The Winter Man (14 page)

He smiled at her. “Good night.”

He went out and closed the door. Amanda sat back in her chair and looked at the sleeping face of the wild man. He seemed vulnerable like this, with his black eyes closed. He had the thickest lashes she'd ever seen, and his eyebrows were thick and well shaped above his deep-set eyes. His mouth was rather thin, but it was perfectly shaped, and the full lower lip was sensuous. She liked that jutting chin, with its hint of stubbornness. His nose was formidable and straight, and he wasn't that bad looking…asleep. Perhaps it was the coldness of his eyes that made him seem so much rougher when he was awake. Not that he looked that unintimidating even now. He had so many coarse edges….

She waited a few minutes and touched his forehead. It was a little cooler, thank God, so maybe he was going to be better by morning. She went into the bathroom and washed her face and went back to sit by him. Somewhere
in the night, she fell asleep with her blond head pillowed on the big arm of the chair. Voices woke her.

“Has she been there all night, Harry?” Quinn was asking.

“Looks like. Poor little critter, she's worn out.”

“I'll shoot Elliot!”

“Now, boss, that's no way to treat the kid. He got scared, and I didn't know what to do. Women know things about illness. Why, my mama could doctor people and she never had no medical training. She used herbs and things.”

Amanda blinked, feeling eyes on her. She found Quinn Sutton gazing steadily at her from a sitting position on the bed.

“How do you feel?” she asked without lifting her sleepy head.

“Like hell,” he replied. “But I'm a bit better.”

“Would you like some breakfast, ma'am?” Harry asked with a smile. “And some coffee?”

“Coffee. Heavenly. But no breakfast, thanks, I won't impose,” she said drowsily, yawning and stretching uninhibitedly as she sat up, her full breasts beautifully outlined against the cotton blouse in the process.

Quinn felt his body tautening again, as it had the night before so unexpectedly and painfully when her hands had touched him. He could still feel them, and the brush of her long, silky soft hair against his skin. She smelled of gardenias and the whole outdoors, and he hated her more than ever because he'd been briefly vulnerable.

“Why did you come with Elliot?” Quinn asked her when Harry had gone.

She pushed back her disheveled hair and tried not to think how bad she must look without makeup and with her hair uncombed. She usually kept it in a tight braid on top of her head when she wasn't performing. It made her feel vulnerable to have its unusual length on display for a man like Quinn Sutton.

“Your son is only twelve,” she answered him belatedly. “That's too much responsibility for a kid,” she added. “I know. I had my dad to look after at that age, and no mother. My dad drank,” she added with a bitter smile. “Excessively. When he drank he got into trouble. I can remember knowing how to call a bail bondsman at the age of thirteen. I never dated, I never took friends home with me. When I was eighteen, I ran away from home. I don't even know if he's still alive, and I don't care.”

“That's one problem Elliot won't ever have,” he replied quietly. “Tough girl, aren't you?” he added, and his black eyes were frankly curious.

She hadn't meant to tell him so much. It embarrassed her, so she gave him her most belligerent glare. “Tough enough, thanks,” she said. She got out of the chair. “If you're well enough to argue, you ought to be able to take care of yourself. But if that fever goes up again, you'll need to see the doctor.”

“I'll decide that,” he said tersely. “Go home.”

“Thanks, I'll do that little thing.” She got her coat and put it on without taking time to button it. She pushed her hair up under the stocking cap, aware of his eyes on her the whole time.

“You don't fit the image of a typical hanger-on,” he said unexpectedly.

She glanced at him, blinking with surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“A hanger-on,” he repeated. He lifted his chin and studied her with mocking thoroughness. “You're Durning's latest lover, I gather. Well, if it's money you're after, he's the perfect choice. A pretty little tramp could go far with him… Damn!”

She stood over him with the remains of his cup of hot chocolate all over his chest, shivering with rage.

“I'm sorry,” she said curtly. “That was a despicable thing to do to a sick man, but what you said to me was inexcusable.”

She turned and went to the door, ignoring his muffled curses as he threw off the cover and sat up.

“I'd cuss, too,” she said agreeably as she glanced back at him one last time, her eyes running helplessly over the broad expanse of hair-roughened skin. “All that sticky hot chocolate in that thicket on your chest,” she mused. “It will probably take steam cleaning to remove it. Too bad you can't attract a ‘hanger-on' to help you bathe it out. But, then, you aren't as rich as Mr. Durning, are you?” And she
walked out, her nose in the air. As she went toward the stairs, she imagined that she heard laughter. But of course, that couldn't have been possible.

A
manda regretted the hot-chocolate incident once she was back in the cabin, even though Quinn Sutton had deserved every drop of it. How dare he call her such a name!

Amanda was old-fashioned in her ideas. A real country girl from Mississippi who'd had no example to follow except a liberated aunt and an alcoholic parent, and she was like neither of them. She hardly even dated these days. Her working gear wasn't the kind of clothing that told men how conventional her ideals were. They saw the glitter and sexy outfit and figured that Amanda, or just “Mandy” as she was known onstage, lived like her alter ego looked. There were times when she rued the day she'd ever signed on with Desperado, but she was too famous and making too much money to quit now.

She put her hair in its usual braid and kept it there for the rest of the week, wondering from time to time about Quinn Sutton and whether or not he'd survived his illness. Not that she cared, she kept telling herself. It didn't matter to her if he turned up his toes.

There was no phone in the cabin, and no piano. She couldn't play solitaire, she didn't have a television. There was only the radio and the cassette player for company, and Mr. Durning's taste in music was really extreme. He liked opera and nothing else. She'd have died for some soft rock, or just an instrument to practice on. She could play drums as well as the synthesizer and piano, and she wound up in the kitchen banging on the counter with two stainless-steel knives out of sheer boredom.

