Song of the West (6 page)

Chapter Six

Samantha looked around her. She remembered with a shock that she was in Jake's house—and, worse yet,
naked
in bed. She was debating the wisdom of wrapping the quilt around her and searching for more appropriate attire when footsteps sounded down the hall outside her room. She pulled the covers to her chin as Jake strode through the open door.

“So, you're awake. How do you feel?”

“Fine.” Her respiratory system behaved erratically as he continued toward her and dropped onto the bed. “I'm just fine,” she repeated, then added unnecessarily, “It's still snowing.”

“So it is,” he agreed without taking his eyes from her face. “Slowing down, though.”

“Is it?” She forced herself to look out the window.

“The worst'll be over by midday.” He reached up and pried one of her hands loose from the death grip on the blankets. “Calm down, Sam, I'm not going to ravish you, I'm going to check your pulse.”

“I'm fine,” she repeated again.

“Far from fine, Samantha,” he corrected. His fingers brushed against her cheek, as if to test its substance. “The first thing is to get some food into you.” Rising, he held out a large flannel robe that he had dropped at the foot of the bed. “You'd probably feel better if you had something on.” His smile was gently mocking. “Can you manage to get into this by yourself?”

“Of course.” Plucking it from him, she kept a cautious grip on the blankets. “I'm not an invalid.”

“You best think like one. Put that on, then get back in bed. I'll bring you some breakfast.”

“I don't . . .”

“Don't argue.” The two words were swift and final. He was gone before she could say another word.

He had shut the door, however, and grateful for the concession, Samantha tossed back the covers and slipped her arm into the robe. When she stood, the room swayed and spun around her. She sank back onto the bed and slipped her other arm into its sleeve, pulling the robe around her before attempting to stand again. Her limbs felt heavy and weak, and she noted with puzzlement that her ankle was throbbing lightly. Gripping one poster of the bed until the room steadied, she rolled up the sleeves of the robe several times until her hands became visible, then moved to the bathroom to study herself in the mirror.

The sight of her own face caught at her breath. Her skin seemed nearly transparent, her eyes darker and larger in contrast. The breath of color that resulted when she pinched her cheeks faded instantly. She ran a hand through her hair falling on the shoulders of the dark green robe.

It must be his, she realized, looking down at the sleeves, which swallowed her arms, and the hem, which fell nearly to her ankles. A strange sensation flowed over her as she felt the material on her skin. Turning away from the mirror, she studied the bed.

“I'm not getting in there again,” she muttered, and with a small gesture of defiance belted the robe more securely. “I can eat at the table like a normal person.”

After a moment, her progress down the hall seemed more of a crawl than a walk. Her legs were heavy with a weakness that infuriated her. The stillness of the house vibrated around her, playing havoc with her nerves, and the need to hear the natural, everyday movements of another human being became increasingly important. She cursed the waves of giddiness that swam around in her head, forcing her to stop time after time to rest her hand against the wall.

“This is ridiculous.”

“You're right.”

The harsh agreement came from behind as Jake's hands gripped her shoulders.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“I'm all right.” She swayed against his chest. He gripped her waist to support her, and she rested her hands on his arms.

“I'm just a bit wobbly, and I'm having some trouble with my ankle.”

He let his gaze travel down to rest on her bare feet. “Probably turned it when you fell off the horse.”

“I fell off Spook?” Her expression was incredulous.

“You were unconscious at the time. Now, get back in bed and stay there.” Effortlessly, he swept her into his arms, and she laid her head against his shoulder.

“Jake, don't make me go back to bed. It's so quiet in there, and I don't feel like being alone now.”

He bent and brushed lips that parted in confusion. “If you think you can sit in a chair without sliding on your face, you can come in the kitchen.”

She nodded, sighed and closed her eyes. “I hate being so much trouble.”

She felt him shift her in his arms before he began the journey down the hall. “I knew you were trouble the minute I set eyes on you.”

“Don't tease, Jake, I'm trying to thank you.”

“What for?”

