Nevada Nights (2 page)

Wide-eyed, she faced him. Rage glittered in her eyes like hard emerald chips. To the stranger, she looked like some sort of wild creature, with her tangled hair spilling about her face and shoulders, her torn sleeve, still tightly fastened at the wrist, flapping loosely from wrist to shoulder and gaping open along one side.

"You keep your filthy hands off her! Don’t you touch her again!" Cameron shrieked.

He stared at her in astonishment. "Are you crazy? She’s bleeding! Can’t you see? I’ve got to help her."

"You won’t touch her! Don’t put your hands on her. I’ll take care of Sister," Cameron hissed.

He stared at her a moment longer, then loosened his grip on her wrists and rolled aside. Instantly she turned her back on him and knelt at Sister’s side.

The front of Sister Leona’s habit and the entire sleeve were soaked with blood. Her face was white from the pain. Gently, Cameron tore away the rest of her bodice and gasped at the huge purple welt which ran the length of her shoulder and arm. The jagged cut was deep and bleeding profusely. A sudden wave of sickness washed over Cameron.

The stranger walked up and knelt beside them. He was naked to the waist. He handed Cameron his shirt, and she realized he had soaked it in a nearby stream.

"Here," he said, more gently now. "Cleanse the wound the best way you can."

"Thank you."

He watched in silence, admiring the way the girl handled herself. He had noticed the pallor when she first caught sight of the wound. But she had control of herself now. She would be able to do what she had to. He understood her need to protect the nun’s sense of modesty. If it weren’t so serious, it would be laughable.

He stood and glanced down at the wild tangle of red-gold hair. When he had first spotted the slim figure on the horse, he had thought it was a young boy. Close up, despite the ill-fitting clothes, he realized she was an extraordinarily beautiful girl.

"We’ll need a wagon," he said abruptly. "Where’s the nearest place?"

Without looking up, she replied, "The convent." She motioned with her head. "Over the hill back there, and then head west for about five miles."

He left without another word. Cameron worked a long time cleaning the wounds. Tearing Sister Leona’s heavy muslin petticoat into strips, she applied a tourniquet to stem the flow of blood.

Sister Leona’s eyes fluttered open, and she moaned.

"You’re going to be all right, Sister Leona," Cameron whispered. "A man has gone to the convent for the wagon. He should be here soon."

She offered a silent prayer that he would hurry. She couldn’t bear to see Sister so deathly pale.

When at last she heard the creak of the wagon’s wheels, relief flooded through her. As the stranger walked up, Cameron discreetly placed the remnants of torn petticoat across Sister’s exposed skin. He bent and lifted her large frame as easily as though she were a feather. Running ahead of them, Cameron discovered layers of soft quilts and down pillows strewn in the back of the wagon. He set her down gently in the mounds of quilts and settled the pillows closely around her. As Cameron made a move to climb in with Sister, he clamped his hand tightly around her wrist, sending a spasm of shock through her.

"Do you know how to drive this thing, girl?" He watched her through narrowed eyes.

"Yes, but—"

Gruffly, he interrupted. "I know you don’t want me tending her. But she may be bleeding inside. She can’t be jarred. Now, if you drive slowly, I’ll hold these pillows carefully about her so she isn’t caused any more pain than is necessary."

He stared at the girl, who paused, undecided.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," she said resolutely. She turned and climbed to the driver’s seat. Picking up the reins, she called over her shoulder, "Tell me when you’re ready."

"Just let me tie up these horses to the back of the wagon," he muttered.

In a few minutes he climbed in beside Sister Leona, wrapped her gently in the pillows, then said, "All right. Slow and easy."

Those few miles back to the convent were the longest Cameron had ever known.

Dear God
, she prayed.
Please don’t let her die. She is the dearest, sweetest sister. And all of this happened because I selfishly wanted to ride today. Please keep her safe.

Several times Cameron turned and stared at the stranger. His naked torso glistened with sweat. His brows were drawn together in a frown, his mouth a thin, taut line of concentration. Though the heavy form of the nun wrapped in all those pillows must have sorely strained his muscles, he never relaxed his grip or flexed his arms for even a moment.

When at last the wagon entered the gates of the convent walls, the late evening sun had cast long fingers of gold across the slate roofs and gleaming cross of the chapel.

A dozen sisters, with Mother Superior and the doctor from town in the lead, hurried toward the wagon. When the horse halted, the stranger eased his hold on the still form of Sister Leona, and stiffly, he climbed down. Cameron hurried to stand beside the wagon as the doctor knelt down next to Sister and began a brisk examination. He nodded in satisfaction and signaled for the stranger to carry her inside. The rest of the subdued crowd trailed behind.

The sisters, knowing they could do nothing for Sister Leona at the moment, moved off to find chores to occupy their minds until they could hear the doctor’s verdict. Many of the sisters hurried to the chapel, where they would keep their silent, prayerful vigil.

Cameron couldn’t tear herself away from the room. She stood just outside the door, watching as the stranger eased Sister gently onto her bed. By the time he had walked to the door, Reverend Mother and the doctor had moved to either side of the bed. The stranger closed the door softly and turned toward Cameron.

In a hushed voice, she asked, "Do you think she’ll be all right?"

She didn’t breathe as she waited for his reply.

He stared at her a long moment. Then he touched her arm and said, "You’re bleeding. Did you know? This should be looked after."

The girl stared down at her arm in astonishment. Blood smeared her shirt and britches. She felt no pain, only warmth where his hand was touching her skin.

"It’s nothing." She shrugged. "What about Sister Leona?"

"We’ll know soon enough." He glanced around. "Where is the kitchen?"

She pointed behind her. "Down the hall."

