Rocky Mountain Redemption (2 page)

On a wheezing breath, she slapped him with a reproving glower.

She was proud—that was for sure.

He inwardly kicked himself for saying what he had. But she'd dressed the part—though now that he thought about it, her skittish behavior and repulsion to his touch didn't correspond with a woman of that line of work.

But her dress…

“I'm here about the sign you have in your window, Doctor Drake.” She nervously toyed with some trinket at her neck. “I can start working immediately, if that suits you.”

“First of all,” Ben began, glancing at her neck. He expected to see some worthless bit of whatnot hanging there, but when his tired gaze settled on a small silver locket, an icy chill doused his weariness. His heart ground to a stuttering stop. His breath caught.

He'd recognize that locket anywhere.

It was one of a kind. Handmade for his mother by his father who'd dabbled in jeweling throughout the years. The locket had been a priceless treasure. A gift deeded to Ben by his mother shortly before she'd passed twelve years ago.

Memories surfaced with breakneck speed, shooting up from a miry depth he'd tried to ignore all these years.

The constant run-ins he'd had with his brother, Max. The way Max would milk Ben's compassion for his own ill-reputed gain. The way Max would venture off for weeks at a time, returning with tales of some young harlot. And then that night seven years ago, when Max had come home thoroughly drunk. It had been a final, awful conflict. Max had destroyed anything he could get his hands on, furniture, dishes, relationships…

After Max had forced a lewd, unwanted kiss on Aaron's sweetheart, Max and Aaron, the fourth in a line of five Drake brothers, had gotten into a terrible fight. By morning, some of the money Ben had set aside for medical school had come up missing. Along with the heirloom locket. And Max.

A sharp stab of betrayal cut deep as he stared in disbelief. Max had stolen the locket and now here it was, hanging on the neck of some woman who was dressed for more than just baking bread.

Was this the young harlot Max had told them about? The one who'd likely lured him away for good, leading him into a sordid lifestyle of gambling and drinking?

Callie lifted her chin a notch, her slender fingers clamping around the silver locket. “The job, Doctor Drake… What about the job? I can assure you that I would be a good—”

“Where did you get that?” He took one step closer, craning his neck to get a better look. The fine, detailed filigree and etched scrolling shone even in the dim light, a testament to his father's talent.

She slid back a step. “Get what?”

“The locket.” He nodded toward the object, forcing himself to remain calm.

“This locket is no concern of yours.” She flattened both hands over the locket, her dress slipping down to a brazenly improper draping.

He clenched his jaw tight, furious that his dear mother's locket hung from this woman's neck.

“And it certainly has nothing to do with my being here. Like I said, I'm here about the job.”

“Oh, it doesn't?” He gave a sarcastic laugh, infuriated at her bold censorship. “Funny thing, that locket. It looks just like one I once had.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken. This was a gift given to me. There's no way it could belong to you.” She coughed again, glancing over her shoulder toward the door. “Now, about the Help Wanted sign.”

He shifted his focus to the door, suspicion creeping up his spine, and setting his hair on end. What if Max lurked out there? Waiting for her? Maybe this was all just some ploy to make off with more money.

That possibility had Ben's blood boiling red-hot.

Resisting the urge to open the door and see for himself, Ben stepped closer to Callie. “Forget about the job for now, ma'am.
Where
did you get that locket?”

She balled her fist around the locket, inching away. “I told you, it was a gift.”

He pinned her with an intense stare. “Who gave it to you?”

When her sunken eyes widened with the smallest hint of fear, a subtle sting of remorse pricked his conscience. He'd never spoken like this to a woman—ever. Even if she was a conniving thief sent by Max, she was a thin, sickly, delicately beautiful one, and he could've gone a little easier on her.

She drew her lips into a silent, grim line.

“My mother gave me that locket twelve years ago,” he said evenly, determined to remain controlled. “On her deathbed.”

Her fine features creased in a frown.

“The last time I saw it was just before my brother Max took off with some harlot over seven years ago. Do you know Max? Is he out there now?” he probed with a brisk nod toward the door.

Callie opened her hands. Slammed her gaze down to the silver locket, and for a split second he thought he saw her perfectly shaped lips quiver.

