Through the mist that seemed to cloud her mind, Abby recognized Rourke’s voice. She knew that in the whole world she’d never heard anything so wonderful. Her eyes fluttered open. He was standing with his feet spread far apart, a gun aimed at Flint Barrows. He looked even taller and stronger than she remembered. Or was her imagination playing tricks on her?
“Rourke.” She tried to say his name, but the only sound she made was a croak.
And then she had to fight to hold on to the last thin thread of consciousness.
Chapter Thirteen
As Flint levered himself above Abby, he felt the cold steel of Rourke’s Spencer eight-shot pressed against his temple. The click of the hammer being pulled back seemed to reverberate through his brain. He froze.
Lifting his hands, he said, “You can’t shoot an unarmed man.”
“Can’t I?”
Abby had to blink to be certain it was Rourke’s voice. His image swam in front of her. There was an icy thread of steel to his tone she’d never heard before.
As he struggled to pull up his pants, Flint was jerked roughly from her and thrown against a boulder. He swallowed, causing his Adam’s apple to bob up and down in his throat.
As Rourke brought the gun up to his chest, Flint’s words came out in a rush. “This was all her doing. She called me over here. Said she had something to show me. Then she started kissing me and taking off her clothes.” Flint gave a nervous, hysterical laugh. “You know what women are like, Rourke. What’s a man supposed to do?”
Rourke’s eyes were the color of lead. His voice was low, seething with barely controlled fury. “And in the heat of passion she inflicted those cuts and bruises on herself too.”
Flint fell silent, keeping his gaze riveted on the gun in Rourke’s hand. He knew he was beaten. And he knew that Rourke was itching to pull the trigger.
“Scared, Barrows?” Rourke wouldn’t allow himself to look at Abby yet. If he did, he’d drop the gun and kill this animal with his bare hands. It would give him the greatest of pleasure to watch the life slowly ebb from Flint Barrows. He would like nothing better than to smash that ugly face into a rock. He pressed the gun to Flint’s temple and felt his fury rising.
Abby moaned softly. Rourke turned. God. She was naked and covered with blood.
“Start running, Barrows.” His commanding tone sent a shiver of fear along Flint’s spine. “And don’t ever stop. If you cross my path, you’re a dead man.”
Without waiting for Flint’s reply, Rourke holstered his gun and dropped to his knees beside Abby. Behind him he could hear Barrows scrambling over rocks in his eagerness to put as much distance between himself and them as possible.
Taking off his shirt, Rourke wrapped it around her and gathered her into his arms, drawing her close to him.
“Oh Rourke.”
At her breathless words, he felt his heart contract. “Shh. Don’t talk yet, Abby.”
He felt the trembling that she couldn’t stop. Shock. Her skin was as cold as ice. Laying her gently in the warm sand, he went to his horse and removed his bedroll from behind the saddle. Making her a bed in the shade of a rock, he carried her to it and gently wrapped her in his blanket.
“Don’t leave me, Rourke.”
He heard the edge of panic in her voice. “I won’t Abby. Not for one minute.”
Her voice seemed to fade. “The train?”
“Don’t worry about the wagon train. If they pass us, we’ll catch up to them later.”
She clung to his hand, and he marveled at her strength. Even after all this, she was able to grip him with the strength of a she-bear. Gradually he felt her fingers go slack. Her breathing slowed. She fell into a disturbed, restless sleep.
The shadows lengthened, and Rourke tossed another branch on the fire. When the water was warm, he dipped his handkerchief into it and began the task of washing the blood from Abby’s bruised and battered body.
Caught in a twilight of fear and pain, she fought him, thrashing out, guarding herself from his intimate touch. He understood her confusion and wished he didn’t have to be the cause of any more discomfort. In her mind, she was still fighting Flint.
“Hold still, Abby. I have to wash that shoulder. The cut is deep.”
Her eyes blinked open, and Abby realized she wasn’t dreaming.
“Rourke.” Her voice was low, breathless. “It’s you. I thought…” She ran a tongue over her split lip.
“I know, Abby.” He dipped a cloth in the warm water and wrung it out.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning you up. This is going to hurt.”
The only disinfectant he had was the whiskey. He heard her suck in her breath as he poured a liberal amount on the wound.
