Branded (20 page)

Backing out the door, she dashed off in the direction of the kitchen. When she returned with Dora, he was no longer in the parlor. They followed the dotted trail of blood to his room. He'd managed to prop himself against the headboard and was in the process of rolling himself a smoke.

Dora's face blanched at the sight of his bloodied leg. "Makes my belly do somersaults just looking at that mess," she said, but approached him nonetheless. Her mouth was set in a grim line as her sinewy, strong hands tore away at the fabric of his pants, exposing the wound. "I'm thinkin' it looks worse than it is."

"Easy for you to say." Slade winced at the rough way she handled his thigh, turning it this way and that to get a better look.

"Lacey, fetch some of that Scotch whiskey Slade keeps stashed in the top of his bureau."

"So much for my secret hiding place," he said with a groan. "Don't use my good stuff. The rotgut you've had stored in the pantry for the last twenty years will work fine. If there's anything to burn out the wound, that's sure to do the trick."

"I wouldn't chance it. I don't think it's pure enough. Lacey, the Scotch, please."

Lacey felt very uncomfortable rifling through his things. With relief, her fingers found the neck of the bottle.

Slade shut his eyes as Dora drenched his wound with the fiery liquid. "Enough," he said. With a grunt of disgust, he snatched the bottle from Dora. Tilting his head back, he swallowed half the bottle before recapping his precious liquid.

"Now Lacey," Dora instructed, "I need an old sheet from the linen cupboard. Not the one with the lavender sprigs. Just a plain, old, white one to rip into strips. And my sewing kit. The bottom shelf of the same cupboard."

"You know, I'm fonder of you than my own mother, but there is no way you're comin' near me with a needle, Dora. I've seen how you hem a shirt."

Obviously insulted, Dora put her hands on her hips and frowned down at him. "Way I see it, Slade Michael, you haven't a choice. No, I'd forgotten, there is old Doc Strafe and his bag full of rusty implements."

Jolting Lacey from a sort of trance, he tugged at a lock of her hair. "You stitch me up, Duchess," he said. "I've seen your fine handiwork."

Far from being pleased at his compliment, Lacey felt her face drain of all color. "I couldn't possibly."

"Not going to make an injured man beg are you, Lace?"

He curled a strand of her hair around his finger and rubbed the ends with the pad of his thumb. An unnatural shiver started from the roots of her hair and traveled to her feet. His ice-blue eyes met hers. Far from pleading, his gaze unnerved her with its intense, unreadable quality. A bit ago, he'd ordered her out of his sight, and now, he was fondling her hair and pleading with her to tend to his wound. If he didn't get his moods straight, she'd surely go mad.

Dora cleared her throat loudly, but Lacey was unable to pull her eyes from his. "I'll get your needlework bag," Dora said finally and left the room with an unusually heavy step.

When she returned, she plopped the bag at the foot of the bed. "Best get started, Lacey. He's making an awful mess of my linens," she said with a telltale sniffle.

"Not 'til she changes out of those wet clothes," he insisted.

"Do what he says. I don't need two invalids around this ranch."

Lacey yanked on one of her old cotton dresses, ripping a seam in her nervousness. She made a face at herself in the mirror and mouthed the words bloody coward.

His eyes mere slits, he watched as she rummaged through her bag. The sewing items seemed suddenly like foreign objects to her. The thought of putting needle through flesh made her grit her teeth. Thoughtlessly, she pulled out a long, curved embroidery needle.

"Darlin', you're not coming near me with that. Choose somethin' straighter and a helluva lot shorter."

"You sure?" she said, mustering a weak smile. "I've done some pretty fancy work with this one. Perhaps, you ought to have a bit more whiskey before I start."

"Looks to me as if you could use a touch yourself. You’re looking a little green."

She held up her trembling hand. "But I wouldn't be near so steady, if I did."

"Give it over for a second," he said, reaching for the needle. They both watched as he held it to the candle flame until it glowed red.

As she threaded the now blackened needle, she started to panic. "I do think you'd be far better off with Dora."

He shook his head no. He'd made the right choice, it seemed. The second Lacey pulled the chair up to the bed, Dora suppressed a sob with her hand and hurried out of the room.

