The Winter Man (13 page)

Of course, she could have put him in touch with Jerry and proved it. Jerry Allen, their road manager, was one of the best in the business. He'd kept them from starving during the beginning, and they had an expert crew of electricians and carpenters who made up the rest of the retinue. It took a huge bus to carry the people and equipment, appropriately called the “Outlaw Express.”

Amanda had pleaded with Jerry to give them a few weeks' rest after the tragedy that had cost her her nerve, but he'd refused. Get back on the horse, he'd advised. And she'd tried. But the memories were just too horrible.

So finally he'd agreed to Hank's suggestion and she was officially on hiatus, as were the other members of the group, for a month. Maybe in that length of time she could come to grips with it, face it.

It had been a week and she felt better already. Or she would, if those strange noises outside the cabin would just stop! She had horrible visions of wolves breaking in and eating her.

“Hello?”

The small voice startled her. It sounded like a boy's. She got up, clutching the fire poker in her hand and went to the front door. “Who's there?” she called out tersely.

“It's just me. Elliot,” he said. “Elliot Sutton.”

She let out a breath between her teeth. Oh, no, she thought miserably, what was he doing here? His father would come looking for him, and she couldn't bear to have that…that savage anywhere around!

“What do you want?” she groaned.

“I brought you something.”

It would be discourteous to refuse the gift, she guessed, especially since he'd apparently come through several feet of snow to bring it. Which brought to mind a really interesting question: where was his father?

She opened the door. He grinned at her from under a thick cap that covered his red hair.

“Hi,” he said. “I thought you might like to have some roasted peanuts. I did them myself. They're nice on a cold night.”

Her eyes went past him to a sled hitched to a sturdy draft horse. “Did you come in that?” she asked, recognizing the sled he and his father had been riding the day she'd met them.

“Sure,” he said. “That's how we get around in winter, what with the snow and all. We take hay out to the livestock on it. You remember, you saw us. Well, we usually take hay out on it, that is. When Dad's not laid up,” he added pointedly, and his blue eyes said more than his voice did.

She knew she was going to regret asking the question before she opened her mouth. She didn't want to ask. But
no young boy came to a stranger's house in the middle of a snowy night just to deliver a bag of roasted peanuts.

“What's wrong?” she asked with resigned perception.

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, what's wrong?” She made her tone gentler. He couldn't help it that his father was a savage, and he was worried under that false grin. “Come on, you might as well tell me.”

He bit his lower lip and looked down at his snow-covered boots. “It's my dad,” he said. “He's bad sick and he won't let me get the doctor.”

So there it was. She knew she shouldn't have asked. “Can't your mother do something?” she asked hopefully.

“My mom ran off with Mr. Jackson from the livestock association when I was just a little feller,” he replied, registering Amanda's shocked expression. “She and Dad got divorced and she died some years ago, but Dad doesn't talk about her. Will you come, miss?”

“I'm not a doctor,” she said, hesitating.

“Oh, sure, I know that,” he agreed eagerly, “but you're a girl. And girls know how to take care of sick folks, don't they?” The confidence slid away and he looked like what he was—a terrified little boy with nobody to turn to. “Please, lady,” he added. “I'm scared. He's hot and shaking all over and—!”

“I'll get my boots on,” she said. She gathered them from beside the fireplace and tugged them on, and then she
went for a coat and stuffed her long blond hair under a stocking cap. “Do you have cough syrup, aspirins, throat lozenges—that sort of thing?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said eagerly, then sighed. “Dad won't take them, but we have them.”

“Is he suicidal?” Amanda asked angrily as she went out the door behind him and locked the cabin before she climbed on the sled with the boy.

“Well sometimes things get to him,” he ventured. “But he doesn't ever get sick, and he won't admit that he is. But he's out of his head and I'm scared. He's all I got.”

“We'll take care of him,” she promised, and hoped she could deliver on the promise. “Let's go.”

“Do you know Mr. Durning well?” he asked as he called to the draft horse and started him back down the road and up the mountain toward the Sutton house.

