Stay With Me (9 page)

“I’ve got some water here,” she said. “I’m
going to wipe the blood off your head.”

“You shouldn’t have to do that,” he
protested.

“I don’t mind. I’ll be as gentle as I can.
You’ve got a big bump and a pretty deep cut.”

She wiped away the blood, getting as much as
she could from his hair, being careful to avoid the edges of the
cut. When she wrung out her rag, the water in the bowl turned a
dark pink. She picked up a new rag and dipped it into the remaining
fresh bowl. She dabbed around the edges of the cut, trying not to
pull the reddened skin. It looked so deep. She felt helpless.

“You need stitches,” she said. “You really do
and I can’t help you. I can’t even do a stupid hem. Scalp is way
out of my league.”

“It will heal,” he dismissed her concerns.
“I’ve had worse. I’m just tired.”

“You should stay awake,” she said. “In case
you have a concussion.”

“No concussion,” he said, closing his eyes.
“Just tired.”

She closed her own eyes, unwilling to let the
tears escape. Did he know the seriousness of his injury? Did he
realize that he might lapse into a coma and never wake up? That at
this very minute, his skull could be pressing into his brain,
causing internal bleeding that would ultimately cause death?

Just weeks earlier, a ten-year-old girl from
her school had been riding a bike without a helmet and had sailed
over her handlebars. She’d died two hours later from a compressed
skull fracture. Her parents had both been at work. They hadn’t even
gotten to say goodbye.

She placed her hand on his chest. It rose and
fell, with each steady breath. She leaned forward until her lips
were just inches from his ear. “You are going to wake up,” she
whispered. “You’re going to wake up and smile and insult me and do
whatever else comes naturally to you. I’m leaving in five days and
by God, you better be there for me to say goodbye to.”

She got up, picked up both bowls, opened the
front door, and threw the bloody water out into the yard. She
needed fresh. Regretting that she’d been so quick to make soup, she
picked up an empty pail, grabbed the lantern, and walked outside to
the pump. She hurried, not liking the night sounds, the crickets,
the yelp of the prairie-dog, or the occasional call of the
coyote.

She filled the bucket and quickly returned to
the cabin. She checked her patient first. Still sleeping. She
pulled two canning jars of what appeared to be cooked beef off the
shelf, and added them to the simmering barley.

“Way to multi-task,” she said, feeling a bit
loopy. “Cook. Clean. Care for others. No problem. Who needs a task
list? If I had a phone, I could check my voice mails, maybe send a
few text messages. If my computer had made the trip, I could whip
up a few spreadsheets. I could do it all. I’m Superwoman.”

She sat down hard on the wooden chair, the
impact reverberating up her spine. “You need to shut up, Sarah,”
she said. “You’re losing it.”

With the back of her hand, she wiped the
sweat off her forehead. Pulling at the collar of her blouse, she
tried to free her neck of the moist material. She wanted to open a
window but knew the bugs would be attracted to the light from the
lantern.

“Screens,” she said, adding them to her
things-to-be-thankful-for list, right behind indoor toilets and
transportation with four wheels instead of four legs. “I will never
again underestimate the value of a good screen.”

She unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it
off, leaving just the sleeveless silk shirt she’d arrived in. The
day before, as she’d hunted through Franny’s clothes, she’d looked
for a bra but hadn’t found anything remotely close. Her shirt had a
built-in bra but it wasn’t like she was going to be able to wear it
for the next five days.

She’d found underwear. Sort of. They were
like pantaloons, coming down practically to her knees. No way,
she’d decided. She would wash out her panties every night or she’d
go without.

She reached both hands into the bucket,
cupped a handful of water, and splashed it on her cheeks and
forehead. She took a second handful and cooled off the back of her
neck, enjoying the feel of the water sliding down her skin.

She yearned for a nice cool shower with
raspberry shampoo and a really good hair conditioner. But what she
wanted and what she was going to have to settle for were two very
different things. She poured herself a cup of water, took a big
drink, and walked back to the bed.

She felt bad that she’d let John drift off
before she got to remove his shirt. He had to be uncomfortable and
the smell was getting worse.