She lifted a hand to his cheek, turning his face so that he would look at her. “For my life.”

“Then take better care of it in the future,” he suggested.

“Jake, please, I'm serious. I owe you . . .”

“Nothing, you owe me nothing.” His voice had hardened with annoyance. “I don't want your gratitude.” They had reached the kitchen, and he placed her in a chair at the table. “Which ankle did you hurt?” He crouched down by her feet.

“The left one. Jake, I— Ouch!”

“Sorry.” He grinned up at her, then rested his hand with friendly ease on her knee. “It's not swollen.”

“It still hurts,” she said stubbornly.

“Keep off it, then,” he advised with simple logic, and turned away to finish breakfast.

“You've got some bedside manners, Dr. Tanner,” she observed sharply.

“Yes, ma'am, so I've been told.” When he turned to face her, his smile was bland. “Tell me, Sam, does Sabrina have a mole on her left hip, too?”

Color flooded her face. “You . . . you . . .” she faltered, and clutched the robe tight at her throat.

“Around here, we call that locking the barn door after the cow's got loose. Have some coffee,” he invited with sudden graciousness, pouring a cup and setting it on the table. “Start on this bacon,” he ordered, sliding a plate in front of her. “That color didn't last long, you're pale as a ghost again. When did you eat last?”

“I . . . at breakfast yesterday, I guess.”

“Toast and coffee, I imagine,” he said disgustedly. “It's a wonder you can manage to sit up at all. Eat.” He plucked a piece of bacon from the plate and held it out to her. “I'll have some eggs ready in a minute.”

Obediently, she accepted the bacon and took a bite. “Are you going to have something?”

“In a minute,” he answered absently, involved with breaking and beating eggs in a bowl.

With the first bite of bacon, Samantha realized she was ravenous. Through her preoccupation with food, she watched Jake cook with a deftness that amused and surprised her.

In a moment, he sat across from her, his plate piled high. She wondered how he could eat with such abandon and remain hard and lean.

She watched him under the cover of her lashes, and the thought came unbidden into her mind that never before had she shared the breakfast table with a man. The intimacy of their situation washed over her; the scent of bacon and coffee drifting through the air, the house quiet and empty around them, the soft flannel of his robe against her skin, the faint masculine scent of him clinging to it. It was as if they were lovers, she thought suddenly, as if they had shared the night, and now they were sharing the morning. Her face grew warm.

“I don't know what thought put roses back in those cheeks, Sam, but keep it up.”

Her eyes lifted to his, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew very well what road her thoughts had taken. She dropped her eyes to her plate. “I should call Bree and let her know I'm all right.”

“Phones are out,” he said simply, and her eyes flew back to his.

“The phones are out?” she repeated.

No telephone, her mind said again. Without a telephone, they might as well be on an island a thousand miles from anyone. Their isolation was complete, and the snow was still falling as though it would never stop.

“With a storm like this, it's not surprising to lose the phones. Power's out, too. We're on generator. Don't worry about Sabrina, she knows you're with me.” His words did nothing to erase her tension.

“When . . . when do you think I'll be able to get back?”

“Couple of days,” he returned with an easy shrug, and sipped his coffee. “The roads'll have to be cleared after the storm lets up, and you're not in any shape to travel through a mess like that yet. In a day or two, you'll be more up to it.”

“A couple of days?”

He leaned back comfortably in his chair, his voice smooth as a quiet river. “Of course, by then you'll be hopelessly compromised, not a scrap of your sterling reputation left. Alone with me for two or three days, without Annie to add a thread of decency to the situation.” His eyes traveled down her slim figure. “Wearing my bathrobe, too.” He shook his head. “Not too many years back, I'd have had to marry you.”

“Thank goodness for progress,” she retorted smartly.

“Oh, I don't know, Sam.” His sigh was convincing. “I'm an old-fashioned sort of man.”

“It's only a matter of circumstance that we're alone here in the first place.” With great dignity, she folded her arms. “And I've hardly been compromised, as you so quaintly put it.”

