The Touch of Fire by Linda Howard
“Shhh,” he murmured against her hair. “Don’t be afraid. Go to sleep.”
“How—how can I?” she choked.
“Just close your eyes and relax. You’ve worked hard today; you need to sleep.”
Even closing her eyes was out of the question. She was too aware of his partial nudity, too aware of her own bareness. She had always slept swathed in voluminous nightgowns, feeling the comforting, protective folds wrapped around her legs.
“Just so you’ll know,” he said softly, still so close that his lips moved her hair, “The pistol is in my right hand. Don’t try to take it away from me, or I might kill you before I’m awake enough to know who you are. And the rifle isn’t loaded; I took the shells out of it while you were taking care of the horses.” He hadn’t, because he never deliberately left himself unarmed, but she wouldn’t know that. Poor little thing, she hardly knew anything at all about surviving outside a town, or even inside one. When he had looked through her cabin, he had noticed that there weren’t any weapons at all, unless he considered her scalpels weapons. Silver Mesa was a boomtown, filled with rough, money-hungry, whiskey-soaked men, yet she hadn’t owned the most basic means of protection. It was a thousand wonders that she hadn’t been attacked and raped her first week in town.
She felt so sweet and soft in his arms. Automatically he pulled her closer and tucked his sock-clad feet under her much smaller bare ones to share his heat with her. She was trying to hold herself still, probably to keep from stirring him up even more than he was; since she was a doctor, he wryly figured that she knew what it was she was feeling pressed against her butt. But she couldn’t stop the little tremors that kept shaking her, and it wasn’t the cold that was making her shake. Right now, they were plenty warm. She was still terrified, and he was at a loss to know how to calm her down.
He didn’t figure he’d be able to stay awake much longer, and he wanted her settled before he drifted off. She had to be tired too; if he could just get her mind off the situation, her body would take over and she’d go to sleep.
“Where’re you from?” he murmured, keeping his voice low and calm. Just about everybody out West was from somewhere else.
Another shiver ran through her, but she answered, “Philadelphia.”
“I’ve never been to Philadelphia. New York and Boston, but never Philadelphia. How long have you been out here?”
“I—I’ve been in Silver Mesa for eight months.”
“And before that?”
“Denver. I spent a year in Denver.”
“Why in hell did you leave Denver for Silver Mesa? At least Denver’s a proper town.”
“Denver didn’t need any more doctors,” she replied. “Silver Mesa did.” She didn’t feel like going into the particulars, because people’s attitude had hurt, cutting her deeper than she would have thought possible.
Good. Her voice sounded calmer now. Rafe stifled a yawn. Gently he pushed her hair away from her ear and nestled closer, then tucked the blanket more securely over her shoulder. “No telling how long Silver Mesa will last,” he said, letting his voice drop to nothing more than a rustle of sound. “Boomtowns die out as fast as they grow up. When the silver plays out, the miners will pull up stakes and move on, and so will everyone else.”
The thought of starting all over again was depressing, even though her existence in Silver Mesa lacked any sort of luxury or even comforts. At least she was doing what she wanted to do more than anything else, which was practice medicine. Sometimes she was so frustrated that she wanted to scream. She knew so much, could do so much, if people would only come to her in time. So often they elected not to come at all, because she was a woman, and so they died.
But she would face the question of her future when—and if—the ore in Silver Mesa played out. She had no guarantees that she would ever even see Silver Mesa again. She should worry about that instead, but it was so difficult to form a coherent thought For the first time in this long day, she was able to let her tired body rest. She knew she shouldn’t. A tiny frisson of alarm ran through her, but it quickly faded and she didn’t move. She knew she should open her eyes—when had they closed? She was warm, so warm, and her limbs felt heavy and lax. She might as well have been wrapped in a cocoon, so encompassed was she by his heat. Cocoon .. . yes, one consisting of the blanket and his arms, his legs, his very body. She could barely move, but she didn’t have the energy to, anyway. For a brief lucid moment she was aware that she was going to sleep, and then she had.
