Pamela Nissen - Rocky Mountain Redemption

The concern-filled way he responded tugged at her heart. It could easily be her undoing if she let it. But she wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

He definitely was not safe. He had a way of getting to her that was nothing short of a threat to her strong resolve.

When a deep cough tore through her throat, she winced at the merciless pain. Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew quivering hands to her neck, scrambling for a foothold with this bothersome sickness.

And this man.

Before she knew it, Ben had his strong arm wedged behind her shoulders as he held a glass to her parched lips. “Here, try to drink some water.”

As much as she didn’t want his help, she just didn’t have the strength to spurn his gesture. Especially as the cool moisture touched her lips and slid down her throat.

“There you go. That’s the way,” he soothed, settling her against the pillow again. “Better?”

She nodded, feeling a small bit of relief. Blinking hard, she avoided Ben’s penetrating gaze and instead lugged her focus to the gleaming dark hair that dangled loosely over his brow.

He scooped up her wrist and monitored her pulse. Though his eyes were watchful, his touch was gentle and respectful, even kind.

Uncomfortable with his attention, she struggled to push herself up again. If she set her mind to it, she could make herself get out of this bed.

With a slow shake of his head, Ben eased her back to the mattress. “Would you please just lie still? You have no business getting out of bed.”

He smoothed a lock of hair from her face, the simple gesture bringing her a foreign sense of comfort.

Sighing, he gently tucked her arm beneath the thick layer of quilts. “It’s three in the morning and the snow’s coming down harder than ever. And you are very, very sick. If you have plans to move on in the middle of this blizzard, you might as well walk out there and dig your grave in the nearest snowbank,” he added, biting off a yawn. “Though, frankly, I think you’re too stubborn to die.”

“I can’t be sick.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she felt stuck. Trapped. Dratted sickness! Why’d she have to fall ill now, of all times? “I have to work. The job. Is the job filled yet?”

He gave a tired chuckle. “If you mean, has someone else ventured over here tonight in the middle of a heavy snowfall to interview for this job…” He furrowed his brow as if trying to recall. “No.”

“So does that mean you’re hiring me?”

“Tell you what, Callie…” The tired droop of his eyes almost made her feel sorry for him. “We’ll talk about the job when you’re feeling better. All right?”

“I’m feeling fine now. Really,” she rasped, her voice catching on a cough that wrenched her entire body.

The calming weight of his hand on her arm sent a small, soothing rush through her.

“I’m not sick,” she argued, noticing the rugged, masculine scruff of dark beard growth on his face. “It’s nothing. Just a bad cough.”

After a long, unreadable look, he stood and walked over to the window. He parted the lace curtains that bracketed the cloudy, paned glass and leaned his arms against the frame. “A bad cough and a fever that’ll be the death of you, if you don’t get adequate rest. I’ll repeat it again…you’re in no condition to get out of bed.”

Callie stared at his broad, strong back, then she sliced a glance to her dress on the bureau, an unwanted prickle of sensitivity working through her. In spite of the way he felt about her dress, he’d folded it. Neatly.

She tried to brush the feeling aside. Within a year of marrying Max she’d learned that she was better off not expecting anything in the way of care or loving concern. She’d buried her needs and feelings right along with her dreams. Couldn’t allow things, good or bad, to affect her. She would’ve never managed the past seven years, otherwise.

She blinked hard. She had to get better soon or Ben might hire someone else, since he certainly hadn’t made any move to hire her. Yet.

Had she any other option when she was back in Denver, she would’ve taken it, but given Max’s history, she had little chance of getting a decent, wage-earning job. When she’d married Max, any bridge to her father’s good graces had been burned. Even the church had turned away from her when she’d inquired about a position in the orphanage. Though she’d never once partaken in Max’s sordid hobbies, she supposed that in their eyes she was guilty by association. She was the shunned widow of a sinner.

And for all she knew, God must look at her that way, too. Because since she’d disobeyed her father and married Max seven years ago, her life had been one hardship after another.

Coming to Boulder had been out of necessity alone. Without a job, she’d have no money and no hope to escape what awaited her back in Denver if she didn’t pay up.

Max had barely been cold in the ground when Lyle Whiteside had come knocking on Callie’s door, hanging the significant gambling debt like a noose before her. Since then she’d been working feverishly to pay it off by cleaning his saloon and brothel, but the payback hadn’t been fast enough to suit him. Three days ago he’d stared her down with those snapping black eyes of his, demanding that she pay off the rest upstairs on her back.

He’d vowed to be her first customer.

She could not—would not—slide her neck into that rope and drop to that low a level, no matter how desperate the situation. No matter how risky it was to run out on such a powerful man.

“I’ll be up and moving by tomorrow.” Her hoarse voice barely sounded. “I’ll make sure to compensate you for your doctoring. And room and board.”

He came to stand next to the bed, peering down at her with a certain compassion that had her averting her gaze. “If it’s money that has you concerned, don’t worry about that right now. It’ll all work out. I won’t charge you a thing.”

No matter how destitute she and Max had been over the years, she’d never taken charity.

Callie gripped the bedsheets when another deep, brutal cough commanded her strength. Maybe she was flirting with death to even think about getting out of this bed. The way her head and body ached, she couldn’t imagine walking twenty feet.

“I have nothing to pay you with.” She set her jaw. “But I don’t—won’t—take charity. You can just subtract what I owe you from my wages.”

“Your wages?” he echoed on a bemused chuckle.

“Yes, my wages.”

When she absently set a hand to the locket, she caught herself, suddenly wishing that she’d never been given the gift.

She lifted her head from the pillow and fumbled for the clasp. If it belonged to Ben Drake, then she’d promptly return it because the lovely piece of jewelry had obviously never belonged to her. Or Max.

His brow furrowed. “What are you doing?”

“I’m giving this back.” She steadied her fingers enough to undo the clasp. “Like you said, it belongs to you.”

His hands lightly grasped hers, stilling them, his face a mask of confusion. “No. Please, don’t take it off, Callie.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t look at him. Inside she was in an all-out war for control. She was deeply hurt, betrayed by Max, though he was six months gone. And Ben wore self-assured confidence like some fine evening coat fitted to a T. Yet he showed concern and compassion.

“It’s not mine,” she declared, weeding out any sign of self-pity from her voice. “It never was and I—”

Her words died on another violent fit of coughing that paled all others. It wrenched her chest, her shoulders, her head. Every muscle convulsed.

She was barely aware as Ben slipped an arm behind her shoulders. She felt his strong arms cradle her as he whispered soothing words while she fought to gain her breath. When he pulled her closer to himself and wedged another pillow behind her head, his warmth seeped into her. And much needed relief slowly settled over her as he lowered her to the pillow.