Roan (12 page)

“You got it.”

Roan thought he'd impressed his son with the seriousness of the situation, enough for reasonable safety, at any rate. Now all he had to do was convince Donna.

 

Tory knew Roan was up to something the moment he appeared with her dinner. His manner was too smooth and pleasant, for one thing, and he was much too solicitous. She accepted the tray he offered with its roasted chicken, green salad and iced tea, but refused his offer of more pain medication. She thought she was going to need her strength and a clear head.

He made no particular move while she ate, but stood leaning against the bedpost, talking in a desultory way. She encouraged him as much as she could without being obvious about it. The Southern slant of his tales was fascinating in its way, and listening passed the time with less
awkwardness than she might have expected. She relaxed by slow degrees, until she could almost believe she'd been mistaken about his intentions. Then he sprang the question.

She choked on her tea, and went into a coughing spasm. When she could speak again she asked, “Do I what?”

“You heard me. I offered to help with your sponge bath before bedtime.”

A sponge bath. Lying supine and vulnerable while the sheriff ran a warm, wet cloth over her naked body in that most intimate of rituals. She hadn't even allowed the nurses at the hospital to do that.

“I don't think so.”

“It's a perfectly reasonable suggestion,” he said, a defensive inflection in his voice. “You may not be able to manage, and there's no one else to lend a hand. Unless you'd prefer Jake.”

“What I'd prefer is doing it myself, thank you very much,” she said plainly. “Though what I really want is a nice, hot shower and shampoo.”

He shook his head. “Doc Watkins will kill me if I let you get your bandage wet.”

“I don't see why he has anything to say about my bath.”

“You don't know Doc then. He's old-fashioned, thinks patients should be kept in bed and waited on hand and foot for ages, that modern hospitals push people out the door too soon. His instructions are for sponge baths over the next few days.”

“And you're supposed to see to it.”

“Not exactly. But lending a hand is the least I can do after bringing you here.”

His voice carried a trace of mockery, she thought, as if he dared her to accuse him of wanting to see her naked. She looked away, unable to sustain his steady gaze. “All the same, I'm having a shower.”

“Then I'll have to join you.”

“Not in this life!” She swung toward him once more.

“Can't have you getting light-headed and falling again. You could hurt yourself.”

He was teasing her, she thought, and enjoying it. She tilted her head. “It will only take a few minutes, and I'll be careful.”

“What about your shoulder?” he objected. “There's no way you can shampoo your hair.”

“I do have one good hand, you know.” She raised her uninjured arm and waved her fingers at him to prove the point.

Roan's gaze rested an instant on the scabs left by her rope burns. Then he laced his long fingers together and reversed them, stretching them out before him until his knuckles popped. “I have two good hands. Does that make me twice as good at it?”

“That would depend,” she said.

“Yeah? On what?”

“Your experience?” She was appalled the instant the words left her mouth. The last thing she was interested in was his past history with other women.

A look of diabolical yet smoky enjoyment rose in his gray eyes. “My experience may be limited, but I think I can manage. Let's see now, how would I go about it? I'd start, I think, with your face, nice and easy, so I wouldn't hurt your bruises.” His gaze rested on her cheekbones a moment then moved slowly downward over the curves under her faded hospital gown. “From there, I'd glide my nice, warm, soapy cloth over your neck and throat, and down to your—”

“That's all right,” she said hastily. “I'm sure that one body is pretty much like another when it comes to the bathing process.”

“Wrong.” He chuckled, a low sound of real amusement. “Yours is nothing like mine.”

He had a point. “Well. But still.”

“You doubt my ability?”

“It's just that—I don't know!” This mood change of his was so disconcerting that she hardly knew what she was saying.

