Chapter 16 #2
She melted. Touching him always seemed to have that effect on her.
She was very close; his chest, still naked, was inches away.
His breath was ragged, and she didn’t know whether it was because of the wounds or something else.
Her breath was also ragged, hard to come by, as it tried to pass through an almost closed throat.
She felt a tremor run though his body, and she looked up at him. His lips so near. “I’ll bring you something to eat. You … you shouldn’t be up.”
“No,” he agreed, and his lips came closer.
Her own body trembled then. Her strength was seeping away, lost in all those soft, wanting emotions. She felt fragile; her control could so easily be shattered by him, broken into a thousand pieces.
“Ah, Shea,” he said. “Why didn’t you leave?”
It wasn’t a question this time. It was a plea, a surrender that was full of pain.
His head lowered, and she thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead, his cheek brushed hers and stayed there a fraction of a moment in a gesture so tender and so sad, she thought her heart might break.
“I didn’t thank you for … taking care of my arm,” he whispered. “I don’t know why—” His voice, husky with emotion, broke off.
She pressed her head against his chest, feeling, hearing, living, that strong heartbeat. She let it linger there, relishing the moment’s closeness, the smell and feel and touch of him. The gentleness he exuded at the moment.
Then he drew away, and Shea moved back. He took several hesitant steps, then seemed to get stronger.
He moved toward the door. “I hate being in here,” he said suddenly in a tense, tight voice, and she knew he was thinking of prison again, that his rare moment of tenderness was swallowed by the darkness that usually cloaked him.
He lurched forward and leaned against the doorjamb as he looked up at the sky. He closed his eyes. Remember, he told himself. Remember …
But he wasn’t sure what he should remember.
Not anymore. He heard her steps behind him, and he opened his eyes.
A lacy bit of cloud was waltzing across the sky.
The wind was cool on his hot skin, and he drank in the mingled aromas of fish, burning wood, and pine.
He was assaulted by sensations, overwhelmed by ordinary things that shouldn’t affect him.
“Rafe?” It was Ben’s voice. Worried.
“I’m all right,” he said. “It’s just …” Just what? He wished he knew.
“It’s just that you’re damn weak, and you need some food,” Ben finished for him. “You haven’t had anything since we left yesterday, have you?”
The question puzzled Rafe for a moment. And then he felt Shea sliding out between him and the door. For God’s sake, what was happening to his senses? He damn well couldn’t think. Not with her around.
He shook his head. “No.”
Ben looked sheepishly at Shea. “I don’t suppose there’s anything we can use for dishes?”
“Just one tin plate, I think.”
“That will have to do.” Ben’s eyes moved from her to Rafe.
That knowing glance jerked Rafe back to reality. He wanted to feel hostility. He wanted to feel anger. He wanted to feel indifference.
He wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to kiss those cheeks that could flush so hotly, to touch that face that screwed up with such concentration. He wanted to see her smile.
Had he ever seen her smile?
Once. At the waterfall when she watched the bears. Not since then. Not before then.
What in hell had he done?
He had locked her in a place he himself couldn’t tolerate. He’d subjected her to terror and hunger, and still she had stayed and helped him. He had truly become an animal himself, and he could no longer blame it on others.
His eyes met hers, and he sensed she’d read some of his thoughts.
“I’ll get the plate,” she said. “And the spoon.” The latter was spoken wryly. He had taken all utensils except the spoon.
Rafe made his way slowly to the fire. “I … don’t like keeping her here,” he told Ben.
“Are you sure that’s the problem?” Ben said. “Not that you like it too much?”
Rafe grimaced.
“She’s seen both Clint and me.”
“I know,” Rafe said. “I don’t think she’ll say anything.…”
“Why wouldn’t she? Especially if she sees Clint at the Circle R.”
Rafe couldn’t explain it. He just knew it in his gut. But could he risk two lives because of instinct? Christ, he’d been wrong in the past.
“Do you want to give it up?” Ben asked quietly. “Just move on?”
“I can’t do that,” Rafe said, hearing his own ragged voice, hating it, hating the weakness. “I won’t do that,” he added, his voice stronger. He looked down at his hand, the lifelong reminder of exactly how much Jack Randall owed him.
Just then Shea reappeared, her face a little pale in the moonlight. Rafe wondered whether she’d heard anything.
Ben took the fish from the spit he’d fashioned over the fire and, after looking at Shea’s bandaged hand and Rafe’s wounded arm, pulled the flaky flesh away from the bone and offered the plate to Shea, who placed it between herself and Rafe. “What about you?” she asked Ben.
“I already ate,” he lied. “Mixed up a pan of beans. I’ll go look after the horses.” He made his way to the stable, leaving an uncomfortable silence.
As much as he wished differently, Rafe couldn’t dismiss the last few minutes in the cabin with Shea Randall.
They echoed between them, the feelings and emotions still radiating in waves.
He felt like a marionette, whose strings were being pulled by someone else.
It was a familiar feeling, one he’d vowed would never be repeated.
Yet the strings were being pulled again. By another Randall.
His gut tightened, and he hurt beyond healing. He was determined, though, not to show it. He forced his fingers to take a piece offish and eat it. He had to rebuild his strength. Perhaps it was his physical weakness that made him so vulnerable.
