Jillian Hart - Rocky Mountain Man

It had worked, and now the stout log walls of his house protected them. But the animals were outside the door. Even with a torch, she didn’t dare head out into the night to fetch more water. She wrung the washcloth from the basin at her side and carefully cleansed the dried blood from his chest. His pulse thudded too fast at the hollow in his throat and his breathing was shallow.

He wasn’t nearly as disagreeable unconscious. He was a big man, over six feet, and his build was strong. Even slack, muscles were visible beneath his sun-bronzed skin. He radiated pure masculine strength, as if it came not only from his physical form but also from his spirit.

His skin was hot. The male scent of him—salty and woodsy—made her remember what it was like to be married. To share intimacy and morning cups of coffee and quiet evenings, of the immeasurable emotional bond that bound a man and wife. She hadn’t minded these years spent alone. That didn’t mean she liked it. Only that she hadn’t found a man who she could laugh with. One who seemed to fit with her.

The lantern light flickered. The oil was low. She should get up and search through his cupboards for more, but she didn’t want to leave him. Not unless she had to. He was dying, she knew it. She feared nothing could stop it. And it was her fault. He’d been protecting her.

He moaned low in his throat, troubled by dreams. Was a fever setting in? She leaned her cheek against his brow. He did feel warm, but not too warm. Yet. The pungent odor of boiling onions mixed with the nettles she had stewing on his stove—both smelled nearly done, she figured. Soon she would have to go check on them and see. She’d search for the oil can then.

“In the meantime, just rest.”

The flame writhed and swelled, and the strange orange light swept over the hard crags of his face and the vulnerable underside of his jaw. The shadows seemed to cling to him, as if he belonged to the night. As if there were only the shadow of him remaining.

She finished washing the blood from his chest and wondered, Did she finish stitching the lesser wounds? The horrible gashes spread nearly a foot and a half from his chest to his shoulder. Several were still seeping, but she feared by removing the bandaging, she would break open the clotted places.

He grew still. Was he breathing? Was his heart beating? Fear quickened through her veins as the long second stretched out and then his chest rose faintly, dragging in a ragged breath.

Thank goodness. Just continue breathing, all right? She couldn’t help stroking the iron curve of his face. The rough texture of several days’ growth abraded her fingertips. He was dreaming. His eyes were moving beneath his lids, and his mouth tightened. The hard thin lips that seemed to have been in a permanent frown twisted, not in anger but in agony.

The flame in the glass chimney flared with one last effort before the brightness waned and plunged the cabin into darkness.

Outside the thick walls, a wolf howled. Another answered. So close, she could hear the scrape of paws outside the window. Betsy did not consider it a good sign for the long night ahead. There was no way the predators could find their way inside, but still, it unsettled her to be in a wild land where only the strong and the cruel survived. What benefit did Mr. Hennessey—or any of the mountain men—see in living so far from civilization?

Shivering, and not with cold, she hurried to the warm stove where her home remedies simmered and seasoned. She knew there was a second lantern on the shelf next to the stove. As she struck a match, she heard a thump on the roof overhead and the scrape of claws digging into the wood shingles. A cougar.

The match flared, light glowed, and Betsy quickly lit the cold wick. Bright lemony rays pushed back the wall of darkness, but her fears remained. It was as if death were outside, looking for a way in.

Betsy knew all too well that was one predator no one could lock out.

Duncan saw the light as if from far away. A blurred image that hovered at the edge of consciousness. He felt weighted, as if the air had become heavier than he was and pressed down on him with a mighty force. He could not move. His mouth hurt with thirst. His tongue felt swollen and sandy. The acrid scent of blood filled the air and a noise rushed through the darkness. Something he couldn’t place.

Was he dreaming? Or awake? He didn’t know. Either way, it was memory that swept him backward to the crash of a door breaking open, the frame cracking into pieces. The drum of an enraged mob pulsed and shouted into his workroom. The hum of the lathe and the sharp, pleasant scent of walnut wood faded with the angry shouts and sweating men, the odor of whiskey strong on them.

“There he is!” Eldon Green’s baritone boomed deep with hatred. “Let’s string him up, boys.”

“Hanging is too good for him!” his brother Lindon shouted.

Duncan couldn’t move for a moment. He stared without believing what his eyes were seeing as men he called friends charged at him. Lindon held a rope coiled in one hand, a noose dangling at its end.

Shock numbed him as the table leg he’d been working on whispered to a stop, his chisel tumbling from his hand.

Pain sliced through his chest and he realized it was the noose closing around his neck. He grabbed it with both hands, desperate, panic roaring through him. He had to get it off. This was wrong. All wrong. Why were they doing this?

“Shh.” A low gentle sound tried to chase away the bad dream, which was no illusion but his life. A memory the cool brush of a cloth soothed into nonexistence.

He opened his eyes. He was in his cabin. In his bed. Staring at the circle of light on the open timbers of the ceiling, where lantern light gleamed. Pain began like a bullet, pointed and deep, then streaked outward. He took a shivery breath.

He already knew it was her. The tug of skin, the drag of thread through raw, ruined flesh. His fists clenched and his teeth ground together. There she was at the edges of his blurred vision, her hair falling over her shoulders and the white lace at her chemise. Her creamy skin looked as soft as silk and her sweet summer scent pounded in his head.

He heard the chink of a glass bottle and the glug-glug of liquid pouring. Whiskey. The sharp scent brought back the images of the memory as the noose burned into his throat, choking him as the end of the rope was tossed over the center beam and pulled. Some nightmares were real, and he was looking at another one.

It was night—his cabin was pitch-black. He was alone with her. There were signs of no one else in the room. Who else would be here? And she was in her underclothes, wearing one of his flannel shirts that, unbuttoned, slipped off her shoulders.

He tried to lift his head off the pillow. He couldn’t. His limbs felt as heavy and dull as lead. Weakness washed through his veins. He was too weak to move. Too weak to protect himself. Too weak to put Miss Laundry Lady on his horse and make her leave.

“I was beginning to worry that you would never wake up.” She chatted in that friendly way she had.

The way that he despised—because they weren’t friends. He didn’t want to be friends. He wanted to be left alone. Horror churned up inside him until he could taste the sourness of it filling his mouth. “Just go.”

“And leave you like this? Not for anything.” She seemed to float over him, but then he realized it was the light dancing on the wick. The golden glow lapped at her luminous skin and bronzed her shimmering hair. “I owe you my life. And I’m the kind of woman who pays her debts.”

“Git. Shoo.”

“Go ahead and growl. You don’t scare me a bit.” Her kindness warmed her soft words and added extra beauty to her serene face. She held a tin cup to his lips. “This will help with the pain.”