Whirlwind Wedding (10 page)

He shook his head, his gaze locked on her hair. His injured hand delved into the dark mass. With his other hand, he gently trailed strands between his fingers and over his palm. Her breath lodged painfully beneath her ribs.

“So black and silky. Like a soft dark night.”

She couldn't look away.

He tried to close his fingers on her hair.

Automatically she covered his hand with hers, concerned that he might damage his wrist. “Don't—”

He released her hair, lifting his injured hand to brush her cheek with one knuckle.

“—hurt yourself,” she whispered, completely aflutter. Her
hand fell from his. She thought about jumping up, but couldn't move.

He dragged his knuckle lightly down her jaw, coming close to her lips, making them tingle in anticipation. An unfamiliar warmth stole through her. She wanted what?

She wanted to kiss him.

The shock of that held her immobile for a moment. She searched his eyes, looking for the mean lust she'd seen in another man. It wasn't there.

All she had to do was slightly turn her head and she could brush her lips against Jericho's knuckle. It would be easy. He nudged her chin, so gently she thought she might have moved it herself. His hand smelled of eucalyptus underlined with the faint sweetness of cloves. She needed only to lean forward to feel his lips on hers. Desire flared in his eyes, fierce and frankly sensual. Realization jolted her. If she kissed him, he would take control and it would not be a gentle kiss. It would rock her, consume her.

She couldn't do it.

In that instant he recognized her decision. A muscle flexed in his jaw and he lowered his hand.

Abruptly she rose, barely catching the bottle of liniment as it tumbled from the table. She grabbed for it and pushed in the cork with a trembling hand.

He levered himself out of the chair, towering over her, his shadow merging with hers. “Are we going to do this again?”

Her gaze flew to his mouth.

“I meant work on my hand,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, of course.” Heat rose in her cheeks. She cleared her throat, shoving away the languorous sensation flowing through her.

“If you'd rather I do it myself—”

“Absolutely not.” She was his nurse, for goodness' sake. She would do what she had been trained to do.

“I think it's going to help.” Using his crutch, he limped to the steps and felt his way down the first one.

“Where are you going?” Alarm sharpened her voice.

“For some air. The walls are starting to close in on me.”

He meant her. He didn't want to be around
her.
“Be careful of your leg.”

“I can't very well run now, can I?”

Despite his light tone, she felt a coolness pass between them. Catherine nodded and watched him struggle down the last step. Once at the bottom, he reset the crutch under his arm and hobbled toward the corner of the house. Disappointment stabbed through her at his aloofness.
At her hesitation.

She had nearly kissed him. She thought from the flare in his eyes he had wanted her to. He had waited, anticipation arcing between them, yet when she'd backed away, he hadn't tried to hurt her with words or his fist, as Ty Banding had. Hadn't tried to change her mind at all.

Jericho's consideration reached a place deep inside her, and she touched her lips in regret when he'd disappeared. A strange sense of loss filled her. She'd made a mistake. One she would never forget.

 

That just beat all to hell. She had nearly kissed him.

Jericho couldn't have been more stunned if she'd up and shucked off her dress. He was painfully hard and twice as touchy as a trigger. There was no way he could go back in that house right now, to be surrounded by her scent, her softness, the reminder of what had nearly happened. The barn was the place for him. Desire clawed deep. He had only so much restraint. And energy, he reminded himself wryly. Still weak, he tired easily, but that didn't stop his brain from working double-time.

His mind should be working on how to get fit enough to resume his chase of the McDougals, not his pretty nurse. Though eager to get away, he tempered his pace as he limped behind the house to the barn. The dry grass, showing red dirt in spots, felt prickly between his toes. He couldn't have pulled on his boots to save his life, so he'd gone barefoot. A pebble gouged the sole of his foot and he winced. Pausing, he took note of the house, which he'd mostly seen from the inside until now.

Built of planked pine with real windows, it was small, but someone had obviously put some quality into it. There was a stoop off the back, and Jericho vaguely recalled a narrow hallway leading to the front room. Herbs and vegetables sprouted in a small garden, fenced on the opposite side of the house. The spring house sat several yards away.

