Wildfire in His Arms (30 page)

Taking the sheet with him, he carefully made his way outside to relieve himself. He couldn't remember ever feeling so weak before. He swayed quite a bit. He wasn't even sure he could make it back to the bed, he felt so drained. And sore. He ached all over, not just on his left side. But Max would be angry with him in the morning if she found him passed out outside, so he forced himself to get back to the bed.

He managed not to wake her and sat for a few minutes staring at her. She should just look adorable lying there so innocently, curled up like a child, her feet bare. But she looked sexy, too, with her bandanna off, her shirt unbuttoned to her breasts, one curve partially visible—and he was never going to get that night they'd shared in Montana out of his mind.

After their first kiss that hot day in Montana, he wasn't at all surprised by what had happened that night. Too much had led to it, too many times seeing her in scanty attire, too many times wanting her even when she was fully dressed. Like now.

It had been the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life, asking her that night if she wanted him to stop. And the next morning she wouldn't let him do the honorable thing, had even gotten angry about his offer to marry her. So be it. It had been a mistake and she wasn't going to let it lead to a bigger one. What had she said? That she'd wait for some good, happy reasons to marry. She was absolutely right. That was the only right reason to marry—because you'd found the person who could make you truly happy and you believed the other person felt the same way about you.

Max had probably saved his life by taking that bullet out of him. She might have saved his life in Butte, too. He owed her a resolution to her problem in Texas, not more complications.

He slept again, and the nightmare returned. But this time he reached the top of the stairs. . . .

M
AX WOKE UP DRENCHED
in sweat. She probably shouldn't have closed the windows before going to sleep last night. But the flies hadn't wanted to leave Degan's wound alone. It had taken her over an hour to kill them all, and then she'd been afraid the cool night air might bring back his fever.

She headed to the pond with her bar of soap for a quick scrubbing. She wanted to be there when Degan woke up again because she was still worried about him. The past two days had been awful! She'd thought he was going to die on her. She'd never felt anyone that hot before. And when he wouldn't wake up no matter how loud she yelled at him, she'd been terrified. She'd even cried, she'd felt so inadequate to nurse him. She'd almost opened his wound again, had even thought of cauterizing it again. Rubbing his chest and face with cold cloths didn't work either. Nothing helped!

Finally, she'd been desperate enough to try Jackson's powder yesterday afternoon. It had worked faster than she could have hoped. The redness fanning out around his wound had started to recede, and this morning the last signs of the inflammation were gone. And after three days, scabs were forming, so maybe she hadn't burned him as badly as she'd thought.

When she returned to the cabin feeling somewhat refreshed, she found Degan still asleep. She considered heating some water and bathing him with a cloth before he woke. She hadn't wanted to do it last night. With him finally sleeping peacefully, she didn't want to disturb him. That fevered sleep had been exhausting for both of them. He'd tossed, he'd talked, he'd even yelled at one point, all the while delirious. And she'd been afraid to leave his side, had even slept in the chair next to him until she fell out of it and bruised her elbow.

Rubbing him down with a cool cloth when he was in the throes of delirium was one thing. But doing something so intimate when he could wake and his eyes could land on her was a different thing altogether. She decided against it. If he really was better, he could wash himself. So she went to cook instead.

“I need a bath.”

Max smiled to herself. Awake
and
sounding normal, he could do some real recovering now. “No baths for you, fancy man. You don't want to get your scabs wet. I'll bring you some water to wash with after you eat this.”

She handed him a bowl of corn mush, then grabbed one for herself and sat down in the chair she'd kept by his bedside since the fever had started. “So how do you feel this morning?”

“Tired, like I haven't slept in a month.”

“Yeah, fevered sleep isn't restful sleep. I had a fever when I was a kid, but Gran knew how to get rid of it fast. Wish I'd asked her how.”

“How long did I have a fever?”

“Nearly three days.”

“And I was poisoned?”

“Huh?”

“You said something about poison, or did I dream it?”

“Oh, that. You might recall Jackson was here when we arrived. He helped me get you into the bed and left me a pouch of powder. He said it was good for wounds, but I didn't believe him so I didn't use it—until nothing I did helped. Turns out the powder worked well.”

“Is he still here?”

“No, he left. I sort of insisted.”

“Why, because he's a coward and a liar?”

“Yeah, he admitted he was the Nolan gang's town man. Said he tried to quit when he heard they killed someone, but they wouldn't let him. He used you to solve that problem for him. He should be paying you for the job, if you ask me, not the other way around.”

“Thank you for taking care of me.”

She blushed a little, uncomfortable with his gratitude. “Don't mention it.” But then she grinned and teased, “I was just ensuring that you stay alive long enough to help me out in Bingham Hills.”

“That didn't require such tender care.”

She really blushed now. She hadn't been all that tender with him. She'd been so frantic and afraid of losing him that she'd even hit him at one point to make him wake up.

She quickly changed the subject. “So who smells like roses?”

