Western Man (11 page)

As she helped him he flat, she was careful not to get her arm trapped again. She lifted the weight of her sleep-tousled hair away from the side of her face. “How did you manage to get out of bed without help?”

“As the old saying goes—it was as easy as falling out of bed. Nothing to it,” Ridge insisted dryly, his features smoothing out as the pain subsided. “What time is it? It looks like it must be close to five in the morning.”

Sharon glanced at the alarm clock on the table. “It will be in another ten minutes.”

“Good. I’m starved. How about fixing me some breakfast?” he asked.

She really wanted to crawl back into bed and get some of the sleep she’d missed, but she stifled a yawn. “I guess it’s time to be getting up,” she agreed wearily.

“I’ll have three fried eggs over easy, hash-browns, and a couple of rashers of bacon,” Ridge ordered. “Toast and jelly, too. Juice and milk and coffee.”

“You can have oatmeal with either applesauce or mashed bananas, or hot milk with toast,” she informed him. “The juice, milk, and coffee part of your order is okay.”

He gave her a not too pleased look. “How long do I have to eat this baby food?”

“Until you stop acting like one and start doing what you’re told.” The faintly barbed exchange was chasing away her tiredness. Mental alertness was always essential around Ridge.

“Is that right?” Behind the mockery of his vague smile there was a glint of amusement in his expression. “Is that why you mix my medicine into my food—the same way you would with a baby?”

“If the bootie fits—” Sharon murmured.

Ridge chuckled, although not too vigorously because of the pain in his ribs and stomach. “I’ll have oatmeal and applesauce. No pills, please—at least not for the time being. I don’t want to become dependent on them. If I do have to end up taking
them, I want them on the side with a glass of water.”

She smiled her approval. “You don’t like being called a baby, do you? I wouldn’t worry about it. All men are big babies, no matter how tough they act.”

“And where did you glean that bit of priceless information?” he said mockingly.

“From years of observing my father and my brother. The only difference between men and little boys is the size and the price of their toys,” she chimed. “They like being spoiled and having their own way.”

“What do women like?” Ridge gingerly crooked an arm under his head, elevating it a few inches and changing the angle of his view.

“Now that would be telling,” Sharon laughed.

“From my limited observation of the opposite sex—” he began to make his own guess, watching her with lazy interest, “—I’d say they enjoy mothering—which includes everything from spoiling to giving orders.”

“I don’t think I would say that,” she hedged against agreeing with his answer.

His mouth crooked into a half-smile. “Look at yourself. You like the feeling of power you have over me—telling me what I’m going to eat and giving me my medicine even if it involves tricking me. A part of you is glad that I’m laid up, because it makes me dependent on you. So you can be nice and loving—or stern and commanding.”

The more she thought about his observation, the
more accurate it sounded. Sharon wasn’t sure that she liked it. Even though she had accused him of liking to be waited on, she had never thought of herself as liking to wait on him.

“Maybe it’s true,” she conceded. “Any maybe it’s simply human nature—on both parts.”

“How come you don’t want to admit that you like telling me what to do because you know I’m in no condition to do anything about it?” Ridge challenged with a taunting gleam in his eyes.

“It’s definitely a unique feeling,” she admitted, although she was uncomfortable admitting to anything beyond that.

“And you like it?” he persisted.

“I suppose I do.” Her chin lifted a fraction of an inch, tilting to a challenging angle. “It’s nice to have the upper hand once in awhile.” Since he claimed she did in this instance, Sharon took advantage of her position. “Stay in bed and don’t try to get out by yourself while I’m fixing your breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His submissive reply was deliberately mocking, denying the obedience and respect implied by the words.

“I think I liked you better when you were Grumpy,” Sharon declared in a parting shot as she turned to leave the room.

“Just like a woman.” Ridge’s taunting voice trailed after. “You like to have the last word.”

A vague sense of irritation threaded through her nerves as Sharon swept into the hallway. There was always an element of truth in generalizations. So to
that degree, the things Ridge had said were true. It simply wasn’t the whole truth.

