Karen Kirst - Married by Christmas

“Caleb, can you hear me?”

His fight with an unseen enemy continued, his large hands clutching at the quilt covering him. “Danger.”

She laid a hand against his fevered, bristle-edged jaw. A memory, long-suppressed, resurfaced of her and Caleb and a nearly drowned calico kitten they’d fished out of the river. Certain he wouldn’t survive, Adam had advised her to leave it to its fate. He’d accused her of being too softhearted. Caleb had had other ideas. Tucking the mewling creature against his chest, he’d carried it here, to her barn, and together they’d worked to keep it alive.

His compassion had known no bounds. The sight of him hand-feeding the tiny animal, lean fingers constantly stroking its fur, had affected her in a profound way. Several days later, when it became clear the kitten would survive, she’d thrown herself against him and hugged him tight. He’d hesitated at first. Then his strong arms had wrapped around her, his heart beating fast beneath her cheek, and it had hit her like a locomotive—Caleb posed a danger to what she had with Adam.

Recognizing her heart’s susceptibility, she’d created distance between them, both mentally and physically. She wasn’t about to risk the security and comfort Adam Tierney offered for anyone, especially not live-as-close-to-the-edge-as-possible Caleb. Though it had taken some subtle maneuvering, Rebecca had been careful not to sit beside him in church or dance with him at the many barn dances the three of them had attended together. He hadn’t remarked on the change, but she’d caught him staring at her sometimes with a look of hurt and confusion. Recalling those looks now, she wondered why he’d never confronted her.

“You don’t wanna do this,” he ground out, urgency underscoring the words. In his fevered mind, he was back there in the mountains, challenging outlaws and trying to save a man’s life. Trying and failing.

When his whole body stiffened suddenly and air hissed through dry lips, she imagined the precise moment he was reliving. The overwhelming need to assuage his pain lodged in her chest and, the other occupants of the room forgotten, Rebecca leaned down and gently rested her head on his shoulder, kneading the rigid biceps through the soft cotton shirt.

“It’s okay,” she said in an urgent, hushed voice. “You’re gonna be okay.”

He continued to resist his unseen enemies. Rebecca repeated the words until he quieted. She wasn’t aware of how many moments passed before Meredith came around the bed and touched a hand to her lower back.

“He’s resting now.”

Sitting up, she avoided her friend’s curious gaze, studying the quilt pattern through increasingly watery eyes.

“Are you gonna be okay, Rebecca?”

A world of bewilderment accompanied the other woman’s obvious concern.

Lifting her head, she said simply, “He was my friend.”

And then she burst into tears. Tears for all that they’d lost, her and Adam and Caleb.

Meredith pulled her upright into a hug. Soon Amy joined their circle. When Meredith began to pray aloud, asking God to heal Caleb and to restore Rebecca’s peace, Becca silently thanked Him for such a dear friend. And then her prayers centered on her patient, her friend turned adversary—that he would heal and return to the high country as quickly as possible.

Chapter Seven

Caleb woke hours—or was it days?—later, at once noticing the absence of searing heat. His chest no longer felt as if an elk sat on it, and his head was blessedly clear. Gratitude swelled. Now he could remove himself to town. Rebecca and Amy would be safe.

The rustle of skirts alerted him to the presence of his bedside sentry.

Setting her rug-in-progress and hook on the chair, Becca leaned down to check his temperature. Immediately he was surrounded by familiar scents of paint, paper and the ever-present lilac. His gaze caught on the gold locket dangling from her neck. He didn’t recognize it. Had it been a gift from her parents? Or Adam?

“How are you feeling?” Apparently satisfied the fever was gone, she straightened and hid her hands behind her back, all emotion smoothed from her countenance. She couldn’t mask the strain caring for him these past days had taken, however. Shadows bruised her eyes.

“In need of a bath, a shave and a huge plate of biscuits and gravy. Not necessarily in that order.”

A ghost of a smile lifted her lips. “I see you’re feeling more yourself. You’re gonna have to wait on the biscuits.”

Gliding to the cast-iron stove in the corner, she dipped what looked to be broth into a plain white bowl. Becca made even the most mundane actions appear graceful, her movements like a coordinated dance, and he thought that he could watch her for a lifetime and never cease to be fascinated. Maybe it was her artist’s spirit shining through. For as long as he’d known her, she’d been driven to create things.

When they were young, her endeavors had been simple. Dandelion necklaces. Animals crafted from leaves, pinecones and acorns. He’d lost count how many times the teacher had reprimanded her for drawing on her chalkboard instead of listening to his lecture. Caleb had winced with every strike of the ruler across her delicate knuckles. One particular time he hadn’t been able to contain himself and, bolting to his feet, railed at Mr. Jones for punishing her for something that was as natural to her as breathing. Caleb had received a lashing for that outburst, but it had been worth the look of hero worship in Becca’s wide eyes, fleeting though it had been.

As a teenager, she’d experimented with pottery making, basket weaving and rug hooking. And while she was good at those, sketching and painting were her true passions. The evidence of her talent adorned the walls. Light streaming through the windows on either side of the cabin door set the paintings alight with color. There were more than he remembered. Birds and flowers dominated, with a couple of mountain landscapes thrown in.

She pivoted, and he noticed the traces of paint smudging her faded blue skirt. Her play clothes, she’d jokingly called them.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“What?” He immediately sat up, the bed coverings pooling about his waist. His leg screamed in protest. “How many days have I been here?”

“I found you Friday morning.”

Five days. Becca looked troubled and well she should. That was five days the gang had had to search for him. He had no idea what direction they’d gone, no clue if they’d noticed the trail of blood he’d left or if they’d glimpsed his scar. Certainly they’d be on the lookout for a horse with Rebel’s markings.

“I’m leaving. Now.”

Shoving off the heavy quilt, he glanced down and saw that his pant leg had been cut away. Not normally a man prone to blushing, embarrassing heat climbed his neck and stung his ears. Quickly covering himself, Caleb couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I have an extra pair of trousers in my saddlebags. Would you mind bringing them to me?”

“As a matter of fact, I do mind.”

That brought his head up. The set of her jaw brooked no argument. Still, he speared her with a dark gaze. “You’re aware of the danger I’ve put you and your sister in by winding up here. I need to speak with Shane Timmons.”

The sooner he left, the sooner the distress would disappear from her beautiful eyes. She could rebury the past. Once again pretend he didn’t exist.

The thought of leaving her, of never seeing her again, made him inexplicably sad, something he refused to dwell on. He had no rights where she was concerned, no claim to her company. He hadn’t even allowed himself to think of her these past couple of years. Every time he got a flash of Becca laughing or dancing or sitting alone in a field of wildflowers with her paints and easel, he’d redirected his thoughts to the sight of Adam falling, of his twisted body buried beneath the planks. He didn’t deserve her attention. Didn’t deserve a crumb of her kindness.