“Excuse me?”

“You said I didn't and I know I don't, so who were you talking to that smelled like roses?”

“When?”

“In your sleep.”

“I don't remember.”

Did he just lie to her? His guard must still be down if he was so obvious about it. She might be able to get him to talk about himself again if she casually led him into it. And if it wouldn't tax him. His recovery was more important than her curiosity right now.

But he wanted to know, “What else did I say?”

“Not much. You had such a high fever most of what you said was garbled. You said you hated guns. I thought that was pretty funny. You really used to hate them?”

“Where's mine?”

She chuckled as she fetched his Colt and put it on the small crate beside the bed that the trapper had been using as a nightstand. “Don't think you're not answering my question,” she warned teasingly.

He stared at her for a moment. She wondered if he was actually debating with himself about answering her. If he was, he probably wouldn't. But then he did. “I never had cause to think about guns in Chicago. They aren't worn or carried in the city except by officers of the law—or criminals. My father had a pair of dueling pistols that he kept loaded in his study, but they were merely for show, a prized possession that had belonged to his own father in the days when dueling for honor was still practiced. Father never had occasion to use them himself. But then my sister, Ivy, was shot and killed, caught in the crossfire of a fleeing thief and the law officer chasing him down a city street.”

Max gasped. “I'm sorry.”

“It shouldn't have happened. My mother had taken her shopping. Ivy had just stepped out of a store. Mother was right behind her and saw it happen. She blamed herself.”

“Why? Something like that is tragic, but—”

“Because Ivy was supposed to ride with Flint and me in Lincoln Park that morning. Mother usually shopped alone, but that day she wanted company and insisted that Ivy join her. I suppose I hated guns because a gunshot killed my sister.”

Yet he'd taken them up when he came West, even became notorious because of them, Max thought. So he must have hated something else even more, something that had sent him in this direction to a completely different way of life.

“Is your mother still alive?”

“No, she died less than a year later. She let her health decline, just lost the will to live. She couldn't let go of the guilt.”

Max sighed. She would never have guessed that Degan had experienced so much tragedy in his life. No wonder he kept his emotions locked away. Had he done that for so long that he'd lost the ability to feel anything? Well, she knew he could still feel passion. She could vouch for that! But that was more a natural reaction, an instinct rather than an emotion. Maybe she was reading too much into his sister's death. Maybe he didn't show his feelings because of what he'd implied to her before, that he couldn't afford emotion in his line of work.

She took his empty bowl and refilled it. After handing it back to him, she sat down again and said casually, “You mentioned that your father probably regretted not raising your brother the way he raised you. But couldn't he have remedied that by teaching your brother everything he taught you? It's never too late to learn.”

“It is when you grow up without taking responsibility for anything and never expect to have any responsibilities. Flint's biggest decisions concerned which party to attend—and who to bed afterward. He shies away from anything more serious than that.”

“It sounds like you begrudge him his carefree nature.”

“Not at all. My brother and I were close.”

“Were?”

“When I lived at home.”

“You realize, don't you, that we're not all that far from Chicago now. With the extension of the railroad Chicago is probably no more'n two days away. I wouldn't mind a short delay if you want to find out—”

“No.”

She thought she was doing him a favor by suggesting it, but obviously not. She gave him an exasperated look. “I heard what your lady friend yelled at you, even if you didn't, that a man doesn't have to be dead to not be who he was. That sounds like something bad happened to your father.”

“Allison is good at exaggerating. You could say it's her forte.”

“So that's why you ignored her? Because you just didn't believe her?”

“If my father wanted me back, he would have come and found me, not sent Allison Montgomery to do it.”

She rolled her eyes at him, remarking, “You are very odd, you know.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Of course you are. You have no curiosity as well as no emotions?
Why
didn't you just ask her what's wrong with him?”

“I confirmed he's alive. Anything else is irrelevant since I'm not going back. Ever.”

He took his eyes off her and concentrated on eating. She supposed that was a pretty good clue that he was done talking about his family. It was as if he'd divorced them the way a man would divorce a . . .

“
Are
you married?”

His eyes came back to her slowly. “Would I have asked you to marry me if I was?”

“You didn't ask me. You just said you
would
marry me.
Big
difference there, fancy man.”

She marched out of the cabin because she couldn't deal with how frustrating he could be. She walked far enough away that he wouldn't hear her mumbling about it.

T
HEY
'
D BEEN AT THE
cabin for ten days. Max expected the trapper to return at any time—unless Jackson had found Artemus and told him that he had other guests. He might not hurry back then, might want to wait until he was sure he could have his bed back. She hoped that was the case.

But Degan was already talking about leaving. He was able to walk now at a steady if slow gait. But he was still in pain. He didn't tell her that, but she caught him wincing every so often. Riding was a lot more strenuous than walking. Even if he could keep his horse from trotting, she worried that the jarring motion would rip open his wound. So she convinced him to stay until Artemus returned, or at least a few more days.