“Sorry. I wish I didn’t have to hurt you.”
She lay very still as he pulled the blanket back over her shoulder. When he touched a finger to her ankle, she let out a hiss of pain.
“It’s badly swollen. Might be broken.” He looked up. “What happened to your boot?”
She licked dry, cracked lips. “I lost it back in some boulders. Flint was chasing me. I … was trying to get to my rifle.”
He felt the tremors she couldn’t hide. Instantly he was bending over her, drawing her close against him. “He’s gone, Abby. You’re safe. And he’s never going to come near you again.”
Abby lay very still, trying to believe him, trying to absorb some of his strength.
“Here.” Rourke held the whiskey to her lips. “Drink.”
She shook her head.
“Drink it. It’ll help stop the shaking. And it just might ease a little of the pain as well.”
Abby felt the first fiery drops of liquid all the way to her toes. She coughed. Tears stung her eyes. Rourke waited, then held the whiskey to her lips again. After several more sips she pushed it away. It was then that he saw her hand. The knuckles were flattened, the fingers bloody and bruised.
“My God. Your hand looks like it’s been crushed.”
She glanced down. The pain had become a dull, throbbing ache. “It was crushed. Beneath Flint’s foot.”
Rourke tested the broken bones, then made small splints from a tree branch. Using her torn shirt for strips of cloth, he tied each delicate finger, then the wrist.
“Looks like you won’t be holding a rifle for a few weeks.”
Abby thought about her family, expecting her to provide for them. She would have to bargain with some of the other men to do their chores in exchange for meat.
Rourke saw the worry etched in her eyes and cursed the men who were the cause of it. Her father, demanding more of her than she was able to give. Flint Barrows, determined to take what he wanted, not caring about the beautiful creature he might destroy in the process.
While Rourke finished bathing her wounds, she lay still, listening to the hiss and snap of the fire. His touch was gentle. Surprisingly gentle. The sky was a cloak of black velvet. The stars looked close enough to touch. But in the east a thick blanket of clouds obscured the sky. Already she could taste the rain in the air.
“How did you find me, Rourke?”
“I heard your shot. When I didn’t hear a second one, I got worried and came running.”
He didn’t bother to tell her about those minutes of panic, when he’d found Flint’s horse tethered near hers. Scrambling up rocks, sliding down gulleys, he’d known a moment of sheer terror, thinking he was too late. He believed the shot he’d heard had come from Flint’s gun, killing her. And then, seeing Flint over her, he’d felt relief mingled with an almost overpowering urge to kill.
“If you hadn’t come …” She started to cry, softly at first, embarrassed by the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Once started, the tears flowed faster, until she was racked with sobs.
Rourke held her quietly, letting her cry out all the fear and pain. And when he felt her struggling to still the tears, he wiped them tenderly with his thumbs.
“Looks like you put up a pretty good fight.”
“Not good enough.” She sniffed, and he handed her his handkerchief.
“It’s over, Abby.”
She blew her nose. Her horse stomped and whinnied in the night air, and he saw her go rigid with fear.
It wasn’t over for her yet, he realized. It may be a long time before it was over for her. He felt a fierce protectiveness well up inside him. Tucking the blanket up around her chin, he brushed a strand of hair from her eyes.
“Sleep now, Abby. I’ll keep watch.”
He saw her lids flutter, then close. Poor thing. She was exhausted. He glanced at the whiskey and thought about taking a drink. The night air had grown chill, and she was using his only blanket.
Tossing another branch on the fire, he checked his gun and rifle, then leaned back against a boulder. He didn’t need the whiskey or the blanket. She was safe. That thought was enough to keep him warm all night.
Pain tore through her shoulder and Abby moaned softly. A hand reached for her and she jerked back, then went rigid. He was back. He’d waited until she was asleep and vulnerable, and then he’d come back to finish what he’d started.
“No.” Rolling to one side, she evaded his touch, but still he tried to grab her. Thrashing, twisting, she was determined to fight him to her last breath. As his hand caught at her shoulder she drew her hand back and tried to make a fist. Her fingers wouldn’t obey her command. She became aware of awkward splints holding her fingers in a stiff, inflexible position.
“Don’t touch me.” She sat bolt upright and opened her eyes.
