Dorothy Garlock (18 page)

“He’s steady for a boy his age. I reckon he had to grow up in a hurry.”

“He did. He’s only fourteen and he’s been doing a man’s work for four years. He’s smart, too. I taught him and Odell to read and cipher. Mama was a schoolteacher before she married Pa, but I think I told you that.”

“I don’t care. Tell me again. I like to hear you talk.”

“I’m talking too much, is what I’m doing. You need to go to sleep. Mary said rest and sage tea would put you on your feet.” She paused. “She did say for me to put more salve on your back and that you should take off that buckskin so the air could get to the sores.”

“I’ve got a cloth shirt and pants in my pack.” He threw the blanket back and started to get up.

“Is the chill gone? Did the tea warm you?” With a hand on his shoulder, Rosalee pressed him down.

“It sure did. I’m sweating, now.”

Intermittent drops of rain, pushed by the wind, hit her face as she worked at the end of the wagon to get to Logan’s pack. It was heavy and she was breathing hard by the time she dropped it beside the mattress. He had removed his shirt and was on his knees feeding small sticks to their dying campfire. The flames licked at the wood, caught, and flared. He turned and the light flickered on his naked back. Rosalee had to choke back words of rage when she saw his lacerated flesh. That one human being could be so cruel to another was beyond her understanding.

“I’ll see about the team while you change,” her whispered voice trembled.

“Don’t go. It’s . . . raining. I’ll change pants under the blanket.”

Rosalee went to the edge of the overhang and stood with her back to him. Logan had seen the hurt in her eyes and the way her lips parted with a sob of pity when she’d seen his back. As he dug into his pack his thoughts troubled him. Rosalee was a sweet, proud woman who was capable of giving her heart and soul to the man she loved. Beset by loneliness, he’d longed for such a woman. His eyes drank in the sight of her straight back and proudly held head. What would it be like to be free to ask her to share his life?

It was agony getting out of the buckskin pants and into the cloth ones. His knees felt as if he’d never be able to grip the sides of a horse again. He was sweating from the effort by the time he lay down on the mattress and called her name.

The rain came in a steady downpour, urged on by a chilly wind. Rosalee was thankful for the overhang and for the supply of wood she had been able to gather for their fire. She worried about Ben. Was he safe and dry at Mary’s? Did Odell miss her and want to go home? Had Clayhill’s raiders burned the house and barn? And was Case Malone out in this torrent somewhere, sitting beneath a thick pine?

Logan lay on his stomach, his arms at his sides, his face turned toward her. On her knees beside him, Rosalee lifted the dark, glossy mane of hair that lay on the back of his neck and moved it to the side. It felt clean and soft between her fingers and they were reluctant to leave it. She folded the blanket down to his hips and gently applied a layer of salve to the wounds on his back. She watched his face for a sign that she was hurting him, but he didn’t as much as flicker an eyelash. When she finished, she took a clean cloth from Mary’s medical basket and spread it across his back.

“That feels better,” he murmured with his eyes closed.

“We’ve got to put it on your . . . bottom.”

“No, I won’t ask you to do that.”

“You don’t have to ask. I insist. Unbutton the front so I can pull your pants down,” she said stiffly and prayed he couldn’t see the color of her face. Oh, Lord, she thought, he’d seeped into her heart and there was nothing she wouldn’t do for him, and do gladly.

Logan lifted his hips to reach the buttons on his pants. God, it hurt to put pressure on his knees! While his hand was there he pulled his sex from between his thighs and up to hide the treacherous organ beneath his belly. Even now, with the feel of her fingers in his hair and her cool hands on his bruised and throbbing flesh, he could feel it swell with desire for her.

The skin of his buttocks was a tawny gold beneath the welts and bruises. The wounds had opened during the jarring ride from the ranch and she was sure they were more painful than the ones on his back. She carefully applied the soothing salve and covered them with a cloth.

“Will you be cold if you leave your shirt off for the night? We have extra blankets.” She pulled the soft cover up and around his shoulders, repacked the basket, and set it aside.

