Buckhorn Beginnings (4 page)

“But you're not going to share it?”

Sawyer shook his head. “Nope. At least, not until I've shared it with Miss Malone.”

Since he had the arrogant habit of refusing ever to let anyone rile him, Morgan merely shrugged. “Suit yourself. But you should also know I braved this hellish rain to run out to the car radio and run
a check on her. Nothing, from either side of the law. No priors, no complaints, no signed statements. If someone is trying to hurt her, the police don't know a damn thing about it.”

Sawyer worked that thought over in his mind, then shook his head. “That could mean several things.”

“Yeah, like she's making it all up.” Morgan hesitated, but as he turned to walk away, he added, “Or she's more rattled than you first thought and is delusional. But either way, Sawyer, be on your guard, okay?”

“I'm not an idiot.”

“No.” Morgan pointed at him and chuckled. “But you are acting like a man out to stake a claim. Don't let your gonads overrule your common sense.”

Sawyer glared, but Morgan hadn't waited around to see it. Ridiculous. So he was attracted to her, so what? He was human, and he'd been attracted to plenty of women in his day. Not quite this attracted, not quite this…
consumed.
But it didn't matter. He had no intentions of getting involved any more than necessary to get her well. She was a patient, and he'd treat her as such. Period.

But even as he thought it, he opened the door again, drawn by some inexplicable need to be near her.

Damn, but she looked sweet resting there in his bed. Incredibly sweet and vulnerable.

And once again, she'd kicked the blanket away.

 

H
ONEY WOKE
slowly and struggled to orient herself to the sensation of being in strange surroundings. Care
fully, she queried her senses, aware of birds chirping in near rapture, the steady drone of water dripping outside and a soft snore. Yet she was awake.

Her throat felt terrible, and she swallowed with difficulty, then managed to get her heavy eyes to open a tiny bit. As soon as she did, she closed them again against a sharp pain in her head. She held her breath until the pain ebbed, easing away in small degrees.

Her body felt weighted down, warm and leaden, and a buzzing filled her head. It took a lot of effort to gather her wits and recall where she was and why.

She was on her stomach, a normal position for her, and this time she opened her eyes more carefully, only a slit, and let them adjust to the dim light filtering into the room. As her eyes focused on the edge of a blanket, pulled to her chin, she shifted, but her legs didn't want to move. Confused, she peered cautiously around the room. The rain, only a light drizzle now, left glittering tracks along the wall of windows, blurring the image of the lake beyond and the fog rising from it. The gutters must have been overloaded because they dripped steadily, the sound offering a lulling, soporific effect. The day was gray, but it was definitely morning, and the birds seemed to be wallowing in the freshness of it, singing their little hearts out.

Frowning, she looked away from the windows, and her gaze passed over Sawyer, then snapped back. She almost gasped at the numbing pain that quick eye movement caused.

Then she did moan as the sight of him registered.

Wearing nothing more than unsnapped jeans, he lounged in a padded wicker chair pulled close at an angle to the foot of the bed. His long legs were stretched out, his bare feet propped on the edge of the mattress near her waist pinning her blankets in place. No wonder her legs didn't want to move. They couldn't, not with his big feet keeping her blankets taut.

She remembered him waking her several times throughout the night, his touch gentle, his voice low and husky as he insistently coaxed her to respond to him, to answer his questions. Her skin warmed with the memory of his large hands on her body, smoothing over her, resettling her blankets, lifting her so she could take a drink or swallow another pill.

She warmed even more as she allowed her eyes to drink in the sight of him. Oh, she was awake now. Wide-awake. Sawyer had that effect on her, especially when he was more naked than not, available to her scrutiny. He was a strong man, confident, even arrogant in his abilities. But there was an innate gentleness in his touch, and an unwavering serenity in his dark eyes.

The muscles of his chest and shoulders were exaggerated by the long shadows. She felt cool in the rainy, predawn morning, yet he looked warm and comfortable in nothing more than his jeans. His abdomen, hard and flat, had a very enticing line of downy black hair bisecting it, dipping into those low-fitting jeans. Her heart rate accelerated, her fingers instinctively curling into the sheets as she thought
about touching him there, feeling how soft that hair might be and how hard the muscles beneath it were.

