Whirlwind Wedding (12 page)

“Well, maybe that honey you like so much.” She tried not to smile, but couldn't help it.

He grinned. “You've got me at your mercy, Catherine. Be kind. You could break me here.”

She laughed. She was hardly a match for him, even with only half his strength. His eyes softened, crinkling at the corners, and she found herself recalling that near kiss yesterday.

She had lost her chance to find out how it would be to kiss a man.
Him.
She only cared about kissing
him,
she admitted. No one else.

 

Later, when she went to town, that thought plagued her as much as her worry over Andrew. As she stood next to the Whirlwind Hotel, she pushed everything out of her mind except her brother. A loud clatter sounded inside the schoolhouse as desks were shoved back and children raced out the door.

Her throat closed up tight. What if he wasn't here? What if she'd run him off— There! There he was, coming down the steps with Miguel and Creed. Her chest ached with relief.

He said goodbye to his friends and walked over to her. “I'm ready.”

“Okay.” She kept her voice cheery, but her heart sank. He looked belligerent, still angry. She had no idea what she was doing.

Her questions about his lessons were met with grunts or half answers, so she fell silent. They were almost to the house when he mumbled, “I'm sorry, Catherine. I'll do better.”

Surprised, she stared at him. This was more than she'd ever hoped. “You know I'll still walk you to and from school for a while.”

“I know.” His stomach growled loudly and he gave a crooked grin. “Better that than no lunch pail.”

She clasped her hands behind her back so she wouldn't reach over and hug him. Jericho had been right about her brother's penchant for food. Maybe she had done the right thing by following her instincts with Andrew. Maybe she should've followed them about kissing Jericho, too.

 

Jericho thought back over his and Catherine's conversation about Andrew. Her questions about her brother's whereabouts and what he did could've been an attempt to find out if Jericho knew anything, but they had seemed genuine. Enough so that he no longer suspected her of being involved with the outlaws.

He couldn't ignore the satisfaction he felt that she had talked to him, not Davis Lee, about Andrew. And that satisfaction led his thoughts to what had almost happened between them. The desire Catherine had teased to life with that near kiss drummed through him, low and insistent. Constant. Urging him to take more; triggering a level of hunger he'd never felt for a woman. Physical, yes, but also beyond that. Deep inside. One he knew would not be so easily satisfied or left behind.

Every time he tried to dodge yesterday's kiss-that-wasn't, the memory would plow through his mind. He tried to wait it
out. Thought about his wounds, his guns, the outlaws. Anything to keep his attention off her.

The rest of the day dragged. He focused his mind and his energy on working with his six-shooter. Even though he had shot with his left hand before, he was by no means skilled. He practiced picking up the revolver and aiming, trying to smooth those motions into one. He might be able to hit the broad side of a barn, but not a running target. He would be without a holster. As a sign to himself that his right hand would heal, he had decided he wouldn't buy one for a left-handed person.

But he still needed to be able to use his left hand. His right one wasn't even flexible enough to push the cylinder in or out for loading, so he worked on popping it out and in with his left. After a while, he braced the revolver against the palm of his injured hand, then slid bullets into the chambers, emptied them and started again.

While the sun climbed higher, he did it over and over until his left hand curved easily around the handle and his finger went naturally to the trigger, though the gun's heaviness was still awkward and his aim was off. Jericho felt next to useless and looked to keep busy, needing to occupy his hands, as well as his mind. But he couldn't escape Catherine. Frustration over his injuries hammered at him just as much as the seething desire he felt for his nurse.

As they ate dinner, her warmth seemed to surround him. Afterward, he sorted herbs from her garden while she moved about the house, her soft scent trailing in her wake. The front room smelled of her—of sunshine and verbena. Her nightdress hung discreetly behind the door, and Jericho's gaze went there, stirring his imagination.

