Jillian Hart (37 page)

Molly pushed the door closed against the bitter wind and knelt at the big man's side. His face looked haggard and gray. His breathing came in short, struggling gasps. He was dying right in front of her. Right in front of his daughter.

She tore at his jacket buttons and ripped open the garment. Both dried and new blood stained his shirt and trousers, and the single charred hole in the fabric gave a clear indication of his injury—he'd been shot. By whom? And in this peaceful part of Montana?

"Papa, wake up." Heartbreak in those words. "Please wake up."

Lady did her best to comfort the distraught child while Molly's heart broke. She didn't know if she could save the man's life. There was so much blood, and since the skin around the charred wound was raw and torn, she figured that the bullet was still inside him.

What was she going to do? She knew nothing about treating a serious wound like this, and there was no way she'd be able to make it through the blizzard to town. Even if she could, this man wouldn't live that long with-out treatment.

Just use your common sense, Molly. She grabbed a clean dishcloth from the counter and pressed it against the flow of blood. She'd need to take out the bullet and sew up the wound, and her stomach dropped, suddenly nauseous.

Don't think about it. Just do it.
The dish towel was soaking red. The man was running out of time.

"Lady, fetch my sewing box." The dog looked at her with pleading eyes, standing protectively over the sobbing child, not wanting to leave her. But when Molly repeated her command, the hound darted off.

"What's your name, sweetie?" She hopped up to fill a kettle with water.

"Beth." The little girl turned frightened blue eyes upward. "Are you one of the bad people?"

Bad people?
"No. My name is Molly." She set the kettle on the stove, then knelt to drain the water from the reservoir. "Can you feel your fingers and toes?"

"They're cold." Beth swiped at her eyes with both fisted hands. "Is my papa gonna die?"

"I don't know." Molly knew the pain of being lied to—she wasn't going to make promises she couldn't keep. "I'm going to do my best to help him."

She sent the child into the kitchen to warm by the stove, and when Lady returned, carting her sewing basket by the handle, she sent the dog to watch over the child. Beth didn't argue, but continued to sob quietly in the warm corner.

Wishing she had more time to comfort the girl, Molly moved fast. She brought two lamps to the floor beside the stranger and lit them, then fetched a flask of whiskey from the pantry. Heart pounding, she knelt down beside her patient, this handsome stranger with a rugged face made of sharp angles and even planes. She couldn't help noticing his straight nose and his chiseled chin.

She pulled down his gun belt and trousers enough to expose the span of his hip and startled at the lean muscular make of him. Dark hair fanned across his stomach in a soft downward swirl toward his groin. Blushing, Molly vowed not to think about that any further. But his hard male body was a mystery, and she couldn't help wondering...

No, that wasn't a decent thought at all. Blushing harder, she moved the lamp closer to the bullet wound in his lower side, just above his left hip. She ran her littlest pair of sewing scissors through the bright flame, then knelt over him.

His skin was hot, and her heart thundered with fear of what she was about to do and the awareness of the man.
Breathe deep, and do this right
. She gathered her courage, then pulled the soaked dishcloth aside. The blood was slowing, surely that was a good sign. She nosed the tip of her scissors into the wound.

"Beth," he murmured, his voice slurred by dream and shock, and his head thrashed to one side and then stilled. The tension drained from his big body; the pain eased from his clenched jaw.

The scissors hit something hard. Molly gritted her teeth, steeled her stomach, and dug out the bullet as gently as she could. Blood welled up fresh and fast, and her gut clenched hard.

Don't faint
, she ordered, even though her entire body was shaking. She applied pressure to the wound, then reached for the whiskey and splashed it across his abdomen. The hard roped muscles beneath his bronzed skin clenched in pain, and he groaned low in his throat, a sound of agony even though he was unconscious.

Beth started sobbing again on the other side of the cabinets, a sound as hopeless as a lonely winter wind.

Tension gathered at the nape of Molly's neck as she kept working—she couldn't stop now. As she threaded her needle, she spoke softly to the girl, and the crying stopped. Beth talked in a low voice to Lady, who was no doubt offering the girl her own brand of comfort.