One of his elbows was propped on the arm of the chair, offering a fist as a headrest. His other arm dangled off the side of the chair, his hand open, his fingers slack. He was deeply asleep, and even in his relaxed state his body looked hard and lean and too virile for a sane woman to ignore. He appeared exhausted, and no wonder after caring for her all night. She studied his whisker-roughened face a moment, then gave in to temptation and visually explored his body again. A soft sigh escaped her.

She needed a drink. She needed the bathroom. But she could be happy just lying there looking at him for a long, long time.

“G'mornin'.”

With a guilty start, her attention darted back to his face. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his thick black lashes at half-mast, his dark gaze glittering at her. Honey closed her own eyes for a moment, trying to get her bearings. His voice had been low, sleepy,
sexy.

Ahem. “Good morning.” The words, which she'd meant to be crisp, sounded like a faint, rusty impersonation.

Sawyer tilted his head. “Throat still sore?”

She nodded, peeking a glance at him and quickly looking away again. “You're, ah, pinning my blankets down.”

She heard the amusement in his tone when he murmured, “Yeah, I know.”

Then he dragged his feet off the bed and stood and
stretched—right there in front of her, putting on an impressive display of flexing muscle and sinew and masculine perfection. Without even thinking about it, she rolled to her back to watch him, keeping her blankets high.

With one arm over his head, she saw the dark silky hair beneath his arm, the way his biceps bulged, and she heard his growled rumble of pleasure. As he stretched, his abdomen pulled tighter and the waistband of his jeans curled away from his body. Her vision blurred. He ran both hands through his hair and over his face, then he smiled.

She tried to smile back, she really did. But then he scratched his belly, drawing her gaze there, and she saw that his jeans rode even lower on his slim hips and that his masculine perfection had changed just a tad. Okay, more than a tad. A whole lot more.

He had an erection.

She didn't exactly mean to stare, but since he was standing only a foot away from the bed and she was lying down and he was so close, it was rather hard to ignore. Heat bloomed in her belly, making her toes curl.

He reached out and placed a warm palm on her forehead. “Your fever seems to be down. Luckily, the electricity came on in the middle of the night, otherwise, without the air-conditioning, the house would have been muggy as hell. If this rain ever stops, they're predicting a real scorcher, and with you being sick I'd hate for you to suffer through the heat, too.” He smoothed her hair away from her set
face, looking at her closely. “You want to use the john?”

She was so flustered by his good-natured chatter in light of her lascivious thoughts, she couldn't answer, even though her situation was beginning to get critical.

He solved the problem for her. Whisking the covers aside, he hooked one arm behind her and levered her upright. She scrambled to get the jersey shirt pulled down over her hips, covering her decently. He didn't seem to notice her predicament.

“Come on. I'll help you in, then wait out here.”

She didn't want him waiting anywhere, but he hustled her out of the bed and toward the bathroom, holding her closely, not really giving her time to think about it. He walked her right up to the toilet, then cautiously let her go. “If you need anything, don't be too squeamish to call out, okay?”

Never, not in a million years. She stared at him, blinked twice, then nodded, just to get him out of the room. With a smile and a touch to her cheek, he backed out and pulled the door shut.

Even in her dazed state, Honey was able to appreciate the incredibly beautiful design of the bathroom. Done in the same polished pine but edged with black ceramic tile, it looked warm and masculine and cozy. The countertops were white with black trim, and there was a shower stall but no tub, a black sink, and a small blocked window with the same black-checked gingham curtains. Amazing that a household of men would have such a nice, clean, well-designed home.

After she'd taken care of business, Honey washed her hands, splashed her face and took a long drink of water. She looked at herself in the round etched mirror over the sink and nearly screamed. She looked horrid. Her hair was tangled, her face pale, the bruise on her forehead providing her only color, and that in shades of gray and purple and green. God, she looked as sickly as she felt, and that was saying a lot!

