Harris Channing (5 page)

He lurched toward the bed and then
reeled back. He had expected to see her deep under the covers, her lovely face
angelic in the firelight. But the bed was empty save the ugly damned dog.

Worry sobered him and running his
fingers through his hair, he grimaced. Where was she? He would have heard her
leave the cabin, she had to be here, and yet the panic had him staggering
toward the small, shadowed back room. When the toe of his boot struck her soft,
pliable flesh, she groaned.

"Bobbie?" He fell to his
knees and pushed the hair from her face. Her skin was hot and his stomach
dipped. Was she going to die in this place too? "Wake up, girl. I need you
to talk to me."

She moaned, the sound sending a
ripple of fear through his body. It was a sad, desolate sound. He slipped his
hands beneath her and easily lifted her into his arms, and that was where the
ease ended. Damn the booze, but he couldn't walk straight. The moments slipped
slowly by as he struggled to get her into the bed. Finally, he made it and with
a grace that surprised him, he set her down gently on the mattress.

She opened her eyes, the glassiness
in the stare alarming. "Dr. Stark? Where's Ma?"

"Bobbie, it's me, David,"
he whispered hoarsely. Leaning forward he pulled the blankets over her feverish
form. "Don't you know me?"

"I don't feel well at all. Is
it hot and sunny outside? Would you mind asking Ma to open a window?" Her
voice was strained, her words slurred. Guilt had him kneeling beside her.
"I want to hear the birds and smell the summer wind."

Resting his hand on her forehead,
he inwardly cringed. The fever was severe, no doubt worsened by her nap on the
cold cabin floor. "You've quite a fever."

She turned and pushed at his hand.
"Get my Ma. I've had fevers before. She'll know what to do."

"She's not home, dear. I'll
see to you."

"Has she gone to get the
eggs?"

"Yes," he lied,
envisioning an older version of Bobbie fetching eggs from the boxes of
unsuspecting hens. He swallowed. It was a damned beautiful thought.

"Then can I have something to
drink? My tongue is awfully dry."

"Of course." He stood but
when her gaze came to rest on him he paused. The eyes were so vacant, so
unseeing.

"Dr. Stark, my hands and feet
hurt. I swear I can feel my heart beating in them."

"I know Bobbie." He said
the words, hoping his tone was reassuring, but he felt anything but confident.
"You'll be all right."

She reached for him and he gingerly
took her hand. "I hope I'll be all right, because I feel like death is
eyeballing me from around the corner." Tears filled her eyes and slipped
down the side of her face and into her hair.

"Don't be silly. You can't
leave me, who will I have to yell at?"

A small smile lifted the corner of
her lips. It was a somber smile, one filled with lament and void of cheer.

He slid his hand free of her grip
and pushed a strand for sweat soaked hair from her face, his touch lingering.
She looked so small, so helpless lying there, her dark locks splayed across the
stark white of the pillow. He stood, mesmerized. Was she like Briar Rose and if
he leaned in to kiss her would she live?

He rolled his eyes toward the
ceiling. Fairy tales…he had Sarah to thank for his knowledge of those
ridiculous bits of rubbish. And God knew he was no prince. Only a few hours
ago, kissing wasn't the only thing he wanted to do to Miss Roberta Shallcross.

"Dr. Stark, when have you ever
yelled at me? The meanest thing you ever did was give me a licorice instead of
a peppermint."

"Peppermint your favorite
sweet?" he asked, realizing it had been well over five years since he had
eaten sweets of any kind. Sarah liked lemon drops.

She nodded and closed her eyes.
"Yes, those or ginger cookies."

Finally, he pulled his touch free,
the heat from her skin lingering on his fingertips. He needed to cool her down.
"Now, you keep thinking of candy while I fetch some water." He busied
himself but his mind kept steering toward darkness. She was too hot and soon,
she'd be too hot to live…

"Oh, no," he mumbled
forcing himself into action. He'd never played nursemaid before, but by God,
he'd be the best damned nursemaid this side of Pike's Peak. Bobbie
was not
going to die. He wouldn't hear
of it.