The woman had him spinning like a wild bronc. His thigh ached, but not as much as his groin. It had been all he could do not to close the distance between them. A fraction of an inch and he would've tasted her. Sitting motionless while she contemplated his mouth, he'd been wound tighter than an eight-day clock.

A curse hissed out. He wanted to shuck her out of her clothes and put his hands on her, in her. Touch her. Taste her. What he needed to do was remember that she was possibly involved with the McDougal gang.

He resisted the urge to go right back and finish what she'd started. No way in hell would he make a move that might put the fear back in her eyes. He didn't want her scared of him the way she—

What was he thinking? He wasn't making a move, period.

He stepped into the dim cool shadows of the barn, trying to shrug off the memory of that dreaminess he'd seen in her eyes just before she'd bolted. Trying to forget the smooth glide of her hands on his arm was like spitting into a high
wind. As soon as he got what he wanted from Andrew he would leave with the boy in custody. She wouldn't be thinking about kissing him then.

The soft nicker of a horse drew Jericho's attention, and he glanced at the two stalls in the rear of the small barn. Catherine's sorrel gelding watched him with dark, wary eyes. In the next stall was Cinco, his Appaloosa mare.

Catherine Donnelly was a trail he didn't want to go down. Which would be easy to remember if he could get his mind off how she had nearly set him off with just a touch of her lips.

His gaze resting on her horse, Jericho decided to have a look at the gelding. Even though Davis Lee had confirmed that Moe had a chipped shoe on his right back hoof, Jericho needed to see for himself.

He lifted the mare's foot. Sure enough, Moe's shoe made the exact print Jericho had tracked to this house. His gaze swept the hay-strewn dirt floor and two fresh hay bales in the front corner. Something in his gut told him he should take a better look around the barn.

Moe's saddle and blanket were draped over the slatted wall of his stall. Jericho's own saddle and blanket rested on the wall of Cinco's stall. Low feed troughs were built into the front corners of each enclosure. Two bridles hung on nails on the barn's back wall. The curry comb and brush sat neatly on top of one of the corner posts. There was nothing here to indicate outlaws or secrets.

In the middle of the barn a tall, heavy-runged ladder reached into the loft. Jericho knew he wouldn't be able to climb up there yet. Near the door, a pitchfork, hoe and shovel clustered together in the corner behind the hay bales and a bucket.

His horse nickered in recognition. “Hey, Cinco.” Jericho
limped over and gave her a good rub on the neck. The horse had been named when he bought her from a rancher outside Round Rock. That had been five years ago, when he rode with the men who had chased Sam Bass and his gang.

His right hand, still warm and oiled from Catherine's touch, wasn't much use out here, but he had use of the other. He could at least feed and water the horses. Reaching into the stall, Jericho slapped Cinco on the rump. “C'mon. Move out.”

His mare stepped out of the doorless space and Moe did the same. Jericho slapped both horses to prod them on outside. The animals would most likely graze in the grassy area beside the barn.

With the sun already in the west, the building was cool and shaded. Jericho limped over to get the bucket he'd seen earlier. His gaze scanned the corners, looking for something out of place—dirt or straw that may have been disturbed, something that didn't fit. The dusty canvas bag in the corner was empty, as was the bucket he retrieved. He saw no freshly dug holes in the earthen floor, nothing unusual.

Gripping the bucket handle in his good hand, then wrapping it around the crutch, Jericho started out the door. The crutch hit a bump and he wobbled, struggling to keep his balance. Then he glanced downward.

It wasn't a stone or bump in the earth. Whatever he had felt under his crutch was oblong, about an inch and a half long. He squinted in the dim light. What was it? A piece of metal? It wasn't silver, but a dull brown. Using his crutch, he poked at the object until it rolled toward his feet. A rifle cartridge. Unspent.

Well, well. He didn't trust himself to bend over without falling, so he eased down on a bale of hay and picked up the bullet. Yep, definitely a rifle cartridge. The gun in the Don
nellys' house was a shotgun, so why was there a rifle cartridge in the barn? Did it match the ones stolen from Jed Doyle's gunsmith shop?

