Wildfire in His Arms (18 page)

B
Y THE TIME THEY
reached Degan's room, his anger was gone, completely roped back in. Max wondered
how
he could turn it off so quickly. Well, it was probably still there, he just wasn't going to let her see it anymore. The man was surprising her too much today. He needed to cut it out or explain himself better. Or was he just so used to being alone that he'd forgotten how to act when he wasn't? But she shouldn't complain. If she was going to be traveling with him, it might as well be interesting. Predictable it wouldn't be.

Max got as comfortable as she could get with what felt like four bee stings on her back and one on the back of her left arm. She draped her coat and vest over one of the two chairs and dropped her belts, socks, and boots on the floor next to it. She wished she could take off her shirt so it wouldn't keep irritating her stings, but she couldn't do that with Degan in the room.

The room's single window was open and faced the front of the hotel, though not much noise was coming through it. Max didn't bother to check if it was an avenue for escape. She would wait for a better opportunity than jumping from a second-story window and breaking her neck.

The room had a bureau and a small desk where the other dining chair was pulled up to, but no other comfortable furniture. It definitely wasn't as nicely appointed as his last hotel. The shaving stand and tub in the corner didn't even have a screen, but then maybe the room wasn't meant for two despite the big bed.

But she glanced at the double bed with a smile. She could definitely get used to Degan's being finicky if it meant she could sleep in a bed every night. But where was he going to sleep tonight?

The food arrived before Degan finished lighting the lamps in the room. Chicken pies filled the plates, which were set on the small dining table along with a basket of biscuits and a crock of butter.

Another waiter came in with a bottle of wine. “Compliments of the hotel, sir, and apologies from the cook. If the fish didn't go bad, we would have had more to offer.”

Max reached for the bottle. “I haven't had wine in I can't remember how long.”

Degan was removing his jacket to hang it in the wardrobe. “Are you sure you want to drink that?”

She grinned and poured some into the empty glasses on the table. “Unbend a little, fancy man. We're not going anywhere else tonight, right? No gunfights on the schedule? Just to bed?”

He didn't reply as he joined her at the table. Only after she took a sip of the wine did she realize he might have read more into her chatter than she'd meant him to, which led her to blurt out, “I didn't mean
together
!”

He rolled his eyes. He
was
unbending. He just didn't drink any of the wine. She wasn't surprised. Degan wouldn't take the chance of hampering his reflexes for any reason when those reflexes kept him alive. Which probably meant he hadn't enjoyed a good round of intoxication in years. She had. Rotgut was easy to come by, and loneliness was a good prompt to sneak around to the back of a saloon to get some. But she didn't really want the wine tonight, either. As tired as she was, it might put her to sleep before she finished eating.

“Tell me about your family.”

She glanced at him, her fork pausing midway to her mouth. “Is it mandatory with you to converse while eating? Does it help your digestion or something?”

“You are the most vocal female I've ever met and now you're objecting to conversation?”

“Hell no, I was just wondering why the only time you're open to it is when you're eating something.”

“Only when I have a companion sharing the meal—unlike someone who admits she talks to herself.”

She laughed at his joke whether he meant it to be one or not. “Your mama teach you that simple courtesy?”

“It doesn't need to be taught when it's how you're raised. Your family didn't eat in silence, did they?”

“My brother and I were usually fighting at the table. That was a lot of chatter.” She chuckled.

“So you didn't get along with your brother?”

“Oh, I did—mostly. But I was a bossy, know-it-all older sister who liked to brag about my accomplishments. He was a jealous younger sibling who didn't have any yet. I love him to pieces, but he knew how to rile my temper. I wouldn't call that an accomplishment, but he was good at it.”

“Fighting at the dinner table is usually forbidden.”

She laughed. “Says who? But I was talking about when Johnny and I were kids. Just typical childish antics. We wouldn't squabble now that we're older—if I were home.”

She wasn't going to succumb to melancholy over how much she missed her brother, but she did fall silent. It might have showed on her face, though, because Degan stopped eating and gazed at her.

Out of the blue, he said, “I knew a pig named Max.”

Her brows snapped together. “You calling me a pig?”

“A lady befriended it and named it Maximilian, though she merely called it Max. No, I wasn't calling you anything.”

She continued eating. After a few mouthfuls her huff was gone. “A pet pig, huh? I shouldn't be surprised. I fancied a rooster, brought him the best seeds, didn't mind when he woke me earlier than I wanted to get up. I cheered for him every time he challenged the older rooster we had and consoled him every time he lost. But he died in one of those fights. I cried like a baby and almost shot the old bird that bested him, but Gran stopped me and she was right. It's what roosters do and there can only be one boss. But I never got close to another animal after that, except for Noble. I don't like losing anything or anyone I get attached to.”

“So you grew up on a farm?”

“A chicken farm. My grandparents built their house away from town, so Carl Bingham wasn't their landlord. They asked his permission first, since he did pretty much own the whole town, and he gave it. But the town grew in our direction, so maybe Carl was sorry he let them build there.”