She glanced longingly at the shower, but then she heard Sawyer ask impatiently, “Everything okay?”

It would take more time and effort than she could muster to make herself look any better. With a sigh, she edged her way to the door, holding on to the sink for support. She barely had the door open and he was there, tall, shirtless, overwhelmingly potent. Without a word he wrapped his arm around her and practically carried her back to the bed.

He tucked her in, then asked, “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

Her mouth watered. Now that she wasn't so tired, she noticed other needs, and hot coffee sounded like just the thing to clear out the cobwebs and relieve her sore throat. “I'd kill for coffee.”

“When you don't have the strength to swat a fly? Never mind. Nothing so drastic is necessary. The coffee is already on. Morgan and Gabe are both early risers, so one of them has already seen to it because I smell it. Cream and sugar?”

“Please.”

He started to turn away, and she said, “Sawyer?”

He looked at her over his shoulder. “Hmm?”

“My things…”

“They're safe. Gabe and Casey got everything stored in the barn before the worst of the storm hit, but if you like, I'll check on them after I've dressed.”

After he'd dressed.
The fact of his partial nudity flustered her again, and she felt herself blush. She'd simply never been treated to the likes of a man like him before. Her experiences were with more…subtle men. Sawyer without his shirt was more enticing, more overpowering, than most men would have been buck naked.

She cleared her sore throat. “I'd really like my toothbrush. And…and I'd dearly love to shower and get the lake water off—”

“I dunno.” He gave her a skeptical look and frowned. “Let's see how you do after eating a little, okay? I don't want you to push it. You still sound like a bullfrog, and I'm willing to bet you have a bit of a fever yet. But first things first. Let me get the coffee. It'll make your throat feel better.”

His peremptory manner set her on edge. Straightening her shoulders as much as she could while lying huddled beneath a layer of blankets, she groused, “It's not up to you to decide what I can or can't do.”

He halted in midstride and slowly turned to face her. The intensity of his dark gaze almost made her squirm, but after a good night's rest, she felt emotionally stronger, if not physically, and she couldn't continue to let him baby her or dictate to her. Now was as good a time as any to assert herself.

Tilting his head, he said, “Actually—I can.”

“No—”

He stalked forward, startling her with the sudden
ness of it. His bare feet didn't make a sound on the polished flooring, but he might have been stomping for the expression on his face. Bracing one hand on the headboard and the other on the pillow by her cheek, he leaned down until their noses almost touched. Her head pressed into the pillow, but there was no place to retreat to, no way to pull back.

His breath touched her as he studied her face. “You're seriously ill, and I didn't stay up all night checking on you just so you could turn stubborn this morning and set yourself on a decline.”

She mustered her courage and frowned up at him. “I know I'm not a hundred percent well, but—”

He made a rude sound at that statement. “It's a wonder you even made it to the bathroom on your own. I can tell just looking at your flushed cheeks and lips that you still have a fever. What you need is plenty of rest and medicine and liquids.”

She hated to sound vain, so the words came out in a rough, embarrassed whisper. “I smell like the lake.”

At first his brows lowered and he stared at her. Then, almost against his will it seemed, he leaned closer and his nose nearly touched her throat beneath her ear. She sucked in a startled breath, frozen by his nearness, his heat, the sound of his breathing. He nuzzled gently for just a moment, then slowly leaned away again, and his gaze traveled down her throat to her chest and beyond, then came back to her face, and there was a new alertness to his expression, a sensual hardness to his features.

She swallowed roughly and croaked, “Well?” try
ing to hide the effect he'd had on her, trying, and failing, to be as cavalier.

His lips twitched, though his eyes still looked hot and far too intent. He touched her cheek, then let his hand fall away. “Not a single scent of lake, I promise. Quit worrying about it.”

She couldn't quit worrying, not when he stayed so close. And she knew a shower would revive her spirits, which she needed so she could think clearly. She tried a different tack. “I'm not used to going all day without a shower. I'll feel better after I clean up.”