“You’ve got vomit on your shirt,” she said
quietly, hoping that he’d wake up.

No response.

“It’s pretty gross.”

She might as well have been talking to the
wall. She put her cup of water down on the nightstand, reached for
him, and undid the first button.

Her fingertips brushed against the hollow of
his throat. His skin was very warm.

Second button. His chest was so tanned it
almost seemed bronzed.

Third button. She peeled both edges back far
enough that she could she his nipples. Small and pink and almost
flat. Perfect. She reached for her water and took another big gulp.
How could she still be so thirsty?

Fourth button. The man had stomach muscles to
die for.

Fifth and last button. She followed the faint
line of hair from mid-belly until it was disappeared, captured by
his belt.

Oh my God, it was hot in the cabin.

Unable to resist, she ran her fingers lightly
down the center of his chest. He smiled, a soft, sexy smile.

She brushed her hand across his nipple. He
groaned and arched his back.

She had, undoubtedly, reached the height of
desperateness.

She picked up her cup, dipped her finger into
her glass of water and ever so lightly, swirled the wet tip around
the edge of his bellybutton, then traced the thin line of hair
until it disappeared into his pants.

He raised his hips, in a motion as old as
time itself.

The heat lodged itself between her legs.

It didn’t help that the buttons on his pants
seemed about to burst.

She reached her hand out, wanting to feel
him, to know him. She wanted—

Morton barked, a shrill slice into the quiet
night. Sarah jerked back so abruptly that she spilled her water on
John’s bare stomach.

His eyes flew open. “What the hell?” he said,
wiping his hand across his absolutely perfect abs.

She stood there, her mouth hanging open.

“Sarah?” John looked around, as if he
expected danger to leap from the corner. What he didn’t know was
that she posed the only threat. My God, what had she been
thinking?

“What’s going on?” he asked.

She couldn’t do a thing but stare at his
bulging buttons.

He looked down, his eyes widened, then he
glanced up again. “I guess I should be relieved,” he said. “Looks
like everything still works.”

Oh baby, did it. “No problem,” she said. “I
unbuttoned your shirt. You probably got cold.”

“This,” he said, looking embarrassed, “is not
what happens when a man gets cold.”

She could feel the heat rise from her toes
all the way to the top of her head. “Don’t worry about it,” she
dismissed his concern. “It’s no big deal.” Liar. He had a big, big
deal happening. “I’m going outside. I need some more water.” While
she was there, she’d stick her head under the pump for a few
seconds and try to cool down her raging hormones. “I’ll be right
back.”

“It’s too dark out. You might trip. I’ll get
it,” he said, trying to sit up.

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I’ve
already made one trip. Your shirt needs to be soaked or the blood
will never come out.”

He looked at his shirt and wrinkled his nose.
“I appreciate your help, Sarah.”

“It’s nothing. Really. You’d do the same for
me. Actually,” she said, pointing to her foot, “you have done the
same. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” John said, closing his eyes. He
listened to her move around the cabin and kept his eyes shut until
he heard the door slam. Then he carefully opened one, then the
other. He looked down at his crotch.

He was still painfully erect. He shifted a
bit on the bed, trying to make it look a little less obvious. How
the hell had this happened? Christ, he’d never lost control like
that. Not even when tempted by the women at the saloon or the women
at the store or at the bank who managed to brush up against
him.

After the damn horse had thrown him and left
him, he’d managed to drag himself to some shade. Lucky for him,
he’d had his canteen hooked on his belt. Otherwise, he’d probably
have died from thirst. He’d drifted in and out all day, always
waking up drenched in sweat. More than once, when the pain had
lulled him back to sleep, he’d dreamed about her breasts. About the
shape, the fullness, the absolute perfection. He’d imagined her
nipples. She was so blonde and faired skinned. Would they be a pale
pink, a beautiful apricot, or a lush rose? Would she cry out when
he sucked them? Would she scream in pleasure when he rolled them
with his fingertips?

