A trap door. Root cellar most likely.
A third voice echoed from within. Small. Quiet. Definitely young. Stone smiled to himself. He’d just discovered Miss Lily Dorchester’s hiding place.
Now to get back to the privy before anyone grew suspicious.
Retracing his circuitous route, Stone hurried back to the trees and the narrow shack waiting there. He grabbed the handle and pulled the door wide, but a rustle in the oak’s branches overhead drew his attention.
The older boy, Stephen, was sitting on a limb a few feet above the roof of the outhouse. Stone’s gut clenched. Had the kid seen him stalking the house? No. His back was turned. Stone released a breath. Then he caught sight of the harpoon contraption and grinned. The boy looked like a hunter scoping out game. He’d done much the same as a kid, shooting stick arrows at imaginary deer, firing finger guns at stray dogs while pretending they were rabid coyotes. It was what boys did, playing at being men. Thankfully, the kid seemed far too intent on his make-believe prey to have noticed Stone’s surveillance. Stephen hunched forward on the branch, his homemade weapon at the ready, the shooting end aimed at something on the ground behind the privy.
Leaving the boy to protect his homestead from whatever lurked in his imagination, Stone stepped into the outhouse, closed the door behind him, and took care of business. He had just hooked his second suspender strap over his shoulder when a whoop echoed above him.
“Got you, you thievin’ cat!”
Stone chuckled softly, imagining a barn cat snarled in Stephen’s rope. Until a feral screech exploded across his senses. That was no barn cat.
Heart pounding, Stone shoved open the door and scanned the branches above him. If the boy had tangled with a wildcat, no little rope would protect him. He peered at the limb where he’d seen the boy perched, but he wasn’t there.
“Stephen!” he called, backing away to get a wider view of the tree. He instinctively reached for his belt, but his knife was gone. All his knives were gone. His guns, too. Stone hardened his jaw. Didn’t matter.
He turned toward the house and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Dobson! Get out here!” Praying his voice had carried, he sprinted around the outhouse in the direction the kid had been staring so intently.
A child’s scream spurred him on. Twigs snapped overhead. Leaves crackled. A flash of spotted gray fur caught the corner of Stone’s vision.
God help us.
Stephen had wrangled a bobcat.
7
With a running leap, Stone braced one foot against the tree’s trunk and launched himself toward a low branch. He caught it in both hands and used the momentum to swing his legs around. Gritting against the strain, he tightened his stomach and forced his body to finish the rotation. Once his chest was above the branch, he clambered to his feet and immediately scoured the tree for the bobcat.
Stephen was trying to shove through a tangle of branches above Stone’s right shoulder. If the boy could just get back to the privy roof, he’d be able to drop out of the tree and escape. But the bobcat was closing fast. Too fast. The beast leapt from limb to limb with terrifying ease.
“Hey! Over here!” Stone yelled and shook one of the branches beside him, trying to buy the boy time. Unfortunately, the cat paid him no mind, too intent on her prey higher up in the tree.
Stephen whimpered and ducked behind the trunk out of Stone’s sight. The cat hissed and sprang after him. Her claws dug into the bark of the near side of the trunk inches away from where he’d last seen the boy. She leaned back on her hind legs, poised for her next leap.
Stone recognized his chance. Grabbing hold of a head-high branch for balance with his left hand, he jumped and made a grab for the bobcat’s hind leg with his right. He closed his hand around the thin ankle and yanked with all his might. The cat screamed, her front claws frantically scratching at the bark of the trunk. Her wild movements threw Stone off balance. He had to release her to catch himself. But he’d done his job. The cat’s yellow eyes were locked on Stone. Fangs glistened as she growled.
“Run for the house, kid!” Stone yelled. “Go!”
Hearing her prey escaping, the cat jerked her attention back to Stephen.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Stone said. He released the branch steadying him and jumped a second time, this time with both hands free. He snagged the cat at her hips and pulled her down.
Onto him.
Her back collided with his head and chest as they fell from the tree. He crashed to the ground. Pain shot through his head and left shoulder as his back slammed into the dirt. The impact knocked the wind out of him.
Stone released the writhing bobcat immediately, praying she’d run off. Instead, she flipped onto her feet and pounced onto his chest. The cat swiped at his face. He dodged left. A razor slashed across his shoulder. Another pricked his jaw. And still, he couldn’t breathe.
The cat’s back claws dug into his chest. Stone arched, desperate to free himself, but the barbs only sank deeper. He punched at the beast with his right arm while shielding his eyes with his left. His fist collided with her side then the bone of her hip. But the counterattack only enraged her. Finally he landed a blow against the side of her head. The shock of it stunned her long enough for him to grasp her around the neck with his hands. With all the strength he could muster, he tore the she-devil away from his body and flung her off.