When the needle first pierced his skin, Lacey had to swallow back the bile. 'Tis the same as stitching fabric, she told herself. She drew in a reedy breath and tried to concentrate, nearly biting through her lip in the process.

Pinching the gash together, she made two more perfect stitches, and then realized with a start that Slade hadn't uttered a sound. Her gaze flew to his face, expecting to see him out cold. His eyes were hooded, but it was clear they were focused on her. By the contents of the whiskey bottle, she surmised, he hadn't even helped himself to a drop more. Either the man was the bravest she'd ever met, or he was so hardened that nothing affected him.

After a few more careful stitches, he asked, "Christ, what are you doing, woman, embroidering your initials in my leg?"

"Actually, yes," she replied, suppressing a laugh.

"Hmm. Your initials on me. Can't say, I don't find the idea appealin'," he drawled.

Warmth flooded her face and she bowed her head lower to mask her crimson cheeks in curtains of hair. Pushing his seductive comment from her mind, she forced herself to concentrate on the final stitch. She must have been a bit rough in her enthusiasm to be done. For the first time since she’d begun stitching him up, he let out a low groan.

"That'll teach me to keep my thoughts to myself," he muttered.

She sponged away the last of the blood.

"I'll be damned," he said. "We got through that without you feeling the need to remind me of Grady."

His eyes drifted closed. It took some effort to lift his leg, so she could tuck the linen bandage beneath his thigh as she wrapped it around his wound.

"'Tis myself, I'm reminding," she muttered under her breath.

One of Slade's eyes popped open.

"I thought you were sleeping!"

With some struggle, he propped himself up on his elbows. "Explain yourself," he demanded.

"Nothing to explain." She began stuffing her sewing items back in the bag, managing to stab her finger on a needle in her haste. She brought her pinpricked finger to her mouth and gave him a reproachful look.

"You have to remind yourself about Grady because, otherwise, you don't think of him."

"I think of him." She attempted but couldn't muster any passion in her voice.

"The hell you do."

"Grady," she said, her chin starting to quiver, "was there when I needed someone."

"Obliging sort, aren't you? You're going to marry him just because he happened to have good timing."

She refused to cry again in front of him. "Do you need anything else?"

"Yeah, I need something else," he said, his voice huskier than usual. With insolence, his pale eyes slid over her. There was no way to mistake the intent of that look or those words. "This injury may slow me down some, but I'd be willing to give it a try."

She hurried to gather up her things.

"Not so damn obliging now, sweetheart," he said.

She stopped what she was doing. The man was injured, and although he wouldn’t admit it, in pain. She suspected it was the whiskey talking. Choosing not to let him provoke her, she moved to the head of the bed and straightened his pillows.

Leaning over, she pushed aside his hair and kissed his forehead. Surprised by her action, she could feel his body give a slight jolt.

"My mother used to do this to test for fever." She breathed a sigh of relief, he didn’t feel warm. Unfortunately, infection would be a worry for a few more days at least.

Lacey could hear the parade of boots on the kitchen floor as she yanked on her own. She had been frying bacon and eggs all morning before running to her room to change.

She'd helped Tait deliver a calf yesterday, and she was anxious to visit the birthing stall to see the baby.

She bounded down the hall. The smell of fried grease mingled with the scent of hay and fresh cut grass, which clung to the men's sweat.

Amidst the male voices, Slade's caught her attention. "The new calf isn't going to make it. It won't take the teat."

"I figured as much," Tait replied before shoveling in a heaping fork full of fried potatoes.

"Let's tend her ourselves," Lacey blurted out as she entered the kitchen.

Slade looked up and stared at her for a moment, as if he were seeing her for the first time. It was an unsettling reaction he seemed to have quite often.

He sat with his injured leg stretched stiffly out to one side. She'd taken his word for it that her expert stitching had made for a neat scar. She was relieved it hadn't gotten infected. He seemed to be healing well. Though, he still favored it a bit.

"Lacey, none of us have time to play nursemaid to a scrawny orphan."

"I'll take care of it. I'm sure I can handle it."

Slade smiled and shook his head. "I don't think you realize the work involved, Lacey. The calf will need round the clock feeding."

