The Wildest Heart (37 page)

I couldn't bring myself to use the knife because I was afraid that the shaking of my fingers would make it slip. So I poured some of the tequila over my fingers, and gritting my teeth against the sickness that threatened to engulf me, made myself probe for the bullet. Oh God—can I ever forget the feeling? My fingers, slippery with blood, knowing that I was hurting him almost past endurance, and the thought, more frightening than anything else—suppose the bullet had been deflected off bone and penetrated even deeper than we had thought? Suppose…

His eyes were closed, and I saw the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, running down his pale face and over the livid cut that the knife had laid across his cheekbone.

My teeth bit down so deeply into my lower lip that I tasted blood. I wanted to cry out to him, to scream, “Lucas! I can't do it—I can't find it!” but mercifully he had lost consciousness, his body so still that I found myself wondering if he was dead. No… he couldn't be, I wouldn't let him be! And then, at last, I felt what I was looking for and extracted a flattened, ugly-looking piece of metal. I flung it away from me, and drops of blood spattered against my wet face as I did. I had to stop the bleeding now, and before that… I picked up the jug of tequila and poured some of the raw spirits into the wound, wincing as I did.

His body jerked involuntarily, and I thought I saw his eyelids flicker as he flailed out angrily with his other arm, knocking me backwards.

“Oh,
damn
you, Lucas! Will you hold still?”

I was sobbing. When I came back to him with the knife I leaned the weight of my body over his, remembering how swiftly he had cauterized the cuts on my fingers. It had to be done and I did it, gagging weakly when the smell of burning flesh assailed my nostrils.

By now the blanket had fallen away from me, and I had forgotten it. There was still more to be done. I boiled water in the battered, blackened coffeepot, dipping strips of cloth torn from my skirt in it, laying them over the wound and then bandaging it tightly again, passing the bandage around his neck, crossing it as I brought it back around his arm and shoulder. Only then was I aware that I was a mass of aching bruises, and that I was so tired I was shaking and limp with exhaustion.

I tugged at the blanket I'd allowed to drop, and felt even that effort almost too much for me. I leaned my face against his chest and heard, with relief, the quick, irregular beating of his heart. He was shivering, his skin cold, and he had begun to stir uneasily, his head moving. I had barely enough strength left to pull the blanket over us both, pressing my body against his, and feeling the long shuddering chills that shook him, willing some of the warmth of my body to find him. And then I must have slept, or fainted.

How much of the night had gone before I woke I do not know. Realization of where I was and what had taken place came slowly, as my eyes opened, blinking to focus on the fire, which had burned itself down to a bed of ashes.

Lucas was muttering something in a husky, incoherent voice, and his skin, no longer cold and clammy, was dry and burning to the touch. He kept trying to push the blanket away, to push my weight away.

“I'm not going to let you die, do you hear me, Lucas?” My voice sounded angry. He couldn't hear me, of course; I knew that, but I needed the sound of my own voice to give me reassurance as I crawled from under the blanket, shivering, and put more wood on the fire. Small, necessary things, to keep myself sane. Like filling the coffeepot, looking for coffee. It was there, in a canister on one of the shelves he had built along the wall, but I took some time to find it, discovering sugar and beans and flour first, and even a slab of bacon wrapped in several layers of newspaper.

I could still hear the rain beating down on the roof and against the door, the receding mutter of thunder, and underneath it all, like a sullen, ominous counterpoint, the rushing sound of water.

Suppose the whole hillside came crashing down on top of us, burying us under acres of mud and rock? Suppose…?

I had no idea whether it was still night or morning, but I no longer cared. Amid the leaping flames the coffee boiled quickly and I poured out a cup, taking it back to where Lucas had again pushed the blankets off himself. I poured some of the tequila into the cup and sipped at it, wincing when the fiery liquid scalded my lips. I managed to drink half of it before I became so tired again that I put the cup down and crawled under the blankets.

I was light-headed, and dozed fitfully, sometimes hot and sometimes feeling as if I was going to die of the cold. When I awoke—
consciously
awoke again, my head was aching, my eyes smarted, and my limbs felt as if they were strangely weighted down.

