Her hands shook as she unbuttoned the placket of his pants, trying to turn her thoughts away from the day he'd left the orphanage. She worked his jeans past his hips, sliding them off. She'd been so intent on getting them free of his legs she hadn't noticed he wore nothing under them.
Her breath caught. There was no hint of the boy she'd known from the orphanage days. His muscles were hard and defined. His bronze skin was streaked with blood, his handsome features unrecognizable now that he was swollen with bruising. Dark hair sprinkled his chest, trailing a line downward—
She quickly pulled the cover up to his waist, her cheeks flushing warmly in the late afternoon light. He was beyond noticing, anyhow, she thought, and was glad for that.
Allie poured some water into the basin at the washstand, belatedly remembering the bag of supplies she'd brought home. She'd be needing those bandages and whiskey shortly. Carrying the basin to the bed, Allie set it on her night table, close at hand.
She hurried to the front door. Jay had already untied the bag and laid it on the porch. As she retrieved it and headed back to her bedroom Brandon's eyes slitted open, and he regarded her from swollen, pummeled lids. She put the bag in the chair beside the bed and carefully drew out the first bottle of whiskey, then the second, setting them side by side on the nightstand with the basin of water.
"For me?"
At his hoarse question, she cast a look over her shoulder and smiled. "Yes…but not like you think."
"Yeah – exactly like I think," he muttered.
She picked up one of the whiskey bottles and turned to face him. "Would you like a drink of it before we start?"
He closed his eyes. "Liquid courage…"
"It might help, as badly as you're hurt."
But he shook his head. "No. I'll pass."
Allie set the bottle back in its place on the night table beside the other one. "Are you ready?"
He nodded after a few seconds, his eyes still shut. "Let's do it." His voice was low; husky, as he filtered the pain.
She moved the chair near the bed once more and opened the whiskey. "I'm sorry it's got to be whiskey rather than real medicine. I didn't think Zach would be able to fill my list on such short notice—" she commented wryly, "and this'll work fine. You'll just smell like a saloon—"
"You like whiskey, 'Just Allie'?"
She poured some of the liquid on a soft cloth and began to wash the lacerations on his arm. A smile curved her lips at his question. "Not enough to bathe in it." Her eyes narrowed in concern as he flinched. "Sorry." She cleaned the top of his shoulder nearest where she sat, where Tom Carver's whip had left raised, bloody welts.
Brandon made no move, holding himself with a taut surety born of dealing with pain on a regular account.
His bronzed skin, baked even darker by the sun, showed the marks of deep bruising beneath rippling muscle. He slowed his breathing, controlling it as Allie moved the whiskey-soaked rag across the open cuts and lacerations. His jaw tightened as Allie leaned across him, paying particular attention to the scored flesh on his left shoulder, a mirror image of the territory she'd just charted on the right.
His swollen lips slowly curved as Allie's own breath hitched in empathy. "It's not that bad," he whispered.
She shook her head, soaking the cloth again, to clean his battered ribs. "Yes, it is. You always say that—"
Brandon's eyes opened slowly, his expression guarded. "Seems like we've been here before – 'Just Allie'."
The room was so silent, so still, that the clock on the living room mantel sounded like a cannon, even in the next room. Allie stopped the movement of the rag and closed her eyes, drawing a long, deep breath. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest, and she was certain he could hear it. There was no denying the long-ago feelings for him that had surfaced immediately on her part. But how would he feel about her? Now was the time to find out. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. "I've missed you, Brandon. It's been—" she broke off, and then plunged on, "Ten years is a long time."
Chapter 4
"Son of a bitch!"
Doc Wilkins raked Arnie Smith with a jaundiced eye from behind his glasses. He took a step back from the operating table. "Hold him," he directed, glancing up at Carver and Anderson.
Zach Anderson's Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. "He already took a swing at me once."
"Just 'til I can get the chloroform under his nose," the doctor equivocated.
"No chloroform!" Smith bellowed.
The doctor turned to him and pushed him back to the table with one hand. "Yes. Chloroform." He shook his head in disgust. "Can't believe I have to have men here to hold you for that. You just have to breathe it. It doesn't hurt."
"I want him!" Smith snarled, ignoring the doctor. "I want that damn breed and I want that girl."
A caustic smile skewed Doc Wilkins' thin lips, and his blue eyes bored into Smith. "I'll treat you, Arnie, but I don't have to like doin' it. And I don't have to like you. You've caused enough trouble – don't you think?" He gave a sharp nod at Smith's bloody leg. "You're not going after anyone for a few weeks."