That worked the slightest bit of unwanted softening in his heart. He'd rather disregard the vulnerability he saw there, but try as he might, he couldn't banish the pathetic image of this woman huddled on his porch. Clad in nothing more than dirty rags. Doomed to freeze to death had he not come along.

“Let me put it this way.” He took a step back and held his hand out. “That rightfully belongs to me.”

Panic shuttered her eyes. “But I—”

She blinked with deliberate concentration, once, twice, her face paling as white as the stark snow whipping through the valley. She sidestepped. Teetered like some piece of fine china hanging over the edge of a high shelf.

When her eyes began a slow roll back, Ben lunged forward, catching up her light frame just before she hit the floor.

Callie draped limp in his arms, her hand slowly slipping from the locket and flopping down toward the floor. From the way her body burned with fever, she'd be here for a while. And despite her interest in the Help Wanted sign, he was positive that she hadn't come here for a job.

C
allie struggled to force open her heavy eyelids. She stared through a fuzzy haze up at the ceiling. Pain pounded her head. Her eyes burned, but still she inched her gaze around the room, trying to remember where she was.

Bits and pieces came to her… Trudging through the snowstorm, huddled and waiting on a porch. Strong, capable arms holding her…

A strangely familiar man, tall and dark-haired, came into focus next to her.

She shot up in bed. Regretted it instantly when her head spun and her stomach roiled.

“Whoa there, miss.” Ben eased her shoulders back to the feather mattress. “Not so fast.”

“I need to get up.” She weakly wriggled from his unsettling touch.

Sighing, he crossed his arms at his chest. “I would strongly advise against doing anything of the sort. You're in no condition.”

When she looked up at him, the world spun out of control. She closed her eyes and hoped he wasn't observant enough to notice her condition, because the absolute
last
thing she wanted was to look feeble and needy in front of this man.

“Seeing as how I'm not your patient, I believe that I'm more than capable of making my own decisions.” She pulled her chin up a notch, wincing at the thin, raspy sound of her voice.

“Like it or not, you're my patient now.”

Averting her focus from his steel-blue gaze, she recalled fainting. And just before that, she'd been arguing with this man over—

“My locket! Where is it?” Dragging herself up to her elbows, she scanned the room. “And my box! Where did you put my things?”

When she spotted her box snuggled in the old flour sack atop the bureau, she tried to quell the frantic beat of her heart. But the idea that this man could've taken the few possessions she had left in this world seized her heart with utter, unexplainable panic.

At the cool touch of silver against her chest, she discovered the locket was where it had always been and dropped back to the pillow.

“You see.” Ben drew his mouth into a grim line. “The locket's still there. Around your neck.”

Peering down at her chest just to make sure, she screeched. “My dress!” She jerked the quilt clear up to her chin, being clad in nothing more than her paper-thin chemise and threadbare drawers. “Did you—”

A violent cough had her bracing herself, but she still managed to glower at him. “You undressed me without my consent? How dare you!”

His steady gaze didn't flicker an ounce. “Your dress was soaking wet, ma'am, and the weather prohibited me from summoning my sister-in-law's help as I usually would have.”

“But still, I—”

“You're not the first woman I've tended to and you won't be the last. It was in your best interest that I get you as warm and dry as possible. And I can assure you that I honored your modesty in every possible way.” He emphasized the last three words, his low, rich voice reverberating right through the layered quilts and chemise, to her bare skin.

Huddling tight beneath the covers, Callie turned and stared at the fresh cream-colored wall. A wash of shame spread through her like some dread disease. She hated reducing herself to this kind of ungrateful behavior, but she didn't even know this man.

Max, though no saint himself, had never spoken one kind thing about his family—especially Ben. Callie didn't have a single reason to like him. After all, Max's bitter edge surely didn't exist simply because of some innocent family sparring. He'd had a long list of reasons that fed his loathing.

She grasped the locket, recalling Ben's adamant claim that it belonged to him. Apparently this was one of those situations that Max had referred to…when his brothers would edge him out of something for their own gain. She'd like to give Ben a dressing-down about that, but since she had nowhere else to turn, and desperately needed the job, she decided to go for a more mild-mannered approach.