Rain still drummed on the roof, but pale glimmers of light seemed to have filtered inside. The fire had burned down to ashes, and the soot-blackened coffee pot still beside it.

I turned my head to find myself looking into Lucas Cord's drowsy, half-closed eyes.

“Thought I'd dreamed you!” he muttered huskily, and I felt his arm tighten around my shoulders. I had been lying on my side, my head resting on his unhurt shoulder, my body pressed far too closely against the length of his. “Warm—don't go yet, Ro.”

Hardly aware of my own action I put my hand up, and touched his beard-stubbled face, and then his mouth came down over mine—seeking, impatient, hungry. I remember sighing, as if I had been waiting a long time for just this to happen, and had been holding my breath in anticipation.

“Don't go! Rowena…” his husky, shaken whisper sounded like a cry of reproach, but his arms had not enough strength to hold me, as they had done when we had kissed before. This time it had been I who had been the first to wrench myself away from the clinging, desperate pressure of his lips. I did it because I had to, and not because I had wanted to: I did it because the rush of violent emotion that seized me when his mouth first covered mine came close to making me lose all control of myself. We were like animals, pressing closely against each other for body heat until that heat was replaced by the force of our desire. Wanting more than kisses, I put my arms around his body, feeling him wince with pain.

Lucas's skin still felt too hot and dry, and when I rolled away from him, my breathing sounding more like sobbing. I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and fever-bright. He didn't want me to leave him. I stood up, belatedly remembering, when I saw the look in his eyes, that I wore nothing to cover myself.

“I'm not going far. I—I have to put some wood on the fire, don't you see? And you still have a fever.”

I reached for the blanket, but he held it.

“No. Damn the fire! Come back to me.” And then, as if the word had been forced from him, “
Please,
Rowena.”

I heard myself babbling, to combat the weakness that flooded through me.

“We have to have something to drink—to eat. And I must find something to wear, don't you see? I—I'm so cold!” My teeth were chattering suddenly, and I heard him sigh.

“There's a shirt of mine. Hangin' on that peg to one side of the door. Do you have to put it on?”

“If I caught a chill it wouldn't help either of us, would it?” My voice sounded stronger, and I made myself avoid his eyes as I snatched it down, slipping my arms into sleeves that were far too long, my fingers fumbling with buttons.

I glanced at him once, over my shoulder, and his eyes had closed again. I threw chunks of wood from the untidy pile in one corner onto the almost-dead fire, blowing on it until I saw a red glow in the ashes.

The coffeepot was dry, and the canteen I had filled it from during the night was empty. I went to the door, opening it into a curtain of steady rain; shivering as the cold, wet air blew in. Water ran off the edge of the roof, and I held the pot under it. I could still hear the steady, roaring gush of water, the same torrential stream that had fought so hard to take me, as I would have been taken if Lucas had not heard my screams. And now, for the first time I became aware of our utter and complete isolation. I felt as if we were the last two people left in the world—as if the world had narrowed down to this tiny hut, and the rushing water and the steady beat of the rain. I remember sucking in deep breaths of the fresh, cold air, to clear my head of all the thoughts that scurried around in it, and behind me, I heard his voice, flat-sounding now.

“Better close that door pretty quick, or it'll be as wet in here as it is outside.”

Stepping back, I let the door bang shut, and went quickly to the fire, which was just beginning to flare up again, sticking the coffeepot among the coals with an almost vicious gesture. I must have looked ridiculous, wearing a large, flapping shirt that reached to my knees, its sleeves rolled up; with my hair in snarls and tangles, and my scratched, bruised face. But surprisingly, I didn't care. Carefully avoiding Lucas's eyes, I measured out coffee, and finding a skillet left carelessly by the fireplace, I grabbed for the slab of bacon and the knife.

“Rowena. For God's sake. Can't breakfast wait?”

I resisted the pleading in his voice.

“Stop acting like a spoiled child! I'm hungry, and you should be too.”

“Better watch it, or you'll cut your fingers again, the way you're usin' that knife.”

I looked at him, startled, and he was sitting up, watching me, the bandage showing a stain of red already.

“Will you lie down?”