Rafe felt the complete relaxation of her body and indulged in self-satisfaction. She had been so tired that she had dropped off as soon as he’d made her forget about being afraid. Now she could get some much-needed rest, and so could he, though he perversely wanted to stay awake as long as he could so he could enjoy the feel of her in his arms. A woman’s body was a pure miracle of nature, the closest a man could get to heaven on earth, and it had been too damn long since he’d had the luxury of holding a woman all snuggled up to him, toasty warm, comfortable, and fairly safe. He curved his hand over her belly, and drifted to sleep with a strange sense of contentment.
He was already up when Annie woke the next morning; it was the sound he made rebuilding the fire that roused her. She scrambled to her feet in a surge of panic, then hastily grabbed the blanket to cover herself. He turned, his enigmatic eyes measuring her, and she tensed without knowing why.
“You can get dressed,” he finally said. “So will I. I’ll try to help you with the chores today.”
She paused, but the instinct to heal was too strong. Carefully holding the blanket with one hand, she reached out the other to lay it on his unshaven cheek, a slight frown furrowing her brow as she considered his condition. He still felt too warm to her. She picked up his hand and pressed her fingers to his thick wrist, feeling his pulse, which was a little too fast and a little too shallow. “No, not today,” she replied. “You need at least one more day of rest and medication before you try to do even light chores.”
“Just lying around will make me even weaker.”
The dismissive note in his voice made her bristle. She straightened her shoulders and gave him a stern look. “Why did you bring me here? I’m the doctor, not you. Dress if you like, it won’t hurt anything, but—”
“I’ll have to find some graze for the horses today,” he interrupted. “And I need to set some traps, unless you want to live on potatoes and beans.”
“We can do without more food for a while yet,” she said stubbornly.
“Maybe we can, but the horses can’t.” While he was speaking, he eased down to a bending position and got his clothes from under the blanket they’d been lying on. Just as carefully he stepped into his pants and pulled them up over his hips.
Annie bit her lip, but came to the conclusion she would have to dress in front of him, just as she had undressed. Quickly, she grabbed her skirt, and after some frustrated wrestling with the blanket let it drop and jerked the garment on in exactly the same motion he had used to don his pants. She felt better once her legs were covered, but the cold air washing over her arms and shoulders was a sharp reminder that she was still far from decently clad. For the sake of modesty she put on her blouse and buttoned it before picking up her petticoat and drawers. Her clothes were sadly wrinkled, but she was so glad to have them back that she could have cried.
He pulled on his shirt but didn’t attempt putting his boots on by himself; instead he walked to the door and opened it, letting in the bright, crisp early-morning sun. Annie blinked at the sudden brightness, turning away until her eyes became accustomed to it. Cold air rushed in, making her shiver. “It’s supposed to be spring,” she said plaintively.
“It’ll probably snow up here a couple more times before the weather takes any notice of the calendar,” he said, looking at the sky through the trees. It was utterly clear, meaning the weather wasn’t likely to get very warm anytime soon. The temperature was comfortable enough during the day, but the nights were freezing.
While his back was turned, Annie pulled on her underwear and petticoat, then sat down to put on her stockings. Rafe looked around to find her skirts up around her knees, and his gaze lingered on the trim turn of her calves and ankles.
She wrinkled her nose at putting on clothes she had already worn for two days; both she and her garments needed a good washing, as did his, but just how she was going to accomplish such a thing baffled her. She could heat water for them to wash off with, but she couldn’t see both of them sitting around naked, wrapped in only a blanket, while their clothes dried. Still, something would have to be contrived; her father had always held that cleanliness was as important to a patient’s survival as any skill or knowledge a doctor possessed, and people did seem to recover better in clean surroundings.
“I wish you had thought to bring the lamp,” she commented, hugging her arms. “Then we could see in here without opening the door and freezing ourselves.”