“He's sort of a friend of a relative of mine,” she said evasively. The sled ride was fun, and she was enjoying the cold wind and snow in her face, the delicious mountain air. “I'm only staying at the cabin for a few weeks. Just time to…get over something.”

“Have you been sick, too?” he asked curiously.

“In a way,” she said noncommittally.

The sled went jerkily up the road, around the steep hill. She held on tight and hoped the big draft horse had steady feet. It was a harrowing ride at the last, and then they were up, and the huge redwood ranch house came into sight,
blazing with light from its long, wide front porch to the gabled roof.

“It's a beautiful house,” Amanda said.

“My dad added on to it for my mom, before they married,” he told her. He shrugged. “I don't remember much about her, except she was redheaded. Dad sure hates women.” He glanced at her apologetically. “He's not going to like me bringing you….”

“I can take care of myself,” she returned, and smiled reassuringly. “Let's go see how bad it is.”

“I'll get Harry to put up the horse and sled,” he said, yelling toward the lighted barn until a grizzled old man appeared. After a brief introduction to Amanda, Harry left and took the horse away.

“Harry's been here since Dad was a boy,” Elliot told her as he led her down a bare-wood hall and up a steep staircase to the second storey of the house. “He does most everything, even cooks for the men.” He paused outside a closed door, and gave Amanda a worried look. “He'll yell for sure.”

“Let's get it over with, then.”

She let Elliot open the door and look in first, to make sure his father had something on.

“He's still in his jeans,” he told her, smiling as she blushed. “It's okay.”

She cleared her throat. So much for pretended sophistication, she thought, and here she was twenty-four years old. She avoided Elliot's grin and walked into the room.

Quinn Sutton was sprawled on his stomach, his bare muscular arms stretched toward the headboard. His back gleamed with sweat, and his thick, black hair was damp with moisture. Since it wasn't hot in the room, Amanda decided that he must have a high fever. He was moaning and talking unintelligibly.

“Elliot, can you get me a basin and some hot water?” she asked. She took off her coat and rolled up the sleeves of her cotton blouse.

“Sure thing,” Elliot told her, and rushed out of the room.

“Mr. Sutton, can you hear me?” Amanda asked softly. She sat down beside him on the bed, and lightly touched his bare shoulder. He was hot, all right—burning up. “Mr. Sutton,” she called again.

“No,” he moaned. “No, you can't do it…!”

“Mr. Sutton…”

He rolled over and his black eyes opened, glazed with fever, but Amanda barely noticed. Her eyes were on the rest of him, male perfection from shoulder to narrow hips. He was darkly tanned, too, and thick, black hair wedged from his chest down his flat stomach to the wide belt at his hips. Amanda, who was remarkably innocent not only for her age, but for her profession as well, stared like a star-struck girl. He was beautiful, she thought, amazed at the elegant lines of his body, at the ripple of muscle and the smooth, glistening skin.

“What the hell do you want?” he rasped.

So much for hero worship, she thought dryly. She lifted her eyes back to his. “Elliot was worried,” she said quietly. “He came and got me. Please don't fuss at him. You're raging with fever.”

“Damn the fever, get out,” he said in a tone that might have stopped a charging wolf.

“I can't do that,” she said. She turned her head toward the door where Elliot appeared with a basin full of hot water and a towel and washcloth over one arm.

“Here you are, lady,” he said. “Hi, Dad,” he added with a wan smile at his furious father. “You can beat me when you're able again.”

“Don't think I won't,” Quinn growled.

“There, there, you're just feverish and sick, Mr. Sutton,” Amanda soothed.

“Get Harry and have him throw her off my land,” Quinn told Elliot in a furious voice.

“How about some aspirin, Elliot, and something for him to drink? A small whiskey and something hot—”

“I don't drink whiskey,” Quinn said harshly.

“He has a glass of wine now and then,” Elliot ventured.

“Wine, then.” She soaked the cloth in the basin. “And you might turn up the heat. We don't want him to catch a chill when I sponge him down.”

“You damned well aren't sponging me down!” Quinn raged.

