Outlaw's Bride (5 page)

“Shhh, take it easy. I'll get you some laudanum for the pain.” Mrs. St. Clair's gentle voice and her soft hand across his brow eased Clint more than any medicine.

“No,” he rasped out. “No… l-laudanum.”

“It'll help you sleep.”

“D-don't want—” he coughed again and clutched the sheet in tight fists—“t-to sleep.” His wife's murderer already had too much of a lead.

“Sleep is the best way to heal, Mr. Beaudry.” She withdrew, leaving Clint feeling cold and desolate. A moment later, she held a spoon to his lips. “Take it.”

He tried to keep his mouth closed but didn't have the strength to resist, and the bitter liquid spilled across his tongue, forcing him to swallow. Then her hand slid behind his neck again and he drank more water to wash away the caustic taste. She rested his head back on the pillow and her fingertips whispered across his brow. He caught a whiff of roses.

“Sleep now, Mr. Beaudry.”

Her voice floated around him, like an angel's. No—a woman who looked liked her was no angel.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“I told you—Mrs. St. Clair.”

He gazed at her fine, silver-gilded features and his vision blurred, softening the severe line of her mouth and the creases in her brow. “
What
are you?”

Her lips puckered as if she had bit into a lemon. “Your nurse, for now.”

“And later?” Clint lifted his hand and his fingers grazed her unbound hair and the firm breast hidden beneath it.

She gasped and jerked back. “If you do that again, Mr. Beaudry, I'll throw you out by way of the window.” Her husky voice was breathy with anger.

He would have laughed if he had the strength. “Always… d-did like a woman … with s-some spirit.”

Clint tried to stay awake, but the medicine was dragging him down … down into a dark cavern. The widow became fuzzy and faded into the blackness, leaving him with only the lingering scent of wild roses.

Mattie's heart slowed its rapid beat as she examined Beaudry's bandage. After his paroxysm, she wasn't surprised to see fresh red blood staining the white material. Now was a good time to change it, while the laudanum was in effect. As she removed the old bandage, Mattie was careful to keep from touching his skin any more than necessary.

When his fingertips had brushed her breast, she'd nearly jumped out of her skin. Her nerves had hummed like bees after their hive was disturbed. It was impossible to deny her unwanted attraction to Beaudry, but that didn't mean she had to surrender to it. Only weak women gave in to such carnal feelings.

Weak like she'd been.

She mixed the carbolic acid and water, and cleaned the wounds. Beaudry groaned softly and Mattie worried her lower lip between her teeth. She hated hurting him, but the solution would keep an infection from setting in. After cleansing the injuries, Mattie attached clean dressings and wrapped them. She tucked the end of the bandage between his skin and the gauze, then re-covered him.

Mattie laid her palm against his forehead—still normal. She kept her hand in place a few moments longer, prolonging the contact with the unsettling man, then she jerked her hand away, embarrassed by her shameful indulgence.

Exhaustion—that explained her actions.

She should go tuck Andy in, then climb into her own bed and get some much-needed sleep. Yes, that's what she would do….

If only he hadn't revealed such anguish concerning the mysterious Emily—now she felt bewildered and unbalanced. What other secrets did he harbor? Was he a Robin Hood in disguise, stealing from the rich and giving to the poor? Or perhaps Don Quixote, willing to slay windmills for his Dulcinea?

Impatiently, she flung her long hair over her shoulder. This insane conjecturing had to be a product of her overtired mind. She spun around and marched to the door, only to pause and gaze at him one last time, but her gaze was sidetracked by his gunbelt. She stalked back to the dresser, then picked up the holster and gun as if it were a rattlesnake.

She couldn't take the chance of Andy being tempted by the weapon. Since Beaudry wouldn't be needing it for a while, she would hide it in her own room.

Right beside her husband's, which she hadn't touched in over ten years.

Mattie straightened slowly and stifled a yawn. After the long days of sitting and watching over Beaudry, standing for two hours ironing clothes was sheer torture. Of course, she could have made bread or mended clothes or cleaned and filled the lamps, or one of a dozen other chores she'd neglected because of her uninvited guest.

She finished pressing the last shirt and flattened her palms against her back, then stretched and popped her spine. If she could only lie down and rest for just a few minutes…

Attuned to the slightest sound from upstairs, she heard Beaudry's bed creak. Remembering Kevin's admonishment to get Sheriff Atwater as soon as Beaudry regained consciousness, Mattie called out the back door, “Andy!”

“I'm coming,” came his faint reply.

A few moments later, Andy raced around the corner of the house.

“Run into town and get Sheriff Atwater,” Mattie said.

“That gunman finally wake up?” Excitement lit Andy's expression.

“He just woke up. Hurry, now.”

Andy nodded and tugged his hat down on his head, then dashed away.

She returned to the house and mounted the stairs, pausing outside Beaudry's door to bolster her defenses against his magnetic lure. When she entered his room, her gaze clashed with his piercing green eyes. Her breath faltered and she resolutely reined in her galloping heart.

“I was wondering when you were going to wake up,” Mattie said, her tone more brusque than she'd anticipated, then added lamely, “It's nearly ten o'clock.”

“Some water?” he asked.

Ashamed of her attitude toward the injured man, Mattie poured him a glass and raised his head so he wouldn't choke. His long hair tickled her fingers and she sternly kept her thoughts from straying. After he'd finished drinking, Mattie settled him back against the pillow. “I need to check your bandages.”

Beaudry remained silent as she drew the covers off his chest and folded them down to his waist, high enough that she didn't embarrass him. One look at the glint in his eyes made her amend that thought—so
she
wouldn't be embarrassed. Her fingers, usually so steady, betrayed her and she fumbled with the end of the bandage.

