Christine Dorsey (8 page)

“Say’s he’s on his way to Texas. You think he might take us with him if we asked?”

“Oh, Will.” Samantha went to her brother, careful not to tramp on any of the plants. She squatted down beside him, grasping his hand when he reached for the dipper. “Honey, there’s nothing for us in Texas.”

“I told him you’d say that.”

“That’s because it’s true.” Samantha knew how much her brother thought and dreamed about Texas, though she presumed a good deal of his infatuation stemmed from the hardships they’d endured here.

She sighed again. “Let’s finish here so we can pick some corn. Fresh corn for dinner. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Yeah,” Will admitted reluctantly. He worked diligently to water his half of the garden. Then together he and Sam went to the near cornfield. The ears were nearly ripe, and he imagined they’d soon have a huge job on their hands. But for now they picked only enough to feed themselves for a couple of days.

It wasn’t until they returned to the cabin and Sam asked him to fetch more water that Will remembered the other thing he’d learned about the Rebel soldier. Will opened the door, the bucket swinging from his hand. “He wasn’t at the second Bull Run,” he said before stepping out on the porch.

Samantha paused, the knife she was using to slice the bacon slab poised over the meat. She wanted to call Will back, opened her mouth to do it, but in the end closed it again.

This wasn’t about battles or Luke, or even the godforsaken war. Did Will actually think she’d hold something like that against a stranger? Samantha sighed, resuming her cutting. Maybe she would. Maybe all that had happened had affected her too deeply to look upon every man as her brother, the way her father had preached. Maybe she did care that the man lying in the stable had fought for the Rebel cause... and worn a gray uniform.

But that wasn’t the point here. “Ouch!” The knife slipped, slicing into her finger then landing on the puncheon floor with a dull thud. Samantha whipped her finger to her mouth, fighting back tears.

“Oh, heavens,” she moaned, turning her back on the table and blinking her eyes. It’s not as if her finger hurt that bad. She looked at it, hesitantly at first, and moaned again because it had already stopped bleeding. So why were tears rolling down her cheeks?

Samantha took a deep breath and wiped her face with her apron then returned to the bacon. She hacked off another few slices, started to put it up, then remembered the Rebel in her barn. Now that he was awake and his fever broken, he’d be eating what they did. She slapped the meat into the iron skillet heating on the stove. It began to sizzle, filling the tiny cabin with savory smells.

She’d feed the stranger, and send him on his way. In the meantime, she’d talk with Will. He needed to understand the battle they waged was for self-preservation. They couldn’t afford to trust anyone, especially anyone wearing gray pants. And it had scarce little to do with differing ideologies.

Landis Moore wanted them out of Kansas, off their land. And he would do anything to accomplish it. He wasn’t going to turn the other cheek. He wasn’t going to go away. Samantha wadded her apron and used it to lift the hot skillet from the stove.

Will was too much like their father used to be. He trusted people, and believed the best. Well, she wasn’t going to let what happened to her father happen to Will. She’d shoot the stranger again before she’d let it.

He had a lot of nerve telling Will he wasn’t with Moore’s gang. But she knew different. And she wasn’t going to let the Rebel get to kindhearted, trusting Will. She’d just deal with him herself, she thought, slipping fried bacon onto a tin plate.

H
e’d never slept so much. Jake stretched his legs and studied the dust motes swirling in the band of sunshine slanted across his makeshift bed. Sleep and eat, that’s all he did. But he could feel his body healing and getting stronger. Sitting up didn’t make him dizzy anymore.

Gingerly lifting the bandage crossing his chest, Jake tried to make a professional judgment of his wound. Then he remembered he didn’t do that anymore. His doctoring days were over. But his wound was coming along fine. Healing despite the fact there’d been no doctor to look at it.

Closing his eyes, Jake wondered how many of the men he’d treated during the war would have recovered without him. Had he made a difference? Any difference at all?

Jake forced that thought from his mind. It was in the past. The war... being a doctor. Both gone forever. Like the rest of his life. Besides, he didn’t need any special schooling to tell him his wound was healing. He knew he was getting better because he was damn tired of lying here in the straw.

Pushing himself up, Jake grabbed hold of the wooden partition between the stalls to steady himself. No one had fixed the stall divider he’d pulled loose over a week ago. It still hung from the one nail that held it. Jake jammed it back against the support with the heel of his hand, but it swung down again. Shrugging, wincing from the pain in his chest, Jake reached for his saddlebag. His pants were no longer draped over the stall divider.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Jerking around, Jake knocked against the loose board. “Ouch! Damnit, woman, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that?”

“I wasn’t sneaking.”

Her voice sounded strange and Jake glanced at her face, noticing the crimson blush that colored her to the roots of her honey-gold hair. Just as quickly he realized why and felt an unfamiliar warmth creep up his neck as he swept the blanket off the floor and wrapped it around himself.

He couldn’t believe he’d stood there naked,
and
he couldn’t believe it was making him blush. It wasn’t as if he had anything to be embarrassed about. She’d walked in on him. It had just been a long time since he’d been undressed before a woman—hell, it had been a long time since he’d done anything with a woman—and this one seemed to constantly remind him of that fact.

Not that she did or said anything provocative. Her manner of dress lent itself to working a farm, not exciting the baser instincts in a man. And though she was pretty enough, she wasn’t a great beauty. But more often than he liked, Jake found himself thinking about the line of her jaw when she cocked her head to listen to her brother, or the clear, serene radiance of her blue eyes.

Jake didn’t want that. Feelings like the ones she unwittingly provoked were long buried beneath the cocoon he’d wrapped about his emotions—and better off remaining there.