She had the feeling that she hadn’t handled the conversation very well. She had started out in control, but somewhere it had shifted into his hands. Shaking her head, Sharon realized it was silly to make a contest out of every conversation she had with Ridge. There was no need to feel she had to compete with him at every turn. There might be times when she needed to defend herself against one of his advances—and that was only because her heart was vulnerable where he was concerned, not because she was physically afraid of him.

After fixing his breakfast, Sharon added a second cup of freshly brewed coffee for herself to the tray and carried it to the bedroom. A few minutes were spent helping Ridge maneuver into a sitting position before she could arrange the tray on his lap. He noticed the second cup of coffee as she took it from the tray.

An eyebrow lifted in querying arch. “Aren’t you eating breakfast?”

“Not now. I’ll fix myself something after I’ve washed and dressed.” She sipped at the coffee, cupping the mug in both hands.

There was a slight narrowing of his eyes, although they continued to shine with a blue gleam. His glance flicked from the bowl of oatmeal on the tray to her face.

“I suppose I’m expected to eat this and, later, endure the aroma of bacon sizzling in the skillet.”
There was a hint of amusement behind the accusing statement.

“That would be cruel, wouldn’t it?” Sharon agreed with an impish look in her hazel eyes. Actually her menu plans for breakfast had consisted of dry cereal and toast, but she didn’t enlighten him at this stage.

“You know it would,” Ridge countered and picked up the spoon on his tray. It hovered just above the bowl of oatmeal while he cast another glance at her. “There are no knock out drops in here, are there?”

“None,” she promised and lightly crossed her heart, making a playful gesture of taking an oath. She turned from the bed and started for the door with her coffee cup.

“Where are you going?” His question came quickly, light with surprise at her intention to leave.

Sharon half-turned to glance at him. “I’m going to my room to get dressed.”

“You can do that later. Stay here and keep me company while I eat.” The request was accompanied by a crooked, coaxing smile that was almost impossible to resist.

When he chose to exercise it, Ridge was a master at the fine art of persuasion, relying on his potent charm rather than male dominance to get his way. Sharon was by no means immune to that brand of appeal. She was conscious of wavering, an invisible force in those glittering blue eyes pulling her back to the bed.

The first step was taken before she even realized it. The discovery seemed to jolt her. Sharon quickly altered her course, angling away from the bed toward the dresser where a radio sat.

“It’s just about time for the market reports,” she said. “You can listen to the radio while you eat your breakfast.” After she turned the radio on, she made sure it was tuned to the local Colorado station carrying the grain and livestock reports. The announcer’s voice spilled from the speaker, and Sharon turned to glance over her shoulder at Ridge. “Is that loud enough?”

“Yeah, but it isn’t much company.” There was a degree of wryness in the slanting line of his mouth. “A radio just talks; it doesn’t talk back.”

“That should make you happy,” Sharon replied dryly and headed again toward the hallway. “I’ll be back to pick up the tray a little later.”

Numerous washings and wearings had faded the jeans Sharon wore until they were a color between pale blue and blue-white. Her blouse was a blue and gray madras plaid, its bleeding pattern seeming to match the jeans. A pair of tortoise-shell bar-rettes pinned the sides of her toffee-brown hair away from her face, and a pair of dun-colored cowboy boots with run-down heels clad her feet. It was the usual garb she wore around the family home, and Sharon didn’t dress differently in Ridge’s house.

On her way to the kitchen to fix a light breakfast for herself, she swung by his room to pick up the tray. The radio was twanging out a country song when she entered. Ridge was reclining on the pillows supporting his back, a bare, muscled arm curled behind his head. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his mouth. Although the curling smoke screened his gaze, she felt his slowly scanning study.

“All finished?” Her airy question was an attempt to break the trace of tension she felt. Even before
Sharon reached for the tray, she had already noticed Ridge had eaten nearly every bit of his breakfast.

He lifted a hand to remove the cigarette from his mouth. “You can take it away.” With a turn of his head, he made sure he tapped the cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table. His glance ran sideways to continue its slightly narrowed inspection of her. “Those jeans don’t do anything for you.”

