Patricia Potter (13 page)

“It’ll be all right, boy.” The voice was deep and strong, the hand on his shoulder large. He hadn’t heard hoofbeats, and he wondered briefly how the man had come to be there. Oddly some of the pain seemed to ease as the stranger’s strength flowed into him.

Manfully, he struggled to stand up, then turned, his uninjured hand cradling the injured one. Two fingers looked unnatural, and he knew they were broken. The jagged rip in his skin was still bleeding.

The man knelt, taking his bandanna from around his neck with gloved hands and tearing it into several pieces. He wrapped the strips around the boy’s fingers. “Hold it tight,” he said, and he picked Chad up as easily as if he were a small puppy.

“Is your…is Miss Taylor here?”

Biting his lip in an effort to keep back tears of pain, Chad shook his head.

“I’ll take you into town. That hand needs doctoring.”

“I…I wanted to help,” he explained as the man settled him on a horse that seemed to have appeared from nowhere.

The man’s strange-colored eyes softened. “I know. It’ll be all right.”

“But the animals…”

“I’ll see to the animals when we get back.” He swung onto the saddle behind the boy.

Chad didn’t protest any longer. He felt weak and funny, but secure. He hurt but he knew he was safe. He nodded and allowed himself to relax against the man’s muscular body.

The wagon was just outside the ramshackle gate that led to the house when Lobo spotted it. He pulled up his horse as the woman saw the boy.

“Chad,” she exclaimed, surprise mixed with sudden fear at the sight of Chad’s white face. Her gaze went from the boy to the face of the man holding him.

“He was trying to mend the corral,” Lobo said laconically, his hand tightening slightly around the boy who was now swaying. He would lose consciousness soon; Lobo had seen the signs before. “I was taking him to town…for a doctor.”

“He’s not there,” the woman said, her hands twisting with anxiety. “How bad—”

“I think two fingers are smashed, and there’s a bad cut.”

He watched her weigh alternatives. One thing he could say about her—she didn’t go into hysterics easily, not like so many other women he’d known. She sat there on the buckboard seat, thinking, fully in control of herself just as she had been during the fire.

When she obviously reached a decision, she looked up at him with an expression both determined and pleading. “Could you…would you take him back to the house, and then ride into town and leave a note for Dr. Barkley?”

He stayed ramrod stiff, his eyes betraying nothing, his horse as still as he, though Willow could see the animal’s muscles flex. She felt the energy of both master and beast, energy and tension barely held under control, ready to explode into speed and action. She thought, as she had before, of wild, untamed things, although the rider appeared only too human now with his arm protectively around the boy.

Chad looked pale, unsteady, his lips clenched tight. The blue cloth around his hand was turning red with blood. Willow felt her stomach lurch as she waited for the stranger to agree.

She knew it was only seconds, but she felt a lifetime pass as their eyes met and held. A riveting sensation flowed between them, a silent, inexplicable comprehension of their impact on each other. She saw his jaw tighten as if to deny something they both understood and experienced.

He nodded curtly in answer to her question and turned the horse back to the house. She followed, her emotions in turmoil. She worried about Chad, yet her whole being whirled in confusion at seeing the stranger again, at the sight of the face that had been stamped indelibly on her mind. But no matter how often she had conjured him in her consciousness, the reality was much stronger, much more compelling. She had never known a presence that was so forceful, so powerful.

Both Estelle and Sallie Sue, whose face was stained with tears, were on the porch. The man dismounted, then brought the boy down, taking care not to jar him. Willow slipped off the wagon, leaving the twins to care for the horses.

Sallie ran up to her. “Chad still hurt?”

“He’ll be all right, pumpkin,” she said softly. Passing Estelle, she pressed the woman’s stiff arm comfortingly.

Willow followed the stranger into the bedroom where he’d taken Brady several days earlier. Whereas he had dumped Brady unceremoniously, he was gentle with Chad, watching him for a moment after setting him down.

When he turned, his face was hard, his eyes cold. “How many more accidents do you need?”

Willow bit her lip, understanding only too well what he was saying. So he, too, believed she should leave. That hurt. She knew it shouldn’t, but it did.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Lobo knew right then and there he should tell her. He should scare the living daylights out of her, but he saw a certain desperation in her face, a tear hovering at the corner of one eye. Yet her back was straight, and he thought how much she was like her name, strong and supple, bending with the wind but not breaking. And he couldn’t give his name. He couldn’t.

“Jess,” he said roughly, not knowing exactly where the answer came from. He hadn’t called himself that in years; the name hadn’t even surfaced in his consciousness until the other day. And yet now it came readily.

“Jess,” she repeated softly, and he felt a churning in his stomach. It sounded right on her lips.

But he wouldn’t stay to wallow in the impossible. “I’ll go for the doctor, and then I’ll be back to fix the fence.”

Willow swallowed hard. He had done so much already, but she still knew so little about him, only a part of his name. “You…don’t have to—”

“I told the boy I would,” he interrupted. “Chrissakes, this place is a disaster.”

Ignoring the expletive, she reached out and touched his wrist. Her fingers lingered there, feeling the warmth of his skin, until he jerked away as if seared. She had felt compelled to make contact, to prove to herself he really did exist and wasn’t some absurd figment of her often too active imagination.

“Thank you,” she said almost breathlessly. She, too, had felt burned by the touch, by the intimacy of the gesture that was suddenly more meaningful than she had intended. But then, everything about him was more than she expected and understood. She tried to smile. “It seems that’s all I ever say to you.”

“Leave here, lady, go someplace safe,” he said, but some of the fierceness had left his eyes, and the current between them was almost overwhelming. He wanted to move toward her, to hold out his hand and see whether her skin was really as soft as it had felt during those few brief, fiery seconds, whether her eyes would continue to welcome him.

