Lorraine Heath (4 page)

If only he had the eyes of a murderer. Then she could stop worrying about him and worry more about herself. If only his eyes hadn’t held a bleakness as he’d spoken of prison. She wondered whom he had killed. If he’d had good reason to murder someone.

She tightened her fingers around the rifle. Did any reason justify murder? She had asked herself that question countless times since the night the killer had swooped down on them. The answer always eluded her. Or perhaps only the answer she wanted eluded her.

She slid off the bed and walked to her hope chest. She knelt before it and set the rifle on the floor. She ran her hand over the cedar that her father had sanded and varnished to a shine for her fourteenth birthday. For three years she had carefully folded and placed her dreams inside … until the night when the killer had dragged her to the barn. Her dreams had died that night, along with her mother, father, and brother.

The rain pounded harder. The wind scraped the tree branches across the windows. The thunder roared.

She lifted the lid on the chest for the first time since that fateful night. Forgotten dreams beckoned her. She trailed her fingers over the soft flannel of a nightgown. She had wanted to feel delicate on her wedding night so she had embroidered flowers down the front and around the cuffs. She had tatted the edges of her linens and sewn a birthing gown for a child that she now knew would never be.

The killer had charged into her life with the force of a tornado. He had stolen everything, and when she’d tried to regain a measure of what he’d taken—he had delivered his final vengeance. With one laugh, one hideous laugh that had echoed through the night, he had shattered her soul.

She slammed down the lid and dug her fingers into her thighs. She had no future because the past kept a tight hold on her present.

She rose to her feet, walked to the hearth, and grabbed the lantern off the mantel. Using the flame from the lamp, she lit the lantern. She jerked her slicker off the wall and slipped into it, calling herself a fool. Then she walked to the corner and pulled two quilts from the stack of linens. Digger struggled to his feet, his body quivering from his shoulders to his tail.

“Stay!” she ordered. His whine tore at her heart. The dog got his feelings hurt more easily than the town spinster. Loree softened her voice. “If you get wet and muddy, I won’t be able to let you back in. I won’t be long.” She stepped outside. Lightning streaked across the obsidian sky. Rain pelted the earth. The barn was as black as a tomb. She couldn’t remember if a lantern still hung in the barn. She shivered as memories assailed her.

Satan had risen from the bowels of Hell and made their barn his domain. It had been raining that night as well, and the water had washed their blood into the earth.

She pressed her back against the door. She hadn’t gone into the bam since. Her mouth grew dry, her flesh cold. So cold. As cold as the death that had almost claimed her.

Austin Leigh wasn’t her worry, but the words rang hollow. Her mother would have invited him into the house and provided him with shelter and warmth. Her mother’s innocent words flowed through her. “There are no strangers in this world, Loree. Only friends we haven’t yet met.”

Reaching deep down, she gathered her courage. Clutching the quilts, with the lantern swinging at her side, Loree darted to the barn, hopping over puddles, landing in others. She stumbled to a stop in the doorway of the barn. “Mr. Leigh?”

She raised the lantern. The shadows retreated slightly, hovering just beyond the lantern’s pale glow. With all the holes in the roof, the barn resembled a cavern filled with waterfalls. Bracing herself against the memories, she took a step. “Mr. Leigh?”

She had sold all her animals except for one cow and a few chickens. She heard his horse snort and saw it standing in the distant stall. Using the lantern to light her way, she peered in the stalls she passed until she reached the stallion, secured in the driest area of the barn. How could a man who placed his horse above himself be a murderer?

Holding the lantern higher, she gazed inside the stall. The horse nudged her shoulder. “Where is your owner?”

The animal shook his head.

“You’re a big help.” She turned at the sound of a low moan. The glow from the lantern fanned out to the opposite stall, revealing a man curled against the corner, lying on his side, knees drawn up, arms pressed in close against his body. She eased toward the stall. “Mr. Leigh, I brought you some quilts.”

