Sweetwater Seduction (19 page)

Miss Devlin cleared her throat. “The vow you took may seem silly to you. I felt a little foolish myself when I suggested it. But it
will
work. It
must
work. It
can
work. If only you will stand firm. Will you convince the others? Can you?”

“I'll try,” Persia said.

“Don't try. Do it! And you, Mrs. Westbrook?”

“I'll do my part, never

She'd had to be satisfied with that. By the time her white frame house finally came into sight, her anger was spent and she felt exhausted.

When she came around the corner of the house, the last thing she expected to see was a distinctive paint horse tied to her hitching post. What was the gunslinger doing here this time of night? As she walked past she saw something gleaming on the saddle in the moonlight. She stopped and stared for a moment, her heart in her throat. Surely not. Please, God, no. She took her glove off, almost afraid to touch. Her fingers swiped across the shine on the saddle. It was wet, almost sticky. Blood. A lot of blood.

“Damn him! Damn him, damn him, damn him!” If that gunslinger had gotten himself killed she would—

Then she noticed the light inside the house. He was alive! Or had been when he arrived. She stared at the light, afraid to hope, afraid not to. She took one step toward the door, another, and then she was running. He had to be alive. “
He is alive. He is alive,
” she chanted as she yanked open the door and stepped inside.

He sat in the reception chair, which he had dragged off the India carpet. His eyes were closed. She saw why he had moved the chair. A pool of blood had gathered on the hardwood floor beneath him. His face was gray. There wasn't a sign of life. She walked slowly toward him, her body blocking the light and making a shadow on his face. Apparently that was enough to rouse him. His eyes opened and he looked at her from beneath lowered lids, appearing almost drugged.

“How are you?” she whispered.

“I've felt better.”

“What happened?”

“Got shot.”

“Who did it?”

“Don't know.”

“What are you doing here?”

He grinned crookedly. “Reckon I'm bleeding to death.”

“The men who did this left me for dead. I don't want them to know they made a mistake.”

“If you don't see a doctor, they won't have!” Miss Devlin snapped. “You've lost a lot of blood—

“Look,” the gunslinger reasoned, “my back is full of buckshot. You can likely pick that out as easy as the doc can. Then all I need is plenty of rest and a bite to eat now and then and I'll be right as rain . . . unless I'm already too far gone. And in that case, the doc won't be much help, will he?”

Miss Devlin feared the events of the evening must have left her a little crazy, because what he said made a lot of sense. At any rate, if she didn't want to have to drag him into her bedroom alone, she had better make use of what little strength he had left to get him there.

“Wait a moment while I turn down the sheets,” she said decisively. “I'll be right back to help you into the bedroom.”

A few moments later she turned and found him braced in the doorway of her bedroom, his face ashen, his lips a single line of determination.

“Don't you know when to quit?” She hurried to support him. “Lean on me.” She was surprised when he did, but obviously his will was no longer able to support his wounded body. He was easily as far gone as she had thought he was the first time she had laid eyes on him tonight. It was amazing he hadn't keeled over dead arguing with her.

His body hugged hers from hip to shoulder, and she was aware of the hard muscle under his clothes. Maybe if he hadn't been hurt, she would have found the contact troubling, but right now there wasn't time to think about anything but getting him across the room and into her bed.

Her mind was frantically calculating how she was going to keep his presence a secret for the several weeks it would take him to get well enough to fend for himself. And how on earth was she going to hide his distinctive paint horse?

When she got him angled right, the Texan pretty much fell face-first onto her bed. He turned his head to free his mouth from her pillow and mumbled, “Don't let anyone know I'm here.”

“Surely you want to let the Association—”

“Better if they don't know. Then they won't have to lie when they're asked what happened to me.”

He was out cold before she even had his boots off. It wasn't easy getting him undressed. The sheepskin coat was bulky, and she realized, as she struggled to get him out of it, that it had probably saved his life. That, and the fact that buckshot was used to best effect up close. From the pattern of pellets on Kerrigan's back, he had been some distance away when he had been shot.

Although he was bleeding again, at some time blood had dried his coat to his shirt, and his long johns to his battered skin. She was glad he was unconscious by the time she got everything unstuck and he was naked to the waist.

The upper half of his back and shoulders had the appearance of a sculpted statue, with every muscle and sinew defined. The lower half looked like raw beef. There was also buckshot along the upper edges of his buttocks, so she unbuckled his belt and undid the top button of his Levi's, sliding them down just enough to do what had to be done.

It wasn't easy finding the buckshot in that mess, but with a lantern set close, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and the aid of a pair of tweezers, she finally managed to remove all of it. Or what she hoped was all of it. She used some peroxide to cleanse and disinfect the wound, and was slightly nauseous by the time she finished bandaging him with a torn sheet. She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher beside her bed and drank it down, hoping that would settle her stomach.

