The Bounty Hunter's Bride. Sandra Steffen
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his lips and the gray pallor of his skin, she finally said, “Just my luck. I finally have an interesting man in my bed and he’s half-dead and God only knows what side of the law he’s on.”
Wondering what on earth he’d been doing out on a night like this, she tried to decide what to do. The fresh blood soaking into his shirt propelled her into action. No matter what he’d been doing, it looked as if it was up to her to save him.
She started with his shoulder. After applying another clean towel over the entry and exit wounds of what could only be the result of a bullet, she reached for a scissors. When he groaned in his sleep, she said, “I know, I know. Bear with me for a few more minutes until I get you out of these soggy clothes.”
With shaking hands, she cut his coat and shirt away from his wounded shoulder, painstakingly sliding the wet garments from his body. The sight of a man’s bare chest was nothing new to her. Her brothers traipsed around the house without their shirts most of the summer. The McCoy boys were thin and wiry, their chests as hairy as apes. Kane Slater’s chest was broad and far from hairy, his stomach muscles forming interesting ridges that disappeared beneath the waistband of faded jeans.
“You’re a strong one, aren’t you? Well, mister, it’s a good thing because I don’t think a weaker man would have made it this far. I don’t know if it was good luck or the good Lord, but either way it looks as if it’s up to me to take it from here.”
She doubted he could hear her, but talking calmed her nerves. “Yes, indeedy, you’re gonna feel a whole lot better when we get you out of these wet clothes.”
It took her five minutes and a considerable amount of huffing and puffing to remove his soggy cowboy boots, and five more to get him out of his jeans. She hesitated a moment after that, uncertain how to go about removing his underwear without injuring his pride.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she curled her fingers beneath the elastic waistband and tugged. Other than getting stuck here and there, the garment came off without too much trouble. For some reason, her breath caught in her throat and her mind turned a little fuzzy. Something strange was taking place deep inside her. It felt a little like the flutter of butterfly wings or daisy petals ruffling on a gentle breeze. If the sensation would have settled any higher, she would have blamed it on hunger. If this was hunger, it was a kind she’d never felt before.
The stranger groaned again. Dropping the last garment of clothing to the rough plank floor, she muttered, “You’re a wicked, wicked woman, Josie McCoy. This man has lost a lot of blood and is in terrible pain and all you can think about are the changes takin’ place in your own belly.”
Without another word, she covered him with a quilt she’d warmed by the stove. He sighed, and dang if something else didn’t shift inside her.
“There, there,” she murmured. “That’s it. Let the heat soak into you. See? It’s better without the wet clothes, isn’t it? I’m afraid I ruined your shirt and coat getting ’em off you, but everything else came off real smooth. And I didn’t linger any longer than absolutely necessary.” She glanced at the shape of his body covered by the quilt, and then at the clothes heaped on the floor, thinking that as long as she never had to swear to that on a stack of bibles she’d be okay.
She kept up a quiet vigil the next several hours, talking to him in a soft, reassuring voice. At least it reassured her. The bleeding had finally stopped, and although his color wasn’t very good, his breathing was deep and steady and he seemed to be resting more comfortably. Once every hour, she cradled his head in her arm and held a cup of cool mountain water to his lips. He drank several swallows before falling into a deep sleep once again.
Every now and then he mumbled in his sleep. Most of the time she couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she answered him anyway, telling him about people he couldn’t possibly know and a life he probably didn’t give two hoots about. She didn’t mention the butterfly wings that had fluttered deep in her stomach, but she wondered what they meant. Maybe it was excitement, or maybe it was an answer to her prayers.
A long time after midnight, his speech became less slurred and his gibberish began making more sense. Wringing out a washcloth over a pan of water she’d heated on the stove, she sat on the edge of the bed and leaned close to him. Placing one hand beside his pillow for balance, she smoothed the warm cloth over his face with long, gentle strokes.
“Warm breezes,” he murmured. “Big skies. It’s Montana, Ma. Good to be home.”
“Montana,” Josie whispered. “Home. Sleep now, Kane. Shh. Sleep.”
He pressed his face into her hand, sighing as if her touch was all he needed. Josie swore her heart climbed higher in her chest and slowly turned over.
Dazedly she found her feet. She lifted the cloth away from his cheek but she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze away from his face. His eyelashes were long—men had all the luck—his eyebrows were thick and straight and sandy brown in color. His nose was straight and broad, like the rest of his features. Sleeping, he looked less formidable, but not less complex. She tried to blame the changing rhythm of her beating heart on the wistfulness she’d heard in his voice. It might have worked if those butterfly wings hadn’t started fluttering stronger than ever.
She took one step away from the bed and then another. Still, she didn’t take her eyes off him. Placing one hand over her heart and the other low on her stomach, understanding dawned.
“So this is how it feels to be falling in love.”
Funny, she’d given up on the whole prospect of love, telling herself she would settle for honest to goodness attraction. She’d had no idea the two sensations were so closely related.
“Mister,” she said. “I mean, Kane, honey, it looks like this is our destiny. You’re probably gonna want to repay me for saving your life. It turns out this is your lucky day, because I know exactly what you can do to make us even.”
Catching sight of her grin in her reflection in the dark window, she set about getting ready for bed. She heated more water, donned a warm nightgown and thick wool socks. Finally, after tending the fire and checking on Kane one last time, she curled up on a wooden bench she’d padded with layers of blankets, and closed her eyes.
The wind was still blowing, but it had lost its roar. She could hear the crackle of the fire and the steady sound of Kane Slater’s breathing. Kane Slater. She liked the way his name curled through her mind, but she wondered what kind of a man she’d fallen in love with. After all, most men didn’t traipse through a blizzard with a hole in one shoulder. Kane had said he was no gentleman. What did that make him?
She pursed her lips, remembering how wistful his voice had sounded when he’d mentioned Montana and warm breezes and his mama. Surely a man who loved big sky country and his mother couldn’t be all bad, although she’d read somewhere that even men on death row had a soft spot in their hearts for their mothers. Her instincts told her she would never fall in love with someone who was evil. Those instincts had always been trustworthy before. But she just didn’t know. How could she? She’d never been in love before.
As far as she knew, he didn’t realize he was here. It was highly likely that he didn’t even know where here was. They hadn’t exactly met under normal circumstances. What did she really know of him? He’d staggered into the cabin, hurt and bleeding, only to fight against the very hands that were helping him. He’d insulted her lack of curves and admitted that he was no gentleman.
Okay, she knew he was strong and gruff and wounded. Pulling the scratchy blanket up around her neck, she sighed. Closing her eyes, she hoped Kane Slater had a gentle side.
“Where in the hell are my clothes?”
Kane’s bellow brought Josie awake so quickly her vision blurred. Groggy, she sat up and glanced out the window. No wonder she was a little addle minded. The sky was just beginning to turn gray, which meant she’d been sleeping on the hard bench for less than three hours.
“I asked you a question, dammit.”
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