Whirlwind Wedding (9 page)

His eyes grew large and Jericho chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“You can't keep doing this. Those outlaws could be close and you could be in danger.” Frustration edged her voice for the first time since Jericho had met her. “It does no good to ask you or bribe you or threaten you—go on to bed.”

“But—”

“Now. There will be no pie for you tonight.”

Andrew shoved his chair back and rose, his chin quivering. “I did the right thing by telling you.”

“Yes, you did, but you are still being punished. What if you were to come across those awful men?”

“I don't think they'd hurt me,” he mumbled.

“I think they would,” she retorted, before Jericho could ask why not.

Her face stern, she pointed to his room. “Go on now.”

He stayed put, defiance flashing in his eyes. For a long moment Jericho wondered if the boy would obey her.

“Now, Andrew.”

He finally stomped around her and went to his bedroom, slamming the door.

“I'll be checking on you every ten minutes, young man,” she called after him, then added under her breath, “And I think I'll nail your window shut.”

She walked to the cupboard and knelt to open a lower door, pulling out a hammer and a tin can of nails.

“Maybe you oughta hold up on that,” Jericho suggested gently.

She threw him a look that clearly told him to mind his own business.

He raised a hand in mock surrender. “I'm just sayin' you should give the boy a chance to do right on his own. Don't cage him in the room unless you have to.”

“I don't want him to get hurt. He won't do what I ask or even what's prudent.”

“It's his age. And you did say the pair of you haven't known each other that long.”

She considered her brother's closed door. “I suppose he did confess on his own.”

Jericho nodded, keeping to himself that he figured Andrew had only done so to keep Jericho from squealing.

She shook her head. “Very well. I can give him another chance.”

After returning the hammer and nails to the cupboard she moved to the table to clear Jericho's dishes. “That was considerate of you. Do you know much about children?”

“Not really.”

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then bent over the pie, knife in hand. “I can't believe I didn't know he was gone. I've been checking on him every night since I learned he was sneaking out. How could you hear him and I couldn't?”

“In all fairness, you were probably exhausted from nursing me.”

“If I'm so easy to get past, he'll never obey me.”

“Maybe he will in time.”

“I think you're being kind.” She set a piece of pie down in front of him and stepped over to get the coffeepot from the stove.

He took a bite of the warm cherries and flaky crust, then groaned in pleasure. “That is damn good.”

She looked startled. “Thank you.”

“Honey, if you threatened to make
me
go without this pie, I'd do whatever you wanted, wherever you wanted.”

She was only inches from him and froze in the act of pouring his coffee. Fragrant steam curled between them as she stared at him. Her deep blue eyes were filled with uncertainty.

His gaze traced the delicate line of her jaw, the wisps of raven hair that tickled her neck. Lingered on her soft lower lip. His body grew tight as desire clawed through him. Did she feel even one bit of what he felt?

Her gaze stayed fixed on his face. He wanted to reach up and touch her petal-smooth skin, release her hair from the chignon she'd worn all day. Kiss her.

She was the one who broke the invisible link between them, barely managing to right the coffeepot before the hot liquid spilled over the top of his cup. The same fear he'd seen last night in her eyes skittered across her face.

Now she would cut and run. He cursed his stupid mouth.

“I guess I've found your weakness then, Lieutenant. Now I just have to find Andrew's.” She laughed lightly, but he saw her swallow hard, as if the words were choked out of her.

A deep blush stained her neck as she moved back to the stove. He finished his pie slowly, wishing he hadn't brought that wariness back into her eyes. The sight ripped something deep inside him.

He pushed the feeling away, reminding himself that he didn't want her fear; he wanted her secrets. And he would do whatever was necessary, use whoever he had to, in order to get them.

F
or the next five days, Catherine told herself she was going to forget what had passed between her and Jericho in the kitchen. He had complimented her, that was all. It wasn't his words about her pie that had her replaying the incident over in her mind. It was how he'd said them, his voice low and raspy the way it had been when he'd first awoke. And the way he had looked at her—as if he wanted to gobble her up.

Heat streaked through her. Before, just the thought of a man's touch would knot her up for days, and sometimes set off a bad dream. But not with him. She didn't understand it.

Jericho had gained strength during the last week and was now able to sit for longer periods of time. He ate at the table with her and Andrew. When Riley and Davis Lee stopped by, they all sat on the porch. Dr. Butler had been out three times, pleased with the healing of his patient's thigh and wrist. He ordered plenty of rest and food, and cautioned that the wound in Jericho's thigh was not completely closed up.

Though Jericho moved slowly and leaned heavily on the crutch Davis Lee had brought a few days ago, his visits to the outhouse were accomplished alone. He had waved off Cather
ine's attempts to help him dress, even though it took him ten minutes just to get into his trousers. And half that time to get into his tall boots, extravagant compared to the ready-made work boots she'd seen on most men here.

She was skittish around him when she brought his meals or his basin of water each morning, and especially when she changed his dressing, but he didn't touch her. He didn't speak about what had happened—or not happened—but he didn't need to. In the heat of his silver gaze, she could still feel the wash of his breath on her lips, see the savage desire he'd felt.