She ignored him. “Go and get those things, please, Elliot, and the cough syrup, too.”

“You bet, lady!” he said grinning.

“My name is Amanda,” she said absently.

“Amanda,” the boy repeated, and went back downstairs.

“God help you when I get back on my feet,” Quinn said with fury. He laid back on the pillow, shivering when she touched him with the cloth. “Don't…!”

“I could fry an egg on you. I have to get the fever down. Elliot said you were delirious.”

“Elliot's delirious to let you in here,” he shuddered. Her fingers accidentally brushed his flat stomach and he arched, shivering. “For God's sake, don't,” he groaned.

“Does your stomach hurt?” she asked, concerned. “I'm sorry.” She soaked the cloth again and rubbed it against his shoulders, his arms, his face.

His black eyes opened. He was breathing roughly, and his face was taut. The fever, she imagined. She brushed back her long hair, and wished she'd tied it up. It kept flowing down onto his damp chest.

“Damn you,” he growled.

“Damn you, too, Mr. Sutton.” She smiled sweetly. She finished bathing his face and put the cloth and basin aside. “Do you have a long-sleeved shirt?”

“Get out!”

Elliot came back with the medicine and a small glass of wine. “Harry's making hot chocolate,” he said with a smile. “He'll bring it up. Here's the other stuff.”

“Good,” she said. “Does your father have a pajama jacket or something long-sleeved?”

“Sure!”

“Traitor,” Quinn groaned at his son.

“Here you go.” Elliot handed her a flannel top, which she proceeded to put on the protesting and very angry Mr. Sutton.

“I hate you,” Quinn snapped at her with his last ounce of venom.

“I hate you, too,” she agreed. She had to reach around him to get the jacket on, and it brought her into much too close proximity to him. She could feel the hair on his chest rubbing against her soft cheek, she could feel her own hair smoothing over his bare shoulder and chest. Odd, that shivery feeling she got from contact with him. She ignored it forcibly and got his other arm into the pajama jacket. She fastened it, trying to keep her fingers from touching his chest any more than necessary because the feel of that pelt of hair disturbed her. He shivered violently at the touch of her hands and her long, silky hair, and she assumed it was because of his fever.

“Are you finished?” Quinn asked harshly.

“Almost.” She pulled the covers over him, found the electric-blanket control and turned it on. Then she ladled cough syrup into him, gave him aspirin and had him take a sip of wine, hoping that she wasn't overdosing him in the process. But the caffeine in the hot chocolate would
probably counteract the wine and keep it from doing any damage in combination with the medicine. A sip of wine wasn't likely to be that dangerous anyway, and it might help the sore throat she was sure he had.

“Here's the cocoa,” Harry said, joining them with a tray of mugs filled with hot chocolate and topped with whipped cream.

“That looks delicious. Thank you so much,” Amanda said, and smiled shyly at the old man.

He grinned back. “Nice to be appreciated.” He glared at Quinn. “Nobody else ever says so much as a thank-you!”

“It's hard to thank a man for food poisoning,” Quinn rejoined weakly.

“He ain't going to die,” Harry said as he left. “He's too damned mean.”

“That's a fact,” Quinn said and closed his eyes.

He was asleep almost instantly. Amanda drew up a chair and sat down beside him. He'd still need looking after, and presumably the boy went to school. It was past the Christmas holidays.

“You go to school, don't you?” she asked Elliot.

He nodded. “I ride the horse out to catch the bus and then turn him loose. He comes to the barn by himself. You're staying?”

“I'd better, I guess,” she said. “I'll sit with him. He may get worse in the night. He's got to see a doctor tomorrow. Is there one around here?”

“There's Dr. James in town, in Holman that is,” he said. “He'll come out if Dad's bad enough. He has a cancer patient down the road and he comes to check on her every few days. He could stop by then.”

“We'll see how your father is feeling. You'd better get to bed,” she said and smiled at him.

“Thank you for coming, Miss…Amanda,” Elliot said. He sighed. “I don't think I've ever been so scared.”

“It's okay,” she said. “I didn't mind. Good night, Elliot.”