When the electricity went haywire in the wake of two inches of freezing rain on Sunday night, it was almost a relief. She sat in the darkness laughing. She was trapped in a house without heat, without light, and the only thing she knew about fireplaces was that they required wood. The logs that were cut outside were frozen solid under the sleet and there were none in the house. There wasn't even a pack of matches.

She wrapped up in her coat and shivered, hating the solitude and the weather and feeling the nightmares coming back in the icy night. She didn't want to think about the reason her voice had quit on her, but if she spent enough time alone, she was surely going to go crazy reliving that night onstage.

Lost in thought, in nightmarish memories of screams and her own loss of consciousness, she didn't hear the first knock on the door until it came again.

“Miss Corrie!” a familiar angry voice shouted above the wind.

She got up, feeling her way to the door. “Keep your shirt on,” she muttered as she threw it open.

Quinn Sutton glared down at her. “Get whatever you'll need for a couple of days and come on. The power's out. If you stay here you'll freeze to death. It's going below zero tonight. My ranch has an extra generator, so we've still got the power going.”

She glared back. “I'd rather freeze to death than go anywhere with you, thanks just the same.”

He took a slow breath. “Look, your morals are your own business. I just thought—”

She slammed the door in his face and turned, just in time to have him kick in the door and come after her.

“I said you're coming with me, lady,” he said shortly. He bent and picked her up bodily and started out the door. “And to hell with what you'll need for a couple of days.”

“Mr….Sutton!” she gasped, stunned by the unexpected contact with his hard, fit body as he carried her easily out the door and closed it behind them.

“Hold on,” he said tautly and without looking at her. “The snow's pretty heavy right through this drift.”

In fact, it was almost waist-deep. She hadn't been
outside in two days, so she hadn't noticed how high it had gotten. Her hands clung to the old sheepskin coat he was wearing. It smelled of leather and tobacco and whatever soap he used, and the furry collar was warm against her cold cheek. He made her feel small and helpless, and she wasn't sure she liked it.

“I don't like your tactics,” she said through her teeth as the wind howled around them and sleet bit into her face like tiny nails.

“They get results. Hop on.” He put her up on the sled, climbed beside her, grasped the reins and turned the horse back toward the mountain.

She wanted to protest, to tell him to take his offer and go to hell. But it was bitterly cold and she was shivering too badly to argue. He was right, and that was the hell of it. She could freeze to death in that cabin easily enough, and nobody would have found her until spring came or until her aunt persuaded Mr. Durning to come and see about her.

“I don't want to impose,” she said curtly.

“We're past that now,” he replied. “It's either this or bury you.”

“I'm sure I know which you'd prefer,” she muttered, huddling in her heavy coat.

“Do you?” he asked, turning his head. In the daylight glare of snow and sleet, she saw an odd twinkle in his black eyes. “Try digging a hole out there.”

She gave him a speaking glance and resigned herself to going with him.

He drove the sled right into the barn and left her to wander through the aisle, looking at the horses and the two new calves in the various stalls while he dealt with unhitching and stalling the horse.

“What's wrong with these little things?” she asked, her hands in her pockets and her ears freezing as she nodded toward the two calves.

“Their mamas starved out in the pasture,” he said quietly. “I couldn't get to them in time.”

He sounded as if that mattered to him. She looked up at his dark face, seeing new character in it. “I didn't think a cow or two would matter,” she said absently.

“I lost everything I had a few months back,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'm trying to pull out of bankruptcy, and right now it's a toss-up as to whether I'll even come close. Every cow counts.” He looked down at her. “But it isn't just the money. It disturbs me to see anything die from lack of attention. Even a cow.”

“Or a mere woman?” she said with a faint smile. “Don't worry, I know you don't want me here. I'm…grateful to you for coming to my rescue. Most of the firewood was frozen and Mr. Durning apparently doesn't smoke, because there weren't a lot of matches around.”

He scowled faintly. “No, Durning doesn't smoke. Didn't you know?”

She shrugged. “I never had reason to ask,” she said, without telling him that it was her aunt, not herself, who would know about Mr. Durning's habits. Let him enjoy his disgusting opinion of her.

“Elliot said you'd been sick.”

She lifted a face carefully kept blank. “Sort of,” she replied.

“Didn't Durning care enough to come with you?”

“Mr. Sutton, my personal life is none of your business,” she said firmly. “You can think whatever you want to about me. I don't care. But for what it's worth, I hate men probably as much as you hate women, so you won't have to hold me off with a stick.”

His face went hard at the remark, but he didn't say anything. He searched her eyes for one long moment and then turned toward the house, gesturing her to follow.

Elliot was overjoyed with their new houseguest. Quinn Sutton had a television and all sorts of tapes, and there was, surprisingly enough, a brand-new keyboard on a living-room table.

She touched it lovingly, and Elliot grinned at her. “Like it?” he asked proudly. “Dad gave it to me for Christmas. It's not an expensive one, you know, but it's nice to practice on. Listen.”

He turned it on and flipped switches, and gave a pretty decent rendition of a tune by Genesis.

Amanda, who was formally taught in piano, smiled at his efforts. “Very good,” she praised. “But try a B-flat
instead of a B at the end of that last measure and see if it doesn't give you a better sound.”

Elliot cocked his head. “I play by ear,” he faltered. “Sorry.” She reached over and touched the key she wanted. “That one.” She fingered the whole chord. “You have a very good ear.”