Logan turned on his side. He could never remember anyone taking care of him like this. During the war he’d stayed in a home to recover from his wounds, but the members of the household were hostile to him. He never knew if it was because of his Indian blood or if it was because he was a Blue Belly.

“I’ll not be cold, Rosalee. But you’re shivering. Wrap a blanket around yourself and sit here beside me.”

“You must drink what tea there is left. I’ll let the fire die down. We’ll need the dry wood we have to start one in the morning.” She handed him the cup and waited for him to drain it.

“Rosalee, I don’t know of a delicate way to say this, but . . . I’m about to float away on a sea of sage tea!”

She giggled softly. “I was wondering about that.” She pulled an oiled slicker from his pack. “Put this over your head. Follow the wall to another little overhang. The rain is letting up a bit.”

While he was gone, Rosalee slipped out the opposite end of their camp and into the darkness. She relieved herself and returned, wiping the rain from her face and hair. While there was still a faint light from the dying campfire she tidied the camp, placing their supplies back against the wall and covered them against the possibility of a quick wind change that would whip the rain in under the overhang.

When Logan returned she was waiting for him. She took the wet slicker from his shoulders and hung it over the wagon wheel. He eased himself down onto the mattress. He removed his moccasins and tilted them on the sides so the soles were exposed to the warm coals of the fire.

“Rosalee, Rosalee.” He repeated her name as though trying to taste it. “You’re truly an exceptional woman. How did I find you in all this vast country?” He lay back and pulled the blanket up over him. “You’ve been doing for me all day and I know you’re tired. Get a blanket and lie down here beside me. As far as propriety is concerned . . . to hell with it. It’s too wet and cold for either of us to sleep on the ground.”

Rosalee stood in an awkward silence broken only by the steady beat of the rain hitting the ground and an occasional distant roll of thunder. She did not argue with him. She took off the damp shawl, sank down on the edge of the mattress, and removed her wet shoes. Her feet were cold and she tucked them up under her skirt and pulled the blanket up over her. She lay with her back to him, her head resting on her bent arm, and felt the pounding of her own heart in her throat and temples. This morning she never even imagined she’d be alone tonight with Logan Horn, the breed who had come to her door with his dying mother. And here she was, lying with him on her own mattress, miles from another human being.

“Your braid is damp.” His whispered words came to her out of the darkness.

She reached to pull the braid over her shoulder and her hand encountered his hand. The touch caused a fluttery feeling to erupt in her stomach. There seemed to be nothing to say, although she searched her mind for words. A shiver of pure physical awareness of him chased a strange sensation up and down her spine.

“What are you thinking about?” His whisper reached her ears again. She could feel a gentle tug at the back of her head and knew his hand was still on the thick braid.

“I was wondering if Ben was all right.” Emotion weakened her voice as she grasped for something to say.

“He’ll be all right at Mrs. Gregg’s.” His words came slow and reassuring. Then, “I saw the way she looked at Malone. They mean something to each other.”

“I think so, too. Mary has been my friend since we came here.”

“How did that come about, considering . . .”

“Ben and I never let Papa know . . . about the house she keeps. He had feelings about things like that.”

“Yes. I can see that he would.” There was a long silence, then he asked, “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“About the house Mary keeps?”

“I try not to think about it. I know that Mary doesn’t do . . . it herself, although she would still be my friend if she did. She keeps a good place for women who were going to be in that . . . business anyway.” She paused, wondering if he thought it strange that she was discussing this with him. “I first met Mary in the mercantile. She helped me pick out dress material for Odell. After she left, one of the town women whispered to me that she was a
scarlet
woman. She said she was telling me this for my own good.”

He chuckled. “Every town has a few people who take it upon themselves to judge the morals of others. Do you think she was telling you for your own good?” he queried softly.

“Oh, no. I knew better than that. She didn’t care about me. She thought she was elevating herself above Mary by pushing her down into the mud. Mama always said to look out for someone who tells you unpleasant things about someone for your own good.”

“She was perceptive. I think I would’ve liked your mother.” There was a small silence while Rosalee’s heart released a flood of happiness. “What would your mother have thought about me?” His low-voiced query hung in the air.

