The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1) (19 page)

Donovan's arm came up and nearly clipped her in the jaw. She ducked and dove for his wrists, pinning one in each hand against the damp feather tick. For the briefest of moments, she thought she'd gained control. Then he was off again. The counterpane wrenched loose from its moorings and threatened, with each wild thrash of his legs, to slide off the other side of the bed leaving him utterly exposed.

Donovan tossed his head from side to side, muttering something unintelligible, his breath a harsh rasp near her ear. The only word that made itself perfectly clear was profane.

"Please," she begged him, squeezing his wrists tighter, "just lie still. You're bound to break open your wound again."

Incredibly, he complied. His fisted hands relaxed in her grip. Puffing, she took the opportunity to release one wrist and reach past the white bandages on his side and his partially exposed hip for the precariously placed counterpane.

His timing was atrocious. One last thrash of his legs and he disposed of the cover altogether. Grace gasped as it slid neatly out of her reach and onto the floor.

She clapped her hand back over his wrist. If she didn't know better she would have sworn he'd done that on purpose, just to embarrass her.

Their breathing fell into a harsh unison as she stared at his closed eyes. Through the wrapper Evie had lent her, she could feel the steady pounding of his heart and the pressure of his ribs as they lifted against hers. His lips moved soundlessly for a moment before he went completely lax in her grip. Draped across his heated body, she blinked, uncertain what to do next. Retrieve the blankets. Yes, that was it.

She hesitated.

God knows what impelled her. Wickedness, she supposed. A true lady would have shut her eyes and retrieved the covers without the merest glance southward. Any of Miss Beauregard's charges could have managed it flawlessly, she was certain. To be rigorously honest, however, it was common knowledge that despite the assistant teaching position Miss Beauregard had allowed her, Grace Turner had never quite fit the mold at Miss Eustasia Beauregard's Finishing Acadamie for Young Ladies.

Yes, pure wickedness and an unbridled curiosity drew her eyes downward over his hard chest, with its flat brown nipples amidst a forest of dark hair; past the white bandages encasing his side; beyond the naked hip that seemed carved of Italian marble. Downward, to the forbidden nest of hair and that part of him that lay nestled within.

Her eyes widened in shameful fascination.
Oh-hh, my
.

She didn't know what she'd expected. Last year, she'd snuck a peek at that illicit stereoscope of Michelangelo's
David
in the headmistress's parlor, for which she'd been severely reprimanded. But while Michelangelo's masterpiece was a magnificent specimen of the male anatomy, she reasoned, Donovan was...

"Bigger," she murmured aloud, sitting up straighter. A spark of forbidden heat spiraled through her at the sight of him. The disparity between stone-cold marble and human flesh was obvious, yet, she'd never expected it to look so... dangerous.

Donovan groaned. With a guilty gasp, Grace whipped around to face him. His unfocused eyes were wide and staring directly at her. With a frown, he glanced down at himself, then accusingly back at her.

"Oh, my God," she whispered.

He grabbed her wrist before she could pull away. His voice croaked like a hinge in need of oil. "Like what you see?"

"I—" She gulped. Heaven above, she'd never be able to look him in the eye again!

A look of loathing crossed his expression as he watched her through glazed eyes. "S'matter? Wasn't Scully enough for you?"

"Scully?" Through her lashes, she chanced a look at him.

He released her wrists with a shove. "Get out."

A squeak of despair sounded in her throat. "Donovan, I'm terribly sorry. It's just that your covers fell off and I was reaching for them and—"

"A man would have to be desperate to be your fool twice, Adriana." His eyes closed and he cradled one forearm against his side. "I'm... warning you."

Adriana.
The fever still held his mind. He thought she was someone else. His wife? Relief spun through her as she realized he didn't know who she was. But another emotion rose with equal swiftness—compassion. Had Adriana betrayed him with this Scully person? Her heart ached for the pain she heard in his voice. And for the bitterness that other woman had carved there.

She rose from the bed, picked the counterpane off the floor, and covered him as gracefully as she could, careful to avert her eyes from anything... vital. When she'd tucked the covers under his arms, his eyes flickered open again. A frown formed between his brows as he stared at her uncomprehendingly.

"Donovan, it's me."

He stared blankly, without recognition.

"It's Grace. Do you remember? You're ill." She sat on the edge of the bed. "You were shot."

He blinked twice, trying to get her into focus. "Grace?"

"Yes, Grace." Not Adriana. She brushed the dark hair off his forehead where, despite their best efforts, heat still radiated. Donovan leaned into her hand like a cat begging for a touch.

"You're going to be all right," she whispered urgently. "Donovan, do you hear me?"

His fingers curled around hers and he squeezed her hand until she thought her bones might break. When the pain passed, he drew her closer until her braid fell across his chest and his lips brushed her ear with a touch as intimate as a kiss. For a heartbeat she waited, not knowing what he intended. Then his lips moved against her hair. "Don't," was the only word she understood.

Grace leaned closer. "Don't what?"

He drew her ear fully against his mouth and cupped her face with one trembling hand. "Don't leave me."

His whispered plea tore at her heart. Before she gathered wits enough to answer, his grip on her relaxed and she knew he'd slipped into unconsciousness once more.

Shaken, she stared at the strong hand tangled with hers, trying to reconcile the hard man she knew with the need she'd heard in his voice. Some instinct made her want to protect him, stand between him and the pain that tormented his soul. Another part of her knew that somewhere along the line, he'd become something more than a means to free her brother. Somehow, she'd begun to care for him.

He's a good man, Grace,
Evie had said,
despite everything. He's stubborn and angry and even a little scared.

Yes, he was just a man after all, scared of trusting, of being alone. Had Adriana left him that awful legacy? Was it she who'd taught him to trust no one but himself? It struck her then that only a man who felt deeply could be so terribly scarred by such a betrayal.

