The Cowboy Takes a Bride (26 page)

Joe lightly swiped a finger over the tip of her nose. “Paint.”

“Oh.”

“More here.” His finger wiped at the little indention between her nose and her upper lip.

“What do you think?” Mariah said in a rush, waving a hand at the walls. She felt dizzy. Standing so near Joe unbalanced her equilibrium.

“You’ve accomplished a lot in a short amount of time,” he said, sinking his hands on his hips.

“We’ve
accomplished a lot.” She paused, raised her chin, and lowered her voice. “I could not have done it without your help.”

“Everyone needs help now and again, Little Bit.”

She canted her head. “Why do you call me that?”

He shrugged. “You don’t want me to?”

“I’ve never considered my stature a handicap.”

“I don’t mean to offend. It’s a cowboy thing,” Joe explained.

“Ah,” she said, not knowing what else to say. The man was too distracting with raindrops on his lashes and those dark bedroom eyes assessing her. “Break over. I gotta get back to work.”

“Mariah, you have to stop pushing yourself so hard.”

“Like you don’t push yourself?” She cleared her throat to suppress the tickle at the back of her throat. A coughing fit would be so unattractive.

“Guilty as charged. But just because I have bad habits doesn’t mean you have to be stupid too.”

“Look, it’s not that much longer,” she protested, trying not to let him see just how exhausted she was. She tried to smile, but she couldn’t force her lips to go all the way up. “Another day and a half and I’ll have the whole chapel painted and we’ll be ready to put in the maple hardwood floor.”

“What’s the rush?”

“I promised Prissy and Paul I’d have the chapel ready in time for their wedding.”

“It’s still three weeks away. No one is going to get upset if you don’t have everything perfect.”

“I’ll be upset,” she said. “I’ll know. It will bother me.”

“No matter how hard you work, or what you do, nothing is ever perfect.”

It was a simple statement and yet so profound. It was the dark side of being a perfectionist. No matter how hard you tried, you could never make everything perfect. She knew that. Hated it.

“Honestly,” he said. “It takes a lot of hubris to assume you have the power to make anything perfect.”

“You’re saying I have a big ego?”

“No, sweetheart, I’m saying you’re running yourself into the ground.”

Sweetheart
.

Mariah started up the ladder, but paused to push aside a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. She was surprised to find sweat beading her brow. She shivered, suddenly cold. Her knees trembled.

Come on. Snap out of it. You’ll be okay. You’ll just need to . . .

She swayed.

“Mariah!” Joe’s exclamation made her blink.

He reached for her just as her knees buckled and she pitched backward from the ladder. One arm went around her waist, the other to her forehead. “My God, you’re burning up, woman. How long have you had a fever?”

She shook her head. “I’m okay.”

“Stop being so stubborn.”

She planted a palm against his chest, intending on pushing him away and standing on her own two feet, but her stupid legs wouldn’t obey and her vision blurred. There seemed to be two Joes holding her, scolding her.

“That’s it. You’re going to bed.”

“No,” she protested weakly.

“Yes,” he said firmly.

He scooped her into his arms and trod from the chapel. She tried to protest, but the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. It felt good to let go of the reins, to let Joe take over. Other than her mother, she’d never had someone she could depend on.

Stop this. You can’t depend on Joe. He’s Dutch all over again. Cutter to the bone.

“You look dehydrated. When was the last time you had something to drink?”

She frowned, unable to remember.

“If it’s been that long, then it’s too long. People die of dehydration, dammit. Do you want to be like Dutch and keel over from working yourself to death?”

Like father, like daughter, she thought dizzily.

Joe smelled so good. Like soap and leather and outdoor man. His shoulder was firm beneath her cheek, his arms tight around her. She felt as if she’d downed a glass of wine too quickly. Her perception was altered, her mind a mosaic of images. Her pulse raced. She felt helpless.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

“I’m here, Mariah. I’m going to take care of you. Everything is going to be all right.”

He carried her to the cabin, but once he was inside, he let out a strong curse. “What is this?”

“What?” She blinked. Her head hurt. “Oh, the buckets? Gotta leaky roof.”

“No kidding. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“No need. I’ve got plenty of buckets.”

“If you get pneumonia from sleeping in a damp house, I swear, Mariah Callahan, that I’m gonna spank you.”

“Sounds kinda interesting.”

“You’re out of your head from the fever. And you can’t stay here. You’re coming home with me.”

She didn’t protest. She was feeling too rotten and he made good sense. He pivoted on his heel and carried her out to his pickup truck. They bumped across the pasture, headed for Green Ridge.

By the time he got her into his house, into his bed, everything was a blur. She’d never been in his house before, but the surroundings didn’t register. Leather furniture. Hardwood floors. Dark colors. Her impression didn’t go much deeper than that.

He carried her to a bedroom. To a rustic bedstead made of polished, rough-hewn hickory and sporting a luxurious pillow-top mattress. The comforter had horses on it. But of course, in Jubilee, horses were comforting.

Joe stripped off her shoes, dropped them to the floor—
thump, thump.
Then he reached for the zipper on her jeans.

“Well, I’ve dreamed about you getting me naked.” She giggled, on her back, staring at the ceiling. A ceiling without water stains or rain dripping in. “But I never thought it would be like this.”

“Me either,” he said grimly, grabbing hold of the hem of her jeans. “Hips up.”

She rose up, startled to discover how difficult that was, and he tugged the pants off her body. Mariah lay there in flannel top, T-shirt, and underwear, not feeling the least bit shy. Why wasn’t she feeling shy? She should be feeling shy. Shouldn’t she?

