The Horseman's Bride. Elizabeth Lane
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bottom of the porch steps. Tanner’s breath rasped with effort as he dragged his feet up each one. “Tell you what, Miss Clara Seavers. If I don’t pull through, Galahad’s yours. Can’t think of a better life for him than Colorado grass and a steady supply of willing ladies.”
His voice had begun to slur. Clara eased him through the front door. If he passed out again, there was no way she’d be able to get him into bed. “You’d better not say that,” she joked feebly. “I might be tempted to get a gun and shoot you.”
“I have no doubt you’d pull the trigger without even blinking.” His voice seemed to float out of his body. His boots stumbled across the floor.
“Just a few more steps. Stay with me, Tanner.” By now she was supporting much of his weight. Sweat dripped down her body, soaking through her underclothes. Thankfully she’d left the door to the sewing room open. Crowding close, they staggered to the foot of the bed.
“Hold on, we—Oh!” Clara gasped as Tanner toppled like a felled tree onto the bed. With no time to pull away, she landed flat on her back with his body on top of her.
She pushed and squirmed, trying to wriggle free. Her frenetic motions produced startling waves of pleasure in her lower body—not what she ought to be feeling at a time like this. Having grown up around ranch animals, she knew about sex, and she knew the nature of the hard ridge inside Tanner’s jeans. He was too sick to be dangerous, she told herself. He was just acting on instinct. Her reaction, on the other hand, was much harder to explain. All she knew was that she was rapidly losing control. Whatever was happening, it had to stop. Now.
“Blast it, Tanner, move!” Working her hands free, she hooked his jaw and lifted his head. His eyelids twitched and opened. His first expression was a puzzled scowl. Then his face transformed into a drowsy grin.
“I don’t know how this happened, but I’m not a man to refuse an invitation,” he murmured, settling himself more firmly between her legs.
“Get … off … me!” She slapped him hard enough to smart. With a rough chuckle he braced his good arm, raising his body enough for her to roll free. Clara tumbled off the bed and scrambled to her feet. “I can’t believe my grandma thought you were a gentleman!” she huffed.
“Don’t look at me. You’re the one who started this.”
“If you weren’t so sick I’d slap you again,” Clara retorted. “Turn over so I can take your boots off. Then I’ll need to look at your wound.”
Shifting on the bed, he turned over, stretched out his legs and lay still while Clara worked the boots off his feet. “It looked fine when your grandmother changed the dressing this morning.”
“Well, something’s going on.” Clara tossed the boots under the bed. “How long have you had a fever?”
“Not sure.” He was lying back on the pillow now, looking exhausted. “Didn’t feel too bad before she left.”
“So you thought you’d just saddle up and go.”
Tanner managed a feeble shrug. He was drifting away from her again. Working in haste now, Clara attacked the buttons of his clean shirt, peeling back the upper part to reveal the fresh bandage her grandmother had laid in place earlier. Tanner watched her with heavy-lidded eyes as she untied the wrappings and lifted away the dressing. This morning Mary hadn’t bothered with the poultice. The wound appeared clean and free of infection.
“How does it look?” His voice slurred slightly.
“Fine on the surface. But that blade went in deep. The germs could have gotten into your bloodstream.”
His mouthed response—likely a curse—trailed off as his eyes closed. Clara laid a cautious hand on his forehead. His skin was burning.
Clara replaced the dressing over the wound. If only her grandmother hadn’t gone to town! Clara had only a cursory knowledge of Mary’s mysterious dried herbs. Some of them were potent cures; but misused, they could be dangerous, even poisonous. Experiment too freely, and she’d be as likely to kill Tanner as to heal him.
Rushing to the kitchen, she put the kettle on to boil, opened the cupboard and began rummaging through the jars, bags and little pots her grandmother kept on the top shelf. Just to be safe, she would use only the herbs she recognized. If she could just manage to keep Tanner stable, Mary could do more for him when she arrived home. For now, she could simply pray that Tanner’s body would be strong enough to fight the infection.
Willow bark … everyone knew it was the best thing for fevers. But would an unchecked fever be best for fighting the infection? Deliberating, Clara decided not to take that chance. Tanner’s temperature felt dangerously high. At least some willow bark tea might make him more comfortable.
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