She hit the ground. The whine she made at the contact echoed in Stone’s ears. He rolled over onto his hands and knees, his lungs finally working again. He panted for breath. Then pulled his feet under him. The cat shrieked, raising the hair on the back of his neck. He pivoted to face her. Readied himself for the pounce. She bared her teeth. Hissed. Leaned back on her haunches.
Bang!
A gunshot rent the air. The cat spooked, jumping sideways.
“Go on! Get!” Dobson’s voice echoed from somewhere behind Stone a heartbeat before a second shot was fired. The bobcat fled.
Stone hung his head, lungs heaving. God bless the gnome.
Charlotte clutched a trembling Stephen against her skirts, his face buried in her shirtwaist, his arms wrapped around her midsection tighter than her corset strings. She should probably say something, offer some kind of verbal comfort, but all she could manage was a slight stroking of his hair. Too consumed was she by the vision of the warrior before her, ready to continue fighting a savage beast with his bare hands in order to save a child he barely knew.
She’d never witnessed such selfless courage.
Slowly the man stood and turned. His gaze found Mr. Dobson. He nodded—a single sharp dip of his chin. Mr. Dobson answered in kind. No words passed between them, but then words didn’t seem to be required. Respect thickened the air, along with gratitude, and possibly even a grudging acceptance.
Thank heavens Dobson had thought to grab his rifle when Stephen shouted for help. Mr. Hammond could have been . . . Charlotte sucked in an agonized breath. His wounds! Lord have mercy. Deep gashes sliced his chest where the cat had buried her claws. Smaller cuts crisscrossed his shoulders and collarbone. Blood oozed through the tattered white cotton of his shirt. How was the man even standing?
“Looks like she got ya pretty good,” Mr. Dobson said with a casual air that fell far short of the horror pulsing through Charlotte. He acted as if the man sported only a few minor abrasions. Outrageous!
Dobson shouldered his rifle and gestured toward the small log building he used as his sleeping quarters. “I got some salve we can slap on those cuts down at the bunkhouse.”
“Those gashes need more than a slap of salve,” Charlotte snapped, finally finding her voice. “Some of them will probably require stitching.” She took a step toward the men, keeping one arm around Stephen. The boy had been through too much for her to just unwrap his arms and leave him behind. “Mr. Dobson, ride into Madisonville and fetch the doctor. In the meantime, I’ll tend to Mr. Hammond’s injuries.”
“I’ll help!”
Charlotte turned to fin
d Lily hanging out of the kitchen doorway. Adoration glowed on her face as she stared at the stranger. Charlotte bit back a sigh. As if the situation weren’t already complicated enough. Thankfully, John demonstrated more sense, hiding halfway behind the doorpost.
“You’ll look after John.” Charlotte gave the girl a stern look.
“Yes, ma’am.” Lily’s crestfallen expression tore at Charlotte’s heart, but she held firm. The last thing she needed was for Lily to make a hero out of the man.
Charlotte twisted back to regard Stone and caught his grimace. He tried to conceal the action by swiveling his head away from her when he noticed her attention, but he’d not been fast enough. As if embarrassed by his weakened condition, he turned away from her and started hobbling after Dobson.
“Stephen?” She gave the boy’s shoulders a squeeze then gently pulled out of his hold. “I need you to fetch my medicine box, a basin of clean water, and a clean washrag from the laundry basket. Can you do that for me?”
His posture straightened as he tipped back his head to meet her gaze. “Yes, ma’am.” He sniffed once then set his jaw.
“Good.” She smiled her approval. “Bring them to Dobson’s cabin. That’s where Mr. Hammond will be staying for the remainder of his visit.”
The boy nodded but didn’t move, his attention riveted on the man gingerly making his way to the bunkhouse behind Mr. Dobson. “Mr. Hammond?” The call echoed across the yard.
The man stopped, glanced back. “Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
A dip of the chin was all the response the man gave, but Stephen seemed to find it sufficient. He mimicked the action himself then bolted for the house and the tasks awaiting him.
Charlotte longed to follow him, to hide from the man who stirred up a storm of conflicting emotions inside her. How could she feel indebted to a man whose very presence threatened everything she held dear? How could she see strength and courage and nobility in him when he was Dorchester’s man?
Well, at this particular moment, his employer’s identity was irrelevant. He’d risked his life to save Stephen. He deserved her gratitude along with whatever solace she could offer. Straightening her spine, she grabbed a handful of skirt and hurried after his retreating form. It didn’t take long to close the gap. The poor man was limping on top of everything else he’d endured.
