The Cowboy Rescues a Bride (Cowboys of Chance Creek) (18 page)

A series of
bumps and jolts woke Ned and he cursed thickly at the stabs of pain in his leg. The break seemed to burn from the inside out. The rest of him shook helplessly with a cold that had seeped all the way to his bones.

“I’ll get the fire going. You’ll be warm soon.” He recognized the voice—Fila’s—but couldn’t answer her over the chattering of his teeth. He had no idea where he was, but they were inside—that was a ceiling above him, not tree boughs or open sky.

So why was it so damned cold?

Fila heaped something soft and warm over him, but not warm enough. Shudders consumed him. His throat ached with every swallow. His head ached almost as much as his leg, his lips were parched, and objects in the room around him seemed far away and close together all at once.

“Water?” His voice was thin and rough. She raced away. Came back. Tilted his head and lifted the glass to his lips. Most of its contents spilled over his chin but he got a taste down—not enough to soothe his raw, painful throat, though. What on earth had he done to himself?

He’d been on his back like this before—in another cabin. He searched his memory and dredged up the accident, his broken leg and the time he’d spent with Fila at his family’s place.

The cave-in.

Ned tried to sit up. Fila stopped him. “We’re okay now. We made it to Fitzgerald’s house.”

Ned sank back. Tried to remember how they’d gotten here. They’d walked part of the way, then Fila had gone ahead. Then…

He couldn’t recall what came next.

At least they’d made it to shelter. If they’d spent the night outside they would have been done for.

Cool fingers touched his cheek, then his forehead. “You’re burning up.” Fila chafed her hands, then pressed them to his skin again. Gave a small intake of breath. “Your leg. Maybe it’s infected?”

Covers shifted. She tugged down the loose sweatpants he wore over the splint. Ned groaned.

Another gasp. Fila let the breath out slowly. “You’ve rebroken it. I’ll have to set it again.”

Her words didn’t make sense. Ned’s world had diminished into a small circle of his aching head and the sharp, stabbing pain in his leg. Waves of nausea washed over him. He wanted to curl up, but he couldn’t move his body that way. He wanted to thrash, but every jostle of his leg threatened to send him unconscious. He was dimly aware of Fila racing off again and returning several minutes later. She fiddled with the splint on his leg and he nearly howled with pain, his breath coming in great, shuddering gasps.

“Ned? Can you hear me?”

“Hnnhhh.” He still couldn’t form any words. She held the glass to his lips again and he drank greedily, then swore and sputtered as the liquid burned a path down his throat. Alcohol.

“Drink more. It’s the only thing I have to dull the pain.”

Ned tried to avert his mouth but she was relentless and he did drink more. The liquid pooled inside him, warming his throat, his stomach, his limbs. His concentration slipped. He struggled awake again when she dragged the toboggan he still lay on toward the archway between the living room and the kitchen. When she got him into position, she maneuvered the plastic sled out from underneath him. “What the hell?” he slurred.

“It’s the only thing I can tie you to.” She tugged him close to the decorative post that defined one side of the entryway into the kitchen and Ned’s gaze darkened around the edges as she hauled him upright to sit against it. Fila went to fetch something else, came back again, and began to wrap rope around his chest and under his armpits. After several long moments, he realized she was wrapping it around the post, too.

She was tying him to it.

Why?

Pain swirled around him as she tightened the rope, until he was held so snugly against the pillar he could hardly move. “What’re…y’doin?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, crouching down beside him. “I have to do this. Otherwise, I don’t know what will happen.”

“What?” He could barely form the word. Could barely follow what she said.

She moved away from him down toward his feet, and wrapped her fingers around his ankle. In one quick movement she wrenched his leg straight.

Ned howled and passed out cold.

Again.

Fila just made
it to the toilet before she was violently ill. Luckily, there wasn’t much in her stomach to dispose of, and as soon as the nausea passed, she returned to Ned, re-splinting his leg quickly. She untied him, brought him back near the woodstove that was finally throwing some heat, and made as comfortable a pallet for him on the floor as she could. She heaped him with blankets and comforters and touched her hand to his brow. He was burning with fever, which scared her more than she wanted to admit. If an infection had set in at the break, she was in way over her head. She had no idea what to do to stop it.

First things first, she would search the cabin for medical supplies, food and anything else that might help. From the things Ned had said, Fitzgerald lived here year-round. He must have stockpiles of provisions that the Matheson cabin didn’t contain.

A quick run-through of the house found it amply stocked with food, oil for the lamps, and other household goods. The back porch covered a large pile of firewood and she could see more under a shed roof at the end of the backyard. She found a first aid kit in the bathroom, but it only contained the usual things. The medicine cabinet revealed some pain reliever, for which she was grateful, but no stockpile of antibiotics.

She didn’t find a phone, either. Ned had mentioned his neighbor had a satellite phone he used for emergencies, but he must have taken it with him when he decamped. It certainly wasn’t in the house. Once she’d searched everywhere she could think of, and checked on Ned again, Fila decided food was the next priority. When Ned woke up, she needed to make him eat. Canned soup would work for the short term, she decided, but when she found dried beans in the kitchen pantry and onions in a cold storage room in the basement of the cabin, she decided to start a homemade soup for later. She ate some of the canned soup herself without relish. She knew she had to keep her strength up through the coming days until someone came to rescue them, but the food was tasteless as it crossed her lips.

Ned could get very ill if he had an infection. Untreated, the wound could fester until it sent poison through his bloodstream and finally killed him. Fila’s chin wobbled and a tear slipped down her cheek. Surely someone would come for them soon. Wouldn’t they?

