Lone Star Lover (8 page)

He patted the empty bed beside him, caught a peripheral view of his shirt hanging on the door hook. Ignoring the pain in his neck, he forced his head to turn some more. Then he saw her, or at least he saw a mass of blond loopy curls spread over a blue-and-yellow patchwork quilt covering the floor.

“Rebecca?” He sat up, flexing his neck and shoulders.

She stirred, her small form curling into an even tighter ball.

Damn, had she slept on the hard floor all night? He couldn’t remember the exact time they’d gone to sleep last night. They’d eaten a small dinner of beans and cornbread, and then she’d disappeared to wash some clothes while he lay on the bed, nursing his side, listening to the tinny strains of a badly played piano coming from the saloon below. She’d been gone awhile, long enough for him to start worrying that she’d ditched him.

Not that he would’ve blamed her. He hadn’t had any business kissing her. No matter how brief and nonthreatening the kiss. He didn’t want her to think that he felt her profession gave him permission to take what he wanted. She had to run into enough scummy men like that. How vulnerable she had to feel. The thought sickened him. For Rebecca, and for any woman with no family or husband in these times.

He’d been about to pull on his boots and go looking for her when she’d returned to the room with damp hair and smelling like roses. Made him crave a long hot shower. He’d settled for a rough cloth, horrible-smelling soap and a basin full of cool water.

He swung his feet to the floor, careful not to stomp on her. “Rebecca?”

She moved, stretched out an arm, and then slowly rolled over to blink blearily at him. Her eyes widened for a second, almost as if she’d forgotten he was there, and then she smiled shyly and yawned. She quickly covered her mouth and got up on her knees.

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” he said, feeling like crap. She didn’t even have a pillow. “I didn’t mean to hog the bed. Did you sleep down there all night?”

“I like sleeping on the floor.”

“Right.”

“I do.” She gave him an indignant look, her gaze haltingly sliding to his bare chest. “Even at Doc Davis’s I sleep on the floor. I haven’t slept in a bed for—” She shoved the hair away from her face, and turned away, shuttering her eyes, while she straightened her dress, but too late to hide the faint rosiness seeping into her complexion.

“Look, tonight, if I’m still here,
I’m
sleeping on the floor.”

She abruptly turned back to him with genuine concern. “Where else would you be?”

“I’m feeling pretty good, and I’ll have to strike out on my own sooner or later. Can’t stay here forever.”

She bit her lip, gathered her hair in one hand, and then pulled it back into a loose braid. “Where will you go?” she asked, keeping her eyes averted.

“I’m not sure.”

He’d thought about that for a good part of the evening as he’d watched her work by the light of a lantern, quietly letting out the cuffs of a shirt for him. He hadn’t asked her where she’d found the brown shirt, and she hadn’t volunteered. Bottom line was, he couldn’t afford to be choosy. The bloodstains on his own blue chambray shirt weren’t going to come out, and he didn’t need calling unnecessary attention to himself. He did wish he knew what had happened to his watch and cell phone, though. His bomber jacket, too. Damn, it was his favorite one.

Rebecca had gotten to her feet and was folding the quilt, sending him curious sidelong glances.

He rose to help her fold the bulky comforter. “This guy Slow Jim who found me, is he back yet?”

“I don’t know.” Her fingers accidentally brushed his, and she quickly withdrew, yanking the quilt from him.

Great. He’d scared her with the damn kiss. Should he bring it up? Apologize? Promise he wouldn’t do it again? Explain that it had meant nothing, that all he’d wanted was to…He sighed, scrubbed at his face, scratched his chest. No, he’d better not explain what he’d wanted. His overture hadn’t started out sexual in nature, but as soon as their lips touched, as soon as he’d scented her warm sweet skin, his body had reacted, all right. Good to know that the important parts still worked just fine.

He finished rubbing his eyes and looked at her. She was staring at his chest. And not because she seemed offended by his partial nudity. Her look was one of pure feminine appreciation. That got his parts moving again.