She wondered what might have happened that night if she hadn't frozen like a, well, a virgin. Which she was. That moment, the space of a few heartbeats, had started something un-spooling inside her. She was restless, curious. All about him.

He had asked about her having a beau, and the memory brought a wry smile. If he only knew how she avoided men. When she could, anyway.

The question had churned up memories of another patient. One who had become infatuated with her, obsessed after he left the hospital. Ty Banding had followed her from the hospital one night and attacked her in an alley. She hadn't run at first because she knew the man and thought he'd just happened upon her. But she'd been wrong.

Jericho didn't frighten her in exactly that way. She sensed he wouldn't hurt her and yet he breached defenses no man ever had. She didn't know what to make of him half the time. He put distance between them, then looked at her with the hunger of a man who'd starved his whole life.

That unsettled her, but it also sent excitement curling through her.

She tried to ignore the sensation, but when he met her on the porch on Thursday afternoon, she felt unsteady and a trifle breathless, much to her dismay.

Despite the heat, Jericho had asked if they could work on his wrist outside, and Catherine agreed. As he carefully made his way from the house to the porch and the chair she had braced against the wall, she resisted the urge to support him. Touch him.

Instead, she checked to make sure the kerchief holding back her hair was secure. “Even though Dr. Butler said it was all right to begin on your wrist, we could wait another day.”

“No, I'm ready.” Impatience scored his words.

The occasional breeze and the shade provided by the porch would keep them from getting overheated. Despite the crutch and the cautious way Jericho lowered himself into the chair, he seemed dangerous to her, powerfully compelling in a way that made her nervously finger the buttons at the throat of her bodice. With Andrew in school each day, Catherine had become increasingly aware of being alone with Jericho. She had chosen now as their time to work because her brother would soon be home.

The whiskers that had shadowed Jericho's jaw when he first arrived were now grown into a dark beard, and he scrubbed his face. “I hope this treatment works on my hand, because I'm definitely going to want to shave pretty soon and I can't do it with my left.”

She had shaved dozens of men in the hospital. He would be no different, she told herself, managing to keep her voice level as she offered, “I can shave you if you want.”

His clear gray gaze measured her, drawing her nerves tight. He looked as if he wanted to say yes. “Maybe. Sometime.”

“Whenever you like.” She breathed a sigh of relief, dragging a small table from the far edge of the porch.

Thinking of him as only a patient was hard enough. She didn't want to know the feel of his solid jaw or the high slant of his cheekbones.

Pulling another straight-back chair from the kitchen, she turned it to face his and sat, her skirts brushing his leg. A black shirt molded his deep chest and broad shoulders. He'd left the four buttons undone, and Catherine swallowed at the sight of crisp black hair in the deep V there, the supple bronze of his chest. His long, denim-clad legs barely fit beneath the table. His boots were absent and she smiled at the sight of his bare feet.

Her gaze wandered to his lap. She remembered very well what had happened when she'd stitched his leg, and her stomach curled a little.

Jericho pointed to the set of checkers she had removed from the table and placed against the wall. “Do you play?”

“I haven't in a while.” She gently lifted his injured arm and laid it on the table. “You know not to expect this treatment to work immediately?”

“Yeah, I know.” His voice was gruff as he pushed his sleeve up to his elbow. “When do you think I might see some progress?”

“Let me look at it first.” She unwrapped the bandage that covered his forearm, and checked the bullet wound. The nickel-size hole in his wrist was healing nicely. “It looks good. I don't think you'll need a bandage here anymore. Can you make a fist?”

He tried but could only curl his fingers halfway toward his palm.

“It's all right,” she said. “We have to start somewhere.”

She smiled, hoping to encourage him, but his silver eyes just stared at her darkly.

“How long?” he asked.

“Everyone is different.”

“But you do think I'll be able to use it?”

“I can't say for sure, but yes, I do think so. Can you bend your wrist at all?”

He tried. “No.”

She slid her fingers gently down the inside of his arm to the wound. “Does that hurt?”

“It's tender right on my wrist bone, but nowhere else.”

“Good.” Curling her fist into his palm, she moved her thumb around the pad of his hand. “How about that?”

“Kinda tickles.” The way his voice dropped sent excitement shimmering across her nerves.

She glanced up at him. “But it's not sore?”

“Not when
you
touch it.”

She owed him the best care she could give, but when he said things like that, she had no idea how to respond. She felt giddy, which she had never felt with a man. But also wary. Always wary, she thought with a sigh.

She reached into her apron pocket for the bottle of liniment she had gotten from Dr. Butler. “I'm going to rub this into your wound, then into your arm and hand. Another patient told me this made him feel relaxed. I want you to tell me how it feels. If I hurt you, tell me right away.”

He nodded, his jaw tight, his eyes cool and distant.

“Promise?”

His gaze flicked to hers. “Promise.”

His silver eyes held hers in a way that sent warmth streaming through her. She'd never noticed that black rim around the outer part of his silver irises. Or how thick and black his eyelashes were. Or—

“You gonna put that stuff on me?”