“I have some candles in my saddlebags, but we’re better off saving them in case the weather turns so bad we can’t open the door.”
She moved closer to the fire and briskly rubbed her hands together to warm them, then finger-combed her hair and pinned it up. As she put on the coffee and began making their meager breakfast, Rafe came back into the room and sat down on the blanket.
She glanced at him. “Are you hungry?”
“Not much.”
“You’ll know when you’re really getting better, because you’ll get your appetite back.”
He watched her put the bacon on to fry, then stir up a batch of dough to make pan biscuits. She had a brisk, economical way of doing things that he liked, not wasting time or motion but retaining her instinctive grace. She had twisted her hair up into that knot again, he noticed. He wished she could have left it down, but long hair was dangerous over a cook fire. At least he could look forward to taking it down again when they bedded down for the night, feeling it spill over his hands. Maybe tonight she wouldn’t be so frightened, not that he blamed her. Hell, a woman would have to be stupid not to feel at least a little scared in these circumstances.
“Our clothes need washing,” she said crisply, not looking at him as she expertly spooned the dough into the pan. “And we both need a bath. I don’t know how we’ll accomplish it, but it’s going to be done. I refuse to be filthy.”
There had been a lot of times when he’d been a lot gamier than he was now, but women had a different set of standards for things like that. “Fine with me,” he said. “I have some clean clothes in my saddlebags. I wish I’d thought to tell you to pack extra clothes, too, but I had other things on my mind.” Like fighting to remain conscious; like evading Trahern and staying alive; like the fire in her hands that had both startled and aroused him. “You can wear one of my shirts, but there’s no way my pants will fit you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. Color mounted in her face as she bent over the fire. Pants! Her legs would be indecently outlined—She broke off her automatic thought at the realization that he had already seen more than just the outline of her legs. And she would gladly wear his pants in order to wash her own clothing. Priorities had a way of rearranging themselves when convention came head to head with necessity.
He ate enough breakfast that she was satisfied, not having expected him to eat anything at all. She brewed more willow-bark tea and he drank it without question, then lay back and let her examine his wounds. There was great improvement over the day before, and she told him so as she soaked more plantain leaves for a fresh bandage.
“So I’m going to live, he commented.
“Well, at least you won’t die from these wounds. You’ll feel much better tomorrow. I want you to eat as much as you can today, but be careful not to make yourself sick.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He could have sighed with pure bliss at the feel of her hands as she bandaged him.
He got completely dressed afterward, though the stitches in his side pulled when he put on his boots. Annie cleaned up after their meal, and turned to find him standing there wearing his coat and gun belt, and carrying his rifle. “Get your coat,” he said. “We have to get those horses fed.”
She didn’t like the idea of him walking so far but refrained from wasting her breath in useless argument. He was determined not to let her out of his sight, and unless he lapsed into unconsciousness there really wasn’t anything she could do about it. She got her coat without a word, and preceded him out of the cabin.
The horses were restless after having been confined in such a small space, and the big bay jostled Rafe when he led him out of the shed. Rafe’s face turned white. Annie hurried to take both lead ropes from him. “I’ll lead them,” she said. “Don’t do anything but walk. Or better still, why don’t we ride the horses?”
He shook his head. “We won’t be going far.” To tell the truth, though he could do it if he had to, he’d just as soon not swing into the saddle yet.
He found suitable graze about half a mile away: a small, sunny meadow not fifty yards across, protected from the cold wind by the curve of the mountain rising to the north. The horses eagerly bent their heads to the winter grass while Rafe and Annie sat down and let the sun warm them. It wasn’t long before both of them were taking off their coats, and a hint of color reappeared in his face.