“No? Where was I then? He pushed away from the post and stepped to take a seat on the edge of the mattress. Reaching out, he tucked the obscuring swath of her hair behind her ear then let his fingers trail along the curve of her neck and down her good arm to her hand. Picking it up, he continued, “I did your face, but what's next? It would be a shame to miss a single spot. I should use the cloth to lather every inch of skin, your fingers, your palm, wrist, arm….”

Tory could feel her heartbeat quicken, was aware of heat gathering inside her, pooling in the lower part of her body. She watched with lowered lashes as he followed the path he spoke of, slowly stroking each fingertip, then over her palm to the throb of the pulse in her wrist. Avoiding the healing scabs there, he trailed upward over the sensitive bend of her elbow to her upper arm, letting his soothing touch linger at the turn of her shoulder and full curve of her breast directly below.

Abruptly she came to her senses. Catching his hard wrist, she said, “Stop. Go much further, and you'll get your uniform wet.”

He studied her while the amusement died slowly from his face. Finally, he said, “I can change the uniform.”

“But not the man inside it.”

He pushed abruptly to his feet. “I'll run you a bath.”

It was a victory of sorts, but somehow it didn't feel like one. She waited until she heard the water filling the tub,
then pushed upright and adjusted her nightwear. She was seated on the edge of the bed, patiently waiting, when he emerged from the bathroom a short time later.

Before she could speak, he said, “I'll wait out here. Just in case.”

She'd been ready to make the same suggestion. That it wasn't necessary was such a relief she felt weak with it. That was, possibly, the reason she wobbled as she stood up.

“Can you walk?” he asked, moving forward a quick step to take her arm.

“I've been managing the hike to the bathroom for days,” she said sharply.

He made no comment, but neither did he release her. They moved into the large, old-fashioned bathroom furnished with a claw foot tub. He eased away only after he'd seated her on a wicker stool beside it.

“Everything you need is laid out except the shampoo,” he said. “I really don't see how you'll be able to manage that.”

It wouldn't be smart to push too hard, Tory thought. “This is fine. Thank you.”

He nodded, then retreated into the bedroom, though he left the heavy oak door ajar. She heard him settle into the brocade-covered armchair that sat in a corner.

The water was hot and heavenly. The slanted back of the old tub was just right for lounging, far more ergonomically designed than most modern tubs. She lay back with her eyes closed and the water lapping around her waist while tension melted from her like ice under a tropical sun. She'd needed this more than she realized, she thought. The only thing that would make it better was a water jet or two to swirl the water around her. She could easily spend the night here except for the certain knowledge that Roan would be
checking on her if she didn't make bathing noises in short order.

The soap provided was strictly utilitarian but served the purpose. The urge to use it first on her hair, after all, was strong, but she resisted. Johnnie had helped shampoo her hair at the hospital a couple of days back, and she'd have to be content with that for a little longer.

It had been so long since she'd felt really clean that she soaped and rinsed once, then started over again. As she glided the wet bath cloth over her neck and shoulder, she could not help thinking of the gentle yet electric slide of Roan's hand over her skin. The sheriff had a sensual streak it seemed. That was intriguing, to say the least. She wondered what else he was hiding behind his badge and his notions of duty and honor.

It didn't matter of course. She wasn't interested in Roan Benedict, the man, just as he wasn't interested in her beyond her needs as an invalid and her welfare as his prisoner. She was another duty that he was attending to as efficiently as he took care of everything else.

It could get depressing if she let it.

She sat upright, setting off a tidal wave of soapy water, then started to push to her feet. Somehow, she put too much weight on her bad arm. Pain surged through her shoulder. Her elbow buckled and she toppled to the side, then her knee slipped on the slanted porcelain bottom of the tub. The splash she made as she went down was like a fountain. She felt water soak her bandage and aching wound. She choked out an imprecation, but there was no time for decent recovery. Immediately, she scrambled up and reached for the towel that lay on the wicker stool. She jerked it toward her.

The door crashed against the wall. Roan stood framed in the opening. “What happened?” he demanded, then
stopped. The rich oak-brown of his skin took on a deeper stain.