Although she'd never laid eyes on the woman who had been his wife, Grace hated her for what she'd done to him.

"I'm right here, Donovan," she whispered, threading her fingers through his. "I won't leave you. I promise."

Yet as the hours slipped by and she fought the fever that held him and prayed he would live, she had no way of knowing if was it she or Adriana he was asking to stay.

* * *

"It's not safe," Evie insisted, standing between her husband and the kitchen door he was determined to leave through. "You've seen them. They're working outside the law. What if they follow you? What if they get wind of what you're trying to do? They could kill you."

"I'll be careful," he told her gently. "Evie, what else can we do?"

On the brink of tears, she wrung the towel she was holding between her hands, knowing that caution might have nothing to do with the outcome of this. "I don't know. We could wait. Hide them until it blows over. Maybe the posse will move on when they can't be found."

He took her by the shoulders, a gesture meant to comfort, not to challenge. "It's only a matter of time before they come here. A few folks know that Reese was a friend of ours. They'll put it together and then it'll be too late for us all."

"Then send Cass."

"And put his life in danger? I can't do that."

She steepled her hands over her mouth, holding back the flood of fear that threatened to undo her. "I know. I know you're right. I'm sorry." She buried her face against his chest.

"The lady's right."

The voice came from the other side of the room. They turned to see Brewster standing in the doorway, fully dressed, his gun tucked into the crossdraw holster at his waist. The difference in his appearance since the night they'd helped him into the house, sick and exhausted, was startling. His eyes sparkled now with the same purpose that set his jaw in a determined line. His graying hair had been slicked back straight away from his sallow face and his jaw freshly shaven. A string tie held the collar of his shirt together like a bow on a newly wrapped package.

"Brew." James released his wife and regarded the older man with surprise. "We thought you were still asleep."

"She's right," Brew repeated. "Ain't no call to go riskin' yer life, or hers neither."

"There's not much choice."

"There's one. Yer lookin' at 'im. I can hire a boat same as you. They're huntin' for an old man"—he patted his freshly shaven cheeks—"but not
this
old man."

"You don't know the waterfront," James argued.

"You point me, I'll find my way."

"It can be dangerous there," James said, rubbing a hand over his face. "A bad element's moved in since the war. Opportunists, criminals."

Brew chuckled tightly. "I'm one of 'em. Remember?"

Evie sent an anxious look from Brew to her husband. James clenched his jaw, doubt limning his expression.

Brew coughed and left the shadow of the doorway and crossed the sun-splattered room to where they stood. "You've been mighty kind to us," he said, clearing his throat. "We're obliged. I believe now I'll make it a little while longer. But by my reckonin' we got twelve hours, maybe less, to skeedadle across the border 'fore Sanders's men discover we been under their noses all along."

He buttoned his coat, hiding the gun in his belt. "That's why I'm a-goin'. I ain't lived this long by bein' a fool. I won't be back here. I'll find us a boat and hire it for tonight. I'll come to your livery later and pretend to inquire about rentin' a rig. I'll tell ya then what time to meet me at the waterfront. Whether Donovan's fit to travel or not, see that he and Grace are there tonight, or by God, we're all lost."

With that, Brew fitted his battered hat on his head and held out his hand to James. "I thank ya kindly for all you done. Ma'am?"

"Take care, Mr. McDodd," James told Brew as he walked out the door.

"And you too, young feller. You, too."

* * *

Someone was snoring.

It was, Reese amended without risking a look, a soft, feminine sort of snore. The dead-to-the-world, sated sort a woman made after a long, exhausting night of lovemaking. But if the drumming in his head and the dull agony in his side were any indication, the woman—whoever she was—had likely killed him in the process.

He lay there for a moment, gathering the nerve to move. Lifting a finger testingly, he slowly tightened his hand into a fist. It was only then that he realized every muscle in his body felt like it had been worked over by a mean dog. He couldn't remember anything. Not the woman, or the dog, or, for that matter, where the hell he was. But if this was a hangover, he'd have to pick another poison. This one had definitely lost its appeal.

"
K-kk-hh-huuhhh
," came the snore again.

Curiosity, and his first inklings of alarm, urged him to pry his eyes open. He did so with an effort, blinking away a fistful of grit. Although, if he'd had the sense God gave him, he would have kept them closed. Because he saw that he'd been right the first time.

He'd died and gone to purgatory.

The first thing he noticed about the bedraggled hag slumped, asleep, three feet away was that she was thankfully not sharing his bed, but curled awkwardly in a slipper chair. Her straw-colored hair hung in lifeless tangles about her face and shoulders as if she'd fought a battle and come out the loser. It curtained her features except for those moments when her steady, delicate snores lifted it away, allowing him glimpses of her.

When he did, it all came back to him in a rush: Deke Sanders, the escape, the bullet in his side, and Herself.

Grace the Graceful.

He let out a sigh. In an odd way, it comforted him to see her there. Odd, because she'd done nothing but get his ass into deep trouble since he'd met her. Odder still because he'd thought of little else but getting shed of her since the moment she'd walked into Sanders's jail. But here she sat, chin resting on her chest, a pen forgotten in her hand atop a scribbled-on journal in her lap, looking as if Sherman's march was a picnic compared to what he must have put her through. And he was fool enough to feel relieved.

He really was slipping.

His gaze left her and wandered around the room. Small and tidy, it smacked of Evie's womanly touch, with curtains of lace and patchwork quilts atop the narrow brass bed. A mirrored cherry wardrobe graced the far corner, reflecting the sunlight just beginning to creep into the window. He wondered where James and Evie were and why Grace was sitting over him like a mother hen.