoke, yet she ran anyway. Her chest rose and fell in wheezing gasps. The toe of her foot caught on something small and hard, throwing her off balance. This time the scream tore from her lungs in an agonizing cry as she crashed to the ground.

The crackle of flames scorching brick and devouring wood grew louder as she scrambled to her feet. The smoke was too thick to see from which direction the noise came.

Hope ran to the left, guided by instinct. Gasping, she broke through the cloud of smoke. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she leaned against the towering oak tree. The bark cut into her cheek as she pressed against it, inhaling deeply of the crisp night air. The only trace left of the burning wood was the scent of it clinging to her hair.

She waited until her breathing slowed to normal before pushing away from the tree. Small stones bit into the soles of her bare feet as she staggered down the gravel drive. She hardly noticed them. Her attention was focused entirely on the sight slowly rising over the incline as she walked up it.

Lake’s Edge in all its glory. The familiar view stirred her heart, bringing a smile of remembrance to her lips.

The house was magnificent, its red brick complemented by towering white columns and white trim. Oil lamps burned in all but one of the windows, illuminating the lush grass sprawling out from all sides. Carried on the breeze was a hint of honeysuckle, and the notes of a Bagatelle in A minor by Beethoven. Hope recognized the melody immediately, and her fingers flexed in response. Many times, her fingers had flown over the same keys, trying in vain to master the work.

Slowly, she drew closer to the house. The music seemed to increase its momentum with each step. The sound of voices and laughter drifted out from open windows where curtains billowed softly with the breeze.

Hope passed the last towering oak lining the drive, and ran for the front door. The tempo of the music increased until it sounded like the player within was no longer trickling over the notes but punching each ivory key with unnecessary force. A surge of laughter—
Luke’s laughter—
rippled through the air as she neared the front door. Her feet flew over the steps sandwiched between long white columns. As the laughter subsided, the sound of a woman’s chatter and the insistent chirp of crickets prevailed.

The music softened as Hope hesitated on the porch, her ears alerted to the voices coming from inside.
Mama
. That was her mother’s voice, Hope was sure of it. Her father’s voice was there as well, and Old Joe’s.

Pain tightened around Hope’s hears as she reached for the doorknob that glistened in the moonlight. A sob escaped her lips as she grasped the metal and started to turn it.

Pain shot up her arm, surging from the hand wrapped around the door knob. She pulled away with a gasp, looking down in horror at the flesh of her palm. It was black and bubbled, burned beyond recognition.

The music stopped abruptly as Hope’s scream cut the night.

Hope? Hope, wake up.

“No! Let me go! I have to help them!”

Stop it, Hope. You keep fighting like this and you’ll rip those stitches wide open. Neither of us needs that. Now wake up, dammit!

The voice was stern. It echoed from the inky black sky and not from the man who had forcefully carried her away from the certain death of a fiery inferno.

“Go away!” she yelled, thrashing out. Her fist collided with something solid and warm. Something that grunted.

Hope awoke from the nightmare with a blood-curdling scream. Her lungs burned, as though the misty smoke of her dreams had really cut her throat. Her fingers were trembling. Slowly, she willed herself to focus, and found herself looking into Drake’s face. Her eyes still wide with horror.

“Let me go!” she demanded, trying to turn from the steely grip encircling her upper arms as she lashed out with a fist. It collided with his jaw, and the stubble there scratched the back of her hand. “Let me go! I have to help them!”

“Killing yourself isn’t going to help anyone.” Drake forced her back to the mattress. She arched against him, tears pouring down her cheeks. “Stop it, Hope. There’s no one to help. Listen to me! There’s no one to help anymore but yourself.”

“No!” she shook her head vigorously, straining against the weight that crossed her waist, pinning her to the bed. “No, I don’t believe you. I want Luke. Where’s Lu—?”

The words caught in her throat as pain shot through her like a knife. The fire. Papa, Luke, even Old Joe. They were dead now, and Drake was right. She couldn’t help them anymore.

With a sob, she collapsed back on the mattress. Drake’s body still weighed her down, but she no longer pushed him away.

“It was so real,” she whimpered. Instinctively, her hands reached up around Drake’s back, clutching his shirt. She bunched the smooth cloth in her fists and pulled him closer. Her nose filled with the scent of sweat and trail dirt.

“I know,” he whispered soothingly in her ear, as his fingers stroked her tear-dampened cheek. “It was only a dream, Hope, a nightmare. It wasn’t real.”

“But it was!” she cried. Burying her face in his shoulder, she let the soft flannel soak up the tears that refused to stop. “It
was
real. I could see the house, and—”

“Shhh.” Drake’s breath was like a warm caress against her cheek. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Hope nodded and swallowed hard. Her throat still felt rough and scratchy, but the pain had eased. The agony that sliced through her heart, however, had not. Her tears continued to fall. She clutched his back, his shoulder muffling her heart-wrenching sobs.

Drake comforted her as best he could. He wasn’t used to hysterical women, though, and his words and actions were stiff and stilted.

Carefully, he rolled his weight to the inside of the mattress, bringing Hope’s trembling body along with him. His movements were gentle so as not to put any pressure on her injured shoulder. Instinctively, she burrowed against his side, her sobs muffled by his shoulder. Drake rested his cheek against the top of her head. One hand stroked her upper arm while the other ran soothingly down the dampness of her cheek. She smelled fresh and soapy, an enticing aroma that lingered from her noontime bath.

He let her cry, feeling no repulsion as her tears soaked into his shirt. She clung to him desperately at first, giving free rein to the emotions the dream had evoked.

To Drake, it was the sound of bittersweet music. He had worried when she seemed to accept her family’s death so easily. The emotions such pain brought had been buried, and buried well. Now, at long last, they were being resurrected. Although he died a little with each ragged sob that escaped her lips, he knew the pain was necessary. It was the only way for her to come to terms with the tragedy.

What he couldn’t understand was why her pain sliced through his heart like a knife, why he felt her loss as though it was his own. What was it about her tears that twisted unmercifully at his gut?

In slow degrees, her grip loosened. Eventually, all that remained of her panic-stricken cries and demanding clinging were ragged gasps of breath and a gentle caress against his torso.

As Hope relaxed, so did Drake. And as the sobs ceased to rack her body, he became more aware of the gentle curves pressing intimately against him.

The skin that glided beneath his palms felt like a bolt of rich satin. His thoughts were inundated with the wonderfully fresh scent clinging to the chestnut tresses that tickled his cheek and neck. Earlier, he’d helped her into a clean chemise, but the crisp cotton was now a barrier between his flesh and hers. For that matter, the thickness of his flannel shirt and tough denim trousers might as well have been cast aside along with the comforter she had thrust from her body during the nightmare. His memory served him well enough to know how perfectly the generous curves would fit against his naked side.

Without thinking, he turned his head until his lips were nestled in the shimmering softness of her hair. She shifted, leaning against him still more. The movement of her leg being thrown across his middle made him groan. His body burst with rigid awakening, excruciatingly aware of every soft inch that pressed against him. They stayed like that for what seemed to Drake like tormentingly long hours.

“Hope?” His voice was a low, throaty whisper. “Are you asleep?”

A second moan escaped his lips as she shifted her weight, moving against him in a way that was both provocative and innocent. Diligently, he stifled the sound as he willed away the flaming stiffness in his body. Did she know the effect she was having on him? Did she care?