Charlene Sands (4 page)

He recalled the initial injury to his shoulder—he’d been shot by Rusty Metcalf, his brother’s killer, and had gone into Fresno, the nearest town for help. A few days later Mrs. Eloisa Rourke found out he’d seen the town doctor. She summoned him to her spread, asking this of him. He owed Captain Miles Rourke his life. He couldn’t refuse any request made by his widow, though his plan had been to hole up somewhere comfortable, with a whiskey bottle and a woman. Instead, he’d taken the job, needing time to heal enough to stalk Metcalf again.

Little did he know that Miss Emma Marie Rourke, who had run away from her grandmother’s Fresno estate would be so much dang trouble. He’d nearly died protecting her from Red Hurley’s men. But she’d gotten him away from them and he guessed she’d taken care of his wounds.

He took his eyes off the girl to survey the surroundings. Had to be Big Ed Minton’s place. He’d been here before, and it all made sense now. Besides, no one he knew owned a bathtub that size. He recalled Big Ed telling him he’d ordered it special. The prosperous trapper was too large for any barrel tub and had put in his requisition for his once-a-month bath.

Bodine felt weakness envelop him. He didn’t like the feeling. He’d never been laid up for more than a day or two, but he had the feeling he’d been here, with Emmy, a bit longer than that.

He shifted his focus back to the thin girl in the tub and that captivating voice. It was hers?

Emmy’s?

She’d been the one to ease his pain with soothing angelic sounds. She’d been the creature he imagined cooling his fever, bathing his body with tender touches.

She hummed a tune now, the pleasing sound rich and full-bodied. The talent she possessed seemed too big, too vivid, to be coming from her small-boned tiny frame.

She lifted her arms up, working tiny lathering bubbles into her scalp and that bundle of hair atop her head. Then, as if reading his thoughts, she turned ever so slightly and stopped humming.

In that instant, Bodine caught sight of the slope of one breast, small yet perfect for her body. Round and full with a rosy tip that lifted skyward.

His body stirred at the feminine image she portrayed. His groin tightened and even through his fatigue his manhood stretched some, growing to near full proportions. But when she moved again, turning her head around toward him, Bodine quickly closed his eyes.

“Bodine?” she called out, and he heard a thread of hope in her voice. She’d been alone caring for him all this time. She must have noted that he’d moved.

He grunted a greeting, not trusting his voice to work properly.

“You’re awake!”

He opened his eyes then, watching her rise up, her back to him still, as she threw her arms through the sleeves of one of his shirts. She approached, her hair dripping wet and her tiny waist trimmed and tied by a measure of rope.

Those rare almond-shaped eyes were on him. He met her stare but let his gaze roam down a bit, noting her bare damp legs, and then up again to view the deep dip of his shirt along her shoulders. He knew now what lay beneath that garment and, unlike the first time he’d seen her, thinking her lacking in feminine assets, his opinion was quickly changing. Good thing he was too damn weak to act upon any sudden lusty impulses.

Emmy sat on the bed beside him and tears filled her eyes. “Bodine, thank God! Thank God.”

Bodine tried to clear his dry throat. “W-water.” He spoke so weakly he barely recognized his own voice.

She was up in an instant. “Of course. I couldn’t get any down you. Not even with your fever. I’ve been praying.”

She prayed for him?

Bodine watched her race to the oak dresser, pouring water from a blue porcelain pitcher. The water looked like heaven and when she sat on the bed again, she helped lift his head and bring the cup to his lips. “Drink, Bodine. I’ve got barrels full of water for you.”

Bodine choked on the first sip. She helped him to another, and he sipped more slowly.

“There, maybe barrels aren’t what you need. Just take your time.”

He did and filled his belly full.

“How do you feel?” she asked, her eyes brighter now, the tears gone.

He cleared his throat. “Like I’ve been through a…stampede. How…long?” he asked. He needed economy of words, he surmised. That sentence alone had weakened him.

