Whirlwind Reunion. Debra Cowan
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eyes, noticing how the golden lamplight made her skin glow like polished pearl. Something hard clutched at his chest.
She glanced at him. “Is your pain any better?”
“If it is, I can’t tell it.”
“I’ll be careful,” she murmured.
She gathered a large piece of cloth, the pint-sized crock he’d seen earlier, some bowls, a pitcher of water and a tin of cornstarch. Walking to him, she placed all the items on the small bedside table.
“First,” she said, “I’ll mix up the paste.”
As she poured a small amount of cornstarch and water into one of the bowls, he found himself staring at her slender, strong hands, remembering when they had been on him for reasons that had nothing to do with medicine or newfangled ideas. A time when he had looked at her with the same ignorant adoration as he’d seen in the Donnelly kid’s eyes.
“Does Andrew work for you every day?”
“Most days after school and sometimes on Saturday if I need him.”
“The boy’s smitten with you and you’re encouraging him.”
“I am not,” she dismissed, mixing a different amount of water and cornstarch in another bowl.
“If you don’t make it real clear that you’re only his friend, he won’t stop.”
Rather than reply, she dipped the cloth into one of the bowls then wrung it out.
“You say jump and he says how high.”
She sighed. “He wants to learn about medicine.”
“Maybe about anatomy.” Matt’s gaze slid over her. “Your anatomy.”
“He’s fourteen, Matt.”
“So was I, at one time. I know what I’m talking about. I remember…things.”
She flushed and he recalled how she had turned that pretty shade of pinky-peach all over the first time he’d gotten her naked. Despite his injury, his body tightened and he pushed the image away.
Being here with her in the shadows, teased by the scent of primroses, made it hard to remember how cold-blooded she had been.
When she moved to stand over him, he eased down to his stomach. She spread more honey on his wounds then picked up one of the bowls. “This is the paste. It may be cold.”
Her touch was gentle, but he still flinched.
As she worked, she said quietly, “Russ said you’d been beaten up a couple of months ago, maybe by these same men.
” He grunted.
“You’ve been chasing them for a while?”
He didn’t know why she cared, but her interest—and her enticing scent—distracted him from the pain.
“Been after them about eight months. With everything fenced now, it’s harder for them to steal the cattle, but they still manage to do it and rebrand them.”
“Is the Triple B the only ranch to suffer?”
“No,” he said in a grainy voice. “The Ross place, Riley’s, too. Also a new ranch started by a Mr. Julius from Chicago. And several places from here up through the Panhandle.”
“Now, I’ll place the cloth over your wounds. It will need a few minutes to set up.”
He nodded. Her questions hadn’t been personal, but that didn’t stop Matt wanting to ask her some that were. Starting with why had she returned? Was she planning to stay? Had she left a man in Philadelphia the way she’d left Matt?
But he kept his mouth shut.
As she cleaned up the supplies, he told himself to close his eyes, but he couldn’t stop looking at her. The dark sweep of her lashes, the velvet of her skin, the lush curve of her breasts. He remembered the sweet taste of her against his tongue.
Hell, he wished he could pass out. He was more aware of everything than he wanted to be—the pain in his back, Annalise, the emptiness he felt just being in the same room with her.
“I think it’s ready.” It took a few minutes for her to slowly peel off the cloth. When she finished, she laid it carefully on top of the glass-fronted cabinet, saying excitedly, “I think it’s going to work.”
“Really?” He had thought the idea was half-baked. “Let me see.”
“Hold your horses. I want it to set up a bit. While it’s doing that, I’ll clean off any remaining paste.”
She gingerly wiped his back. As she spread a little more honey on his wounds, he turned his head away from her.
His thoughts about her were entirely too soft. He didn’t want to feel anything soft for her. He wanted to ignore her, but as she began to bandage him, he knew it would be impossible.
Once his back was covered, she helped him sit up so she could secure the dressing by wrapping strips of cloth around him, under his arms and just above his hips.
The warm puff of her breath against his chest, his belly, had sweat breaking out across his face. His muscles tightened, sending a shaft of pain through him.
“There.” With her gaze averted, she appeared unaffected, but Matt knew better.
Her pulse tripped wildly in the hollow of her throat and though her breathing was controlled, he’d heard it hitch more than once. Right now, though, he was more concerned with not passing out and tumbling off this cot.
She finally looked at him, then frowned when she saw his face. “We overdid it.”
She helped him lie back down. Once she’d made sure he was comfortable, she left the room, returning a few minutes later to pick up the cloth gingerly and hold it up for his inspection. “The cornstarch mixture has set up enough now that you might be able to recognize the pattern.”
Matt concentrated, but couldn’t identify the jagged streaks. “Could you hold it farther away?”
She stepped back a few feet, keeping her hands beneath the cloth to support it. Distance didn’t help.
“I don’t recognize the likeness. Maybe Russ or one of the other men will.”
Disappointment chased across her features.
“It was a good idea.” Matt didn’t know why he was reassuring her.
Pleasure flashed in her eyes then was gone. “I can’t take credit for it.”
“Don’t know why not.” She had possibly given him a bonafide lead, using a technique he had never heard of. “The idea to take the impression of my wounds was your idea, not your teacher’s.”
She shrugged, turning away to return the cloth to its place atop the cabinet.
It didn’t escape him that Annalise had been able to help both with the weapon and with his injuries because she had left Whirlwind. Left him. And he didn’t like it one damn bit.
For the last three days, the walls had been slowly closing in on her. Annalise was painfully conscious of Matt and had been since she had bandaged his wounds after making the impression.
As she walked out of Haskell’s General Store after lunch, she admitted her pulse hadn’t settled down since. Faced with his wide, hair-dusted chest, she wasn’t sure how she had managed to keep a steady hand. His body was more tautly muscled than it had been when they had been betrothed, the plane of his stomach even more well-hewn. Looking at him, touching him, made her mouth go dry.
It was beyond vexing. It scared the daylights out of her. Why couldn’t she view him as just another patient? After what he’d done, how could she feel anything for him?
Sometimes, when she was too close to him, her skin stung with sensation.