His voice held a half-angry note in it. “If I felt a mite stronger I'd come over there and make you lie down with me. Damn you, Ro! What is there about me that makes you shy away like a scared filly? An' what made you do a damnfool thing like coming up here in one of the worst storms I remember?”

I didn't answer him. Perhaps I was afraid to.

But, having made room for the skillet in the fireplace, I went back to him, pushing him down.

He put his hand up, catching my hair in his fingers, pulling my head down to his. I stiffened, but he only brushed my lips with his, surprisingly gently. It was enough to make me weak all over again.

“Don't, Lucas!”

“Why not? You know damned well I'm in no shape to force you to do anythin' you don't want to do. That was only to say thanks for what you did.”

It was inevitable, I suppose. I knew it then, just as I think I must always have known it. Love or hate, there could never be indifference between us. Kneeling beside him, I bent my head to his and kissed him until the smell of burning bacon jerked us both back to reality.

“Why did you have to think about food?”

“You'll feel better when you have some inside you,” I retorted. My voice sounded ridiculously happy, and I thought I saw his lips twitch in an unwilling smile. This time he let me go without protest. It was as if we had scaled some kind of invisible wall that had kept us separate, and now there was no need for impatience, no more misunderstanding. We were content to wait, knowing what would happen in the end, and by some unspoken mutual consent neither of us talked of anything that had taken place in the past.

The bacon was half-burned and the coffee too strong. Lucas told me he had never tasted better. He showed me where to find another jug of tequila, and I spiked the coffee liberally with it, drinking far too much, and hearing myself giggle with a lighthearted gayness I had not thought myself capable of.

“I feel so—so domestic! What would you like for supper?”

“Must you keep thinking only of food?”

I frowned at him in mock reproof.

“But I want you to feel strong again. Look, I found some beans. Would you like beans and bacon?”

“Better soak them in water first,” he advised me solemnly, and this time I watched his eyes follow me as I moved around the cabin, and felt my heart beat faster.

I was happy. Even when, following his instructions, I mixed salt and water and dabbed the strong solution on his wounds with a piece of rag, I was happy doing it. Even though I winced every time he did.

There were no ghosts between us then. Not Todd's, not Ramon's, not even Elena's. We were alone, with the rain and the recurrent sound of thunder surrounding us. And we wanted each other, although we waited, because there was no urgency now. Time seemed to have stopped.

I swept the floor, and cleaned out the skillet with a wadded piece of newspaper, and filled the coffeepot again. Carefully taking off the shirt I had been wearing I braved the storm outside to see to the horse again, over Lucas's protests. By this time the tattered remnants of the clothes I had worn when I came here had dried out in the fire's heat, and I used them to rub myself dry.

Naked again, I went to him, and equally naked, he received me. We made love slowly and unhurriedly and inevitably. With Lucas, there was no holding back, no sense of violation. I wanted him, and he wanted me, and for the first time in my life I learned how it felt to be taken out of myself with longing, and to have that longing fulfilled.

Contentedly, our arms wrapped around each other, we slept. And awakened to make love again and sleep again.

I think that we had both lost track of time. We knew it was day when there was a gray light outside, and night when the light faded. I cooked the beans I had soaked with more slices of bacon and they tasted delicious. We got half-drunk on tequila, and explored each other's bodies. The rain came down as if it would never stop, sometimes gentle, sometimes loud and harshly, like the way Lucas made love to me. I wanted it to go on forever.

But with the same inevitability of the passion that had brought us together, we began to quarrel. It was my fault. I wanted to know more about him, and he told me roughly that he did not want to talk about the past.

“Would you prefer to talk of the future?” My eyes glared angrily into his. “What will we do when the rain stops, Lucas? Tell me; I must know!”

“Must know what? Isn't
now
enough for you?”

“Am I going to be just another one of the women you've used and then discarded? Is that it? Damn you, I have a right to know!”

“Rowena…” he expelled his breath in an impatient sigh that made me all the angrier.

“Don't! I'm not a child. I'm not as naive as Luz, nor as calculating as Elena. Why can't you treat me as a person?”

“And how have I been treating you? You're here—you came here of your own accord, didn't you? I asked you once why you came, and you wouldn't tell me. Now perhaps I don't want to know. You're here. I want you. Can't you take each moment as it comes?”