Since yesterday she had worn her hair in a braid, which only made him itch to release it and bury his face in the lush
strands. She made it too easy to forget what had brought him here in the first place. He called up the memory of the ambush that had killed Hays and filled Jericho himself full of holes. Then he mentally cataloged the other people who had been killed or injured by the McDougals, such as Ollie Wilkes, the stage driver from Whirlwind. Catherine's brother was involved with the gang, and Catherine…well, Jericho believed she wasn't.

He had to get out of the house before he compromised his judgment. Or her.

The next morning, when she left to walk Andrew to school, Jericho limped to her wardrobe. His saddlebags rested in the corner where the big piece of furniture met the wall. By sitting in the chair, he managed to lift his bags and heft them over his right shoulder. He'd never thought them heavy before, but the effort now caused him to pause a minute before he pushed himself to his feet. He settled the crutch under his arm and moved slowly to the porch, the added weight on his right side making his balance precarious.

Once outside, he dumped the bags at the corner of the house closest to Catherine's room. All he'd done was move his things and he was breathing hard, feeling weak. If he had wondered about riding Cinco yet, there was his answer. After he caught his breath, he eased down the porch steps and started for the barn.

The sun was back in full force today and no rain had fallen. The day would only get hotter. He stopped just inside the barn, breathing in the slightly cooler air as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. He limped to the back where his saddle hung over Cinco's stall. Still tied under the lip of the cantle was his bedroll. Both Cinco and Moe blew softly. Jericho murmured to them as he loosened the thin leather straps holding his bedding. Sticking the roll under his right arm, he adjusted his balance for the return trip.

As he hobbled back, he found an awkward, dragging rhythm. More than his thigh screamed for relief; his entire body ached, and sweat broke across his neck. He paused next to the ladder that led to the loft, and rested.

The smells of earth and animals surrounded him. This was where he should be. Here where he couldn't smell the sweet scent of a woman.

He was becoming too soft, and too interested in a woman he shouldn't let himself care about. Sleeping on the porch would remind him why he'd come to her house in the first place.

If he could make it to the porch, he thought wryly. Hell, he didn't have the energy of an overfed pup. After a long moment, he wiped his forehead against his shoulder and braced the crutch under his arm again.

The soft swish of skirts caught his attention and he looked up as Catherine rushed inside.

She paused just inside the doorway, her face lighting with relief. “Oh, here you are. You weren't in your room and neither were your things. Is everything all right?”

“Yes.” She looked spring fresh in her chambray dress and white bib. He leaned against the ladder, grateful for the support. “I'm getting my bedroll.”

“Why?”

“It's time for you to have your bed back.”

She moved forward, her skirts swaying gently, making his hands itch to span her waist, to feel her curves against him. “You're not well enough!”

“I can get around, Catherine. I'll sleep on the porch and you'll be in your own bed.”

“That's where you should be.”

It was exactly where he shouldn't.

“You can't be outside with the dirt and the bugs,” she insisted. “It's filthy. What if you get an infection?”

“You'll only be a few feet away. I've imposed on your generosity long enough.”

“Please don't do this.” She stepped closer, concern shadowing her eyes. “At least until Dr. Butler thinks it's all right.”

“I'm fine. Sleeping on the porch won't hurt me.” He wished she'd back up a little bit, just enough so he wouldn't be tempted by the freshness of her skin. Or wouldn't count every breath, watching the rise and fall of her chest. “I'll have a roof over my head. I've slept with a lot less.”

“You hadn't nearly just died, though.” Frustration sharpened her voice. “I can't let you do this. It's irresponsible. It could even be dangerous.”

Even standing here surrounded by the smells of dirt and horseflesh and leather, he picked up her subtle scent. “I have my gun.”

She threw her hands up. “That won't do you any good against infection, will it? Or help you if you need something in the middle of the night.”

“Look.” He gritted his teeth against the slow tightening of his body. “I didn't mean to get you riled up. You'll still be close enough that I can call you if I need to.”

Which he would not do.

