Dog Wood Bride Page 6

  A floorboard squeaked right behind her. Her heart lurched, and for one single second she feared it was a stranger in the house.

  "What are you looking at?" Brennan's shadow, tall and broad, masculine and mighty, was backlit by the low lamplight.

  Swathed mostly in shadow, he padded toward her like the night itself, big and predatory and utterly breath-stealing.

  7

  "You? You're up? You scared me to death." She whirled around, dropping the edge of the window curtain. She shouldn't be surprised. "You were shot six hours ago. What is wrong with you? You shouldn't be on your feet. What are you doing up?"

  "Curiosity got the best of me, so I couldn't resist. Besides, my foot is just fine. I didn't get shot there. I can walk." Western tough, he padded a little slow and a bit unsteadily toward her. "What are you staring at?"

  "You. Are you sure you won't fall over?"

  "I'm tougher than I look." And he looked plenty tough. He paced to the middle section of the window where he parted the curtains to peer out at the night. "What are you looking at?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" She tugged the curtain aside, but her startled heart hadn't stopped lurching. Or speeding like a runaway train on a downhill grade because of his nearness. "What matters here is the obvious."

  "The wild horses?"

  She chose not to comment on those beautiful animals, mythical against the night. "What made you think that you could get up? And why aren't you going right back to bed?"

  "I've been hurt worse and lived to tell about it." A muscle jumped along his whiskered jawline as he bit back a moan of pain.

  Tough guy, trying not to let it show. She didn't want her heart to warm, but her stomach went swishy, hurting in sympathy as he gave a grimace of pain.

  "You shouldn't be moving around or moving that arm." She let her gaze find the running band of mustangs, now just a moving shadow against the black. But as much as she loved horses, her gaze slid sideways to check on the man. "You move it, it will bleed more."

  "I don't need any fussing." Warm and rich as butter rum, that baritone, and deceptively at ease.

  He had to be in a world of hurt. His wounded arm hung awkwardly, as if he were protecting it. The bandage shone white banding the bronzed skin of his muscular upper arm.

  He had a note of something untamed about him, as if he were a man used to living life on his own terms, a tad above the law and best lived on the frontier, a little more than what a civilized man would be.

  "You've been shot before?" she dared to ask.

  "Being a wrangler is more dangerous than you might think and I've worked at other jobs." He gripped the window ledge to stay steady and swipe at a bead of sweat rolling down his face. Staying upright on his feet must be quite an effort.

  Stubborn man. A shot of warmth, unexpected and welcome, came to life inside her heart, a glow of affection like she'd never felt before.

  "You were in law enforcement, weren't you?" She trembled from his nearness as she pushed away from the window. If only her legs weren't so shaky. "You couldn't have always been a wrangler."

  "I did some time in the Army." That was all. He offered no more information as he rocked back on his heels and let silence settle between them.

  He looked like he'd spent time riding the range as a gunslinger, or wearing a tin badge in a cow town on the edge of anarchy or chasing fugitives across territorial lines to bring them in for the price on their heads.

  Not the nice, tame, gentleman of a horseman she'd been expecting, that was her experience from growing up back East.

  Now that she had him, what did she do with him?

  "Would you like some water?" She headed toward the nightstand.

  He shook his head. "Not unless it's whiskey. I don't suppose a sweetheart like you would have any alcohol stashed away somewhere in this tidy, frilly house."

  "It's not that frilly. My mother is someone who loves her lace. So I indulge her when she comes to visit. My father is the whiskey drinker."

  "What did you say?" His head whipped around and his gaze fastened on hers. "How much have you got?"

  "We'll have to see how much he left behind, but I think it's a good part of a bottle. My brother has been known to get into it when he's around, so I can't guarantee what's there, but you might be pleasantly surprised."

  "Good. It will help with the pain." He raked the fingers of his good hand through his thick, tousled hair. "This is a nice piece of land you've got."