Joe sank down on the edge of the mattress beside her and cast a glance over her. It was a worried look, nothing sexual about it.

Too bad. She reached up with an index finger, smoothed the line between his eyebrows. “Don’t look so frowny.”

“You’re out of your head. I’m calling Doc Freeman. He’s old as dirt but he still makes house calls.”

“I’m not. I’m . . .” She paused, unable to remember what she was thinking. “Hey.” She patted the bed beside her. “Why don’t you join me?”

“In a minute. I’ve got to get some fluids and aspirin down you. Lower that fever.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “C’mon, stay.”

“You have no idea just how much I’d like to crawl under those covers with you, sweetheart, but not right now. Not like this. You just lie back against the pillow and take it easy.”

“Spoilsport.” She pouted and flopped back on the pillow, then shivered, suddenly cold.

Joe disappeared, but he returned a few minutes later with a glass of ice water and two aspirins. He leaned over, handed her first the aspirin, then the water. “Take these and drink all the water.”

She obeyed, mainly because he stood there with his arms folded over his chest, until she’d downed it.

He took the empty glass, set it on the bedside table. “Are you cold?”

“Nope.”

“Hot?”

She grinned, reached for him. “Hot for you.”

“You’re out of your head, darlin’.”

She seemed to have lost all filter control over her tongue. “Out of my head over you.”

He chuckled. “Shh, close your eyes. Try to get some sleep.”

Mariah stifled a yawn. “Just for a minute. Just until the aspirins kick in. Then I’ve got to go back to work.”

Joe snorted. “Over my dead body.”

She clicked her tongue. “No way. I want that body fully alive.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He left again and came back with a cool, damp cloth. As he bathed her forehead, Mariah had a flash of memory. Dutch. Bathing her forehead in a similar manner when she’d been sick. She’d never recalled the memory before and it twisted inside her. Had Dutch taken care of her the way a daddy should? Or was this a false memory, conjured up by the fever and a desperate need to believe her father had indeed loved her.

She shivered. “Cold.”

Joe stopped bathing her forehead and heaped blankets on her.

She shivered harder, her teeth chattering. “So cold.”

“Scoot over,” he said.

“What?”

“Scoot over,” he repeated. “I’m going to get in bed with you to warm you up. Transference of body heat.”

“ ’Kay.” She scooted.

He reached out and wrapped his arms around her, tugging her against his body. He was in his underwear and shirt too. When had he taken his jeans off? She didn’t remember him taking his jeans off. Oh well. This was nice.

“How’s that?” he asked, tucking the covers up under her chin.

“What if I’m contagious? What if I make you sick?”

“I’m healthy as a horse.”

“That’s an odd saying,” she mused.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, from my limited knowledge of horses, it seems like they’re always sick with something. Colic, stone bruises, pyoderma.”

“You have a point. Then I’m much healthier than a horse.”

“Good to hear. I’d feel terrible if I made you sick.”

“You’re not going to make me sick. Now go to sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, her eyelids already half closed.

“Mariah?”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured.

“Did you mean it or was it just the fever talking?”

“Mean what?”

“That you’d been dreaming of getting naked with me?”

M
ariah never answered his question. She was already fast asleep.

Joe crawled out of bed and got dressed. He’d called Doc Freeman when he’d gone to get her some aspirin and the elderly physician promised to come out within the hour. While he waited, Joe went to make sure his ranch hands had everything under control. The rain had picked up and was coming down in steady sheets. More heavy rains were predicted for the next few days. Bad timing, considering that first rounds of the Fort Worth Futurity started the day after Thanksgiving.

Doc Freeman arrived and went in to examine his patient. Joe paced the hallway. All he could think about was how Dutch had died from pneumonia and the sorry state of the cabin. He could kick his own butt for not paying more attention to the condition of the place. Here he’d been helping Mariah build a chapel, when the first thing he should have done was put a roof on her home.

“Forgive me, Dutch. I should have taken better care of your girl.”

Doc Freeman emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later. “Bronchitis,” he diagnosed. “She just needs rest, lots of liquids, and these antibiotics.” He took a handful of pharmaceutical samples from his bag and passed them to Joe. “Give her one twice a day. I just gave her a tablet for tonight.”

“Thanks, Doc. How much do I owe you?”

The stooped old man held up a hand. “I’ll send you a bill.”

He saw the doctor out, and then went to make a pot of homemade chicken soup in the Crock-Pot in case Mariah woke up hungry. When he finished that task, he went back to the bedroom.

At one point she woke, thrashing and turning, throwing off the covers. She babbled about being hot. He checked her temperature. It was a hundred and three. Alarmed, he gave her more aspirin and sponged her skin with cool water.

“Hot,” she said, “so hot.” She tore at her clothes, whipping off her shirt, her bra, her panties.

Stunned, Joe stared at her beautiful body and instantly he was hard. So hard it took his breath. He closed his eyes against the shocking tingle arrowing through him. He opened his eyes again and his gaze met hers. He studied her lips, her breasts, her belly, her . . .

Need seized him by the throat. Throttled him. Razor-sharp sensations sliced through his loins, and images of him and Mariah having sex peppered his mind.

Disgusted with himself, he drew back. She’d already dropped back against the mattress, her eyes shuttered closed. He tugged the sheet up over her, more for his sake than hers.

Breathing hard and heavy, he stumbled back to the chair in the corner. Sat in the darkness watching over her.

After that, Mariah slept soundly, her breath slow and raspy. At some point, he fell asleep too.