Her knees felt too weak to support her, but she knew she wasn't done yet. She had to get the gunslinger's horse rubbed down and settled into the lean-to out in back of her house. That would serve to hide the animal, at least for now. She had to scrub the blood off her floor and do something about the blood on the upholstered seat of her reception chair. Then she had to figure out where she was going to sleep. And then . . .

The bright November sun on her face woke Miss Devlin. She was curled up in the rocker beside her bed, and her neck had a crook in it from sleeping hunched over under a heap of quilts. She had started the night on the sofa, but it was too short for comfort, and she was afraid she might miss hearing the Texan if he woke in pain during the night. But he hadn't. In fact, his breathing was so shallow at one point, she had felt for a pulse at his throat, afraid he had died. But he hadn't. He hadn't moved. He hadn't moaned. He hadn't done anything but lie there.

Only a few coals remained in the bedroom fireplace, and she could see her breath. She didn't want to leave the warm haven she had created in the rocker, but the sooner she rekindled the fire, the sooner the room would warm up. The kinks made themselves felt as she straightened slowly out of the rocker and stepped into an icy pair of slippers. She quickly stirred the fire and added kindling and more wood.

Then she stood, still draped in several layers of quilt, and stared at the man stretched out on her bed, feeling an abundance of confusing emotions.

Relief.
At least he wasn't dead, and with luck and care, he wouldn't die.

Reluctance.
It was folly to touch him, nurse him, care for him. She felt things around him that she had no desire to feel.

Resentment.
How dare he put her in such a compromising position! Imagine what the ladies of Sweetwater would say if they found the gunslinger from Texas in Miss Devlin's bed.

Eden braced herself before reaching down to brush an unruly lock of black hair from Kerrigan's forehead. That slight brush of her fingertips against his skin informed her he was feverish. That was to be expected. He must need water, some sort of nourishment, but she had no idea how to feed an unconscious man. The bullet that had hit her father had killed him instantly. Before that fateful day, Sundance had never even been wounded.

Miss Devlin laid her fingertips against the Texan's cheek, unable to resist the impulse to feel the begin of a dark beard that shadowed his face. It was rougher than she had thought it would be. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, but she withdrew her hand before she reached his mouth, aware of the awful imposition of such actions on his person. Whatever was the matter with her, touching this man without his permission? That left her feeling another emotion.

Rage.
She wasn't going to let this gunslinger turn her into the proverbial spinster begging for a kind word or look from a stranger. Nor was she going to act the fool. She certainly wasn't about to make the same mistake as her mother, and let herself care one tiny little bit about a man of violence. Miss Devlin, spinster schoolteacher, was a damn sight smarter than that.

The knock on her door startled her, turning rage to irritation. Who could that be? Miss Devlin hurriedly pulled off her sleeping cap, shoved the heap of quilts off her shoulders into the rocker, and pulled on her robe, shivering as the cold flannel encircled her. She tightened the tie at her waist and pulled the bedroom door closed behind her as she headed to the front door.

A look through the lace curtains at her front window didn't reveal anyone. “Who's there?”

“It's me, Hadley.”

“What do you want, Hadley?” Miss Devlin asked through the door.

“Can I come in and talk? I want to apologize for what I said last night.”

Miss Devlin groaned. She had completely forgotten about the promise she had made to Bliss last night to help the two lovers meet. Eden wanted to tell Hadley to go away, but she couldn't keep everyone at bay for the next few weeks. She might as well start figuring out how to see people without revealing Kerrigan's presence.

An over-the-shoulder glance around the parlor before she opened the door assured her there was nothing to reveal she had a wounded man in her house. “I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet this morning. Come on in and I'll make us some.”

Miss Devlin briskly ushered Hadley through the parlor to the kitchen in back, which had a small table and two elm spindleback chairs where they could sit and talk. She noticed a bloody rag she had left in the sink and quickly covered it with a dish towel.

She lit the kindling in her four-hole Acme stove, then filled the coffeepot from the pump at the sink and set it on the stove to heat while she ground some coffee beans. Eden reached for some cups from the top shelf of her kitchen cabinet, then got spoons from the long drawer below. Following her normal morning routine gave her time to concentrate on what she wanted to say to Hadley.

Miss Devlin had promised Bliss she wouldn't tell Hadley about the baby, but the teacher had urged her pupil to give Hadley the news soon, so the couple could plan together what was best to do. “I talked to Bliss last night,” Miss Devlin began. “I promised her I'd help the two of you find a way to meet—to talk.”

“You won't be sorry,” Hadley said soberly.

“Hadley, have you thought seriously about what your future with Bliss will be like if your parents and hers never make peace with one another?”