Beaudry grimaced. “You ever done this before?”

Mattie's hackles rose. “Never,” she replied sarcastically. “I've had my ten-year-old son change them the last few days.”

“Maybe you should get him, then.” His tone matched hers.

Mattie bit the inside of her cheek to keep from continuing the childish verbal duel and removed the old bandage. Aware of Beaudry's cool gaze, she leaned closer to make certain both the entrance and exit wounds were free of purulence.

“It looks like your luck is holding.”

Beaudry snorted. “You call getting a bullet in the back lucky?”

“It is when you survive and the wound doesn't get infected,” Mattie shot back. The man's lack of gratitude galled her. She poured some carbolic acid into the basin and added some water, then cleaned the open wounds carefully.

Beaudry inhaled sharply. “Sonuvabitch, lady, you trying to finish the job that bastard started?”

Mattie froze for a moment. The ungrateful man didn't deserve her apology for hurting him. “What did I say about swearing in my home?”

“Shit.”

Mattie narrowed her eyes. If he had any sense, he'd know she hadn't meant to hurt him and would restrain his offensive language. But he was probably so accustomed to people jumping at his commands that he didn't care how he treated them.

A few minutes later, Mattie tied off the fresh bandage and washed her hands in the basin.

Beaudry opened his eyes. “You finally done?”

“Yes.” Mattie dried her hands on a rough towel and averted her gaze from his chalk-white face. “Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Got a steak?”

“You'll have bread and chicken broth to start with,” she said firmly.

“That'll be fine, ma'am,” he drawled.

Surprised by his unexpected politeness, she managed to nod. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Mattie forced herself to ignore the tingle at the base of her neck that told her Beaudry's gaze followed her out of the room. The gunman could drive a teetotaler to drink.

While the broth heated, she sliced and buttered some bread for him. Once the thin soup was steaming, she scooped some into a bowl and carried the meal up to Beaudry.

She paused in his doorway. He'd fallen asleep again. For a moment she debated leaving him be, but he needed food to rebuild his strength. And the sheriff would be coming to talk to him. He could sleep after that.

Mattie set the tray on the nightstand and lightly touched his shoulder. His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with bruising intensity, and his eyes flew open, wide and terror-filled. Stunned, she could only stare into his face. What could frighten a man like Clint Beaudry?

Abruptly, he released her and she stumbled in retreat, the back of her knees bumping the nightstand and nearly toppling his food.

“Don't … ever do that … again.” Though his voice was husky, it was also colder than a January day.

Outrage overtook her shock. “I was only waking you so you could eat.”

Something flickered in Beaudry's eyes. Remorse? Panic? “Next time, just say my name.” His gaze shifted to her breasts and back to her face, and a crooked smile danced on his lips. “I wouldn't mind waking to your voice anytime.”

Heat licked across Mattie's skin. She should be outraged by his brazenness, but her body had other ideas. Damn the man for stirring long-extinguished embers to life. “Don't get used to it, Mr. Beaudry. Once you're able, I want you out of my house.”

And my life.

She turned away. “Can you feed yourself?”

He raised his hand, then dropped it back on to the bed. “No.” A heavy dose of frustration was packed into the single word.

She scooted the chair closer to his bed and sat down. After dipping the spoon in the broth, she held it up to his lips. As he opened his mouth, she couldn't help but notice his straight white teeth, a rarity among men around here. He swallowed the broth with a slight grimace.

“What happened to the man who shot me?” Beaudry asked in between helpings of bread and soup.

“Sheriff Atwater tried to find him, but he lost his tracks.”

His eyes grew stormy. “Do you know where he was headed?”

“The sheriff said north, to Grand Junction.”

He ate the remaining food in silence, and Mattie could tell he was thinking about the man who'd tried to kill him. “He's probably long gone by now,” she said. “There's no reason to go after him.”

Beaudry lifted his gaze to her. “Yes, there is.”

Mattie trembled at the intensity of his voice and the hatred in his expression. She'd been right—he was a killer. Sickness crawled up her throat.

“Where's my gun?” he suddenly asked.

She stiffened her shoulders and met his gaze. “Somewhere safe.”

“I want it.”

“You'll get it when you ride away from here and not a moment sooner.”

His jaw muscle knotted. He was angry, and Mattie wondered why she wasn't frightened. Maybe because she somehow knew he would never hurt her.

Surprised by her conviction, she concentrated on feeding him until the bread and broth were gone. Taking a corner of the napkin, she dabbed the broth from his chin and the corners of his lips. She tried to tell herself this was no different than when she'd fed Andy as a baby, but the grizzled whiskers that rasped her knuckles and Beaudry's steady gaze on her face made that impossible.

Footsteps downstairs were followed by the sound of creaking wood as someone climbed the steps. Mattie drew away from Beaudry and busied herself with cleaning the tray. A few moments later, Sheriff Atwater's wide frame filled the doorway. He removed his hat and held it against his chest. “Mattie.”

“Hello, Walt,” Mattie greeted too brightly. “Kevin said you wanted to talk to Mr. Beaudry when he regained consciousness.”

“That's right.”

She stood and lifted the tray. “I'll go downstairs and leave you two alone.” She started toward the door, but Beaudry's voice made her pause.

“I'm not a murderer, Mrs. St. Clair.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Beaudry,” she said coolly.

Helplessly, Clint watched Mrs. St. Clair slip past the sheriff. She didn't believe him. He sighed. Why did her opinion matter, anyhow? Nobody's assumptions had ever concerned him before.

“You feelin' up to answerin' some questions?”