“It’s been four days since leaving River Junction. You’ve been out almost as long. You directed me here to Big Ed Minton’s cabin. I’ve been caring for you, day a-and night.”

Suddenly a bit shy from that last word, she bent her head. He wondered where she’d slept. Big Ed had only one bed.

Bodine closed his eyes. Being awake and talking had sapped his energy. But the way his weakened body had reacted to Emmy surprised him most of all.

“I was getting ready to go into Oakhurst. We need supplies.”

He snapped his eyes open. “No!”

He couldn’t let her out of his sight. She could still be in danger and she didn’t know her way around these parts. He had very little energy to fight her.

“No? Bodine, we have no food. You’re gonna need nourishment if you’re to get better.”

“Smokehouse…out back beyond the pines.”

“There’s a smokehouse?”

Again, Emmy’s large eyes rounded in surprise. She sat so close he could smell the fresh scent of soap on her skin. Her hair draped down full and damp over her clothes to tease the tips of her small perfect breasts. She was thin, not overly pretty, and definitely not his kind of woman. He thanked the Lord Almighty for that. No, he liked women with meat on their bones, with a shape that didn’t resemble a young willow tree, fair-haired ladies who didn’t blush at the thought of bedding a man.

“I haven’t been outside much, just to care for Lola every day. She’s fine, but needs some exercise I’m sure. I tried walking her one day, but it’s frigid out there and well…I didn’t want to leave you too long.”

Bodine nodded, appreciating her taking care of his horse. She’d saved his life. They were even. Maybe, after all this, the young heiress would decide she’d be better off in the comfort of her home married to the man she left behind.

She bent toward him and put a hand to his hair as if it was the most natural thing in the world, moving locks off his forehead. Her touch penetrated deep, reminding him of the angel’s voice and soft hands upon him during his fevered state. “You need to rest. I’ll get something from the smokehouse and fix us a good meal. Lord knows, it’s got to be better than dried jerky and stale bread. I won’t be long.”

“Take…my shotgun.”

Emma stopped, her hand frozen in his hair. “You think we’re still in danger?”

Bodine nodded, peering into her eyes. He saw her fear, but was unwilling to give false assurances. In truth, he wasn’t as fearful of Hurley’s men tracking them as he was the other outside dangers that could befall her. It was best to be on guard without naming those forces, for surely, Emma would starve if she knew.

She blinked her remarkable eyes and Bodine realized he stared into their depths mesmerized, the fathomless well filled with expression and, at the moment, doubt. Again, he wondered at the slip of a girl who had no real stunning beauty, but could still make him gawk and wonder.

“But…I don’t shoot.”

Then a thought dawned and her expression changed. She bounded from the bed and reached into his saddlebags, which rested on his side of the bed. “Bodine, I swear I’d never seen a man who wore more armor. Why, when I undressed you, I found all kinds of weapons.

“Oh,” she gasped, and tried to explain. “I didn’t mean—”

If he had more strength he’d have had a witty comeback for the lady, imagining her undressing him. Instead, he let her wallow in her own embarrassment.

“I mean, I had to remove your clothes, blood soaked as they were, and what I found could supply an army regiment. Here,” she said, coming up with his Peacemaker, then the bowie knife he kept in his boot and a pocket derringer.

“I’ll take this one with me,” she said, fingering the small derringer.

“No…the shotgun.”

“But I don’t know how—”

“Even a bad shot can hit their target with a shotgun. Emmy don’t argue.” Bodine stopped to take in more oxygen. He didn’t have strength enough to debate long. “If you get into danger, the shotgun will save you.”

“Okay, I’ll take it with me, but I surely don’t think a trip to the smokehouse and back will kill me.”

Relieved that she finally saw things his way, Bodine closed his eyes. He wouldn’t have to waste energy arguing with her about riding into town now and she’d be protected with his shotgun.

She left him then and Bodine succumbed to his fatigue, but the image of Emmy’s naked form rising from that bathtub appeared in his mind as he summoned up the memory of the sweet serenity in her melodious voice. The combination of the two would cause him restless nights to come, he was damn sure.