  "Thanks. I claimed it myself. It's as pretty as a picture and prime grazing land. Perfect for horses." She led the way to the door.

  If only she could stop her gaze from roaming over the line of rock-hard shoulders beneath his undershirt and the muscled span of his chest. Pure power and strength. Even injured, Brennan Mosley did not seem weak.

  "But it's not as if you've done much to the place yet." He limped along behind her, gaining speed as his legs got used to moving again, and each step became less wobbly. He steeled his spine, determined to find that bottle of whiskey. "There's a lot of work to do to turn this into a ranch."

  "Too true, but I've been lucky to have family lending a helping hand. I have a brother close by and two cousins."

  "That's good you're not alone out here. Not a lot of ladies from back East would want to live in Wyoming Territory."

  "Why not? I think it's a beautiful place with so much freedom and wide open space. No one is hemming me in here."

  "Which means you're done with society, are you?" He stayed away from civilized folk as a general rule. He'd always had a restless soul and a wandering foot.

  He broke out in an icy sweat and rubbed his forehead. He shouldn't be alone with her. He cut his gaze sideways to study her as she led him away from the staircase, past a well-appointed parlor and down a wide hallway.

  "Let's face it," she said gently with a tone of light-hearted acceptance. "I'm old enough to do what I want. I am through with meeting everyone's expectations."

  "I like that attitude, but isn't that a little hard on your fine reputation?"

  "Perhaps, but one day I just decided to do what I wanted with my life, to live it my way and to stop worrying about what other people thought about it. I decided to make myself happy."

  "What did your folks think about that?"

  "They were delighted because I did nothing but cause problems for them." Her tone became layered, a bit too light, a bit too, well, not false, but covering up an old pain, an old hurt that ran deep. She stopped to light a lamp on the kitchen counter.

  "Problems?" He ambled over and took the match tin off the countertop. "I imagine you got into all sorts of trouble in fine society."

  "I never fit in very well, but I could make it seem so, on the surface." She lifted the lamp's glass chimney.

  "Oh, I know your type. Flawless and sweet on the outside, but secretly a horse enthusiast who would rather spend time in the paddock or the barn." He touched flame to wick. "That's a small barn you've got. That surprised me."

  "It was sensible at the time, my brother said. I only have a few horses, it's all I would need. But I've got plans to build another one, bigger and better and with living quarters in the back."

  "That's a big project for a pretty lady from back East." His head was woozy, so he tugged out a chair and settled into it at the oak table. "You'll need a couple of carpenters for plans like that, not a wrangler."

  "I was hoping to get the horses first, so that's why I wanted to hire you." She peeked around the pantry door to look up at him. The lamplight burnished her, softening her, sweetening and emphasizing her beauty.

  She was a beauty. If he looked at her for too long, his ribs constricted with a strange, emotional ache making it hard to breathe.

  A woman like her could turn a man's head and burrow straight to his heart. "I trust you found my horse?"

  "He's stabled in a corner box stall and happy, the last time I checked in with Claude." She set the whiskey bottle on the table along with a glass. "Don't you even th
ink about leaving. You're in no condition to ride anywhere."

  "I'm just a little winged, that's all. It's not a grave bullet wound." He might not feel up to heading out and finding shelter for the night, but he couldn't stay here alone with her. Especially not in her parent's bed.

  With his reputation, he couldn’t risk sleeping here. There was no other choice. He had to go. "It's not that far to town."

  "It's not the distance but the stitches in your arm. They need to heal."

  "I'm tough. A horseback ride won't hurt me none."

  "You're not that tough, Mr. Mosley. Look at your hands. They're shaking and you're going to spill that."

  "They're steady enough to pour two fingers." He recapped the whiskey bottle and tossed back the liquor in one full swallow. He plunked the thick bottomed glass on the lace tablecloth. "There. That should help."

  "That's medicinal, so I'm going to help you out by putting this away. You're swaying in your chair."