Molly caught the edge of the ragged flesh with her needle. She winced, knowing it caused pain. Her stomach clenched again, and she felt her head start to swirl. Fighting for air, she pulled the knot through the skin and knotted it again to make sure it would stay and not pull through.

More blood sluiced from the wound, faster than she could stem it. She edged the needle into his flesh again and tugged the thread taut. The yawning wound closed a fraction, and she kept working, bringing the skin together, trying to make the seam she sewed tight enough.

She knotted her thread well and slumped against the back wall, breathing heavily. Sweat soaked her, and she felt shaky. Exhaustion gathered like an ache in the tensed muscles of her shoulders, neck, and back. She felt so weak, she didn't think she could stand.

But she'd done it—the wound was sewn tight. Gazing at the man, who was both shivering and sweating at the same time, she feared he wouldn't live, feared that her best was, once again, not good enough.

Beth gazed up over the bowl of steaming stew, watching Molly's every move with wide eyes. Even though she was warm, bathed, and dry, the child still looked peaked. Exhaustion bruised her delicate skin and hung on her slim shoulders. She sat as silent as a ghost at the table and didn't touch her food.

"Are you going to eat that?"

Beth shook her head, her dark hair brushing the shoulders of Molly's warmest sweater, which was draped over her reed-thin body. The sleeves were rolled up in fat cuffs, and the garment engulfed her. She looked forlorn, as if she were losing her entire world.

"It's early, but you look like you need your rest." Molly held out her hand.

Silently, Beth nodded, and her fingers closed around Molly's, tight with need and fear.

Molly tucked the child into her spare bed, safe and warm, and left the door ajar, just enough to be able to check on her. No more sounds came from the room.

The poor child. She understood how seriously her father was wounded. Molly ached for her, and when she next peered through the nearly closed door, she saw that Beth had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Maybe her dreams would be sweet, without cold, injury, or fear. Lady had curled up on the foot of the bed, keeping watch.

The hinges in her door squeaked, and she set the steaming basin on the nightstand. The man on her bed remained unmoving except for the barely perceptible rise and fall of his wide chest. He still lived.

Pulse drumming, she turned up the wick. Her knuckles jarred the lamp's crystal teardrops, and they tinkled like chimes, tossing glimmering fragments of rainbows across the embroidered pillow slip and the man's pallid face.

He was handsome; there was no denying that. Her heart tripped as she pulled the blanket down the breadth of his chest. Roughly textured skin stretched taut over well-defined muscles. He was a strong man, one who worked for a living; anyone could see that. His hands bore old calluses across his palms, and his skin was rich with the deep bronze from many summers spent beneath the sun.

As she wet and soaped the washcloth, she couldn't help wondering why he was wandering on foot through a dangerous blizzard with a child so young. Was he homeless? A drifter? But he had so many guns. He'd dropped one on her floor. She'd found one in his shirt pocket when she'd removed it, after stitching his wound. Now two more were strapped into holsters tied snug to both powerful thighs.

Four guns. She tried not to think about that. Tried not to think about what kind of man he might be. He was injured and she would help him, but she wouldn't trust him. No, she
couldn't
trust him.

This man bore a hard-set face, handsome but powerful, even in his sleep. She could feel his masculinity, like heat radiating from his well-made body. What was she doing noticing? She was a decent woman, a
schoolteacher
, for heaven's sake. She didn't go around gaping at men's handsome bodies.

She set the soapy cloth to his face and gently scrubbed over the proud blade of his nose, the ridges of each high cheekbone, the soft slope of his cheeks, and the unyielding line of his jaw. She felt the shape of him through the cloth and again as she rinsed off the soap and dried him.

The rough stubble of several days' growth rasped against her fingertips and caught on the terry towel. He smelled like winter wind and man, and as she laid the cloth to the base of his throat and caressed the width of his broad chest, heat licked through her. Like kindling to flame, she felt engulfed from toes to brow, from inside out.

What was wrong with her? This was an injured man, a stranger, hewn of muscle and danger, who looked as hard as stone fast asleep on her ruffled, pink and green sheets.

Wringing the cloth out in the steaming basin, she took deep breaths, filling her lungs with fresh air, trying to drive out the heat. Awareness tingled through her body, leaving a fine trembling that radiated straight through her abdomen.