“Yes.” Mercy, what had she been thinking? She poured a generous amount of ointment into her palm, then rubbed her hands together. Gently she took his forearm between her slick hands and started at his elbow, using her thumbs to gently massage her way to his wrist.

His last two fingers jerked in reflex and she paused. “Are you all right? I'm not hurting you?”

“Yes. No.”

She lifted her hands immediately.

He gave her a crooked grin. “One question at a time. Yes, I'm fine. No, you're not hurting me.”

“Okay.” She smiled and resumed her task.

She reached his wrist and lightened her touch, not pressing on the flesh or the muscle, just rubbing liniment lightly over the wound. She did the same to the heel of his palm, then increased the pressure when she reached the middle of his hand. She massaged the base of each finger, then started back up his arm.

He sniffed the air. “What's in that stuff?”

“Eucalyptus, cloves, camphor, wintergreen. The cloves help cut the sharpness of the eucalyptus and camphor. Is it too sweet smelling?”

“No.” He gave a small laugh. “But by the time we're done, I'll be as soft as you.”

That caused a little hitch in her breathing, but she kept working. She couldn't look at him. If she did, she might melt right in her chair. This time when she touched his wrist bone he drew in a sharp breath.

She stopped. “Sorry.”

“It's all right.” He nodded for her to continue.

She moved her thumbs farther up his arm. “How about here? Does this hurt?”

“No.”

She stroked up to his elbow, then back down again. Cupping his fist, she tried to use her thumb to massage the base of his fingers and heel of his palm, but his hand was too broad.

She grasped it in her left hand and used her right one to massage. “Is this hurting you?”

“No,” he said hoarsely.

“Are you sure? You'd tell me? There's no shame in it.”

“I'd tell you,” he said tightly.

She rubbed a few seconds more, until his hand was warm and relaxed in hers. “Now I'm going to try and fold your fingers into your palm. Don't be discouraged if we're not able to go farther than you did before, all right?”

His lips flattened and he nodded.

“We won't try to bend your wrist today. I don't want to do too much.” The tiny hairs on the back of his hand tickled her palm. She folded his fingers inward, but didn't try to push them as far as he had a while ago.

“I can do more,” he said.

“Not yet. It's tempting to want to rush, but you'll only hurt yourself if you do.”

His gaze slid over her entire body, lingered at her breasts before shifting toward town.

Bless the saints! “We must go slow.”

“All right.”

She focused on his hand. He tensed up and she feared she may have ruined the progress they had made. She massaged until he relaxed again, then she curled his fingers inward once more and straightened them.

“I've been wondering about something, Lieutenant.” She looked up to see his gaze move from her lips to her eyes.

“Uh-huh.”

She wished he wouldn't look at her like that. “Did you convince Andrew to confess the other night? When he sneaked out?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because even though he's slipped out before, he's never told me about it.”

“It's good he had a change of heart then.”

She searched Jericho's face, but could read nothing on his craggy features.
Had
he spoken to her brother, gotten Andrew
to tell her where he'd been? Since that night, her brother hadn't slipped out again. Yet.

“He made the noise you heard that night, didn't he? The night we—I mean you—”

“I think so.” Jericho cleared his throat. “I'm glad the boy has stayed around here. Davis Lee said there was another break-in at Haskell's two nights ago.”

“Yes, he told me yesterday when he stopped by.” Catherine felt tension fill the air between them.

“You sweet on him?”

She blinked, wondering at the dark flush on his neck. “I— I don't know.”

Was
she sweet on Davis Lee? Catherine liked the sheriff very much, but he didn't tease some deep secret inside her, didn't cause her palms to dampen with just a glance the way Jericho did.

That was due to fear, she told herself. What she felt for Davis Lee was calm and safe. That was better. Wasn't it? “I invited your cousins to dinner tomorrow night.”

“That was kind,” Jericho murmured, his voice curling around her.

She continued to work his hand a few more minutes, then poured more liniment. She massaged his fingers once more, then in between each one. Her hands slid over his hot flesh. Calluses roughened the skin of his index finger and the inside of his thumb. His hand was huge against hers, bronzed and weathered against the paleness of her skin.

He sat motionless, but Catherine felt a rigidness in his body, a leashed control.

He said in a raspy voice, “I'm wondering if we should try this on my leg.”

Shocked, she darted a glance at him and saw laughter in
his eyes. He was teasing her. “I'm sure Dr. Butler would be happy to oblige you,” she said smartly.

He chuckled.

Smiling, she slipped her fingers down to the heel of his hand once more, then over the wound, gently touching but not pressing. She had to lean forward as she moved up his forearm, her thumbs making small circles on the hard sinew.

She reached his elbow and her hands lingered. Situated as she was, her breasts rested perilously close to his hand. His heat pulsed around her, teasing her with the scents of liniment and male and soap. She was finished; she should release him.

Her hair caught on something and she reached up to gather it behind her shoulder.

“No. Wait.”

His voice rasped and her gaze froze on his face. She had never heard that tone before, certainly not from a man.

His rapt attention had her heart skipping a beat, and she realized his hand was in her hair. The words would barely pass through her tight throat as she asked. “Your fingers aren't caught, are they?”