Married by Christmas. Karen Kirst
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weaved to the side, too weak to put up much of a fight. Perspiration glistened on his forehead. “You don’t understand. Need to leave. Now.”
“Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like better,” she muttered, “but you’re not fit to walk across this room, let alone venture out into the storm.” Urging him to lie back, she checked his wound’s wrapping. No sign of fresh blood. Good. Covering him once more, she propped her hands on her hips and assumed her no-nonsense voice. “No more trying to get out of bed, do you hear me, Caleb O’Malley?”
He peered up at her through heavy-lidded, pain-glazed eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Instinctively, she reached out a hand to comfort him, at the last minute curling her fingers into a fist and dropping it to her side. Hang her caramel-soft, too-sensitive heart! How was she supposed to remain impassive to this man’s suffering?
I used to imagine it, though. Caleb O’Malley getting his just deserts. Suffering the way he made me suffer.
She winced, shame flooding her. Not like this. There was no satisfaction in this.
That didn’t mean she didn’t want him out of here at the first opportunity.
She gestured to the kitchen. “The laudanum—”
“No.”
Why was he being stubborn? “It will help you rest.”
Striding to the pie safe, she retrieved the tiny bottle from the shelf and returned to his bedside, only to find that his eyes had drifted closed and his breathing evened out.
Sinking onto the chair, she watched him sleep. Warring emotions wrestled in her chest—the chief being resentment. After all she’d endured, after everything she’d lost, being forced to care for Caleb felt like pouring kerosene on a wound that had never healed.
She could only hope the storm moved on quickly, and that the doctor could fetch him on the morrow.
* * *
A thump wrenched Rebecca out of a nebulous but unsettling dream. For a moment, she lay still, trying to decipher exactly what had woken her. Shadows wreathed the long, narrow bedroom that had once belonged to their parents, and she was just able to make out the familiar shapes of the carved cherry wardrobe and corner writing desk, as well as the washstand by the window.
Amy’s soft breathing barely stirred the silence. The younger girl hadn’t been the slightest bit upset about giving up her bed. To her, this was fun. A departure from their routine. Rebecca couldn’t help but be proud of her. Like all siblings, they had their moments, but much of the time they got along quite well. They were a team, she and Amy, the loss of their parents having drawn them closer than they ever were before.
Rebecca closed her eyes and huddled deeper into the toasty warmth. Must’ve been a random sound from outside that woke her. Surely Storm would’ve alerted her if something were amiss.
There. Another dull thud.
Caleb. Pulse thundering, she hauled her legs from beneath the covers and, hardly noticing the cold seeping through her wool stockings, rushed into the living room. Muted light from the fireplace revealed her dog perched on the hearth rug, head up and ears at attention, staring intently at the bed. The empty bed.
Sprawled on the floorboards, her patient was making a valiant effort to regain his footing.
“Caleb,” she half moaned, half admonished, “you shouldn’t be out of bed!”
Crouching beside him, she braced an arm about his broad back. “We have to get you up off this floor.”
“It’s not safe,” he told her as a shudder racked him. “You and Amy... Danger.”
Danger? What was he talking about? She framed his cheek, unmindful of the stubble’s prickle. It was as she suspected—burning up with fever.
Grim now, she assisted him up and onto the mattress, taking a moment to wrestle his black duster off before urging him to lie back. The sight of a red circle blooming on the white compress struck a chord of fear deep within her. The very real possibility of him succumbing to his injuries, of him dying, loomed like a menacing specter. For the first time since she’d discovered him unconscious in the snow, Rebecca was truly frightened.
She wasn’t a doctor. She possessed limited nursing skills. What if she inadvertently did something to hurt him or make his condition worse?
Again, she asked God why. Why couldn’t he have ended up in someone else’s yard? Someone more knowledgeable. More capable. Someone whose life hadn’t been sullied by his careless disdain for others.
The very last thing she wanted was to shoulder this particular burden.
He was still agitated, lips moving as his head thrashed from side to side. A couple of words she understood. Danger. Sheriff. Leave. He was delirious, of course, but were his warnings grounded in truth?
She paused in applying a fresh compress. “What kind of secrets are you carrying?” Afraid of the answer, she turned back to her task, thankful the bleeding had lessened. Working quickly, she tucked the quilts tight about his long length. Then she spooned up a small dose of laudanum and put it to his mouth.
“You need to take this.” Supporting his head, she held him steady as he sipped. Grimaced. Quaked.
When it was gone, she set the spoon aside and eased onto the mattress edge. Closing her mind to the past, if only temporarily, she administered the comfort he needed, gently threading his fine, glossy hair away from his face. Weak firelight glinted in the blue-black strands. He seemed to settle at her touch.
Lightly, gingerly, she traced the slashing black eyebrows with her fingertips. Then, more daringly, she traced the hard contours of his face—the jutting cheekbones, strong jawline and chin—all the while avoiding the scar. It was too terrible a reminder of the sawmill accident that had altered the course of their lives.
“Why did you have to involve Adam in your mischief?” she quietly demanded, knowing he couldn’t hear her. Knowing, too, that even if her ex-fiancé hadn’t accompanied Caleb that fateful night, something terrible would’ve happened eventually.
Feeling cramped suddenly by her proximity to him, she rose to her feet and interlocked her fingers behind her back. Touching Caleb wasn’t supposed to feel good. Perish the thought!
He turned his head as if in search of her. “Not safe,” he whispered.
Though sleeping, he wasn’t at complete rest. Something was clearly bothering him. Something so big it penetrated his mind’s cloak of unconscious. A frisson of unease tightened her shoulder blades. Could they truly be in danger?
There was no disputing the fact that, wherever Caleb O’Malley went, trouble followed.
Caleb thought he just might burst into flames. Heat licked his insides, a strange heat that had him battling the heavy covers one minute and his teeth clacking together the next. The pain was constant, as if a red-hot branding iron had been plunged deep into his flesh.
If only he could clear the fog shrouding his brain.
The sense that it was no longer night tugged his eyes open. Searching the chilly room, his gaze encountered a woman asleep in a rocking chair situated before the now-cold fireplace, wavy brown hair shot with copper streaks skimming her shoulders and features softened in slumber.
Becca.
For a split second, he was startled to see her. Confused. Why? How? Then the fog dispersed, and he remembered every disturbing detail. Sheriff Tate. Caleb had witnessed the cold-blooded murder of Cades Cove’s sheriff. And he’d been spotted, which meant his presence put Becca and Amy in grave danger.
“Becca.” Spurred by their predicament, he managed to prop