Beauty and the Bounty Hunter (20 page)

The two men glanced at her as if they’d forgotten she was there. “You’re gonna need to hold her down,” the doctor said.

“Doubtful,” Alexi returned.

“I really think—” Walsh began.

“Do it,” Alexi and Cat ordered at the same time.

When the acid touched her shoulder, Cat couldn’t breathe. Her gaze, her hand, sought Alexi’s. Before she could find him, the darkness found her.

The scent of Cat’s blood made Alexi want to run, to hide, to faint. But he refused to waver; he refused to walk away. She needed him. Or so he wanted to believe.

The first application of acid was followed by the removal of suppurated tissue with a much smaller, sharper knife than Alexi’s. After the cutting came a little more acid, then bandages bathed in acid. Thank goodness she’d lost consciousness right away.

When at last Ethan finished his torment, he stared at the wound with a scowl, and Alexi’s heart stuttered. “Will she be all right?”

Ethan cast him a suspicious glance, and Alexi wanted to cut out his forked tongue. He’d sounded desperate. If she was no one to him, what did it matter?

If she was no one to him, why had he brought her here at all?

“Should be.” Ethan moved to the bucket in the corner and washed the blood from his hands. “The increase in the number of patients who survive since I’ve begun using carbolic acid is astounding.”

“All of them?”

Ethan cut his eyes to Alexi, then back to the bucket. “No.”

That would be too easy.

The doctor crossed the room with a fresh bucket, into which he dumped the remaining carbolic acid.

“No more.” Alexi stepped between Ethan and Cat, who continued to lie far too still.

“I need to wash off the blood.”

“With acid?”

“It’s best to have everything that touches her for the next few days be as free of miasma as possible.”

“I’ll do it.”

Ethan stared at Alexi for several seconds; then he
shrugged and handed him the bucket before disappearing through the curtain once more. Alexi stuck his fingers into the water. Several areas, sawed raw by the reins in his hell-bent trip from Indian Territory to Kansas, burned. The thought of a stronger solution poured into an open wound made him a little ill.

“Courage,” he muttered, gaze still upon her. She had it; he needed some.

He spent the next half hour washing away the blood and dust; then he wrapped her in a fresh sheet. He’d just laid her on a clean table when Ethan returned.

“Her color is improving,” he said.

She didn’t look any better to Alexi at all.

“She’ll wake soon.”

“Promise?” Alexi murmured.

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep, Fedya.”

“Fedya,” Cat murmured, and they both straightened as if coming to attention. “That some sort of Russian insult?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ethan said. “It’s his name.”

Beyond the pain and fatigue on Cat’s face, Alexi caught a glint of amusement. “Is there anyone, anywhere, who doesn’t know you by another name?” she asked.

“Hard to say.”

“He was born Fyodor Kondrashchenko,” Ethan continued.

“No wonder he changed it,” Cat muttered.

“Fedya is a nickname.”

“Is that true?” Cat lifted a brow.

“My name is Alexi Romanov. I chose it; I will keep it.” He returned his gaze to Ethan. “And you can go to hell.”

“You first,” Ethan said.

“No doubt.”

“My head’s beginning to ache,” Cat murmured.

“Where’s that laudanum?” Alexi asked.

Ethan spun about and disappeared through the curtain.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Cat said. “Who is he?”

“Dr. Ethan Walsh.” Alexi drenched a clean cloth in a bucket of clean water, then laid it on her head.

“Mmm,” she responded, the sound half enjoyment—the water was much cooler than her skin—half suspicion. “He’s more than that.”

Alexi shrugged and looked away. She was far too observant.

“You don’t want to tell me.” His gaze flicked back to hers. “That’s all right. There are things I don’t want to tell you.”

In her eyes, though, he saw every one. He always had. But if she wanted to believe he knew only what she’d shared with him, he’d let her. Perhaps she would do the same for him.

Ethan returned holding a small dark bottle. He opened it, then tilted the rim toward a spoon.

“No, thank you,” Cat said.

Ethan paused. “I thought your head ached.”

“Because the two of you are hellishly annoying.”

Alexi laughed; Ethan scowled. “Sleep helps you heal.”

“I’ll sleep.” Her eyes drifted closed.

Ethan capped the bottle, placed both it and the spoon next to his instruments, then set his palm to her cheek.

“Stop that,” Cat murmured. Ethan snatched back his arm. Cat opened her eyes, meeting Alexi’s. “I meant you.”

Only then did Alexi realize he’d been growling like a dog over a bone.
His
bone. Ethan should never touch her.

“The fever’s fading.” Ethan tucked his hands behind his back. “Let’s move her where she can rest.”

Alexi lifted Cat into his arms and her head lolled against his shoulder. He followed Ethan up a staircase. At the top stood two doors. Ethan went through the first. By the time Alexi got there, he’d turned down the bed.

His bed.

“No,” Alexi said, and stepped into the hall, then continued to the second room. “Hell.”

Cat roused herself at his muttered curse. “Whas the madder?”

“Shh.” He pressed his lips to her brow. “Go back to sleep.” That she did proved her utter exhaustion.

“Get out of there.” Ethan’s voice had gone as cold as Alexi had ever heard it, which was saying quite a bit.

Alexi got out. Ethan reached past him and slammed shut the door. Didn’t help. Alexi could still see the empty crib in the center.

Alexi wanted to ask what had happened to the woman Ethan had loved. But that empty crib, the empty house…it couldn’t be good.

