Outlaw's Bride (4 page)

A fallen angel.

She remembered how Beaudry had wrapped his fingers around that leather belt, insolence in his sharply drawn features as his gaze had raked across her. Mattie's stomach muscles clenched and her camisole suddenly seemed too snug across her breasts.

“Stop it,” she rebuked herself. It was his fault she was thinking about things she hadn't dwelt upon in years. Things like the feel of a man's whiskered cheek against her palm, the texture of a man's hair between her fingers, and the touch of a man's lips—

Abruptly, Mattie stood and stepped over to the window. Her entire body throbbed with sensual remembrance and she damned the loss of control. Hadn't she spent the last ten years ridding herself of such irrational yearnings? Even Kevin, who had been courting her for a year, hadn't produced such wanton images in her mind. She had to distract her mutinous thoughts before she drove herself insane.

Pushing aside one of the flowery curtains, she stared down into the yard. Jewel, the milk cow, grazed in front of the porch. Andy must have moved the animal's picket line while she and Kevin had taken care of the gunman's wounds. Several hens clucked and scratched in the dirt not far from Jewel.

Living a quarter mile from town allowed Mattie to have a cow and some chickens so she didn't have to buy milk or eggs. It also gave her fresh food for her boardinghouse guests. Not that she had any right now, but autumn would bring a few people looking for places to hole up for the winter. Until then, she sold the milk and eggs and took in laundry, to buy clothing for her fast-growing son and food staples like flour and sugar.

Beaudry groaned again, and Mattie returned to her chair and rewetted the cloth on his forehead. His brow seemed even hotter than it had been earlier and worry gnawed at her. As much as she despised what he stood for, she couldn't wish his death.

The gunman's fever continued to rage into the night and she cooled him down with a damp towel, drawing it across his broad chest and down his muscled arms. She took more time to cool his neck and wrists, like Kevin had taught her. He'd also told her that cool cloths on the groin area helped bring a fever down. Mattie raised the sheet and steeled herself. Carefully, she laid the cool cloth across his masculinity, and her traitorous gaze remained on him a few moments longer than necessary.

I've been without a man for too long.

Mrs. Hotzel at the orphanage had always said Mattie had the devil in her—and had punished her more often than any of the other children. Ruth had pshawed such a notion and told Mattie she was merely a woman with a passionate nature, which was nothing to be ashamed of. However, Mattie couldn't bring herself to accept that explanation. Her wicked thoughts proved Mrs. Hotzel had been right.

The clock downstairs chimed two in the morning and Mattie took a moment to sit and rest her aching muscles. She leaned back and rocked as she listened to the man's raspy breathing. Occasionally his breath stammered, and her own heart missed a beat. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn't want him to die.

“No… don't hurt … her.”

Mattie awakened immediately to the man's pain-filled voice, surprised that she'd fallen asleep. She scooted to the edge of her chair and looked into his sweat-slicked face.

“Leave her … be,” Beaudry murmured, his eyes still closed.

Mattie realized he was lost in fever dreams. “It's all right, Mr. Beaudry. You're safe here,” she said softly.

He muttered something she couldn't understand, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. She'd been around delirious patients before and often a human touch would soothe them when nothing else would.

Beaudry's mouth twisted into a grimace and he tried to rise, eliciting a groan. Mattie stood over him and wrapped her fingers around his arms, holding him down. “Don't move or you'll injure yourself further.”

Corded muscles flexed beneath her palms and Mattie used every ounce of strength to keep him from thrashing around and opening the fragile scabs on his wounds.

“No… have to help,” Beaudry slurred.

“Everything's all right. You don't have to help anyone,” Mattie said calmly, hoping he would understand her through his feverish haze.

“Emily… needs me.”

Surprise shuttled through Mattie. Who was Emily? A sister? A wife?

“Em!” he cried out.

“I'm right here,” Mattie said, not knowing what else to do. “I'm all right, Clint.”

His eyelids fluttered open, jolting Mattie with the intensity deep in his startling green eyes. He stared up at her, but Mattie knew he was seeing someone else. Beaudry stopped struggling and Mattie eased her grip on his arms as her muscles trembled with exhaustion.

Tentatively, Beaudry raised his right hand and his fingertips grazed her cheek. She remained motionless as he cupped her face in his palm, and for an insane moment, Mattie wanted to press her cheek closer to his callused skin.

“I thought … you … were dead.” He coughed and a spasm convulsed though his lean frame. “Em, I'm … sorry.”

His anguished voice cut through Mattie's defenses, and her chest tightened. “It's all right.” Her voice shook.

He blinked a few times and moisture filled his eyes, and a tear rolled down the side of his face into his tangled hair. “God, I'm … so sorry.”

The agony in his eyes tore a hole in Mattie's heart. She felt a tear burn a trail down her cheek to fall onto Beaudry's bandage.

He closed his eyes, then his hand slipped down onto the mattress.

Mattie's knees collapsed and she dropped into her chair. Obviously Emily had been someone Clint Beaudry had cared for a great deal. Why had he told her he was sorry? What had he done to her?

Mattie had never seen such anguish in a person's eyes … except in a mirror ten years ago.