E
mma’s trek to the smokehouse proved to be like a child’s adventure to the candy counter at a local mercantile. Wearing her dress, boots and overcoat, she made her way behind the house and through a stack of tall pines, thrilled when she discovered the storage sheds. There, she found a bountiful supply of cured hams and smoked fish and, close to the smokehouse, hidden from view between giant trees, was Big Ed Minton’s root cellar. Taking a few steps down into the dug-out ground, she found a variety of food to sustain them. A small barrel housed buttermilk and a shelf held a variety of vegetables and dried fruits, along with sacks of wheat flour and sugar. She found what appeared to be bear bacon strips, more jerky and other foodstuffs wrapped in vinegar-soaked cloth.

And in the treasure of Minton’s fare, she also found blackstrap whiskey, wine and other spirits she couldn’t name. Big Ed had an appetite and he’d hidden it all so well. She’d had to forge through a cropping of trees and walk a distance before coming upon the storage sheds. It wasn’t conventional to have the storage shed so far from the house, but she figured Big Ed had good reason.

Emma grabbed a ham from the smokehouse and struggled with the sacks of flour and sugar, grabbing some dried fruit and vegetables, too, before leaving the root cellar. She’d come back later to fill the shelves with whatever she might need after she set everything to cooking.

Not that she was a great cook. She’d barely been able to put a pie together for the Fresno Founder’s Day celebration, but when she was bored and lonely, she’d visit the Rourke kitchen and watch how Sadie, the cook, managed to prepare delectable meals. Some of the easier recipes stayed with her and she hoped she could conjure them up from memory. No matter though, Bodine needed some sort of nourishment now that he had awakened, and he’d have to accept whatever she would concoct. She only hoped her cooking wouldn’t add to his ailments.

Two hours later, Emma stood above Bodine’s bed, wondering if she should wake him. Her meal was done and it wouldn’t kill him. She’d had a taste, her own stomach grumbling at the scent of onions, ham and potatoes blended together to make a thick stew. She had baked wheat biscuits, as well, adding a touch of sugar to sweeten them. Though they were edible, they looked more like flattened griddle cakes. Sadie had taught her the value of yeast as leavening, but Emma couldn’t remember how it was made and she doubted she had the necessary supplies in the cabin.

“Bodine, “she whispered. “It’s Emma. Please wake up.”

Bodine kept his eyes closed but stirred from under the buffalo robe. His fever, thankfully, hadn’t returned. “Smells good.”

“It’s ham stew. You can try the broth first to test your stomach. You need to eat something.”

Bodine opened his eyes and answered, “Broth.”

Emma smiled and her heart lifted a little. She knew that once Bodine was able to accept food, he’d heal faster. “That’s good.” Emma folded his wool blanket then set it gently under his head to raise him up some. “How is that?”

He winced from the movement, but then he brought himself to sit slightly higher on the bed. The gesture encouraged Emma more than anything so far. “You’re feeling better.”

“I’ll live,” he muttered. “You find any blackstrap?”

Emma looked into those drowsy half-lidded eyes. “In the root cellar.”

“I need it.”

“But will you have broth first?”

Bodine answered. “Fine.”

Emma left and returned with a bowl of broth and the ham stew with the tiniest bits of meat that she’d cut up. She sat on the bed and started to spoon-feed Bodine. He turned his mouth away. “I’ll do it,” he said, stubborn, lashing her with his silvery eyes.

Emma stared at him, learning something new about Bodine and his pride. “If you have the strength.”

Bodine grunted when he moved his arm from under the covering, and Emma saw anew the scars on his arms. She’d bathed and cleansed his wounds the best she could, but the skin there, still raw and swollen, appeared strange on such a muscular sinewy limb.

She relinquished the spoon. He took it and, while she held the bowl for him, he sipped from the spoon and drank the warmed broth. To her amazement and delight, he finished the entire bowl. “Good.”