Tory could feel her own color rise slowly from somewhere under her towel to flood her face. And she saw the sheriff's gaze follow it with burning attention. For long seconds, neither of them moved. Then Tory snatched the towel closer so it covered her from neck to knees. “Nothing's wrong. I just had a little problem getting up.”

“You fell.”

The look she gave him smoldered. “If you say I told you so, I swear I'll…”

“It's a little late for that.” His voice was as grim as his face when he stepped toward her. Thrusting one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, he lifted her from the tub. He swung around, then carried her into the bedroom where he placed her on the bed. He dried her with movements so fast that she barely registered them, then reached for the top sheet and jerked it high, letting it billow upward before settling over her. The instant it touched her, he snatched away the damp towel she was still clutching. And there she was, naked under the sheet.

She'd known he'd be efficient.

He was also wet across the front of his uniform shirt so that it molded the sculptured ridges of his chest in dark-brown splotches. She'd tried to warn him.

“I might have known you'd need help getting out of the tub,” he said as he stood over her with his hands on his hips. “It's too high off the floor.”

“I didn't ask for any.” It was the best answer she could think of at the moment.

“I should have been there anyway.”

She frowned, disturbed by the shadow of pain deep in his eyes. Whoever said that he took his work seriously knew what they were talking about. “It wasn't your fault,
okay?” She struggled up to support herself on her good elbow. “You warned me. I didn't listen. End of story. Except that my bandage is wet. I suppose you'd better call Doc Watkins so he can kill us both.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then a slow smile tugged one corner of his mouth. “Not on your life. I can change it. If you don't tell him, I won't.”

“Deal.” She stuck out her hand in an offer to seal the bargain. He took it briefly. Then he turned on his boot heel and left the room.

He returned seconds later with a first-aid kit that he placed on the bedside table. Seeing what he intended, she swung her feet off the bed and, holding the sheet to her, pushed upright.

“Careful,” he said. “We don't want any more damage than you have already.”

Of course they didn't, Tory thought in grim agreement. His goal was to get her well so he could put her in prison. Hers was to heal and get out of this antiquated house in this one-horse town. To do that, she needed Roan Benedict but, afterward, she could do without men in her life. She didn't need a stiff-necked sheriff with a hard heart and gentle hands.

“This may hurt,” he said, as he began to pull away the tape stuck to her skin.

“We've been here before, if you'll remember,” she said with irony, then added, “You've had emergency medical training, haven't you.”

He gave her a brief glance as he peeled away a tape strip and started on another. “How did you know?”

“The way you act, I suppose, as if it's all in a day's work.” What she meant was that his manner now, in the midst of the semi-emergency, was noticeably less personal than it had been before the bathtub fiasco.

“The parish has a First Response team, police, firemen, voluntary emergency personnel who are first on the scene at fires, accidents, and so on. I'm usually one of the first people there anyway.”

She didn't doubt it. “So how many lives have you saved? Besides mine, of course.”

“Oh, dozens.”

The answer was in bland exaggeration, as if it were a joke, but Tory wasn't fooled. The tips of the sheriff's ears were red, an indication that she'd embarrassed him again by forcing him to admit his skill. She rather enjoyed the sense of power that gave her, perhaps because she was so powerless otherwise in this situation. She said, “Tell me about some of them.”

He shook his head. “Too boring.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

His expression was still wary, but he complied, probably as an alternative to the strained quiet. As he talked, he stripped away the wet bandaging and replaced it with a dressing that was considerably lighter and more useful.

He'd pushed the sheet lower on her chest so that he could apply tape. The movement exposed the curve of her breast until only the rose-colored aureole of her nipple was covered. She felt decidedly exposed, but tried to ignore it. No doubt he was used to naked bodies if he made a habit of tending wounds, she thought; he'd certainly seemed to take in stride the glimpse he'd had of hers earlier.