They didn’t talk much. She bent her head against her raised knees and closed her eyes, lulled by the delicious heat and the steady chomping of the horses. It was such a quiet, peaceful morning that she could have easily gone back to sleep. There were no sounds but those of nature, the rustle of wind high in the trees, the calls of birds, the horses leisurely cropping the grass. Silver Mesa was never this quiet—there always seemed to be someone in the street, and the saloons never seemed to close. She hadn’t noticed the noise that much, because she was accustomed to city noises, but now she realized just how discordant those sounds were.
He shifted position, and she realized he had done so several times. She opened her eyes. “Uncomfortable?”
“Some.”
“Then lie down. It’s what you should be doing, anyway.”
“I’m okay.”
Again she refrained from useless arguing. Instead she asked, “How long are you going to let them graze? I still have a lot to do.”
He looked at the sun, then at the horses. Annie’s gelding had stopped grazing and was standing placidly, its head lifted and ears perked in interested attention at the sound of their voices. The bay was still grazing, but in a more desultory manner, as his appetite was satisfied. Rafe wished he could leave the horses out, but he couldn’t take the chance of being caught so far away from them. Maybe tomorrow he’d feel strong enough to rig up a rough corral so they could move around rather than being cooped up in the shed. It wouldn’t take much, some bushes and rope, to at least give them walking-around room.
“We might as well head back now,” he finally said, though he was content to just sit in the sun. Walking reminded him of just how weak he truly was.
Annie got the horses and led them back. After she took them to the stream and let them drink their fill, they went docilely back into the shed.
The logistics of bathing almost defeated her, since there wasn’t a basin or pitcher, only the one bucket for hauling water, and it was far too cold to bathe in the stream. She made do by cleaning out the coffeepot and cook pot, then putting water on to heat in both of them. When the water was boiling, she added it to the cold water in the bucket.
“You first,” she told him. “I’ll be right outside the door—”
“No, you won’t,” he interrupted, his pale eyes narrowing. “You’ll be in here where I can keep an eye on you. Sit down with your back to me if you don’t want to watch.”
His inflexibility distressed her, but she had already learned that she couldn’t change his mind, so she didn’t try. Without another word, she sat down with her back to him and rested her head on her drawn-up knees just as she had out in the meadow. She heard him undre
She scrambled to her feet and turned around. He hadn’t put on a shirt yet, though a clean one was lying on the blanket. She tried not to stare at his broad, hairy chest; she had seen many bare chests without suffering any effect other than curiosity, so why did her heartbeat react so wildly to the sight of his? It was broad and muscled and dark-haired, but still only a chest, even though it had felt as solid as rock when he had held her against it during the night. “Hold the mirror so I can shave,” he directed, and only then did she notice that he had laid out his razor and a small mirror.
She stepped closer and held the mirror while he soaped his face, then carefully scraped away the dark whiskers that covered his face. She couldn’t prevent herself from watching him with helpless fascination. His black beard had been at least a week old when she had first met him, so she was anxious to see him clean shaven. He did some interesting contortions with his face that she remembered her own father doing, and a gentle smile touched her mouth. It comforted her to find the small similarity between her beloved father and this dangerous stranger who had her at his mercy, assuming he possessed any.
When he had finished, the revealed structure of his face made her breath catch in her chest, and she quickly turned away to hide her expression. Contrary to her expectations, the beard had actually softened him. Clean-shaven, he looked even more predatory, with his pale eyes gleaming like ice from beneath the strong ridge of black brows. His nose was highbridged and straight, his mouth set in a hard line and bracketed on each side by a thin furrow. His jaw looked like granite, and his chin was strong and stubborn, with just a hint of a cleft that his beard had hidden until then. It was a face without a hint of softness or trust, wearing the remote expression of a man who had seen and caused so much death that it no longer touched him. In the brief moment before she had turned away she had seen bitterness in the set of his mouth, a bitterness so entrenched that it might never be erased and so intense that it had hurt her to see it. What could have happened to make a man look like that, as if he believed in nothing, trusted no one, and had nothing left of any value to himself except, perhaps, his own life—and that was only a “perhaps.”