Maybe not soon enough. This was only their second night here and Ned’s father expected them to be gone for at least four days. That meant two more nights before someone came after them. She moved back into the living room to be closer to Ned. Touched his cheek again. She didn’t want to lose this interesting, infuriating man now that she’d just found him. She didn’t want to lose this friend who understood her better than all the others.

“Ned,” she whispered softly as she stroked a hand over his cheek again. She bent over and pressed a kiss against the side of his mouth.

‡
Chapter 21

N
ed’s eyes fluttered
open in time to see Fila withdraw. He felt like he’d been hammered with a blunt instrument all over his body. His tongue was thick and his throat hurt worse than if it had been attacked with sandpaper. But the pain in his leg has lessened to a dull roar. “Fila?”

“I’m here. You have to rest.”

“Water?”

She held a glass to his lips and he prayed it wasn’t whiskey this time. Then thought maybe it would be better if it was. Cold, clear water quenched his thirst a little, but it didn’t soothe the pain.

“Throat’s sore.”

She frowned and peered at him. “You have a fever. Can you swallow some food?”

Ned nodded. “Think so.”

She soon returned with soup, giving him a spoonful at a time. He swallowed it as best he could until his stomach threatened to rebel. When she gave him two pain reliever pills, he managed to choke them down with more water. Then he lay back and fought to keep his stomach from sending it all back up again.

“Bad.” He wanted to say they’d gotten themselves into a bad spot. She seemed to understand.

“It’s nearly nine o’clock. Two more nights until your family comes. We can do it.”

Ned figured he should tell her his family might wait a day or two more—he was known for going off on his own, so they might think he was staying away voluntarily—but he couldn’t form the words and besides, what was the use? They’d either come or they wouldn’t.

He drifted back into sleep.

The Mathesons would
come in two more days, wouldn’t they?

Maybe not. Ned was very independent. The Mathesons knew he was capable. They knew there’d be no cell phone reception at the cabin. They wouldn’t worry about him if he was a day or two late. Would they worry about her? Or would they think the two of them were having so much fun off on their own…

Fila couldn’t trace that thought to its end. If it was only a matter of being rescued because they’d flipped their truck they could wait here for weeks—there was plenty of food and fuel for the woodstove.

Ned wouldn’t last for weeks, though. He wasn’t just hurt—now he was sick, too. What if his fever climbed higher? What if the infection got worse?

Her fears increased as the night drew on and Ned began to shiver. His face shone with sweat but he jerked with violent shudders until she ran her hand up and down his arm and whispered soothing words. His fever was so high she was afraid to pile on any more blankets. Her voice and presence seemed to calm him, however. After a long moment’s hesitation, she slipped under the covers next to him and pressed herself close along his side.

“It’ll be all right,” she whispered near his ear. “You’re okay, Ned. It’ll be okay.”

She wasn’t sure how long she murmured to him. This close to the man, she could feel every muscle in his arm, see every contour of his jaw. Everything about him was so masculine, his features so much more pronounced than her own. She allowed herself to touch him gently. To stroke his arm and run her fingers over the stubble on his jaw. She traced the curve of his ear. And, when she was sure he wouldn’t wake, pressed her lips to his shoulder. Kissed him.

There was something primal about being so close to a man. Exploring his body. The contours of his muscles and the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed fascinated her. As the night wrapped them round in darkness, punctuated only by the light of the fire in the woodstove, Fila felt a kinship to all the women who’d gone before her, fearing for their loved ones, wrapping their arms around them, hoping the hours would hurry along to bring dawn around again.

He had to be all right. He had to get better. She’d give him one day. If his health didn’t improve, she’d walk the eighteen miles back out to the highway. She’d do whatever it took to save his life.

He’d never felt
so bad and so good all at the same time. Ned woke to find his entire body shaking with cold. His head still pounded and a sickening throb pulsed in his thigh. At the same time something soft and warm and womanly pressed up against his left side, clinging to his arm, her face snuggled against his bicep.

Fila. Sharing his bed.

He would have laughed at his predicament if his throat didn’t hurt so bad. Hurt, sick, in worse shape than he’d ever been in his life. Incapable of making a pass at the sweet woman at his side. The woman he wanted more than anything.

The woman who had been afraid of him only days before.

Had she been cold during the night, to snuggle in with him? Or had she thought he required her presence? Probably the latter, if he knew Fila. He shifted and she woke, her head lifting, brown eyes widening when she saw him looking back at her. She scrambled up and he immediately missed the comfort she’d given him.

“Are you better?” She pressed a hand to his forehead. Frowned. “You’re still too hot.”

“Can you blame me?” His words came out slurred. His throat was thick and swollen, tender as a newborn’s skin. Did he have strep? That would just be his luck. Poor Fila. He’d meant to keep her warm and snug as a bug while he shoveled the roof of his family’s cabin. Now she’d been put through the wringer to care for him.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled back the blankets and exposed his leg. Her fingers were soft and cool against his skin and she bit her lip as she examined the splint. “I think your leg is set correctly.”

He had a moment’s memory of being tied to the post. “That’s some bedside manner you have. I think I passed out.”

“You did pass out. A good thing, too.” Still, she was frowning as she set his covers back to rights. “I don’t know why you have a fever. Your leg doesn’t look like it’s infected.”

“Maybe I’m just sick.”

She plumped more pillows under his head, brought him some soup—homemade this time, he noted, even though his throat was so sore it burned on the way down. He made himself swallow several spoonfuls then shook his head when she tried to give him another one. “Can’t eat.”

“You have to.”

“Not hungry.”

That made her frown more. She gave him more pain medicine. Pulled his covers up to his chin.