He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her in that direction. "Come on."

Cameron was too exhausted to argue. In the kitchen, he filled a pan with hot water from the kettle and rummaged in drawers until he found a towel.

"Sit," he ordered.

She sat on a kitchen chair and watched dumbly as he began washing her bloody arm.

The man was tall—so tall she had to tip her head back to see his face. His hair was dark and thick and curled slightly around his forehead and neck. As he bent over her, it spilled across his forehead in a shaft of black silk. His eyes were dark, nearly black, with long sooty lashes. His jaw was firm, and he had an air of authority about him, as though he were accustomed to giving orders and having them followed without question.

Cameron had never been this close to a man before. She had lived all her life in a world of subdued, overly modest women. And this man was still naked to the waist. She stared fascinated at his powerful shoulders, the muscles of his arms flexing and unflexing as he moved. Her senses were assaulted by the strange, raw, masculine scent of him, which oddly stirred her blood.

What must it be like to be held in those arms?
she wondered. Blushing furiously at her thoughts, she tore her gaze away from his arms.

She stared at his hands, so large that he could easily hold both of hers in one of his. Then she noticed the scar on his left wrist. It was large, knotted almost like a cord, and encircled the wrist like a bracelet. He must have nearly severed his hand to have sustained such a scar. Without realizing it, she reached out her hand to touch it.

"An old wound," he said, his voice so near her ear that she jumped.

He paused a moment, then continued washing her wounds. As he leaned across the table to reach a dry towel, his hand brushed her hair, causing a ripple of new sensations along her spine.

Her hair, he realized, smelled of bayberry soap. Her flawless skin glowed with health. Her cheeks were kissed by the sun.

She glanced up at him and found, to her dismay, that he was staring boldly down at her face. She lowered her eyes and felt the heat burning her cheeks. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.

Recognizing her confusion, he began to speak softly to calm her.

"What is your name?"

"Cammy—short for Cameron," she said haltingly.

"Are you going to become a nun, Cammy, short for Cameron?" he asked teasingly.

She grinned at his humor. "No. I just live here."

"You live here. Why?"

"My father sent me here when I was born. For my safety, Reverend Mother says. And I’ve been here ever since."

He cocked his head to one side and regarded her. Was it her imagination, or had he stiffened slightly when she mentioned safety? There was a moment of awkward silence.

Then she asked, "And what is your name?"

"Michael. Michael Gray."

She licked her dry lips and wondered how much longer she could endure being so close to this overpowering man.

His deep voice forced her thoughts back to mundane things, and soon his simple questions had her caught up in an animated conversation.

"How did your island get its name?" The question was intended to soothe her tension.

She smiled, recalling the history lessons of her youth. "It’s named for the reeds growing in the area, which are used for matches.
Allumette
means match in French."

His lips quirked in a half-smile, as if he may have already known this.

"And did you know that Champlain actually traveled as far as Allumette Island in 1613?"

He nodded. "Interesting." All the while, his gaze roamed appreciatively over her animated features.

At ease now, she prattled on. "Did you know we’re in the path of the ice age? Reverend Mother said that upstream from Pembroke and below Des Joachims is one of the few remaining valleys resulting from the stresses of that era. She saw a plateau of granite which juts hundreds of feet above the valley floor. She said it’s—spectacular." She hesitated, realizing how silly she must sound to this stranger.

"Yes. I’ve seen it. And it is spectacular." His lazy smile caused her heart to tumble wildly in her chest. "Haven’t you seen it?"

Cameron shook her head, causing her silken hair to drift softly about her neck and shoulders. "I’ve never left this island," she admitted softly.

"Never? This little strip of land is all you’ve seen?" He studied her intently, loving the color which flooded her cheeks at his scrutiny. "There’s a big world out there to explore someday."

"Someday," she echoed wistfully.

Reverend Mother scurried into the kitchen and skidded to a stop at the sight of the two of them. Then she held up a rough, homespun shirt, which she had obviously borrowed from one of the stable hands.

"This will have to do for now, Mr. Gray. If you will accept our hospitality for the night, we will have your own clothes in order by tomorrow."

"Thank you," he said. "This is fine."

Cameron watched in fascination as he slipped on the shirt and stretched it over the taut muscles of his shoulders and chest, quickly tucking it into the waistband of his pants. When Cameron saw Reverend Mother’s narrowed eyes boring into hers, she forced herself to look away.

"The doctor is finished with Sister Leona," Reverend Mother said. "She would like to see both of you before the sedative he gave her takes effect."

Reverend Mother walked to the doorway, and Cameron and Michael quickly followed. Walking behind Reverend Mother into Sister Leona’s room, Cameron stopped abruptly. Sister Leona had always been the strongest woman in the convent. Her erect carriage and solid, sturdy build gave the impression of a person completely in control. This stranger lying in the bed frightened Cameron. The removal of her headdress, revealing short, gray hair curling slightly about a pale face, made her appear older and more vulnerable, more human. Her breathing was even, as though she were asleep. Her arm was swathed in thick dressings.

"Sister Leona, Cameron and the young man are here," whispered Reverend Mother.

Turning to Cameron, Reverend Mother admonished, "You have only a few minutes with her. She needs her rest." Turning, she softly closed the door as she left.

Sister Leona’s eyelids fluttered open, and she turned a weak smile on Cameron.

Relief and guilt flooded through Cameron. She flung herself on her knees at the bedside.

"Oh, Sister Leona! I’m so sorry. Please forgive me," she sobbed.

"Here, here, child. Whatever are you sorry for?"

"For coaxing you to ride with me. I knew you weren’t up to it. It was so selfish of me." A tear coursed down her cheek as she pressed her hand over Sister Leona’s.