He noticed she hadn’t taken a bite, despite the fact that she had been the one who’d complained about hunger earlier. She sat there like a statue, staring into the fire.
“Eat,” he commanded more curtly than he intended.
“Another order?” Her voice was strained, and he knew she had heard him and Ben talk. Christ, what had she expected? That he would drop everything because of a … kiss?
“Call it that if you like,” he said, forcing indifference, masking the despair he felt.
“You aren’t going to stop, are you?” she asked suddenly. “And you’re going to destroy yourself as well as … my father. And probably your friends too.”
“I’m already destroyed, lady,” he said harshly.
“Only if you believe it,” Shea said, her words trembling.
He laughed bitterly. “Do you think anyone would hire me? Do you think any community would ever accept me? And that a woman would look at me twice after seeing that brand, look without repugnance?”
“Yes.” Her voice was soft but forceful.
He turned and looked at her, his lips twisted in a cynical smile.
He didn’t try to mistake her meaning. “Up here, when we’re alone, maybe.
For a few moments. Because you’re scared and lonely and there’s no one but me.
But in town? How would you introduce me to friends?
The outlaw? The ex-convict? A man who betrayed his uniform?
A man so treacherous and vile, he was branded so everyone would know his dishonor, his shame, no matter how long he lived?
Tell me, Miss Randall, would you really look then? ”
There was a long silence. Her gaze met his, and he saw tears glisten in her eyes before she gave him the same answer as before. “Yes.”
“You’re a liar, Miss Randall,” he said coldly, and stood. “You’d better eat.” He didn’t wait for an answer. He walked stiffly, every movement a supreme effort. He hoped like hell there was some liquor in the stable. He couldn’t stand seeing those damn tears. No one had ever cried for him.
But he knew he was right when he’d said any feelings she might have would disappear quickly enough when she was free.
He found Ben, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow as he filled a feed bucket with grain for the horses.
“I’m more thirsty than hungry,” Rafe said.
“I can tell I’m going to have to make another little pack trip into Casey Springs.” Ben grinned knowingly. “That whiskey’s going down fast.”
“Go to hell, Ben.”
“Friend, something tells me you’re already there. She is rather pretty. More than pretty, really,” Ben said as he fumbled in his saddlebags and brought out a flask.
Anguish ran strong and deep in Shea. She knew now that Rafferty Tyler would never give up his vendetta against her father. He would destroy himself and everyone around him first.
You’re a liar. She would never forget the rage with which he’d hurled that accusation.
No doubt he thought he had reason. He believed her father was guilty of something much worse than merely telling what he thought was the truth. That meant he thought her father had lied, had deliberately sent an innocent man to prison and worse.
Shea couldn’t accept that, couldn’t accept the fact that anyone would do that, much less the man she believed to be her father. Nor did it fit with the picture painted of Jack Randall by people in Casey Springs.
She had to get away. She had to find out for herself.
Above all, she had to escape from Rafe Tyler and all the tumultuous emotions he evoked in her. Or he would wound her as fatally as he himself had been wounded.
She ate because she had to eat. The fish, which had smelled so good minutes earlier, was now tasteless to her. Only through sheer will was she able to finish a portion of what lay on the plate. She left the remainder for the two men, placing it on the stump, then went inside.
The cub was snoring gently in the corner. She wanted to touch it, to touch anything to keep at bay the aching loneliness she felt. But she didn’t want to wake the cub when it was sleeping so peacefully. She found another candle and lit it and just watched the bear.
She felt something at her feet and looked down.
Abner had his paws on her boots, looking around with those bright eyes.
She picked him up and cradled him, her index finger running down his back, which she knew he liked.
“Abner,” she whispered. “Now why were you named that?” It had such a whimsical touch from a man who allowed himself no whimsy.
The mouse made little squeaking noises. “You’ve been ignored,” she observed. “Hungry?”
He sat up, begging endearingly. Coincidence, she thought. He couldn’t know what she’d said.
Carefully, she rose, the mouse still in her hand, and went to Rate’s small store of goods, extracting a cracker from the tin. She set the mouse and cracker down on the cot and watched as he daintily ate his supper.
“Do you ever want to escape?” she asked.
“Do you think about a little girl mouse? Or adventures? Or have you already had more than you want?” She wondered about her sanity in talking to a rodent, but she needed to hear the sound of her own voice, and she wondered whether Rafe had needed to hear his voice in prison.
She remembered his bitter words when she had first come here. “Anyone can be tamed, Miss Randall.”
She couldn’t imagine Rafe being tamed, but she wondered whether he had tamed her, after all. Was that why she had stayed here when she could have escaped? Because he’d tamed her in ways she hadn’t expected?
She sighed. She was tired. So much had happened today. So many emotions expended. She went over to the cot; blood had dried on the blanket. His blood. She thought of that gaping wound again and was almost sick.
Still, she was too weary to do anything about the stains. She lowered her head on the rolled-up blanket that served as a pillow, thinking that sleep would be long in coming. She was mildly surprised when she felt herself drifting off into a dream-shrouded sleep.