While she was thinking about the question, the image of her mother’s calm face flashed before her eyes. “She would’ve withheld judgment until she got to know you. She believed it was what was on the inside of a man that counted. She often chided Pa about his prejudices.”

Rosalee could feel the rhythmic movement of his hand as he stroked her braid. She lay very still, afraid even the slightest movement of her head would cause him to move his hand away. With her eyes tightly closed she pictured his face, unreadable as the face on a stone sculpture. She wondered if he would ever share his innermost feelings with anyone. Suddenly, she wanted to see his firm lips spread with a smile, his dark eyes laughing, his stoic features relaxed, and above all, she wanted him to feel the happiness of knowing he was loved and wanted. The silence became so long she thought he had gone to sleep. Finally, his hushed voice came to her ears.

“You’re tense, now. Are you afraid of me?”

His words brought her head and shoulders around. “Of course not!” She waited, and when he didn’t speak, she said, “Should I be?”

“No! Lord, no!” he groaned as if adrift in a sea of misery of his own making. The whispered words caused her heart to make a frantic leap.

“I’m not afraid of you, Logan, and I never have been.” She laid her head back down on her bent arm. “From the moment I saw you standing in the doorway, all wet from the rain, taking the chance you’d be turned away because of your Indian blood, I wasn’t afraid. But I knew today what Case meant when he said he’d taken your measure. I wanted to tell him then not to worry, but I didn’t know how to put it into words.” She spoke softly, with her eyes closed.

His fingers left the thick braid and clasped her shoulder as though he were clinging to a lifeline in an open sea. The hunger to be near her, to touch her, had been with him since he’d ridden into the hills to find a resting place for his mother. This woman was every sweet dream he’d ever had rolled into one. He would gladly give ten years of his life to be free to pull her against his chest, nuzzle his face in her hair, and fall asleep with his arms around her.

Thoughts whirled about Rosalee’s brain like wind-whipped tumbleweed. His hand that gripped her shoulder made her feel weak and liquid inside. She knew if he pulled, just the slightest bit, she would turn to him. But his hand didn’t pull; the fingers slowly relaxed and left her. She wanted to cry.

“Are you warm?” he asked, and tucked the blanket closer about her neck.

“Yes. Are you?”

“Yes. Get some sleep.”

“The rifle is behind you and your handgun is under the head of the mattress.”

“I know. I saw you put them there. Don’t be afraid to go to sleep. Brutus is out there. He’d let us know if anyone comes near.”

Rosalee rolled over onto her back and raised up. “I forgot about him! He’ll be wet and hungry.”

Logan laughed softly. “Lie down. He’s all right. The horses will be under a good stand of thick pine, standing with their tails to the wind. Brutus will find a dry spot under the brush to wait out the storm.”

“But he’ll be hungry.”

“I don’t coddle him. He does his own hunting. I don’t feed or take care of him. He doesn’t
belong
to me. He stays with me because he wants to. That’s the way we both want it.”

His fingers touched her arm and moved down to wrap around her hand. The slender fingers offered no resistance when he laced them with his. It was a waiting moment for both of them. Then he inhaled as deeply as his cracked ribs would allow and let the air escape slowly from his lips. The thoughts in his head were transformed into words that rushed out of his mouth without him scarcely realizing he was saying them.

“Let me hold your hand, sweet Rosalee. It is all I can ever have of you!” There was pain, anguish, pleading in his voice.

“Logan—”

“Sshh . . . don’t say anything. This is the first night I’ve spent on land that’s mine and I’m glad you’re with me.”

Rosalee did not speak or move after Logan’s whispered words. They kept going through her mind: “I’m glad you’re with me.” Tears ran down her cheeks, and she cried silently for a lonely little boy, and for a big, lonely man caught between the white man’s world and the Indian’s. He held her slender hand in his large, calloused one, and sometimes he clenched it so hard she thought the bones would break, but she didn’t draw it away. The urge to banish his loneliness was a compelling force dragging at her.

At first her body was as taut as a bow string. She was physically and mentally exhausted, but gradually she relaxed and listened to the soft sound of Logan’s breathing. Finally she fell asleep, holding tightly to his hand.