And she made him angry too. Another vulnerable crack in his defenses. He hadn’t seen her in days, but that didn’t mean he forgot her accusing words—or that she’d tied him up. Just seeing her riled him.

She stood, hands on hips, watching him as he fumbled with the blanket.

“What
are
you trying to do?” she asked again.

“Get myself covered if it’s all right with you.” Jake tucked the blanket end around his waist, ignoring the straw that scratched at his skin.

“It makes no difference to me,” Samantha said, hoping she sounded convincing. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you before.” True enough, but it was one thing to see him sick and feverish—and even that had left her flustered—and quite another thing to get a look at him standing, tall, broad shouldered and—

Samantha’s face grew hotter, and she looked around for something to do. Last night’s dishes lay in a neat stack in the straw. She busied herself gathering them up. “What are you doing up?”

“I’m sick and tired of lying down,” Jake growled. He’d done more than his share of doctoring, but this was the first time he could remember being the one in need of mending. He didn’t much like it either.

Dragging clothes from his saddlebag with one hand, Jake tried to keep the blanket up with the other. “I want some answers. Every time I ask a question around here, somebody makes themselves scarce.” He looked up from his search, anger stamped on the masculine lines of his face. “And where in the hell are my pants?”

“Hung on the clothesline. I brushed them up for you.” That, at least, she could answer with relative ease.

“So who asked you to?” Damn, he hated talking to her wearing nothing but a dusty old blanket. And the thoughts of her taking care of him when he’d been sick didn’t do much to calm his state of mind either.

“No one that I recall.” Samantha grabbed the saddlebag from his hands, startling him so much that he didn’t resist. He just stood there, his expression shocked, groping for the blanket when it slipped. “Of course no one asked me to doctor your wound or feed you either, as I recall.” She yanked a clean pair of butternut pants from the leather pocket. “Here,” she said, thrusting them toward him before turning on her heel and heading for the door.

“Wait a minute.” Jake expelled an exaggerated breath, then clamped his jaw shut before catching her eye.

“What?” Samantha paused, her hand on the latch. Why was it so disturbing to be close to him? When she’d handed him the pants, his scent, and the heat from his body had nearly been more sensual than she could handle. She needed to get outside in the fresh air.

“You’re right. I do owe you some thanks.”

Samantha swallowed. “You don’t owe me anything. Just get yourself better so you can leave.” She meant to stomp out of the barn, but an iron hand around her upper arm stopped her. She hadn’t heard him move and had carelessly thought him incapable of such quick motion in his present state of health. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Samantha realized she’d been wrong about a lot of things.

His grip was proof that the captain’s strength had returned. The weight of his pistol bumped against Samantha’s thigh. But could she reach into her apron pocket without his noticing and taking the gun? And if he caught her, what would he do? She didn’t want to find out. Besides, the hand clamped around her arm didn’t exactly hurt. It simply kept her from leaving.

Which seemed to be exactly what he wanted to do.

“Now that I have your attention, Miss Lowery, I want to know what’s going on around here.”

“What... what do you want to know?”

Jake lowered his nose to within inches of hers. “For starters, who shot me?”

Samantha hoped she didn’t look as white as she felt. She could practically feel the blood draining from her face. But she met his eye. “What difference does it make?”

“A hell of a lot to me!” Jake sucked in his breath in agitation and immediately felt the makeshift tuck of scratchy wool loosen. His hands dropped to the blanket around his waist—and so did Samantha’s gaze. She quickly pulled her eyes back to his face, but not before they traveled the length of his broad, hairy chest.

Turning on her heel, Samantha tried to leave, but again was stopped. “Not so fast. I asked you a question and I want an answer.”

“When you ride with the likes of Landis Moore, you should expect violence and getting shot is part of—”

“That’s no answer. Besides, I already told you I don’t ride with Moore. And yeah, I know you don’t believe me, but at this point I don’t really care... Wait a minute.” Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to say this Moore shot me?”

Samantha hid the relief from her voice. Why hadn’t she thought of this before? “He could have, I suppose.”

Those clear green eyes were little more than slits now as Jake studied her. “Could have?” The tone of his words expressed serious doubt. “Possible. But then that’s not exactly the way I remember it happening. I heard gunshots and rode into a farmyard. I didn’t see anyone. No gang of ruffians... nothing. The next thing I know a bullet slams into my chest and I wake up with you curled up beside me.”

“I fell asleep.”

Jake ignored her heated rebuttal. “It was your farmyard I rode into and your window I was facing when I got hit.” Jake paused. “Did Will shoot me?”

The idea didn’t sit well with him. He’d grown to like the boy. But Samantha’s immediate denial convinced Jake he hadn’t.

“No! Will didn’t shoot you!”

“But then—”

Samantha jerked away so quickly Jake didn’t stop her. Or maybe he was too amazed by his own deduction. Clearly he wasn’t expecting this. But the surprise on his face turned to shock when she pulled the revolver from her apron pocket.

“That’s right.” Samantha cocked the gun, aiming it at a spot slightly lower than his bandage. “I shot you and... and I’ll do it again if I have to.”

“What in the hell for?”

“To keep you from hurting me. I—”

“Not now,” Jake interrupted. “Before. I want to know why you shot me before.”

“I told you.” The arm holding up the gun trembled and Samantha steadied it with her free hand. “You’re one of Moore’s men and—”

“For the last time, I am not one of Moore’s damn men!”

“Well, I thought you were at the time,” Samantha conceded.

“Oh, that makes perfect sense. You just go around shooting everyone you suspect of riding with Moore?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They were shooting up my farm. You rode in right after and I thought you were coming after us.” Samantha reached behind her to open the barn door. “That’s all the explanation I intend to give.”

“Well, I think—” Jake’s advance toward her was cut short when she thrust the gun forward.