“I’ll get you another bowl,” she said, unable to keep the joy from her voice.

“Don’t want it.” His voice became weak again.

“Are you in pain?” she asked.

Bodine grunted a reply. “Blackstrap will help.”

“All right.” She glanced out the window. Dusk was beginning to settle and the air outside would be frosty. “I’ll be right back.”

Bodine noticed her slight hesitation. “Tomorrow.”

“But you need it tonight. It’ll help ease the pain. I wish I’d known of the root cellar before.”

Bodine insisted. “Tomorrow’s…soon enough.”

“Then I’ll get you more broth.”

Bodine slipped down on the bed, unable to keep his head held up any longer. “Can’t. Stomach’s full.”

Emma set the empty bowl onto the night table beside the bed. “Sleep then?”

Bodine winced again and she knew his stubborn pride had caused him pain. He’d taxed himself by sitting up and feeding himself.

“Sing, Emmy. I need the angel’s voice.”

Surprised and a little abashed that he’d heard her singing throughout the house, Emma peered into a proud handsome face, and she began to sing a soft lullaby that she’d written some years ago.

Bodine’s half-lidded eyes were on her, so she continued, singing ballads and lullabies, quietly but with all her heart, because that’s the only way Emma knew how to sing. And soon, Bodine’s eyes drifted closed.

But as she moved to rise, his arm snaked out to take hold of her wrist. “Come to bed, Emmy,” he said softly, his voice weak and low. “Keep warm.”

And because Bodine was almost asleep, she couldn’t resist his invitation. She’d slept on the outer corner of his bed for three nights, cold and miserable. His offer came without any ill or sinful intent. So Emmy set a few more logs on the fire, took off her boots and climbed in, sharing only the buffalo robe with Bodine.

Nothing else.

Emma woke in Bodine’s arms, her head tucked under his chin, one hand resting lightly on his chest. Her first thought was that Bodine felt cool to the touch and her second was to move quickly out of his arms. But Emma didn’t. She stayed folded within his body’s warmth, giving herself this moment of scandalous indulgence. After all, she had touched his upper body many times while he slept, cooling him with a soaked cloth, and now she longed to simply touch him, without worry of a raging fever. She wanted to feel his strength under her fingertips, just for an instant. She was curious and fascinated at the male body. She’d never lain with a man before.

Most likely she wouldn’t again. It wasn’t in her future and certainly never with a man like Bodine.

Deftly and with the utmost care, Emma slid her fingers to and fro, exploring his chest, allowing his fine hairs to tickle and tease. Then, more boldly, she laid her palm flat but ever so tenderly to move over him, learning, absorbing. Emma felt like a young student cheating on an examination. Yet she continued, fascinated at the feel of this man, marveling at how little she knew of him—his words always short and pointed—but how much she was beginning to know his body.

He’d saved her from Hurley’s men and she’d saved him right back, from fever and blood loss.

“You want something, Emmy?”

Bodine’s voice startled her and she whisked her hand off him quickly, nearly bolting from the bed and taking the buffalo robe with her.

“I’d love to oblige—”

“No!” she uttered hastily, then coming up on her knees, righted the robe over his bare chest. At least, she hadn’t removed his trousers when she’d initially administered to him since there hadn’t been need. They covered him below the waist, but she wouldn’t look there now for fear she’d see the extent of Bodine’s recovery. “No,” she said with forced calm. “I woke up in your arms…and I was just—”

Bodine’s eyes opened partway and she found his half-lidded look far too appealing.

Lord, help her.

“You were just…what?” His eyes were on her fully now, and that silvery gaze beseeched her for honesty.

“Curious,” she admitted, unable to hide the truth.

Bodine remained quiet for a time, then responded with all sincerity, “Curiosity killed the cat, Emma Marie.”

Heat rose like wildfire, burning her cheeks. His admonishment caused her injury. It was the first time he’d used her given name. For an odd reason, that disappointed her.