Plastering on an awkward smile, Callie attempted a pleasant look. But it felt so odd and she was pretty sure her expression didn't come off pleasant at all.

The sting of his words—that Max had married some harlot—came racing back, barging into her mind and producing instant outrage.

A harlot?

The very reason she'd come crawling to Boulder had been to avoid becoming just that—a harlot. She'd had nothing else to wear, but the cast-off dress Lyle Whiteside had thrown in her direction six months ago when she'd started working as a housekeeper at the brothel. He'd burned her other dress, saying that he didn't want some lowly-looking scullery maid walking his halls, scaring off the paying customers.

Callie could almost feel her eyes darken with indignation. “It seems there's some confusion about this locket,” she tried to say sweetly, but failed miserably.

He quirked one dark eyebrow. “There's no confusion as far as I'm concerned.”

She stifled a ragged cough, her ire kicked up a notch at the sight of his steady, grating calm. Regardless of the fact that she needed this job, she nailed him with the most threatening glare she could muster. Held his penetrating gaze for a lengthy moment.

The man was wily, of that she had no doubt. Probably as clever and intimidating as the oldest, meanest wolf living in the Flatirons.

“Look, let me make this easy for you.” He crossed his arms at his broad chest. “I can prove the locket belongs to me.”

“How?”

“There's an engraving on the inside.”

Prickly heat crept up her neck. Her pulse slammed in her ears as she grasped frantically for some argument. “How do I know you didn't inspect the locket while you were—while I was unconscious and you
undressed
me?”

“You don't, I guess,” he managed with an insignificant shrug.

“Exactly.” She swiped at a wayward, fever-induced
tear rolling from the corner of her eye. “How do I know what went on then, Doctor Drake? I mean, having been dead to the world as I was, I would've been none the wiser had you sniffed and pawed through my things.”

She grappled for control, but, horrifically, felt it slipping through her hands.

“The engraving says
All for Love
.” The oddly tight and low sound of his voice arrested her attention. “It was something my father used to say to my mother.”

Swerving her focus to the ceiling, a memory staggered into her mind. Shortly after she'd met Max, he'd given her the locket as a pledge of his love. She remembered the gloriously heady feeling she'd had as she'd stared at the romantic engraving.

She'd loved Max.

Even in the darkest hours of their seven-year marriage, she'd loved him. She'd held out hope that he'd change, and return to the wonderfully adventurous Maxwell Drake she'd fallen in love with. Before bitterness ruled his moods. Before he'd taken to gambling, drinking and the other things that followed.

Hot tears pooled in her eyes. She could only hope that they would pass off for a fevered symptom instead of betrayal's bitter sting.

She'd been deceived. Again.

She could stubbornly stand her ground regarding the locket, but even as a lame argument began forming in her mind, she felt her feeble case sinking beneath unsteady footing. She'd love to believe that this was all just some innocent mistake, but she knew she'd stumbled onto another one of Max's lies, and for some reason the discovery wasn't any easier than the last time.

Or the time before that.

Or before that.

Disgust knotted her stomach tight. Just moments ago the locket had hung as a precious symbol of first love. Now it burned with dishonesty's harsh reality against her skin. It took every bit of poise she possessed to resist the unrefined urge to rip it off.

The sound of Ben dragging a chair across the room jerked her from her thoughts.

He sat beside her bed, looking almost as tired as she felt. On a yawn, he dragged a hand over his face. “We can talk about this another time, Callie. You need to rest.”

The concern-filled way he responded tugged at her heart. It could easily be her undoing if she let it. But she wouldn't. Couldn't.

He definitely was not safe. He had a way of getting to her that was nothing short of a threat to her strong resolve.

When a deep cough tore through her throat, she winced at the merciless pain. Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew quivering hands to her neck, scrambling for a foothold with this bothersome sickness.

And this man.

Before she knew it, Ben had his strong arm wedged behind her shoulders as he held a glass to her parched lips. “Here, try to drink some water.”

As much as she didn't want his help, she just didn't have the strength to spurn his gesture. Especially as the cool moisture touched her lips and slid down her throat.

“There you go. That's the way,” he soothed, settling her against the pillow again. “Better?”