Sharon faltered at the unexpected, and uncomplimentary, remark. “Thanks a lot.” There was no humor in her laughing retort.

His mouth lifted at the corners but didn’t finish the movement in a smile. “If I hadn’t seen you in that silk robe and nightgown, I wouldn’t have known you had such a nice shape. It’s a pity you didn’t leave it on. It clung to your figure in all the right places.”

She hadn’t been aware he’d noticed, but very little escaped those keen blue eyes. “I could hardly run around all day in my night clothes,” she declared with a scoffing laugh that was on the weak side.

“I wouldn’t have objected in the least,” Ridge murmured dryly.

“Well, I would,” Sharon responded with a certain stiffness, a little unsettled by the physical interest he was expressing, and walked to the door with the tray of breakfast dishes. “I’m going to the kitchen and fix myself something to eat. Was there anything you needed before I do?”

There was a hesitation, as if Ridge considered a
possible answer and rejected it. “No,” he said finally. “But you can bring me another cup of coffee after you’ve finished.” “Okay.”

Taking Ridge at his word, Sharon ate her breakfast of corn flakes and toast, washed their combined dishes, then poured his second cup of coffee and took it to him. The disc jockey on the radio was giving the day’s weather forecast when she entered the room.

“—highs in the upper 60s today. Looks like summer’s just around the corner, folks,” the drawling voice concluded.

“It’s going to be a nice day,” Sharon observed after darting a glance at the radio. “Here’s your coffee.”

“I was beginning to think you forgot.” He shifted his position slightly and winced.

“I didn’t.” She set it on the table near the ashtray, conscious of his bare-chested form and the rusty darkness of his hair in her side vision.

When she turned to leave, Ridge inquired, “Where are you going now?” with a trace of exasperation in his voice.

She turned again to the bed, vaguely defensive. “I was going to make my bed and straighten up the house. Why?”

“When am I going to get my bath and a shave?” he asked, folding his arms across his middle, an action that exhibited both patience and challenge.

“What?” Sharon blinked at him.

“When are you going to give me my bath?”
Ridge repeated the question, a dancing light appearing in his blue eyes. Dumb struck for an instant, all Sharon could do was open her mouth. He mockingly chided her for wearing such a blank look. “All babies get a bath in the morning. I remember you telling me before breakfast that I was just an overgrown baby. So how about my bath?” When she continued to stare at him in disbelief, he reasoned, “If I were still in the hospital, a nurse would be giving me a bath.”

“You can’t be serious,” Sharon managed to breathe out shakily.

“I’d do it myself if I wasn’t so sore I can hardly stand to move,” he replied, again in a reasonable tone that conflicted with the taunting gleam in his eyes. He rubbed a hand across the bristly growth of a night’s beard. “I’d like to get cleaned up—and you’re here to look after me.”

It was extremely difficult to argue either with his logic or his request. As a matter of fact, Sharon couldn’t find any legitimate excuse to refuse him, although she searched wildly for a plausible reason.

Heat began to rise in her face at the thought of washing him all over. Sharon turned away from the bed so that Ridge wouldn’t see her reddening cheeks. If it was his intention to embarrass her, she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had succeeded.

“I’ll be back in a minute with a washbasin and some towels.” She cast the statement over her shoulder in a remarkably level voice and headed
quickly toward the private bath that adjoined his room.

The task of finding a washbasin and gathering washcloth, soap, and towels gave Sharon the necessary time to pull herself together. A degree of detachment was required and she struggled to achieve the necessary poise and quiet her jittery nerves.

Armed with a pair of thick bath towels, a basin full of soapy water, and a washcloth, Sharon emerged from the bathroom, appearing outwardly calm and, she hoped, professional. She ignored the faint smile that played around the corners of his mouth as she walked directly to the bed and placed the basin on the nightstand.

In her baby-sitting days, she’d had more than ample practice bathing toddlers and young tots. The trick was to pretend Ridge was the overgrown child she had claimed him to be.

“How do you want to go about this?” Ridge asked, not cooperating at all. “Do you want to begin at the bottom and work your way up? Or at the top and work your way down?”