"Of course it will. It's a baby, after all."

Dix and Beck jostled each other trying to snatch the lone rasher of bacon from the platter. With a frown, the older man tore it into unequal pieces, awarding himself the biggest one.

"Honestly, none of you men would ever have survived if a woman hadn't nursed you 'round the clock." Dora looked pointedly around the table at the gritty, ill-bred bunch as they inhaled the breakfast. "In fact, it seems as though we feed you round the clock even as grown men."

Slade sat back in his chair and gave Lacey a considering look. "If you think you can squeeze in caring for that calf between all the other chores you've taken on, go ahead. Give it a shot. Tait will show you what to do."

Tait, who was leaning over his plate, looked up with a piece of fatty bacon hanging from his mouth. "Huh?" He bit down hard on the gristly meat and ripped off the dangling end. "I don't have time to help her, Slade. I've too much else to do," he protested as bits of food sprayed from his full mouth.

Slade flicked a piece of the projectile food from his shoulder with obvious disgust. "Christ, Tait. Why don't you swallow your food, instead of decoratin' the whole damn kitchen with it. I didn't say you were going to help her. Just show her what to do."

"Oh, all right," Tait agreed reluctantly.

Lacey ran over and threw her arms around Tait's neck for a quick hug. "Thank you, thank you, Tait. You're a dearheart." She planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Yeah, well." Tait blushed from his neck to his hairline.

Slade cleared his throat loudly. "Seems to me, I should've been on the receiving end of that thank you kiss."

Lacey shrugged and headed toward the door.

"Aren't you going to eat something?" Dora called to her.

"No, I'm too excited to eat. I'll have a big supper."

She headed out and then stopped in the doorway, looking back at the table. "Oh, and Mr. Dalton?"

Slade turned his head to look at her. His pale blue eyes assessed her in their usual disconcerting manner. After a moment's hesitation, she worked up the nerve to blow him a sensual kiss. Too embarrassed to stay and witness his reaction, she hurried out into the blinding sunlight.

Turning back to his breakfast, Slade found all eyes on him and the room dead silent. He loosened his neckerchief, which seemed somehow to have grown too tight in the last few seconds.

"Well ... that's more like it." He couldn't hold down the smile that formed on his lips as he lifted a fork full of eggs to his mouth.

# # #

Drained of energy, Lacey flopped atop her bed, too tired even to pull off her boots. She was sure, she'd worn a path from the kitchen to the barn today. She doubted whether a human baby could be anymore demanding than this calf. As she dropped off to sleep, she wondered how she would ever rouse herself to make the night feeding.

The room was pitch-black when she jerked awake, grateful for once, for Slade's late night pacing. She rubbed her eyes and swung her legs out of bed. Somehow, she managed to locate and light her lantern. She tiptoed down the hall, a useless gesture, because he was standing in his doorway, clad only in pants.

"Need some company?" He scratched his bare chest.

"No," she answered a little too sharply. That was all she would need--the temptation of his heated body next to hers in the cramped stall.

He gave a slight nod of his head in response. "You're going to freeze your fanny off in that garb. Stay put." He left the doorway for a moment and returned with his coat. "Take this."

Unable to think of a reason not to, she set her lantern down and put it on. The thing was so heavy, she felt her shoulders drop beneath the weight of it. Even so, she loved wearing it. She loved wearing anything that belonged to him.

"Thank you." The hem dragged the ground as she walked.

Slade had been right. Taking care of the ailing calf was a twenty-four hour a day commitment. Every night, she would go through the same process. She'd walk across the deserted dark drive, her teeth chattering, despite Slade's heavy coat. Then she would return, to toss and turn in a bed littered with bits of scratchy straw. A couple of times, she had broken her routine and actually fallen asleep with the calf in the warm stall.

All that work and the calf did not seem to be flourishing. He was putting on very little weight, and Slade's expression was always a bit sad when he looked at the baby. Lacey was sure he thought her efforts a waste.

# # #

It was the middle of the day, and Lacey could feel herself melting into a luxurious nap on the parlor sofa when Dora's voice jolted her out of it.

"Lacey, dear, there's a letter for you."