Hell, not good.

He bent over and pretended to look for his boots. The sudden movement was a mistake. His head was still tender, and it didn’t take much to restart the throbbing. Or maybe this was the after-effects of the whiskey from last night. He’d only drunk two shots because the stuff tasted like crap. Surprisingly potent, though. Maybe that’s what had made him sleep so soundly. God, he couldn’t believe he’d let her sleep on the floor.

“This is why you can’t leave. Sit down,” she said gruffly. “Is it bleeding again?”

He realized that he’d automatically put a hand to his temple when it started to throb. The dull pain was still there, but her sudden bossiness made him smile. She narrowed her stern gaze on him, and he did as she’d ordered.

It wasn’t bleeding, he was pretty sure. The bullet had only grazed him, and while she was gone last night he’d used a hand mirror to check out the injury. Considering the doctor’s place was as sterile as a back alley, the wound was healing well. He suspected that the sporadic headaches and throbbing had more to do with the banging around that went with the truck rolling.

He didn’t even need a bandage anymore, but he said nothing as she stood over him, peeling away the gauze and checking the gash. Her nearness was good enough medicine. He inhaled her flowery feminine scent, his gaze lingering on the creamy skin just above the neckline of her dress. She’d gone to sleep in the same green dress she’d been wearing after returning from her bath. Like the blue one, it was too big on her, with a tendency to slip down her shoulder.

She wasn’t wearing a bra, or a corset, or whatever it was that women wore under their dresses in the 1800s. Not that he could tell, anyway. She was fairly small-chested, slight in every way, except her arms were strong and toned, and she wasn’t soft-looking like Kitty or the other woman, Lola, at whom he’d gotten a fairly good look yesterday.

Come to think of it, Rebecca tended to have a modern woman’s body, like someone who did yoga or light weight training. He noticed too that the backs of her hands were tan, as was her face, at odds with the paleness of the skin around her neckline. Odd, because it was too cold for much outdoor activity. But she’d told him she’d only been here two weeks. Maybe she’d been traveling. Probably by covered wagon. The thought boggled his mind.

She turned away for a second to grab a small pouch off the stool, giving him a good view of her backside. For being so slender, her rear was nice and round, and he was pretty sure there wasn’t any type of undergarment giving that illusion. When she faced him again, he instantly lifted his gaze, surprised to see his guilt reflected in her eyes.

Which made him suspicious of the small buckskin pouch. He’d be damned if he’d drink or take anything again. “What’s in there?”

She let out a huffing breath of air that seemed so uncharacteristic of her it took him aback. “It’s medicine. Good medicine.”

“Nothing is going in this mouth. You got it?”

Her lips twitched, and then she lifted her chin. “It is not supposed to go into your mouth.”

“Good.” He eyed the pouch. “What’s in there?”

“Medicine.”

“You said that. Be more specific.”

She frowned. “It’s to help you heal.”

“You put it here,” he asked, lightly probing the side of his head.

Rebecca nodded. “And here.” She used her thumb to touch the corner of his mouth where a blister had been, and then promptly drew back.

He had to admit, whatever salve she’d been applying had done the trick on his lips. Two days ago the blisters had been so bad it hurt to drink. “May I see it?”

She quickly uncoiled a string attached to the pouch. “You don’t need any more. You’re healing fine,” she said, looping the string around her neck and tucking the pouch into her neckline.

“Well, darlin’, now I’m really curious.”

Very businesslike, she collected the old bandage and tape. “Doc Davis will be by later to look at this. We’ll wait to see if he thinks you need another bandage.”

“You know, I think I could use a little more of that medicine on my lips.” He made a show of probing the one spot on the outside corner that wasn’t quite back to normal.

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “It looks very good to me.”

“Stings a bit, though.”