Ethan went downstairs without another word. As there were no more rooms on this floor, Alexi carried Cat back into the first one and settled her into Ethan’s bed. He sat by her until he was certain she was truly asleep and not unconscious; then he followed Ethan once more.

The operating room was clean. The instruments on the table sparkled. The laudanum remained where Ethan had left it. Alexi crossed the room and picked up the bottle, which seemed very light. How much was left? He lifted the glass to the fading sunlight through the window.

Empty.

He searched the cabinets of both that room and the next, where Ethan had gone to retrieve it, found another, nearly full, and pocketed that one. When he searched for Ethan, however, the man was gone.

As night approached, so did a horse.

Alexi had returned to Cat’s bedside. She hadn’t stirred, but every time he touched her face, she seemed less hot.

He went down the stairs, stepping into the front office as Mikhail came through the door. Alexi spared a moment to be glad that Ethan had disappeared. “I told you to wait,” he said.

Mikhail stared at his feet. “What if I was back there and you needed me here?”

Alexi sighed, glanced at the door, then back at Mikhail. He should have known better than to leave him behind. Mikhail followed orders well, as long as Alexi was there to remind him of them. No Alexi, no reminder, and the order often fell into the abyss. Although there were times Alexi wondered if Mikhail allowed orders he didn’t care for to vanish into that great dark hole in his mind on purpose. Was that even possible?

“Ready to go?” Mikhail asked.

“Cat needs a few days’ rest.”

“Didn’t the doctor make her better?” His big shoulders hunched, and his gaze darted around the room.

“He did. She’ll be fine.” Alexi wouldn’t let her be anything else.

“Then let’s go.” Mikhail sidled toward the door. “Don’t like the smell here. Don’t like the looks. Don’t like it. I don’t.” His fists clenched and unclenched.

“It’s all right,” Alexi said.

While Mikhail didn’t remember anything that had happened before the war—and a helluva lot during it—certain scents caused memories to flicker for him the same way they did for Alexi. Dirt and sweat brought back prison. The tang of blood brought back the pain.

“Gonna go now.” Mikhail turned, then stopped short. Someone stood on the porch.

“Mikey,” Ethan said.

Mikhail pushed past him so fast he nearly knocked his brother down.

Cat woke as the sun set beyond a window she’d never seen before. She let her gaze wander around a room she’d never seen before either.

Sparse but lived in, with male belongings scattered across the surface of the dresser, men’s clothing strewn across the floor and trailing from the wardrobe. There was obviously not a Mrs. Doctor Walsh.

Something hard and heavy rested at her hip. She glanced down. Alexi Romanov—she doubted she’d ever be able to think of him as Fedya—had pulled a chair next to the bed and fallen asleep with his head brushing against her. He snored lightly, which wasn’t like him. She couldn’t ever remember Alexi snoring before.

Cat ran her hand over his hair, grimacing at the sweat and dirt that remained. That wasn’t like him either.

The snoring stopped; he raised his head. Though he’d just woken from what had appeared to be a very sound sleep, his blue eyes were sharp and alert. His gaze searched hers.

Cat frowned. Something was wrong.

“Alexi,” she began.

He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to the palm. She waited for his tongue to snake out. Then she’d pull away, make a sarcastic comment, he’d return one equally cutting, and the idea that everything had changed while she’d been asleep, that nothing would ever be the same again, would fade.

Instead, he closed his eyes as if gauging something, keeping his lips against her skin until her heart did a
strange little stutter. Then he dropped her hand and stood. “Your fever has broken.”

“Don’t sound so happy about it.” He crossed to the window and peered out. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“No.”

That was fair. She didn’t want to tell him anything either. But the way he stared through the glass made her nervous. “Is someone out there?”

“Many someones,” he agreed.

“Someone we should worry about?” He hesitated, and she started to get up.

“Stay,” he ordered without even glancing her way.

“No,” she returned, but discovered she couldn’t lift much beyond her head from the pillow. Her fever might be gone, but she was still weaker than she could ever recall being. However, her mind seemed quite clear.

“Who is it?” she asked. “After you, or me?”

“Darling,” he drawled, and she frowned. What had happened to the foreign endearments? “You’re dead.”

For an instant she wondered if she really was, if this were hell, even purgatory. Definitely not heaven, considering the company. Then she remembered the Cherokee, the graves, her name on one.

“After you, then,” she said, and he gave one short, sharp bark of laughter.

“Always.”

“Who? From where? Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, as if the word were not one he’d ever heard.

“What did you do, Alexi?”

“Don’t you want to call me Fedya?” he asked.

“Not even a little bit.”

He took a deep breath, let it out, then faced her. There was still something wrong.

“I did nothing.” She didn’t realize she’d snorted until he cast her a quick glance and muttered, “Lately.” Then he added, “Around here.”

“So what’s the matter?”

“What could be the matter?” he asked in a voice that clearly said: What isn’t?

“Alexi—” she began again.

He drew his hand from his pocket. A gold chain unfurled, a gold ring strung upon it. “You forgot this.” He contemplated the ring twirling to and fro in the fading light. “I’d hoped maybe you meant to leave it behind. That you were moving on.” He lifted his gaze. “But we both know you won’t.” He tossed the band onto the bed.

Cat picked it up, tossed it back. “That isn’t mine.”

He snatched the circlet from the air before it hit him in the face. “You wore the ring beneath your dress. You kissed it for luck.”

“
Meg
wore it beneath her dress.
Meg
kissed it for luck. What is wrong with you?” She’d had the fever, but he was the one confused.