  "Nah, just listing a little."

  "Maybe it would help if you had something to eat." She swept toward him like a morning sunrise, golden and sweet. She sparkled like the morning star, hanging like a gem in the golden-dawn sky, rare and captivating. "Did you know that you're bleeding through your bandage? You're moving your arm too much."

  "It's not too bad, so I guess I'll live. You're the one with trouble." The back of his neck prickled when she slid the small dessert plate in front of him.

  Was the tingle he felt from the fact that she was near and smelled like strawberries? Or because of the whiskey?

  "Sure, you'll live until you tear those stitches and the wound starts oozing again and, eventually, gushing. You need rest to heal. That should be your worry."

  "I've got more worries than that. I was the reason you were in that saloon. When a man like that gets exposed to a fine moneyed lady like you, he might not be discouraged easily."

  "I can't believe that he would be interested or encouraged at all." She set a fork on the table for him. "I am a genuine, certified spinster beyond all certainty. Emphasis on all."

  "That isn't my assessment of you. There's nothing that says too old for beauty in my estimation. But I am worried about some tracks I saw on your property." He stabbed the fork into the slice of chocolate cake, single layer, frothy with vanilla icing, and every inch of him tingled, standing up at her nearness.

  Huh. That attraction to her was another problem. A serious one.

  She swished away from him with a rustle of petticoats and a snap of her cotton skirt. The fabric skimmed the soft curves of her sweet femininity, and he noticed. His heartbeat galloped in his chest. Heat spilled into his veins, turning his blood thick with desire.

  And not just physically attracted, he realized, but what he felt was more than that.

  She was the whole dream, if he could call her that. Let's face it, dreams were not for men like him, men with a past and no roots to speak of.

  But she was his one chance and her beauty drew him hard to her. Her face was soft with sculpted cheekbones, an adorable slope of a nose, and her big, almond-shaped eyes shone with a light that made him feel anchored.

  As if he could see real caring even for him, there, bright in her heart.

  When she smiled, her rosebud lips made his pulse begin to pound.

  He didn't mean to be attracted to her. He was surprised by the power of it. But any man would be helpless not to fall for her.

  Or daft, if he didn't.

  That was a darn good reason not to even think about sticking around. He would care too much, and she would have too much power over him. And if he gave her his heart and she found him not good enough in the end, boy it would rip him to shreds.

  All good reasons to be cautious. He winced when he lifted the fork to his mouth. He forgot, moved his injured arm and pain arced through him. He gritted his teeth against a moan of pain. His vision faded to black for a quick second.

  Even his head whirled and spun just a bit, and it made it hard to breathe.

  He waited for it to pass, listening to the tap of her shoes on the floor, the squeak of the pantry door hinges and the slight clunk of the whiskey bottle landing on the wooden shelf.

  His pain dulled, returning back to its regular barely-able-to-stand level, and he popped the forkful of cake in his mouth.

  Good. The flavor burst on his tongue, filling his mouth with the chocolatey sweetness.

  His attraction to her couldn't wholly explain the warning tingle gripping his spine, the cold prickling sensation that had never served him wrong. That instinct had kept him alive in a long rough stint as a hired gun and never failed him in his life spent on the restless plains of the west.

  He watched her tense up, as if she felt it too. She closed the pantry door with a creak of hinges. Her gaze focused on the drawn curtain panels hiding the dark meadows and silent foothills from their sight.

  Curious, he leaned over and grabbed the end of the curtain. He had a good view of the dark pasture and trees that shadowed the starlight-dusted night.

  Miles of grass and trees waited in silence beneath the great, star-strewn sky. Not even a cricket dared to break the stillness, and Brennan's gut fisted. It was a sure sign of a predator. The two-legged variety could not be ruled out.

  He cut another piece of cake and forked it into his mouth. "Where's my boots and my gun?"

  "On the table in the foyer. Do you think there's a cougar out there or something?"