Gritting his teeth against the pull of his wound, Jericho struggled to his feet. He slid the round into the front pocket of his denim trousers. His gut told him Jed would identify this as the same type of ammunition stolen during the burglary.

Jericho didn't know if Catherine was aware of it, but he'd bet money Andrew was. Through Davis Lee, Jericho had already checked the boy's story from a week ago, about sneaking out to be with two school friends. That dog didn't hunt.

Miguel Santos had been ill that day and two days after. It was unlikely Andrew had spent any time at the Santos house or he would've taken sick, too, just as Miguel's uncle had after caring for his nephew.

If this cartridge came from where Jericho suspected, it was another piece that tied the boy to the McDougals. He just had to keep pressure on the kid. And keep himself away from Catherine.

Realigning the crutch under his arm, he started out the door toward the pump just as Andrew came around the corner of the house.

Hitching up his brown homespun trousers, the boy stopped short at the sight of Jericho holding the bucket. “I'm supposed to feed and water the horses.”

“Sorry.” He handed the bucket to the boy. “I thought I'd try to help out. After everything y'all have done for me, it seemed the least I could do.”

Andrew glanced over his shoulder.

Wanting to see the kid's reaction to the cartridge, Jericho casually slipped it out of his pocket. “Looking for your sister?”

“Does she know you're doing this?”

He grinned, fingering the shell. “You won't be taken to task for it.”

“If you hurt yourself, she'll be mad.” Andrew's gaze homed in on the bullet. His eyes widened in surprise, a reaction he quickly tried to hide.

Jericho rolled the cartridge between his thumb and forefinger. “I'll go easy.”

The boy's gaze shifted to the barn. “Uh, if you want, you can get that water and I'll dish up some oats.”

Jericho had noticed a feed bin along the wall. Was Andrew volunteering so he could make sure Jericho would find nothing else? “I don't mind doing both if you have some schoolwork to do.”

“No. I—I was just going to go to town.” The kid's gaze returned to Jericho's hand. “Me and Miguel and Creed were going to play checkers.”

Jericho closed his fist on the shell. “Well, run along. I can take care of the horses. I don't mind.”

“I'll help.” Andrew thrust the bucket at him and practically ran past Jericho into the barn.

A tool—the hoe or shovel?—banged against the wall. Long seconds passed before he saw the boy walk back toward the stalls carrying another bucket, this one full of oats.

Jericho grinned.

The kid returned with an empty bucket and paused in the doorway. “Are you sure you can get the water?”

“Yeah.” Jericho adjusted his hold on the bucket so he could slide the cartridge back into his pocket. “So you're meeting Creed and Miguel?”

“Yeah.” Andrew dragged his gaze from Jericho's hip and wiped his hands down the front of his trousers. “I better get going.”

“See ya later.”

The boy muttered something and darted off toward town. Jericho leaned his crutch against the barn wall and started for the pump at the front of the house. Dragging his leg made for a slow trip, but he didn't want to become dependent on the crutch. He hoped the kid was starting to feel the pressure. As Jericho pumped water into the bucket, he glanced toward the front door, still open as Catherine had left it. There was no sign of her. Good. His body had only now cooled down.

Limping back to the horses, he set the bucket near where they grazed on short green grass. While Cinco slurped at the water, Jericho stroked a hand down the gray mare's dappled back. She swished her dark tail and shifted toward him, indicating she wanted more.

The sound of laughter drifted from the direction of the house, and Jericho looked up to see two boys about Andrew's age coming toward him. They were approximately the same height, but one was reed thin and pale, the other dark.

“Hello.” The boy with black hair and eyes spoke first. “Are you the Ranger? My uncle Tony says Andrew's sister found you nearly dead.”

“That's mostly right, I guess. She's been kind enough to doctor me.”

“And you're really a Ranger?” the pale one breathed.

“Yes. And you two are…”

“I'm Creed Carter.” The fair-haired boy hooked a thumb toward his friend. “This is Miguel Santos.”

“Nice to meet you.” Jericho shook their hands, hiding a smile at how serious they turned. “I'm Jericho Blue.”