September Rain (5 page)

 Damn it, what was the silly woman doing here, anyway? The last time he’d seen her, he was on the receiving end of some nasty blows and she was cradled in Brent Myers’ arms. How’d she get up here? Did Myers bring her? Jacob discarded that notion. If Myers were here, he’d know it.

Gathering all the willpower at his command, which wasn’t much, he pushed himself into a sitting position and leaned back against the headboard. By the time he’d finished, the cramps had started again in his muscles, and it was all he could do to keep from gasping aloud. He clenched his jaw as he felt the blood drain from his face.

“You should take it easy for a while,” Hallie Greer said. “You’ve got a lot of bruises. Especially around your belly--” She stopped.

Jacob shot her a sidelong glance. Her face had gone even pinker. She’d embarrassed herself by almost mentioning a body part. If he’d had the strength, he’d have smiled. If he’d had the inclination. But he hadn’t smiled for a long time. He wasn’t sure he remembered how. A memory played around the edges of his mind, the memory of Hallie smiling at him. A memory of lightness and longing creeping inside him as her green eyes shone with warmth and she chatted on and on about the weather, new kittens, or the latest novel she had read. She’d talked to him like he was an old acquaintance. She’d always been kind to him. She was kind to everyone. He knew, because he’d watched her. As he stared at her, his thoughts wandering, her gaze dropped to her hands.

Hallie looked down in confusion and embarrassment. She’d almost said belly, a word no respectable woman would ever say to a man. Her face burned. It was one thing to care for her own father, to see things and do things a woman wouldn’t normally be called upon to do for her blood kin. But to care for a man — a total stranger, and then to be talking about things like his belly, why the shame of it didn’t bear thinking on.

The dark liquid in the cup rippled with each tremor of her hands. She bent her concentration to holding the mug still. Jacob’s scraped, bruised hand reached around hers. The warmth of his fingers, combined with the sight of his scraped knuckles filled her insides with confusion, sympathy, fear, and that strange tingling she was beginning to associate with being near him.

Fiercely dismissing the odd feelings, she spoke. “You want the tea? Good. You need to drink lots of liquids. I’m cooking some potato soup, too. I should have made you a broth, but I didn’t have a lot of time and I didn’t find any meat.”

He tugged on the mug and she let it slip from her fingers into his. She watched him as he lifted it to his lips. His gaze never left her face, and his expression stayed hostile and cold. As soon as the cup touched his mouth he jerked it away, and his tongue flicked out to touch the cut that split his lower lip.

“Oh, it’s too hot. I’m sorry.”

He closed his eyes and drank the tea, his brow furrowed.

“You needed something hot. The rain is turning the air cold outside. Oh, and I put some of your whiskey in there, too. Maybe it’ll help ease your pain. Jacob, I am sorry they beat you up. I tried to tell them it wasn’t you who attacked me.”

With an obvious effort, Jacob finished the tea and handed the cup back to her. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as if that small task had exhausted him.

Hallie couldn’t help herself. She had to stare at him. Even while her face burned with shame, she gazed at his bare neck and chest. He looked so vulnerable, with no shirt on, purple bruises marring the perfection of his body. Her gaze touched the graceful line of his throat and came to rest on the long, red scar.

They slit his throat but he lived
. That's what the doctor had told her. A wrenching pain hit Hallie under her breastbone. A hollow, helpless pain, so deep it took her breath away. He had lain there on the ground, his life's blood flowing out of him, while his wife lay dead beside him.

“Oh, Jacob,” she whispered. “How have you borne it?”

He glanced at her sharply, seeing where her gaze had strayed. He lifted a hand and ran the backs of his fingers across the scar, a graceful, unconscious gesture he’d probably made a hundred times. Her eyes followed his hand.

He frowned and reached for the cup.

A lump grew in her throat and she swallowed against it. “You want more tea? Honey and whiskey too?”

He didn’t react, but his eyes drifted closed in agreement, or resignation.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Then, I’ll fix you a bowl of soup. It’ll sit easy on your stomach.” She fetched him another cup of tea. After some searching, she found a second cup for herself on the back of a shelf, covered with dust. She washed it and made herself a cup of tea, adding honey, then with a wry smile tipped in a small splash of whiskey. She could use some relaxation, too.