His only response was a groan. Stepping inside the stall, she noticed that his clothes were soaked and he was visibly trembling. Hugging the quilts, she knelt beside him. Tiny rivulets of water ran down his face. He had removed the vest that he’d been wearing earlier and tucked it beneath his head. His drenched shirt hugged his body, outlined the curve of his spine, the narrowness of his back. “Mr. Leigh?”

Slowly he opened his eyes. “Miss Grant, I wouldn’t hurt you.”

“I realize that.”

“Do you?” He released a short laugh. “You don’t trust me because I’ve been in prison. A man makes choices in his life, and he’s gotta learn to live with them. But he doesn’t always know what those choices are gonna cost. It’d help if we knew the price before we made the decision.”

The anguish reflected on his face, limned by the lantern light, made her want to draw him within her arms, to comfort him as she had her brother when he was a boy. It had never occurred to her that he would be offended if she took his weapons. She wished she could have overlooked them, but he had worn the gun so easily. “I’m sorry.”

His lips curled into a sardonic smile. “You didn’t send me to prison. Did that to myself.” He raised up on an elbow and leaned toward her, the smile easing into oblivion. “You know the worst part? The loneliness. You ever get lonely, Miss Grant?”

“All the time,” she whispered as she set the lantern aside, shook out a quilt, and draped it over his back. Shaking as he was, the warmth of his body surprised her. She pressed her hand against his forehead. “My God, you’re hot. Are you ill?”

“A man didn’t think my five years in prison was a just punishment. He thought I should pay with my life. He cut me across my back. I think it might be festering.”

“We need to get you into the house so I can look at it.”

“Wouldn’t be … proper.”

Curiosity sparked within her, making her wonder at the circumstances that had caused a man who worried about her respectability to commit murder. People appeared to kill with little provocation: a card skimmed from the bottom of the deck instead of the top, a small half-truth that blossomed into an ugly lie.

“I thank you for your concern over my reputation, but no one’s around to notice.” Grabbing his arms, she struggled to get him to his feet. Groaning, he staggered forward before catching his balance. She picked up the lantern. “Lean on me,” she ordered.

“I’ll crush you.”

“I’m stronger than I look.”

He slung an arm over her shoulders, and she locked her knees into place.

“I’m heavier than I look,” he said, his voice low, but she almost thought she heard a smile hidden within it.

She slipped her arm around his waist. “Come on.”

The quilt fell from his shoulders, wedged between their bodies, and trailed in the mud as they trudged toward the house. The wind howled, slinging the stinging rain sideways. The porch eaves couldn’t protect them from the merciless storm. She let go of the man and released the latch on the door. The wind shoved the door open, nearly taking her arm with it. She pulled on Austin Leigh. “Get inside!”

He stumbled into the house. She followed him, slammed the door, and jammed the bolt into place, imagining she heard the wind howl its protest. Digger lifted his head, released a small whine, and settled back down to sleep.

Loree stared at the man standing in her house, wondering what in the world she thought she was going to do with him now. He looked ready to collapse at any moment. She set the lantern on the table and pulled out a chair. “Sit down.”

He obeyed, hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms around himself. She stepped behind him and cringed when she saw the brown stain on the back of his shirt. She might have noticed it earlier if he hadn’t been wearing a vest.

“Let’s get your shirt off.” With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned his shirt, pulled the ends free of his trousers, and worked the clinging shirt off his body. Then she studied the long jagged pus-filled gash. Red irritated flesh surrounded it, and she wondered briefly how he had managed to chop her wood. “I’m going to have to lance it. Let’s get you into bed.”

She helped him to his feet. He followed without complaint as she led him into her bedroom. “Can you finish undressing yourself?” He stood, enfolded in silence. She cradled his roughened bristled cheeks between her hands. Images of doing the same thing to her father just before she had kissed him good night as a child swamped her. “Listen to me. You have to get out of these wet clothes and into bed. Can you do that?”

He gave a short nod as though even that was too much effort.

“Good.” She hurried to the closet, pulled out a towel, and tossed it on the bed. “You can use that to dry off. I’m going to prepare some hot salt water to draw out the infection after I’ve lanced it. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She slipped out of the room, clicking the door closed.