Her gaze drifted back to him. She couldn't remember ever seeing a man's bare chest before, unless she counted her neighbor who'd worked out in his fields the past summer shirtless beneath the glare of the bright sun. And even from a distance, she'd been prudent enough to keep her gaze averted.

But
this
man, he drew her like a moth to light, and she couldn't help being fascinated by the sight and feel of him. Bronzed skin gleamed in the lamplight, dusted with soft hair that fanned across his chest and gathered in the center of his ridged abdomen, where it arrowed down beneath the edge of his denim trousers.

Her gaze lingered there, where the sheet curved mysteriously over that part of him. She blushed even thinking of it, and approached the foot of the bed, not sure what to do. The very thought of washing his...his... Heat flamed her face, and she turned to the basin, to soap the cloth.

He was asleep, not unconscious. Although weak from losing so much blood, he wouldn't be helpless when he woke. Maybe he ought to take care of such a personal task. The white bandage that wrapped in a tight band just above his hips contrasted against the black sheen of dried blood, and she knew she couldn't leave him like this. He had to be cared for, and there was no one but her to do it.

She reached for his gun belt and loosened the buckle at his hips. He stirred, his head thrashing from side to side against the pillow and a moan tearing from his throat. Her knuckles brushed the hot skin and soft fur on his abdomen as she began slipping the leather strap through the plain silver buckle.

Lady's bark echoed in the parlor, sharp against the wood walls and alarming even above the constant roar of the blizzard. The dog barked again, and Molly left the stranger, dashing into the lit parlor. The Regulator clock on the wall chimed the hour as she grabbed the Winchester from its pegs above the fireplace.

"What is it, girl? What's wrong?"

The dog lunged at the door with both front paws, teeth bared.

The rifle's wooden stock felt clammy against her palms. Maybe the bear was back, determined to try to break in her door this time. Or maybe he was trying to get at the horse in the stable.

She eased back the corner of a lace-edged curtain. Even though it was late afternoon, the world was nearly dark from the storm. The gale-force wind drove the snow to the ground like bullets, making the swirling grayness so dense she couldn't see past her top porch step. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and warning prickled down her spine.

The hinges squeaked behind her. She turned to see a tall, broad shadow lurch out of the dark, avoiding the light. Molly grabbed Lady by the collar and ordered her to be quiet as the nose of a revolver glinted for a flash of a second, reflecting the lamplight. His step, uneven and halting, knelled on the puncheon floors as he approached, shadowed face set, broad shoulders tensed into a steely line.

Molly shrank, and the gun she clutched so tightly felt useless against his overwhelming male power, predatory and territorial, as uncompromising as death. He pushed past her and nudged the barrel of her rifle toward the floor. Lady went wild.

"Lock her in the bedroom."

Molly took one look at the fresh bandage already stained crimson and went to do as he asked, but she was shaking from head to toe. He'd looked dangerous asleep but awake he was lethal, and although he didn't stand straight, he radiated power and not weakness, strength and not injury.

Molly remembered the guns she'd found and eyed the one he held. "It's not a bear out there at all. What kind of trouble have you brought to my house?"

"Too much, and I'm sorry, ma'am." He said no more and offered no further explanation.

The rumble of his voice, resonate and cello-deep, echoed inside her. She stepped back, not sure what to do. He towered over her and the lamplight, barely touching him, gleamed darkly off his skin. Like a knight of old, like myth and legend, he braced his broad shoulders and lifted one arm, gazing out through the dark window.

"Are your doors locked?"

His gaze latched on hers, and although she couldn't see anything more than his shadow, she felt his gaze probing straight through to her heart, as if he could read all her secrets. Exactly how dangerous was he?

"Bar the front and back doors." His shadowed jaw clenched as he stared out at the storm. "Hurry."

She hated it when a man thought he could tell her what to do, but with the way Lady's hair bristled around her neck and tail, she knew the danger outside was greater than the one inside her house. But she couldn't stop the spark of anger as she shut her dog in the bedroom, then grabbed the bar from the corner and laid it across the metal brackets on either side of the stout pine door.