“Here you go. I can make more if you want it. Or coffee. I can make coffee. You stocked up well.” She glanced around the cabin. “How can you stand to stay up here alone all winter?”

He took the cup from her hands and stared at her a moment, his eyes more violet than blue in the lantern light. Then, he glanced over at the bins and tins and sacks she’d lugged in from outside. His gaze touched her again, an assessing, considering look. His lips thinned for an instant and an odd light flickered in his eyes before he began sipping the tea.

“I put your supplies away. I found where most everything goes. It was pretty easy. You’re fairly neat, for a man.” She allowed her voice to sound amused, but he didn’t react. “My father was not very tidy. I was always tripping over something of his.”

Vaguely irritated at him for ignoring her efforts at friendly conversation, she swallowed the last of her tea and got up to tend the soup. It was ready, thick and redolent of onions.

She dipped a generous serving into a bowl. There was one big spoon lying on the counter, so she picked it up and handed bowl and spoon to Jacob.

He sniffed at it.

“You don’t have to turn your nose up at it. It’s good soup. Nourishing too. It would have been better with some bacon, but I didn’t find any. I’d have made biscuits, but I didn’t know where the lard was.” She sat down and folded her arms. “Now eat it.”

He glanced at her, then glanced toward the water bucket. Hallie followed his gaze to a tin beside it she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh. That’s the lard? Well fine. We’ll have biscuits tomorrow.”

Surprise crossed his face and he turned his head gingerly to look out the window at the dark sky. His eyes closed briefly and he drew in a long breath. Then he started in on the soup.

By the time he'd finished, his face was pale again and his eyes kept drifting closed.

“You’re so tired,” she said, watching. “My daddy used to get tired doing the simplest things. Of course, you’re only bruised and sore. You’ll get better soon. After his first stroke, my father lost the use of his whole left side. He was like you, didn’t like being helpless.” Hallie took the empty bowl from Jacob and replaced it with a cup full of cool water.

“Now you drink every bit of that water,” she admonished, and leaned over without thinking to put her palm against his forehead. It was something she’d done all the time for her father. The action brought her face into close proximity to his and when she touched his head he opened his eyes.

For an instant, his half-lidded gaze froze her in place. His eyes, normally as hard and sharp as blue sky reflected in a knife blade, were softer. His expression could have been amused, or merely curious.

Hallie licked her lips and his glance flickered downward. When it did she caught her lower lip between her teeth like a schoolgirl, then immediately realized what she was doing and stopped. What was the matter with her, acting like a girl with her first crush? She covered her self-consciousness with talk, like she always did.

“You’re cooler now. See, I knew you needed liquids and some nourishment. You may not believe me, but I was a good nurse to my father those last months before he died.” Hallie felt a twinge of loneliness and regret. She’d lost her father two years ago when he’d had the stroke. The invalid she’d tended since then had borne very little resemblance to her pleasant, good-natured parent. It had hurt her to watch him fade away, knowing there was nothing she could do.

She realized she was still leaning over Jacob with her hand on his forehead. He hadn’t moved, and his eyes had never stopped their ceaseless study of her face. She felt his breath against her cheek, its warmth sending a thrill through her. She caught at her lower lip with her teeth and his eyes flickered downward. Embarrassed, she took her hand away and straightened, looking anywhere but at him.

“You need to sleep. I’m just going to rinse these dishes.” She indicated the dirty dishes as she backed away from the bed and almost tripped over the chair. She felt her face burn. Turning, she headed for the dishpan, wishing he’d look somewhere other than at her back, because she was sure she still felt his gaze.

Jacob had to get out of the cabin. Her presence had more than his muscles tied up in knots. He needed to get away from her so he could think.

Gingerly, his limbs screaming with agony, he slid his legs over the side of the bed, relieved to notice that he did still have on his breeches.

Hallie whirled. “What are you doing?”

He clenched his jaw and took a long breath.

She rushed over. “You can’t get up. You’ll faint.”