“I think you should stay in the house, and I imagine Dr. Butler will agree with me.”

“I don't need either of you to tell me if I feel well enough to move.”

Hurt flashed across her features and he felt as if he'd knocked the wind out of her. “I'm only trying to care for you the best way I know how. Is that it? You're lacking something? You think
I'm
lacking?” She moved closer. Too close. Only inches separated them. “I can ask the doctor what more I should do.”

“There's not one thing wrong with you or the care you've
given me.” He tried to temper his words this time. She had started that humming in his blood and he couldn't stop it.

“Then I don't understand. Just tell me what you want—”

“Woman, if I stay in that house with you, something's gonna happen between us.” The words erupted from him.

His meaning sank in and her mouth formed an O. Her cheeks pinkened, but she didn't run. She didn't back away at all the way she should.

She plucked nervously at the top button of her bodice, and he said tightly, “Go on back to the house.”

He straightened, making it plain he wanted to move, expecting her to do the same.

She didn't. Looking uncertain, she drew in a deep breath, then said in a rush, “I wish I'd kissed you when I had the chance.”

He nearly swallowed his teeth. “You can't say things like that to a man, Catherine. To me.”

“It's true.”

“I don't think so.” Desire thrummed inside him. He gripped his crutch so tightly that his knuckles burned. “You're pale as chalk.”

Her skirts whispered around his legs, between them, and her pulse fluttered wildly in the hollow of her throat.

“Dammit, woman! Back up. I may be injured, but I'm not dead and—”

She placed her hand on his chest and he released the crutch to grip her wrist. “You don't want this. It's in your every move, Catherine. In your eyes, the way you tense up when I'm around.”

“I don't want to feel that way. Not with you.”

What was he supposed to do with that? “That's not what you felt just yesterday.”

“I made a mistake.”

“So if I kissed you right now, you wouldn't bolt?” He made sure that scorn sounded in his voice, and he gave her time to run. “Go. Inside.”

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes were bright, but with determination, not fear. “I want this. I've never wanted it before.”

His restraint faltered. He wanted to haul her against him, make her feel the way he hardened for her. But he couldn't forget the terror he'd seen in her eyes that night. Angry that he ached for her, that she wouldn't leave him be, he pulled her body flush against his and stared into her eyes. The bedroll slid out from under his right arm. His wrist twinged.

She trembled against him, but she didn't resist, didn't look away. Instead she brought her other hand to his chest. “Jericho?”

She breathed his name, and his hold on her tightened. His arm circled her waist completely, plastered her to him so she could feel what she did to him, what he wanted. Yet her blue eyes never left his.

He dipped his head, asking hoarsely, “Do you know what I'm about?”

“Yes.” She lifted her face only a fraction, but it broke him.

With his eyes open, he kissed her. Just a gentle touch of his lips at first, though he shook with the effort not to take her mouth the way he wanted.

She stiffened, and disappointment carved deep in his belly. Just as he started to release her, she kissed him back—unpracticed but willing. Her breasts flattened against his chest and he found his good thigh between her legs.

Hell for breakfast. Her lips were soft on his, tentative and searching. Tightening his arm around her, he pressed into the ladder. Catherine pressed into him. His thigh ached, but not as deeply as the rest of him did.

He coaxed her mouth open so he could taste her, and her eyes fluttered shut. When his tongue dipped inside, she made
a small sound in the back of her throat. He nearly came undone right then. She tasted of heat and honey. Jericho cursed his lame leg. He wanted to gather her up, lay her down on the sweet-smelling straw and shuck off her clothes. But he couldn't move without falling down.

She shyly touched her tongue to his. Sharp, blazing need sliced through him as he drank her in, losing himself in the sweetness of her tender mouth. His kiss wasn't rough, but it was fierce, and he couldn't stem the fire raging through him. His body throbbed, demanding to be buried inside hers. He should stop, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this sweet torture was all he'd ever have of her. When he was gone and she hated him, he wanted to remember it.