By the light of the fire she studied the shadowy figure kneeling beside her.
“Rourke.” He heard the relief in her voice. “I thought…”
“I know.” He touched a hand to her forehead and saw her flinch. Would she ever again trust a man’s touch? “Your fever’s broken. I was worried. You’ve been fighting demons for hours.”
At the sound of thunder Abby glanced up at the night sky. “Are we going to join the wagon train?”
“Not until tomorrow. You shouldn’t risk riding until you’re stronger.” As she opened her mouth to protest he added, “Besides, we’d never beat this storm now. We’ll sit it out under these rocks.”
Abby didn’t argue with him. She was too exhausted to think about mounting her horse and riding out of here. She ached everywhere. Her body was one large mass of bruises.
“Hungry?”
Until he asked, Abby hadn’t even been aware of the aroma of meat roasting. “Where did you find any food?”
“While you slept, I went in search of your boot and rifle. And guess what I found?”
When she arched an eyebrow, he replied, “A beautiful buck. Brought down with a single shot.”
She smiled and he felt his heart nearly stop at the beauty of it. If only he could always make her smile so easily.
“You mean it was my shot that killed him?”
“It was. One more hide to add to your collection.” He pointed to the skin draped neatly over a nearby boulder.
While Rourke ladled broth into a tin cup, she said, “He was the reason I didn’t use our arranged signal. I knew if I fired, he and the doe I’d tracked would scatter and I’d lose them.” She paused, and as he turned toward her she added, “Next time, I’ll take my chances on losing the deer and stick to the signals.”
“There won’t be a next time, Abby.” Rourke held the cup to her lips. As she sipped, he said gruffly, “From now on we stay together. I was a fool to turn you loose in these rocks alone. You were my responsibility and I let you down.”
Very firmly Abby took the cup from his hands and set it aside. “Don’t go blaming yourself for what happened, Rourke. It wasn’t your fault that Flint attacked me.”
“No.” His tone was flat. “But Mordecai expected me to look out for your welfare. And I let him down.”
“Rourke.” Abby touched a hand to his chin and was surprised at the rough scratch of his beard. In the firelight his eyes were red-rimmed and haunted. How many hours had he sat here, tending her wounds, butchering her kill, seeing to her needs instead of his own? “You didn’t let me down. And you didn’t let Mordecai down.” Her hand moved upward to caress his cheek, also covered with new, scratchy growth. “None of us expected Flint Barrows to do what he did. You saved my life.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Now stop fussing over me, and feeding me like I was a baby, and try to get some sleep.”
If only she hadn’t touched him, he thought. The touch of her hand on his face was his undoing. For hours he’d hovered over her, bathing and binding her wounds, holding her when she cried, soothing her when she moaned in her sleep. And every minute of those hours he’d been aware of the naked woman who lay in his blanket, just a touch away. Through sheer willpower, he’d forced himself to think only of her fears, her needs. And in the process, he’d been able to suppress his own needs.
But now she’d touched him. And in his weariness, he let his guard down.
“I might crawl into that blanket with you. But I doubt if either of us would get any sleep.”
She went very still. The hand at his cheek pulled back. He watched her eyes widen as they stared into his.
“Why do you hide your beauty, Abby?”
For a moment she forgot to breathe.
He combed his fingers through her hair. It spilled around the ground like fiery autumn foliage. “I’ve known women who would kill for hair like this,” he murmured.
Abby strove for something clever to say. Something to hide the way her heart was acting. “I bet you’ve known lots of women.”
There was a subtle change in his voice. Low. Gruff. “I’ve never known one like you.” His fingers left her hair to trace the curve of her cheek, the firm line of her chin. “Your skin is so soft, so white.” His finger moved lower, to the smooth column of her throat, where her pulse had begun hammering. “It’s the kind of skin a man dreams of when he’s all alone, under the stars.”
He bent closer, until his lips hovered above hers. “The kind of skin that keeps a man awake, thinking, wanting.” His gaze followed the trail of his fingertips and she felt herself begin to burn under that searing look. “It’s the kind of skin a man has to touch.” His fingers moved lower, to follow the ridge of her collarbone. “To taste.”
His lips lightly brushed her temple, then moved lower, to graze her cheek. She felt his breath, warm against her ear, and shivered.