Wolf Creek Wife. Penny Richards
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or not, she drew the line at removing them. Her inexperience might have led her into the trap Devon had set for her, but she didn’t intend to deliberately put herself in a pickle again. She pulled off Will’s boots and piled several quilts on top of him, tucking them beneath his sock-clad feet.
“Who are you?”
Once again the sound of his raspy voice caught her off guard. She met his questioning, fever-bright gaze. He had no remembrance of her telling him her name just moments before.
“Blythe Granville.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I found you unconscious in the woods and brought you back here out of the weather.”
He managed a hoarse laugh and turned his head aside when it turned into a fit of coughing. When the spell passed, he gave her a look of disdain. “I don’t feel so good, but I’ve never passed out in my life, lady.”
“Well,” she told him with a hint of asperity, “you did today.” Typical man. Unwilling to admit to the least sign of weakness.
“I’m thirsty.”
The fever. “I’ll get you some water.” She got to her feet and went to a long, tall table situated beneath a window to dip him a cup of water from the bucket. She carried it back to him, once more dropping to her knees.
“Do you need help sitting up?”
He looked at her as if she had lost her mind and snapped a surly, “Of course not.”
He did manage to push himself upright, but it looked as if it took every ounce of strength in him. He drank down all the water and handed her the cup. “I remember you.”
“Do you?”
“You’re that banker’s sister who fell for some man who lied about giving you a better life.”
Though Blythe had played the fool, she didn’t like the fact that Will Slade had reminded her of it, or that his opinion no doubt echoed that of most of the people in Wolf Creek. Why was it that everyone wanted to paint her as a bad person because she thought she’d fallen in love?
She held her tongue. “You need to rest, Mr. Slade. Do you have any sort of medicine that might help your cough and fever?”
He lowered himself back onto the feather pillow. “Ma brought me some willow bark...on the shelf.”
The words seemed forced from him, as if their short conversation and the mere drinking of a cup of water had worn him out. “Willow bark?”
“For tea.” He scraped a hand down his face and closed his eyes. “Brings down a fever. Whiskey and honey for the cough.”
Blythe had never heard of using willow bark tea for a fever, but he seemed familiar with it, so she’d give it a try. As for giving him whiskey...she was less sure about that. Wouldn’t it be risky to give anyone who’d once had a problem with alcohol any sort of liquor? Still, she supposed she’d have to take a chance on it. He certainly needed something.
She was about to ask where she could find the spirits, but when she glanced over at him, she saw that he was out again. She rummaged around until she found a jar of dark amber honey, complete with a hunk of honeycomb, a bottle of whiskey and two plain white mugs. The teakettle on the back of the stove was about half full and piping hot. Blythe poured the water over some willow bark to steep and more into a second thick mug. She stirred in a generous measure of whiskey and honey, added a bit of water from the bucket to cool it and carried both remedies to her patient.
He drank it down faster than she felt he should have, and by the time he finished it and the willow bark tea, she realized she was feeling a bit hungry, even though she’d had little appetite since leaving Boston. She’d find something in a bit. It was more important to finish doing what she could for the man resting on the floor.
She found a cloth, poured a basin of water and carried them to his side. For several moments she bathed his face and hands, hoping that the combination of the cool water and the tea would bring down his fever. He sighed in his sleep, as if to let her know her ministrations were nice.
Working over him gave Blythe ample opportunity to study his face from a woman’s point of view. Everything about him was uncompromisingly masculine and, from what little she’d observed, he did and said whatever he pleased, the opinions of others be hanged. Win claimed Will was a man’s man. Was that why Martha had left him for someone else? Had she found someone who would treat her more gently or perhaps cater to her every desire?
Blythe passed the cloth over his forehead and noticed the lines between his heavy eyebrows. Worry? Frowning into the sun? There were grooves in both cheeks that might be dimples when he smiled—if he ever smiled. She’d never seen him with anything but a scowl. What would a smile do to his somber, attractive features? Would his eyes crinkle at the corners? Was that why those little lines were there?
Though it was doubtful that she would ever allow herself to be tempted by a man again, there was no denying that he was quite nice-looking—if one liked their men big and burly and surly. She didn’t. She liked slender men with grace and elegance and charm.
An errant memory of Devon’s face filled her mind. When they’d first met, she believed she’d found everything she’d been longing for in a man. Not only was he handsome and fascinating, everything about him had given the impression of sophistication and refinement—from the immaculate cut of his clothing to his knowledge of how the elite world of society worked. Most important, he’d claimed to love her. She’d learned the hard way that his outward façade was as false as his declarations of love.
As usual, the mere thought of his lies and betrayal brought back the anger that had simmered just below the surface since she’d learned the truth about him. She removed the cloth from her patient’s forehead and tossed it into the wash basin, where it landed with a little splash.
Troubled without really understanding why, she pulled the quilts up to Will’s chin and went to find something to eat. She discovered a chunk of cheese and some slightly stale bread wrapped in a towel that would do nicely with a cup of tea. The dog stared at her with disapproval in his eyes and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth until she’d offered him a portion of her meal.
Her hunger sated, she stood in the center of the large kitchen area, her hands pressed against her aching back. She’d done all she could for her patient at the moment. Weary beyond words, she carried a footstool from the parlor and set it next to the large rocking chair near both the fire and her patient. She found another woolen blanket in a small bedroom, wrapped herself in it and settled into the chair.
She was asleep in minutes.
* * *
Will woke at some time during the night. He felt some better. He turned onto his side and realized that he was on the floor. What on earth was he doing on the floor? In a bit of a panic, he raised himself to one elbow and looked around the room. The first thing to snag his attention was a drift of white eyelet trim that was attached to... Was that a woman’s petticoat?
His gaze moved upward. An unfamiliar woman was sleeping in the rocking chair. Why was he on the floor and why was an unknown woman in his chair...in his house? What was going on? He thought about waking her to ask, but with his head pounding and his breathing rattling around in his chest, the last thing he wanted was any kind of confrontation or conversation. All he wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t recall ever being so sick, and he didn’t like the helpless feeling that made it hard to even move. He lay back down and continued staring at her. Even that was a strain.
On closer examination, she looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to the face. She looked young and innocent sitting there with her head lolled over to the side. Even as sick as he was, it was obvious that she was really pretty with her slightly curly brown hair tumbling over her shoulders and her eyelashes casting shadows onto her face. Despite the fact that she wasn’t wearing a skirt and her feet were bare except for her white stockings, she sure didn’t look like the