“No?” He watched her through lazily narrowed eyes. “So far, I've undressed you, tucked you in and fixed your breakfast. Who knows what that might lead to?”

His smile might have been lazy, but it was full of meaning. Suddenly Samantha found it difficult to swallow.

“Relax, Sam.” His laugh was full of arrogant enjoyment. “I told you I mean to have you, but it's not in my plans to take on a pale child who barely has the strength to stand.” He paused, lit one of his long, thin cigars and blew smoke at the ceiling. “When I make love to you, I want you to have your wits about you. I don't want you passing out in my arms.”

The man's arrogance was amazing! “You conceited mule,” she began. “How dare you sit there and tell me you're going to make love to me? You seem to think you're irresistible! Well, you have another thing coming—”

“I'm going to remind you of that one day, Sam,” Jake said mildly as he crushed out his cigar. “Now, I think you better lie down again. You're not quite up to sparring with me yet.”

“I do not have to lie down. And I certainly don't need you carting me around. I can manage.” She stood up, then was forced to grasp the table as the room revolved around her.

“You don't look ready to turn cartwheels, teacher,” Jake observed as he took her arm.

“I'm all right.” Her hand, which she had lifted to push him away, lay weakly on his chest for support. He tilted her chin, and he was no longer smiling. “Samantha, sometimes you have to be strong enough to let someone else take care of things. You're going to have to hand over the reins to me for a couple of days. If you fight it, you're only going to make it harder on yourself.”

With a sigh, she allowed her head to fall against his chest, not protesting as his arms encircled her. “Do I have to like it?”

“Not necessarily.” He gave a short laugh and lifted her easily and carried her back to bed.

Her small spurt of energy deserted her. With an odd feeling of contentment, she settled down under the covers. She was asleep even before his lips had lightly touched her forehead in a farewell kiss. . . .

***

“I was beginning to think you'd sleep through the night.”

She turned her head quickly. Jake was sitting across the room, the smoke of his cigar spiraling upward, the flickering lights from the fire shooting specks of gold into his eyes. Samantha brushed the tousled hair from her face and struggled into a sitting position.

“It's dark,” she said. “What time is it?”

He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist and took a slow drag from his cigar. “It's a bit past six.”

“Six? I've slept for hours. I feel as if I've slept for weeks.”

“You needed it.” Tossing the stub of his cigar into the mouth of the fire, Jake rose and moved toward her. His concerned eyes roamed over her sleep-flushed cheeks and heavy eyes. Gradually, his expression lightened, the angles of his face moving into a satisfied smile. “Your color's coming back.” He took her wrist, and her eyes dropped from his to study the dancing flames of the fire. “Pulse's a bit jumpy.” The smile reflected in his voice. “Strong though. Hungry?”

“I shouldn't be.” She forced her eyes to meet his. “I've done nothing but lie around all day, but I'm starved.”

He smiled again, lifting her without comment. She felt small and vulnerable in his arms, a sensation that was both pleasant and disturbing. She found it difficult to resist the impulse to rest her head against the strong curve of his shoulder. Instead, she concentrated on the sharp, clean lines of his profile.

“I'm sure I can walk. I really feel fine.”

“I doubt it.” She could feel his warm breath on her face. “Besides, you seem to fit in my arms pretty well.”

Finding no quick comeback to this comment, she took the journey to the kitchen in silence.

***

Leaning back in her chair, replete and content, Samantha sipped the cool white wine in her glass and gave Jake a nod of approval.

“You're going to make some woman a terrific husband. You're an outstanding cook.”

“I think so.” He nodded smugly. “My wife wouldn't have to be a gourmet cook,” he added with casual consideration. “I'd demand other qualities.”

“Adoration,” Samantha suggested. “Obedience, unswerving loyalty, solicitude.”

“That's all right for a start.”

“Poor woman.”

“Of course, I don't want her to be a doormat. Let's say I like a woman who knows how to think, one who doesn't pretend to be anything but who she is. Of course,” he added, finishing off his wine, “I'm also partial to good looks.”