There was another knock at the door. “That should be your medicine.” Degan got up to open the door. He took the small bottle the hotel worker handed to him, then locked the door for the night. “If you've had enough to eat, we should put this lotion on your welts.”

Max stood up and held out her hand. “I can do it myself.”

“Actually, you can't. So come here and lie down.”

She stared at the bed. She didn't move.

He added patiently, “I know you are used to fending for yourself, but this is something you need help with, since you can't reach the middle of your back. And while I'm quite capable of wrestling you to the bed—”

“I know you are! You did that this morning,” Max couldn't help pointing out, then immediately regretted reminding him of that embarrassing encounter.

“As I recall, you were taking a few swings at me.”

She thought she saw his lips curve upward for a moment, but she wasn't sure. “Well, you deserved it,” she said, blushing.

“I imagine those bee stings are burning pretty badly by now. Is there really any reason for you not to accept my help graciously?”

Put that way, she would appear utterly childish if she refused. And the stings were bothering her. She moved to the bed, lifting the back of her shirt before she lay down on her stomach and waited tensely for his touch. She couldn't believe she was doing this. She couldn't believe
he
was doing this. Degan's being nice to her felt—wrong.

“Remove the shirt.”

All sorts of things raced through her mind, but none of them convinced her to take off her shirt for him. “No,” she said adamantly.

He actually sighed. “I'm not joking. Your shirt will wipe off the lotion I'm going to put on you. You can do without it for one night to give your welts a chance to heal.”

Did that have to sound so logical?

“Besides, this is a hotel, not a brothel.”

Did he have to bring that up again?!

“I've already seen your back, all of it, when I let that bee escape.”

Max gritted her teeth. Was he going to remind that he'd already seen her breasts, too?

“It's a very nice back, but I don't have any designs on it other than to put this lotion on it.”

“All right! Just put the lotion on my back.” She wiggled out of the shirt without sitting up. Degan helped to get it off her wrists, tossing it aside, before he sat down on the bed next to her. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, preparing herself for the pain that would come when he rubbed the lotion on the stings. But when he touched her, she felt a cooling, soothing sensation, nothing at all painful. She still couldn't relax though, not with him so close and his fingers lightly rubbing her back.

“Where were your parents while you were growing up?”

She felt he was trying to distract her. She didn't think it would work. Nothing would when his touch felt so good, but she answered anyway. “My ma died birthing Johnny so I don't remember her at all. Pa took us to live with his folks in Texas, so I'd have a woman raising me. He didn't stick around though. A few years later he left and was never heard from again. He'd always said the sea was calling him.”

“So you don't know if he's alive or dead?”

“No, he died at sea. A package containing his belongings was delivered with a note from a friend of his, saying that he'd drowned.” She tsked. “Had such a hankering to be a sailor, but he didn't know how to swim. That was a few months before Grandpa died, which was when I took over hunting and caring for my gran.”

“She's an invalid?”

“No, she's a tough old girl, but I don't want her living alone or doing more'n she has to. Now it's your turn, fancy man.”

“I wish it was—but I didn't get stung.”

That's not what she'd meant, but she smiled to herself at the way he avoided saying anything about himself. Luxuriating in the delicious sensations of having her pain relieved by the gentle swirling of his fingertips on her back, her neck, her arm, she was too sleepy and too content to insist he divulge something about himself. She was almost asleep when she thought she felt the brush of lips on her shoulder. . . .

“T
HIS TALL
,”
DEGAN TOLD
the shopkeeper, holding his hand to his upper chest. “And skinny.”

“It would be better if you brought the boy in so he could try the shirt on.”

“No, it wouldn't. Just see if you have anything that will fit someone that size.”

Degan waited while the shopkeeper disappeared into the back of his shop. A woman came in with a little girl. When the child pointed at the leg shackles Degan had draped around his neck, the woman turned around and walked back out.

Degan removed the shackles and set them on the counter. If the shopkeeper came back empty-handed, Degan could at least get a sack from him for the iron restraints. Not that he was feeling guilty for asking the sheriff for the shackles when he'd picked up his reward money for Kid Cade. He probably wouldn't need them, at least not for Max. Then again, he might. But she needed a clean shirt today so her welts wouldn't get infected, and he wasn't sure if she had one.

Degan finished his business in Butte, which included sending a telegram to John to inform him of the Kid's capture, and returned to the hotel. Max had still been sleeping when he'd left, and even though it was still early in the morning, she could be gone by now. He'd left it to fate, tying only one of her wrists to the headboard and, to avoid disturbing her, not as tightly as he should have.

He hadn't gotten much sleep with her next to him, not this time. Not after seeing her in those revealing clothes at the brothel and touching her breasts. Not after riding with her in his lap. And last night, hearing her sighs of pleasure as he'd rubbed the lotion on her back. He couldn't deny how much he'd enjoyed that. He'd let down his guard because she'd been wounded and vulnerable, but it couldn't happen again.