“I shouldn’t have,” she said with deep regret. “I’m sorry.”

And then Bodine smiled, his first real smile and her heart tumbled.

“Never had a lady apologized for enjoying my body.”

Emma gasped and hugged herself around the waist, unmindful of the wrinkled state of her one and only gown. “I wasn’t
enjoying
your body, Bodine.”

And with her grave declaration, she heard the falsity of her words.

Bodine continued to smile. “Do you have a beau?” he asked.

Emma closed her eyes briefly. She didn’t want to think about Grant Harper and the engagement she’d been talked into by her Gram. For leverage, Eloisa Rourke had drawn upon all her powers of persuasion, along with a measure of guilt, using her old age and her wish to see Emma settled before she passed on.

But all that had changed once Emma learned the truth about her father and she no longer felt honor-bound to go through with the Christmastime nuptials. As far as she was concerned she’d been betrayed by her entire family and owed herself a chance to discover the truth.

Though Grant’s intentions had been honorable, Emma thought him more a friend. “No, I don’t have a beau,” she declared, feeling justified that she hadn’t really just lied to Bodine.

His brows lifted. “No?”

Emma shook her head back and forth.

“Never?”

“Are you surprised?” She didn’t particularly appreciate his incredulous tone.

“Some. Deny it all you want, but you sure know how to touch a man. Gentle, but a bit of a tease, too. Must have learned that somewhere…” he said, letting the sentence fade as he pondered.

“Not that it matters, but I bathed your wounds for days and days. It didn’t feel wrong to touch you.”

“Appreciate that, Emmy.” Bodine adjusted the buffalo hide over himself, snuggling in, the conversation either boring him or draining his strength as he yawned and closed his eyes. “The bathing and…the touching,” he added. He began to snore softly, leaving Emma alone with her thoughts, traitorous and sinful as they might be.

Later that morning, Emma fixed a light breakfast for herself, warming day-old biscuits and frying up bacon, while heating a pot of coffee from yesterday, as well. And as she poured the hot brew into a mug, she shivered from the exchange with Bodine. She’d been bold to touch him while he slept and she questioned why touching him, a pure stranger, stirred her with rare and unwelcome desire, when she’d actually kissed Grant Harper a time or two and met with no such arousal.

Even now, as she thought of Bodine’s bruised body, the image of strength and raw masculine power came through, creating a liquid sensation between her legs. Emma had never felt anything quite so…well, wicked.

Since those thoughts disturbed her, Emma began to sing, her way of obliterating crazy notions, and her voice filled the quiet room with a ballad of lost love, the lament one of her favorites.

Bodine woke to an enchanting sound, the angel’s voice that aided in his healing. Feeling stronger, he rose on the bed to listen, then, testing his limbs, he discovered the pain from his wounds had eased some. He left the bed for the first time in days, beckoned by Emmy’s alluring voice, and leaned against the door frame. Standing up felt good and the stretch of his legs felt even better. Bodine breathed deeply, his ears attuned to Emmy and the glorious sounds such a petite woman could produce.

She bustled around the kitchen with a large spoon in hand. Bacon sizzled in the fry pan and the inviting scent of hot coffee teased his nostrils, tempting his empty stomach, his appetite growing. Bodine stepped out of the bedroom to stand behind Big Ed’s polished cherrywood dining table.

His home was an assortment of old and new. The exterior of the log cabin appeared dated, the design one from fifty years prior, looking nothing more than a seasoned trapper’s meager home. Inside, Big Ed had some of the finest furnishings and newfangled gadgets money could buy. He’d bragged about his cooking stove being brought in from Illinois and no one in these parts cooked on anything quite so elaborate. Big Ed loved to eat. Therefore, he used every facet of his stove—the flat griddle, cast-iron kettles and the deep, wide oven. Bodine had been privy to one of Big Ed’s meals some years back, and the old trapper had outdone himself. To this day, Bodine couldn’t recall more tasty fare.