Pulling a chair to her bedside, he
began to wipe her down. He set the cloth on her forehead and the heat seemed to
seep into the cool rag and still the fever didn't break. He swallowed his worry
and unfastening the buttons that held her shift together, he slid the wet rag
across the pale, narrow expanse of her chest. Her breath caught in her throat
and he continued, his concern melding with his curiosity.

Bobbie was indeed a glorious woman,
the delicate slope of her collarbone, the way her breasts curved, the chilled
nipples visible beneath her gown. Just touching her in this most innocent of
fashions had him longing to once again feel the warmth that loving Sarah had
offered his black soul. Perhaps Bobbie had been sent to him to help ease his
misery.

He pulled his hands away, the idea
searing him with red hot guilt. No, she was not here for him. More likely than
not, he was here for her.

Gently lifting her head, he offered
her a drink of the icy water. She greedily accepted his offering but as soon as
the water hit her system, she began to shiver. It was an awful sight, her
entire being jerking and reeling of its own accord. Her teeth rattled against
one another and despite covering her with every blanket he could find, she
still shivered.

Removing his coat and boots, he
slid into bed beside her, the mattress groaning with the addition of his
weight. Propping himself up with pillows, he pulled her close hoping the heat
of his body would ease her discordant tremor.

To his surprise, she didn't resist,
instead she draped her arms around him, her head cradled atop his chest. She
held tight as if he were a platform in a tempest.

Finally, she stilled, and although
she appeared peaceful she did not sleep. Her eyes remained open as she stared
vacantly at the cobwebbed laden wall.

"Try to sleep, darlin',"
he whispered. "Close your eyes."

Time seemed to crawl by before she
finally slid her gaze up at him. "I’m afraid to. What if I never wake
up?"

Her words touched a nerve and
clenching his teeth he tried to force back the memory. But his guard had been
down and it savagely pushed through. As if it had just happened he could see
Sarah's broken body, limp upon the cabin floor. Her hand outstretched and her
eyes wide as they stared unseeing toward the door. Had she watched for him? Had
she willed him to enter and save her? Or had she been too afraid to close her
eyes for fear they'd never be open again?

"Don't talk like that."
His words came out far harsher than he intended. "You're going to be just
fine." But even as he said it, he knew better. He hoped she'd be fine, but
with the fever and more than likely infection in her hands and feet, he
wondered. No one was ever truly fine, anyway. Life was simply a miserable journey
toward death.

Unfazed by his bitter tone, she
finally closed her eyes. "I hope so." She reached for his hand and he
wrapped her bandaged fingers in the fold of his grip. "I'll try to sleep,
but will you stay with me a while longer?"

"Of course I will."

Her face grew tranquil, her
breathing steady as she drifted off. Watching her sleep had him feeling drowsy.
He leaned back, resting his head against the soft pillow. Closing his eyes, he
continued to hold her hand. Should he slide it beneath the covers and try to
escape her embrace? Relaxed, he held on to it, making no effort to let go.

***

Bobbie opened her eyes and stared
around the bright, sunlit cabin. David sat facing her, his back to the fire. He
held a book in his hand and was deep into reading. She hated to interrupt him,
so she watched.

Why did it surprise her that he
knew how to read? Why had she thought him uneducated? He certainly spoke well
and she liked his soft Southern drawl. No, it was his appearance, but had she
truly judged the man by the clothes he wore or had it been the dirt and grime
that clung to every bit of him?

"Good morning, David."
Her voice sounded as if it didn't belong to her. She cleared her throat.

"Good morning, two days
later," he said, coming to his feet. Alfred jumped from his pallet near
the fire and followed close behind, his toenails clicking against the hardwood
floor. "Are you feeling better?" He reached across her body and set
his calloused hand upon her forehead.

"Yes, I am," she
muttered, but how had the time passed and she hadn't known? Surprise had her
setting her hand to her breast. "But two days asleep?"

"On and off, but I do think
you're on the mend. Fever broke and you're not setting my flesh afire when I
touch you."

He ran his finger across her cheek
and the chill that followed his touch delighted. A smile lit up his bearded
face and for the first time she saw that he had strong, white teeth. Her heart
clenched and her breath caught in her throat. His smile. It was beautiful.
"How are my hands and feet?" she asked, changing the subject, not so
much for his benefit but her own.