“I can’t,” she said in a soft voice.

“Why?” That was the question plaguing him. Why did she hold on to the godforsaken piece of earth and the scraggly garden?

“I’ve made promises.”

“No promises are worth your life…and theirs.” His eyes went to Chad.

“I can’t,” she said. Quiet desperation was back in her voice, and it made him want to reassure when it was his job to frighten.

“Why?”

“Stay for supper tonight, and I’ll tell you,” she said as she moved over to Chad, her gaze going to his hand. She gently unwound the bandage and frowned at the wound.

It was no longer bleeding freely, and she stroked Chad’s arm in comfort. “Is the pain terribly bad?”

Chad shook his head bravely while she placed a pillow under the arm and bit her lip. “I hope Sullivan comes soon,” she said.

“Sullivan?”

“The doctor.”

Lobo felt some new emotion pound through him. Jealousy? Was jealousy that something dark and furious building inside him at the way she so easily mentioned the name of another man.

“I’ll go for him,” he said abruptly as if to wipe away disturbing feelings.

“And you’ll stay for dinner?” She repeated the offer, her gaze holding his, demanding, in her own gentle, persistent way, an answer.

Lobo hesitated. Perhaps this was a chance to convince her of certain facts. He thought about sitting across the table from her, about having her cook a meal for him. No one had ever cooked a meal for him.

“Jess?” Her voice was tentative as she uttered the name. It took him a while to realize she was addressing him.

“How are your hands?” she asked when he didn’t respond.

He looked down at them. The gloved fingers were clenched into fists. He shrugged, which was his usual reply to most questions.

“Would you tell me if they weren’t better?”

“No,” he replied. There was no humor in the answer, not the slightest trace of a smile on his lips. His gaze returned to her face, to those sky-blue eyes that threatened to drown him in their depths.

Chad groaned, and the sound broke the spell between the two adults.

“I’ll go now,” Lobo said, then hesitated. “Why don’t you write a note in case he’s gone. He might come faster if it’s from someone he knows.” He kept his face impassive as he felt a surge of humiliation. He couldn’t tell her he didn’t know how to read or write, nor did he wish to leave a message at the general store. He didn’t want his presence to bring her criticism or embarrassment. And it could. He knew that only too well. Decent people didn’t associate with the likes of him.

But she didn’t seem to notice his deception and she disappeared shortly, leaving him with Chad and Sallie Sue, who was looking on from the doorway. Sallie inched up to him and pulled shyly on his hand.

He looked down to a small face, partly frightened, partly wistful, partly determined. “I like you,” she said, ducking her head slightly, and Lobo remembered when she’d thanked him for saving Jupiter from the fire. There was an earnestness in the innocent and sweet face that made him hurt inside.

Lobo stooped down, sensing how big he must seem to the child. His hand went to her shoulder, then quickly withdrew, but his head cocked as if in question.

“You lithted me from the hole,” she lisped. “I was thcared.”

The side of his mouth quirked up. “So was I,” he confided.

She looked at him with disbelief, then darted out of the room on chubby legs.

He looked up and saw Willow Taylor standing in the doorway, a bemused look on her face. “She’s a little bashful,” she said almost apologetically.

He shrugged and held out his hand for the paper she was holding. Even through the glove he felt an electric shock when her fingers made contact. In confusion, he turned back to Chad and gave him a brief nod before hurrying out.

The trip into Newton was endless. The note seemed to burn through his pocket. He had taken only a quick glance at it, noting how neatly written the unintelligible lines were. A black gloom settled over him as he realized how great a distance separated him from the people in the crumbling but love-filled house he’d just left. He couldn’t even read, for chrissakes, couldn’t do a simple thing like pen a note for a doctor.

If he were smart, he would leave the note and then head north. Not to Denver, not to anyplace familiar, but to new sights and new mountains. He would ride and bury himself in the challenge of pure survival, of enjoying the solitude, the freedom he continued to crave.

You promised the boy you would come back, he reminded himself.

But you’re only going to bring grief to them and yourself.

Why should I care about them?

Why?

Yet there was a pull he couldn’t resist. He tried to tell himself it was the look in the boy’s eyes, a look with which he identified, a look that said Chad had seen more than a boy his age ever should. He tried not to think it was the woman, for that idea was pure disaster, as sure as stirring a mother bear protecting its cub.

Jess. Why did he tell her that? Because, he admitted to himself, he didn’t want to tell her his true name. He hadn’t wanted to see fear and revulsion on her face.

The town was just ahead, the first lights starting to flicker as dusk enveloped the ugly buildings. He saw a light inside the doctor’s office. His gut tightened. He didn’t want to meet the man Willow Taylor referred to so easily, and yet he had to for the boy’s sake.

Lobo dismounted and knocked at the door. The well-kept wooden structure apparently served as both office and home for the doctor.

The door opened quickly, and Lobo found himself facing a lean man dressed in broadcloth trousers and a white cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up like his own. The doctor was tall, although not as tall as himself, and his face was weary and drawn. The eyes, however, were lively and curious, and they regarded him quizzically. “Yes?”

Lobo could only stare for a moment. Like Willow’s, the gaze that held his now was compassionate; the smile, while questioning, was real; and the manner gentle. Lobo’s turmoil deepened as he realized how suited these two people were. Wordlessly, he handed the doctor the note.

The man took it to a lighted oil lamp in the corner and quickly read it. In seconds he had donned a coat and grabbed a bag. “Is it bad?”

“Bad enough,” Lobo said as the doctor looked at him curiously.

“I’ll take my horse instead of the buggy,” Sullivan said aloud as he locked the door. “It’ll be faster. Are you going back?”