She hesitated, before drawing out the pouch. Then she went to the basin, giving him her back, while she ostensibly washed her hands. But he knew better…she didn’t want him seeing what was in the pouch. It took him a few seconds to decide if he wanted to force the issue, just long enough for her to produce the mystery salve on the tip of her finger without him seeing the source.

He smiled, and lifted his chin for her ministration. At the last moment, before she applied it to his mouth, he caught her wrist and peered at the thick white milky substance. It had no odor, but there was something familiar about the consistency. He frowned, digging deep to remember where he’d seen it. “Ah.” He nodded. “Cactus sap, right?”

She looked startled at first, and then fear filled her eyes and she pulled away from him.

“Go ahead,” he said, pointing to his mouth. “You’re right. This is good stuff. Great for sunburns.” He added wryly, “Stove burns, too.”

She didn’t move, just stared at him as if she thought he were mocking her.

“My grandmother used something similar to this. She actually grew some in her greenhouse.” He smiled, acknowledging that Rebecca had no idea what a greenhouse was. “My point is, you’re right. It’s good medicine.”

“Truly?”

He took a dab off her finger and spread it on the blistered area. “It’s been working, hasn’t it?”

Rebecca smiled, so big that her left cheek dimpled, and then she sobered. “Doc Davis doesn’t like me to use the sap. He calls it heathen medicine.”

Jake snorted. Doc Davis had a whole shelf of so-called remedies that would be crucified in the journals of medicine in the future. But he wouldn’t be around to know that. And most likely, neither would Jake.

The reminder of his bizarre circumstances depressed him. Was he destined to return? How did this whole thing work? If his fate was to change the history of the Rangers, then once his mission was completed did he get to return to the future? If so, how?

Or would time forget about him. Leave him here to live out the rest of his days.

“Your grandmother, where does she live?” Rebecca asked.

“She died about eight years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And your folks?”

She looked stricken, and then agitated that she’d brought up the subject. “My parents and brother, they’ve been gone about five years now.”

“I’m sure it’s been tough.”

She gave a small shrug and, instead of returning the pouch to the safety of her bodice, she tucked it once again next to the basin. The sign of trust touched him.

“I’ll put up some coffee and then go check with Cook about breakfast.”

“Want me to come with you? No sense you carrying the food all the way up here.”

She shook her head, pressing a hand to her stomach. “It’s not good for the Rangers to see you.”

Damn, he hated to see the fear storm her face every time she spoke of the Rangers. He sure as hell didn’t look forward to admitting that he was a Ranger. She wouldn’t understand, and she’d likely lump him with the rest of those poor excuses for lawmen.

“I take it they don’t know I’m staying here.” He was going to have to meet these men for himself soon. He hoped they weren’t all like that filth Corbin.

“They do. Kitty made it all right with Captain Wade. She told him you were too sick to be turned out.”

“Ah. He won’t share that opinion once he sees me.”

She studied him for a second. “You don’t have a horse or gun or money. You’ll have to find work.”

Jake nodded grimly. “Yep. That’s about the only thing I know for certain.”

“The Rangers…they’ll ask you to work for them.” She didn’t seem the least bit happy about that prospect.

“Doing what?”

Pressing her lips together, as if she feared she’d said too much, she hesitated. “I’ll get your breakfast.”

“Bring some for yourself, too. And don’t tell me you’ve already eaten. I know better.” He caught the defiant toss of her hair before she left the room, and smiled. Yeah, he had some nerve ordering her to do anything, but she didn’t eat enough. She was too thin and he’d even wondered if she’d been on some kind of hunger strike.

He’d resorted to blackmail last night, refusing to eat the beans and cornbread unless she ate with him. She’d picked at her food, using her fingers to tear off small morsels of the cornbread and taking too long to chew and swallow. It occurred to him that she herself might be sick, yet she’d proven to be strong, and if that were the case, he doubted Kitty, who seemed protective of Rebecca, would have burdened her with caring for him.