The next three days passed in a blur for Mattie. She only left Beaudry's side to cook meals and tuck Andy into bed. For the first time, she was glad she didn't have any boarders. Her life seemed to revolve around the gunslinger and his fevered ramblings that continued sporadically as she fought to keep him alive.

She caught snatches of sleep sitting in the chair beside him when she couldn't hold the exhaustion at bay any longer. Herman had volunteered to stay with her patient so she could get some rest, but Mattie had the horrible feeling that if she left Clint for longer than an hour, he'd slip away, so she refused Herman's offers.

By the evening of the fourth day, Mattie's mind had grown sluggish and her body ached. However, Beaudry's fever had steadily dropped and he'd gone nearly eight hours without slipping into a delirium.

“Here's the water, Ma,” Andy said softly.

Startled, Mattie glanced at the doorway to see her son holding a pitcher in two hands. She managed a smile. “Thanks. Go ahead and set it down.”

Andy entered and placed the pitcher beside its matching bowl on the nightstand. Curiosity etched his young face. “Do you think he's going to live?”

“I don't know.” Mattie had difficulty getting the words out. “But he's got a better chance now than when you first found him.”

Andy placed his hand on the rocker's arm. “Did my pa look like him?”

Warning bells clanged in her mind, obliterating the cobwebs. “Why do you ask that?”

Andy shrugged. “You don't ever talk about him.”

Because she didn't want to be reminded of Jason's foolish bravado. Stalling, she dipped the cloth into the water and placed it back on Beaudry's forehead. “No. He had brown hair and dark eyes.”

“How did he die?” Andy pressed.

Mattie placed her arm around her son's shoulders. “I've told you before, he was shot by outlaws.”

Andy gazed at the pale man in the bed. “Is Mr. Beaudry an outlaw?”

“I don't know,” Mattie replied honestly.

“Why are you taking care of him?”

Because I saw something in him I can't forget.
“Because it's my Christian duty.”

Andy shifted his attention to the gunbelt lying on the dresser and Mattie saw envy glint in his expression. “When can I learn how to shoot?”

Fear slid through Mattie. “You know how I feel about guns, Andrew.”

Defiance flared in his face and he drew his hand away from hers. “All my friends can shoot. If I knew how, I could hunt deer and rabbits so you wouldn't have to buy meat. Why won't you let me learn?”

“You know why.”

“Because Pa was killed by a gun.”

“That's right,” Mattie said firmly. She wouldn't tell him his father had goaded the man into a gunfight. “Time to get ready for bed. I'll be along in a few minutes.”

“You don't have to tuck me in, Ma. I'm not a baby anymore.” Andy whirled around and charged out of the bedroom.

Mattie rose to follow him, but Beaudry's groan stopped her. She laid the back of her hand against his cheek—the fever had finally broken. She breathed a sigh of thanksgiving.

Beaudry shifted and his eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes, then closed them and reopened them. For the first time, she saw awareness in his expression.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Beaudry?” Mattie asked softly.

He studied her silently, as if trying to figure out who she was.

“You're safe here,” she said.

“Where… the hell … am I?” His voice was raspy, but his tone left no doubt it was a demand and not a polite inquiry.

The dangerous gunman had returned.

C
lint stared up at the woman's moonlight-tinted face and recalled violet eyes and black hair—the widow who owned the boardinghouse.

“You're in my home,” she answered flatly. “Would you like some water?”

He nodded.

As she filled a glass, Clint studied her slim back and rounded hips—hips that would fill his hands nicely. When he'd ridden out of town, he had spent some pleasant moments imagining the body she hid beneath the plain black skirt and baggy blouse, and suspected her curves would fit against his own body just fine.

She turned back to him. “I'll help you.”

Her hand slipped behind his neck and she raised his head so he could drink. The water slid down, relieving his parched throat. He didn't stop swallowing until he'd emptied the cup. As she eased him back down to the pillow, her slender fingers cool against his nape, he noticed the shadowed circles beneath her eyes. Guilt twinged his conscience. Nobody had cared for him in a long time.

Slowly, he became aware of an ache in his side—an ache that became a sharp piercing pain. He closed his eyes tightly and focused on controlling it.

“I was shot?” he asked, damning the weak tremor in his voice.

“That's right.” The woman's corn-silk tone gave him something to focus on other than the red ants that scurried through his insides. “You don't remember?”

He concentrated, shoving aside the curtain shrouding his memory. The recollection of a man wearing shiny black boots and riding a golden palomino slammed back. “The sonuvabitch backshot me.”

Her lips thinned in irritation. “You'll refrain from that kind of language while under my roof, Mr. Beaudry.”

In spite of his rage that his wife's killer had escaped, he chuckled. “Next to you, a cactus would seem downright friendly, lady.”

“My name is Mrs. St. Clair,” she said curtly.

Though he couldn't see her blush in the dimness, he knew it was there. He had no problem calling to mind the color in her cheeks and the violet eyes that flashed with fire when she'd rebuffed him … yesterday? “How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

Damn, he must have been hurt bad. “Bullet out?”

He saw her nod. “It went through your left side. A few inches higher and you'd be lying in a pine box.”

Just like Emily.

“A man's gotta die sooner or later,” he said quietly. A coughing fit caught him off guard and agony streaked through him.