"Better too. I reckon you'll
have more use of them a in a couple days. I'd take care though. The blisters
have busted and the salve is keeping the damaged skin moist and pliable, but
they're still injured."

"Am I going to lose a toe or
fingers?" She swallowed the worry that accompanied the question.

"I don't think so. Was
concerned about the little toe on your left foot, but as of this morning the
black spot is not growing and it felt warm to the touch. I thought the fever
was brought on by infection, but now I'm thinking no, as none of injuries are
gangrenous."

"No, my brother was sick. His
illness had us staying in Colorado Springs a week longer than we
intended."

He brought his lower lip between
his teeth and his eyes took on a pity-filled sheen. "Would have definitely
made it through…" but his words trailed off. He didn't need to finish the
sentence for her to know where he was heading.

"The pass." Her heart
grew heavy yet she wouldn't cry. No. They were alive and time would bear that
out. She had to believe that or go insane.

Time slowed to a crawl and he
cleared his throat. "You hungry?"

"No," she admitted,
trying to sit up, but even that small effort had her body trembling. "But
I suppose I should eat."

He leaned in, sliding his warm arm
around her waist and helping her sit up. The smell of smoke, winter and a
mixture of both his and her humanity and she stifled a cough.
"David?"

"Yeah," he said, propping
her up with pillows.

"When can I have a bath?"

He offered a loud sigh, the tell
tale sign of booze still lingering on his breath. "When you're a bit
better. Soon."

She raised her eyes toward him,
trepidation tugging at her. "And will you have one?"

His gaze narrowed and his mouth
curved into a frown. "Will it get you off my back?"

"Only if you let me cut your
hair too."

He growled and stalked away,
leaving her alone with her smile. He was as grumpy as a bear, but there was
definitely a good man under all that filth. A bad man wouldn't have seen to her
as he had or held her hand until she fell to sleep. She hesitantly curled her
fingers, wondering why in all the darkness of the past days that she remembered
him taking her hand. She would never forget his simple act of kindness, for it
was a gift he had most assuredly last bestowed upon the dead woman.

Chapter 5

Despite the roaring fire, the cabin
was still cold. Wind seeped through the log beams, the window rattled and the
floors were unpleasantly icy against his bare feet. Of course, what did he
expect? The cabin was nothing but a rustic oasis in the middle of a frozen
hell.

So, why was it she was taking such
a long time in the bath? Yes, he had warmed the water, but surely it was
becoming tepid and he had only just gotten her healthy. Was she actually
foolish enough to wash herself back into illness? He'd give her a few more
minutes and then he'd march back there and fetch her if needs be.

Looking into the shaving mirror he
grimaced. What a terrible site he was. His face drawn, his eyes bloodshot and
the dark circles that hung below his eyes proof that sleeping on the floor
wasn't very restful. Truth was, he looked considerably older than his thirty
years. Time had not been kind, nor had the bottle. With his irritation surging,
he pulled at his beard. What a wild and woolly beast he had become. More bear
than man!

"Bobbie!" he shouted,
instantly sorry that he took his anger out on her. "Are you almost
done?"

"Hold your horses," she
said, her voice muffled but the glee was unmistakable. "I’m getting
dressed. The gown is lovely. Thank you so much for allowing me to use it."

His stomach knotted. How was he
going to feel about seeing her in Sarah's gown? Granted, it wasn't a favorite.
She'd probably only worn it once. Yes. Just once and complained about it the
entire time. It was too plain, too unsophisticated. He shook his head. She had
always been a flamboyant dresser. What had possessed him to think a parrot
could survive in the mountains? It had been a terrible mistake, one he would
always regret.

Focusing on his reflection in the
mirror, he continued to trim his wild beard, his hands shaky, his thoughts lost
in the fog between too much booze and not enough. He narrowed his gaze and
frowned. Damnation he was a mess. It was a wonder that Bobbie hadn't turned and
run away at the sight of him that night she ended up on his doorstep. Years
without a proper shave or haircut, weeks and weeks without a proper bath…he
truly was wild and disgusting. Henry had complained about him coming into the
trading post and running out the rats, but he hadn't heeded him. Hadn't
cared…so why now did it bother him?