He’d injured his brain. Either that or he’d
been without a woman for too long. After all, it had been over six
months since he’d had one underneath him, so long that he’d almost
forgotten the taste and feel of soft flesh. That had to be the only
excuse. Sarah had lived in his house for months and he’d never once
been attracted to her. Hell, he hadn’t even liked her. Now, she’d
been back a day and this was happening.

She seemed different. Sweeter. Funnier.

But she’d been his brother’s wife. If nothing
else, that made her off limits.

She’d no doubt been nice to Peter at one
time, too. No telling how many men she’d been nice to since she’d
left Cedarbrook six months ago. No telling how many she’d let in
her bed. The Sarah he knew wasn’t above selling her body. She’d be
subtler than the girls at the saloon but before some unsuspecting
fool knew it, he’d have stopped thinking with his head and started
thinking with his cock.

He didn’t intend for her to make a fool of
him that way.

John awoke to an empty cabin. He struggled to
sit up, wincing when the slight movement caused the room to spin.
He looked toward the window. The breeze coming in blew so strong
that the white cotton curtain stood at a forty-five-degree angle.
The sun was already well above the horizon.

Sucking in a deep breath, he swung his legs
over the side of the bed. Now the room didn’t just spin, it
whirled, causing him to shut his eyes and hold on to his empty
stomach. “Christ,” he said. “I’m going to kill him.”

Just then, the door opened and Fred stepped
inside. He took off his cowboy hat and walked toward the bed. He
smiled at John. “Morning. Nice to see you’re still with us.”

John knew he owed this man his life. Another
couple hours and the coyotes would have had him for dinner. “Thanks
for coming to get me,” he said.

“So I guess it’s not me.”

John frowned at him.

Fred shrugged. “Window’s open,” he explained.
“Who you going to kill?”

“Not who. What. I’m going to kill that damn
horse.”

Fred shook his head. “You don’t have it in
you to hurt an animal.”

“Things are different now,” John said,
shifting slightly so that he could lean his head back against the
bed frame. “I’ve got a hole in my head.”

“Just a small slice. Barely a dent.”

“Dent? Good Lord, man. Go back up there in
the daylight and you’ll see. I left most of my brains scattered on
those rocks.” Which, he decided, might explain why he’d totally
stopped thinking the night before. Why he had, for some reason
known only to a vindictive and poor-humored God, been able to only
think about one thing. No, take that back. Two things. Two
absolutely perfect breasts. The two things he vowed never to think
about again.

“Where’s my sister-in-law?” John asked.

“In the barn.”

“She slept in the barn?” When Sarah had
returned to the cabin with clean water, he’d somehow managed to not
make a fool out of himself when she’d helped him take off his
shirt. He’d washed himself up and slipped into a clean shirt. Then
he’d closed his eyes for just a second.

“I don’t think she slept much,” Fred said.
“You got clean laundry hanging on the line.”

She’d done laundry in the middle of the
night?

“She’s got the eggs gathered and is just
finishing up with the second cow.”

“She’s milking?” John couldn’t keep the
surprise out of his voice.

“Yeah. She’s damned untidy about it, though.”
Fred shook his head in bewilderment. “Between the floor and her
dress, I’ll bet you lost half a bucket. Kept talking to the
cows.”

He couldn’t help himself. “What was she
saying?”

Fred grinned. “She was apologizing. Something
about squeezing and groping.”

“She lived here for months and I don’t think
she ever even went into the barn.”

“Well, that explains it,” Fred said. “How you
feeling?”

“Like someone swung an ax at me, knocked me
down, and left the blade in my head.”

“You’re going to have to take it easy for a
few days.”

“I put off fixing fence to get my crops in. I
can’t put it off any longer. I don’t want my cattle getting
out.”

“I’ll do it,” Fred said.

“You can’t. You’ve got your own work to do.”
John pushed himself out of bed and managed to get in a standing
position. That is, if a person bent over, hanging on to the corner
post of the bed, could be counted as standing. “See, I’m fine.”

At that exact moment, the door swung open.
Sarah came in, carrying a basket of eggs and a pitcher of milk.
“What are you doing?” she asked, hurriedly setting the items on the
table. She rushed over to the bed, wrapped an arm around his
middle, and gently pushed himself back onto the bed.