“No!” I almost screamed the words at him, hating him at that moment. “No I cannot. Is wanting all that's between us, Lucas? It's not enough for me.”

“But what do you want of me? You haven't told me. What do you want me to say to you? I can only say what is in me now. I want you. I think I have always wanted you. And you held me off.”

“You know why!”

“Why are you here? Tell me that, and perhaps I might have an answer for you.”

His body was over mine, imprisoning me.

“I don't know. Yes—I do. I wanted you too. But Lucas, I'm a woman. There has to be more. I don't know anything about you…”

“And I don't know anything about you. For God's sake, can't you stop asking questions?”

I couldn't bring myself to ask the question that trembled on my tongue. “Do you love me? What do I mean to you?”

Instead I said bluntly: “Why haven't you asked me why I'm not a virgin? Ramon did. That night—he took me up into his bedroom, and he—he—”

“Oh, God! Rowena, it doesn't matter. Do you hear me? It's what I've been trying to tell you. I don't want to hear about your past, or whatever's done an' finished with. It's what's happening now, and what's between us now that counts.”

“And Elena?” I do not know what drove me to ask that particular question, but I saw his face take on a closed, forbidding look.

“Why did you have to bring her up?”

With an abrupt, savage movement that took me by surprise he stood up, tossing the blanket aside.

“Lucas…!”

“I'm going outside. Going to see to Diablo. Get some air. I'm beginning to feel stifled in here.”

I watched him snatch the yellow slicker down from its peg and throw it about his naked body. The door slammed behind him, and then there was only the sound of the rain and the rushing water and the crackling fire.

I remember that I lay there, on the crumpled blankets, and I told myself that I hated him, and myself as well. I had asked for this, I had come here after him, flinging myself at his head. What else did I expect? He loved Elena, and how sure of him she had been! She knew Lucas, much better than I ever did or could. I had merely made myself available, and he had taken me, just as he had taken Flo Jeffords, just as he must have taken countless other women. I shuddered with revulsion, remembering how I had almost pleaded with him for some avowal of love, or real feeling.

And then I told myself, stubbornly, that I was a Dangerfield, and I knew what I wanted. I would not give in! I wanted Lucas Cord, whatever he had been, whatever he was, whatever he had done. And I wouldn't let Elena have him. I was stronger than she was, and younger, and we were both trapped here for the moment.

I stood up, flinging the blankets away from me, and I went outside. The thunder growled menacingly, amidst the throaty roaring of the water and the ceaseless chatter of the rain. I gasped with shock and cold as gusts of wind drove the icy cold needles of water against my body, drenching me within a second. He was out here, with a wound that had barely begun to heal. I felt alone, and frightened. Suppose he had gone? Suppose he had some secret escape route known only to himself and he had decided to abandon me here? How long had he been gone? Where was he? I began to inch my way forward, feeling the driving rain like so many tiny icicles against my face and my unprotected body. I clung to the side of the house for support and for guidance in the pale gray light.

“Lucas! Lucas, where are you?” I heard a pounding in my ears like a drumbeat and wondered why I was suddenly so terrified. “Lucas!” I blundered around the corner of the hut, and suddenly, thankfully, I felt his arms go around my waist as I almost barreled into him.

“You! For Christ's sake, what are you doing out here?” But even while his angry voice slashed at me, he was dragging me with him, and we staggered together into the slight shelter of the lean-to, where Diablo was munching on his feed, wet coat quivering.

My teeth were chattering.

“I thought… you took so damned long!”

“Since when did you start swearing?”

“Since—since whenever I please! I'll swear when I feel like it! Damn you, damn you!”

He shoved me up against the wall, pushing his face close to mine, his brows drawn together in a black frown. “You swear just once more an' I'll belt you across the face! What in hell gets in you sometimes? One moment you're all soft and yielding, and the next you're a wolf-bitch, all claws.”

“I can't help it! You make me that way! And you swear all the time…”

“That's different, I'm a man.”

“Oh! Oh of all the… the…”

“Why don't you try shutting up?”

He was as wet as I was. Water dripped from his hair and ran down his face. Even his lips were wet and cold.

“Why did you come out here?” he whispered finally, raising his mouth a fraction from mine.