He closed his eyes for an instant, then took a deep breath and pushed himself up off the bed. His shoulders and belly felt like they were on fire. His legs quivered and threatened to collapse under his weight. Grimly, he ignored the physical pain, just like he’d ignored the pain in his heart all these years. Hell, after Mary’s death, physical pain was almost a relief.

“Stop it. What are you doing?”

He shot her a look filled with disgust and impatience. If she’d taken care of her father, she should have some idea of what would make a man get out of a sickbed. Any other reason for him to leave the cabin, like panic at her nearness, was none of her business.

He saw belated understanding flash across her face.

“Oh, of course.” She reached under the bed. “Here’s the chamber pot. I’ll just uh, go back to washing . . .” She made a vague gesture toward the dishpan.

Strength grew from his desperate need to be alone. He kicked the tin pot across the room, groaning at the pain the angry gesture sent searing through him.

Hallie put her hands on her hips and drew herself up to her full height, which was about to the level of the scar on his neck. “I suppose you feel much better after that display of temper. Will you at least accept some help?” She reached out her hand.

Jacob didn’t think he could bear the touch of her gentle hand right then, so he stared at her coldly.

She got the message. A frown crossed her face. “Fine, Mr. Jacob Chandler. I can see why people call you Crazy Jake. You’re certainly not exhibiting much sense right now. Go on, but don’t call on me to help you when you pass out. I’m quite tired myself.” She whirled and walked stiffly back to the table where she was wiping dishes with a frayed cloth.

Jacob straightened. A stabbing pain caught him right in the ribs. He groaned.

As if she read his mind, Hallie spoke without turning around. “See. You’ve probably got at least one broken rib. I can’t believe you left town without seeing the doctor.”

He made it to the door, but he had to stop for a minute, gripping the door's frame until his hand ached. He felt Hallie’s sympathetic gaze on his back. How could her eyes burn him when he wasn’t even looking at her? With all the strength he had left in him, he escaped the house and Hallie Greer.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hallie stared at the empty doorway. “Stubborn man,” she muttered, trying for anger, but finding inside herself only sympathy and a kind of amazement at the strength he carried within him. He’d been in awful pain, but something, she supposed his pride, had kept him going.

Standing so close to him had made her realize just how tall he was. His body was like a young tree, long and lean and supple. With luck, his bones were as strong and yielding as a healthy young tree too, and he’d mend quickly.

She was struck by how young he was. The lines in his face were lines of pain and sadness, not of age. How handsome he must have been when he was married and happy. A lump rose in her throat. What was it about this silent man that drew her so? It must be just because he saved her life. Deep in her heart, though, Hallie knew it was more. She had seen him maybe four times in two years, but it seemed each time his image, his essence had been etched more indelibly on her soul.

She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and folded her arms as the door opened and he stepped inside. His cheeks were pink with cold and she could see him shivering.

“So, Jacob, are you feeling better now?” she asked.

He didn’t even favor her with a glance as he made his slow, painful way back to the bed.

“I don’t suppose you’d let me help you change clothes before you lie down? Your breeches are pretty dirty.”

He glared at her, then turned to a cedar chest Hallie hadn’t noticed before. He moved toward it.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “You’ll never bend down enough to get to the chest, and if you do, you’ll never get up. I don’t think I can lift you into bed.” She walked over beside him, feeling rather than seeing him give in.

Crouching beside the chest, she opened it, and almost cried when she saw the contents. Besides another pair of breeches, there was some soft fabric which was obviously something of his wife’s, a set of fine dishes, and several books.

Hallie couldn’t resist turning a couple of them over. A volume of Shakespeare, and Jane Eyre. They must have belonged to his wife. She wanted to look at the others, but she had pried enough. She grabbed the breeches and closed the chest, her heart heavy and her eyes burning.

“Here,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ll cover the soup and dry the dishes while you change.”

As hard as she tried, she couldn’t keep herself from stealing a glance. In the dim lamplight, she couldn’t see much, but what she did see confirmed what she’d noticed earlier. Jacob Chandler was young, he was vibrant and healthy, and he was a virile man.