  "Mountain lions are shy, they keep to themselves when they can. Don't you worry about it."

  It might not be his business and it certainly wasn't his place, but he didn't need to wrestle with the decision he'd been holding off on ever since he'd sent a telegram telling her, a prospective employer, when and where to meet.

  Well, a man had to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences. Besides, it could be a cougar. It wouldn't hurt to go check and see.

  He took one more bite of that good cake, set down his fork and pushed to his feet.

  "Hey, where are you going?" Concern laced her voice. "You can't go out there. You can barely stand up."

  "I'm standing fine." He needed his Peacemaker in his hand, the cold metal real protection against whoever was lurking out there. "You stay here in the house, so I know you're safe."

  "You are not supposed to go anywhere."

  "Supposed to? I never do what I'm supposed to do. That's not the kind of man I am."

  "I'm not the kind of woman who takes orders from a man."

  "Then this will be a good experience for you, so do it."

  Skye shook her head, amazed by the way he strode from the room. He apparently didn't need her answer, and it was his rather good humor in spite of it all that left her grinning. Grinning! Well, he shouldn't be funny one bit!

  Amused, she leaned against the kitchen archway, watching him in the faint reaches of the nearby lamp. He grabbed his holster at the door and buckled it on.

  It took a moment to step into his boots, grab his coat off the wall peg and slipped outside. Clearly, she wouldn't be able to stop him.

  Cool air swished through the house. He paused on the porch to shiver, adjusted his gun belt and closed the door. The shadows claimed him before he was taken from her sight.

  Skye shook her head, not sure exactly what was wrong with the man. He hadn't even invited her to come along! Not even the laudanum and the medicinal whiskey could slow him down. He couldn't go out there like that! Not on his own, anyway.

  She grabbed her coat, slipped into it and hustled outside into the deep night shadows. The cool wind hit her. Shivering, she closed the door behind her.

  What was that man up to? She squinted into the darkness. A whistle shrilled, brief and quick, cutting through the night's stillness, and she turned toward the sound.

  She found her feet taking her in his direction, heart pounding, unable to stop the feelings from rising up, the ones making her want to be near him again. What was wrong with her? She had vowed long ago never to
let herself feel so strongly for any man again.

  And Brennan was definitely a man. No doubt about that. With a chuckle at herself, and the fragilities of her much too human heart, she tapped down the walkway and across the lawn. The glow from the moon found her, faintly lighting her way.

  She crunched and crackled her way through the barely rustling knee-high grasses toward the man's shadow standing on in the rise ahead, shining ghostly silver in the faint moonlight.

  She took a moment to stop, gathering her wits and searching for her common sense. Unfortunately, she didn't find it. It seemed to have scattered to the wind when she'd first set eyes on the man back in the town's saloon. She had no notion if it was gone forever or just a temporary missing function of her brain.

  A trickle of fear breezed over her like a winter wind. She felt the cold in her veins like fear. She felt terribly vulnerable out here, defenseless and unarmed. And she hardly knew Mr. Mosley at all.

  Maybe following him out into the dark fields wasn't the brightest plan. Then again, it wasn't as if she'd given it any thought at all. Not a lick of a thought. Looked like her common sense had gone for good. Was probably up in Canada by now.

  Never to return.

  "I swore I told you to stay in the house." A touch of humor warmed his butter-rum voice.

  "I'm not that good at doing what I'm told. It's why I live alone and far away from my mother," she quipped.

  "Funny." He hitched up his hat, studying her beneath the brim before turning his attention to the rolling meadows and woods lining them for any sign of trouble. "You should listen to your mother."

  "Why? How do you know she's right?"

  "Any mother would be, since she would not want you living out here where you are absolutely unaware of what trouble is going on around you."

  "You say that as if it's something serious. I'm looking for any sign of the wild horses coming back this way. There's a creek and a good watering hole for them nearby."

  "That's what I mean. You saw the horses but missed the predator on your land."