Austin dropped onto the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, grimacing as the pain assaulted him. He should have realized his back was festering and sought out a doctor before now, but clearing his name had made everything else seem insignificant.

He struggled out of his soaked trousers, discarding them on the floor. Ignoring the towel, he crawled into the bed, drew the blankets up to his waist, and rolled onto his stomach. The next few minutes were going to be unpleasant, but at least he’d be in the company of a pretty lady.

A soft tap sounded against the door before it opened a crack. “Are you in bed?” she asked quietly.

He forced the word past his thick tongue. “Yep.”

She walked into the room and set the bowl and a knife on the bedside table. Frowning, she eased onto the bed and touched his cheek. “You didn’t dry yourself.”

He thought about telling her he was lucky to have made it to the bed, but he didn’t think it was worth the effort. She reached for the towel and gently patted the moisture from his face, the furrows in her brow deepening. The towel kept catching on the stubble covering his jaw, and he wished he’d taken the time to shave that morning. She leaned closer, the soft swell of her small breast pressing against his shoulder as she wrapped the towel around strands of his hair and squeezed out the rain. Closing his eyes, he inhaled her sweet scent and was reminded of the blue-flower-coated hills he’d been traveling.

Her touch was gentle, careful as though she thought she might hurt him. How many times in the past five years had he thought of Becky touching him like this? When he’d longed for a hot bath that he knew was years away, he’d think of taking it with her, drying her off afterward, standing still as she dried him. Then they would make love until dawn, slowly, leisurely, the way they should have done it the first time.

He opened his eyes, the burning behind them increasing, and he feared it had little to do with his fever. Tenderly, the woman touched his cheek, the concern in her eyes drawing the words from his ravaged heart. “Why didn’t she wait?”

She leaned closer until he saw the black rings that circled the gold of her eyes. “Who?”

“Becky. She promised to wait till I got out of prison … but she married Cameron.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing she’d left the rain on his face so his tears would have a place to hide.

Loree had never seen a man cry. She didn’t think this man usually gave in to tears. His fever, his pain were lowering walls she would have preferred remain in place. The woman inside her who would never know so deep a love ached for this man, and she found herself wishing that a woman she knew nothing about had waited for him.

He buried his face in the pillow. “Just do what you gotta do and be done with it,” he croaked.

She wondered if he realized she had taken the time to dry his face and hair so she could put off the unpleasant task that awaited her. She didn’t relish the thought of cutting into his flesh. She allowed her gaze to roam the length of his bare back. A few scars indicated he was no stranger to pain. She wondered what he had done to deserve the beating, if the woman who had abandoned him knew all that he had suffered.

Her gaze came to an abrupt halt where the sheet met his narrow hips. She swallowed hard. Beneath the sheet was nothing but flesh. She grabbed a quilt and draped it over the outline of his legs and buttocks, as though doing so would clothe him. She pressed her hands together to stop their trembling. “I’ll be as gentle as I can. I know it’s going to hurt, but try not to move.”

He bunched his fists around the pillow, the corded muscles of his back tightening. Taking a deep breath of fortitude, she picked up the knife and pricked his wound. He flinched. “I’m sorry,” she whispered repeatedly as she lanced the long gash. Then she took the cloth she had left to soak in the hot salt water and applied it to the injury.

She heard his breath hiss between his teeth. “I’m sorry, I know it hurts. My brother’s scrapes and cuts were forever festering. He’d holler so loud when Ma cleaned them. At least you don’t holler.”

She knew she was rambling, trying to distract herself from the task as much as him from the pain. His muscles were firm, and she knew he had worked hard in his life. But even with all the work, he managed to have the most beautiful hands she’d ever seen. Although his fingers were bunched in the sheets, she remembered noticing how long they were when she’d watched him eat earlier.

She couldn’t imagine that such handsome hands had killed. Instead she imagined them stroking the strings of a violin. Her father had possessed long fingers and with them he had created the most magical music.

No, a killer should not have beautiful hands. They should be ugly, like hers, with short stubby fingers, stained and roughened.