She nodded, feeling a small bit of relief. Blinking hard, she avoided Ben's penetrating gaze and instead
lugged her focus to the gleaming dark hair that dangled loosely over his brow.

He scooped up her wrist and monitored her pulse. Though his eyes were watchful, his touch was gentle and respectful, even kind.

Uncomfortable with his attention, she struggled to push herself up again. If she set her mind to it, she could make herself get out of this bed.

With a slow shake of his head, Ben eased her back to the mattress. “Would you
please
just lie still? You have no business getting out of bed.”

He smoothed a lock of hair from her face, the simple gesture bringing her a foreign sense of comfort.

Sighing, he gently tucked her arm beneath the thick layer of quilts. “It's three in the morning and the snow's coming down harder than ever. And you are very, very sick. If you have plans to move on in the middle of this blizzard, you might as well walk out there and dig your grave in the nearest snowbank,” he added, biting off a yawn. “Though, frankly, I think you're too stubborn to die.”

“I can't be sick.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt stuck. Trapped. Dratted sickness! Why'd she have to fall ill now, of all times? “I have to work. The job. Is the job filled yet?”

He gave a tired chuckle. “If you mean, has someone else ventured over here tonight in the middle of a heavy snowfall to interview for this job…” He furrowed his brow as if trying to recall. “No.”

“So does that mean you're hiring me?”

“Tell you what, Callie…” The tired droop of his eyes almost made her feel sorry for him. “We'll talk about the job when you're feeling better. All right?”

“I'm feeling fine now. Really,” she rasped, her voice catching on a cough that wrenched her entire body.

The calming weight of his hand on her arm sent a small, soothing rush through her.

“I'm not sick,” she argued, noticing the rugged, masculine scruff of dark beard growth on his face. “It's nothing. Just a bad cough.”

After a long, unreadable look, he stood and walked over to the window. He parted the lace curtains that bracketed the cloudy, paned glass and leaned his arms against the frame. “A bad cough
and
a fever that'll be the death of you, if you don't get adequate rest. I'll repeat it again…you're in no condition to get out of bed.”

Callie stared at his broad, strong back, then she sliced a glance to her dress on the bureau, an unwanted prickle of sensitivity working through her. In spite of the way he felt about her dress, he'd folded it. Neatly.

She tried to brush the feeling aside. Within a year of marrying Max she'd learned that she was better off not expecting anything in the way of care or loving concern. She'd buried her needs and feelings right along with her dreams. Couldn't allow things, good or bad, to affect her. She would've never managed the past seven years, otherwise.

She blinked hard. She had to get better soon or Ben might hire someone else, since he certainly hadn't made any move to hire her. Yet.

Had she any other option when she was back in Denver, she would've taken it, but given Max's history, she had little chance of getting a decent, wage-earning job. When she'd married Max, any bridge to her father's good graces had been burned. Even the church had turned away from her when she'd inquired about a position in the orphanage. Though she'd never once
partaken in Max's sordid hobbies, she supposed that in their eyes she was guilty by association. She was the shunned widow of a
sinner
.

And for all she knew, God must look at her that way, too. Because since she'd disobeyed her father and married Max seven years ago, her life had been one hardship after another.

Coming to Boulder had been out of necessity alone. Without a job, she'd have no money and no hope to escape what awaited her back in Denver if she didn't pay up.

Max had barely been cold in the ground when Lyle Whiteside had come knocking on Callie's door, hanging the significant gambling debt like a noose before her. Since then she'd been working feverishly to pay it off by cleaning his saloon and brothel, but the payback hadn't been fast enough to suit him. Three days ago he'd stared her down with those snapping black eyes of his, demanding that she pay off the rest upstairs on her back.

He'd vowed to be her first customer.

She could not—
would not
—slide her neck into that rope and drop to that low a level, no matter how desperate the situation. No matter how risky it was to run out on such a powerful man.

“I'll be up and moving by tomorrow.” Her hoarse voice barely sounded. “I'll make sure to compensate you for your doctoring. And room and board.”

He came to stand next to the bed, peering down at her with a certain compassion that had her averting her gaze. “If it's money that has you concerned, don't worry about that right now. It'll all work out. I won't charge you a thing.”