“Did you injure your leg?” she asked as she came alongside him.
He didn’t look at her, just kept walking with his focus trained on the ground as if he’d topple if he couldn’t see the place where his feet connected with the earth. “Wrenched my hip when I fell out of the tree.”
Fell out of the . . . ? Mercy. She hadn’t seen that portion of the struggle. It was a wonder the man had survived at all.
“Mr. Dobson?”
The caretaker turned to face her and raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Hurry on to get the doctor. He could have broken ribs or other internal damage from the fall. I’ll see that Mr. Hammond gets settled.”
“Nothin’s broken,” Hammond ground out through a clenched jaw. “Just banged up. No need to bother the doc.”
Of all the stubborn, prideful, stupidly male things to say. Charlotte pierced him with a scathing glower, hoping he’d feel the heat of it even if he refused to look at her. “Well, you’re on my property, Mr. Hammond, so I get to make the rules. And Rule Number One clearly states that anyone who falls out of a tree while being attacked by a vicious bobcat has to be examined by a doctor. So your swollen pride will just have to take the hit.”
That got him to look up. She braced for his anger, but when his eyes met hers they danced with laughter. “That’s some Rule Number One. I suppose Number Two addresses the consequences for tanglin’ with a bear. No, wait. Coyote?”
“Water moccasin, actually,” Charlotte replied, barely managing to keep her lips from twitching into a smile. “We do have a lake nearby.”
Stone chuckled. Then winced, a keen reminder of what she was supposed to be about.
Charlotte darted ahead and held the bunkhouse door wide. Stone hobbled inside and limped toward an empty bunk. She frowned as she scanned the room’s interior. She’d never really paid much mind to this building, seeing as how it was Dobson’s domain. But several details would need to be seen to if Mr. Hammond were to take up residence. Sheets, for one. A blanket or two as well. The mattress on the spare bunk was bare, and the nights still got rather cold. And he’d want his saddle bags and whatever else Dobson had confiscated. The floor could use a good sweeping, and the rafters could use a few less cobwebs, but that would have to wait until—
“I don’t like leaving you and the young’uns here alone with him.” Mr. Dobson’s low-pitched grumble pulled her away from her mental inventory. “Even hurt as he is, he could still cause trouble.”
“The man just saved Stephen’s life,” she whispered back. “He deserves our help.”
Dobson didn’t look convinced. “He did us a good turn, I’ll give you that, but I still don’t trust him. I’m pretty sure he’s on Dorchester’s payroll.”
Charlotte was positive Stone was on Dorchester’s payroll, but now wasn’t the time to clarify that point. “I don’t trust him, either,” she said instead, “but neither do I wish him ill. He needs a doctor, and I aim to see he gets one.” A quiet groan behind her drew her gaze to the man in question as he lowered himself onto the small bed in the far corner. “He’s in no condition to try anything with Lily. Besides, all of his weapons are safely locked away.” Well, most of them anyway. She’d left his boot knife on her bureau when she’d gone to help Lily out of the cellar. “We’ll be fine.”
The caretaker frowned but made no further objection. “If he gives you any trouble, I keep a hunting knife stashed under my pillow. Don’t hesitate to use it.”
As if she could stomach adding more cuts to Stone Hammond’s already too-plentiful collection. But knowing Dobson was simply concerned for her welfare and that of the children, she nodded her agreement. Only then did the grizzled man march off to the barn to saddle a mount.
Stepping into the bunkhouse, Charlotte’s pulse fluttered despite her assurances to Dobson that she’d be fine. Mercy, what was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been alone with the man before. In her bedroom, no less. He posed no immediate threat. Besides, she owed him a little trust after his heroic efforts on Stephen’s behalf.
However, when he arched his back and peeled off what was left of his shirt to examine the damage the cat had wrought, Charlotte’s pulse moved from a flutter to a full-out gallop. Her step faltered and her mouth went dry at the impressive display of muscles beneath the wounds.
Oh, dear. Perhaps she was in more danger than she’d originally thought.
8
Stone gritted his teeth against the pain that speared him as he stripped out of his shirt. The stretch of muscles pulled at the injured flesh, causing new blood trails to trickle down his midsection and soak into the waistband of his trousers.
“It’s a miracle you’re still in one piece. Well . . . relatively one piece.” Charlotte Atherton’s eyes raked his chest, concern and a touch of squeamishness evident in her gaze. Along with something a tad bit warmer. Appreciation? Dare he think . . . attraction?
Stone straightened, the pain somehow not quite as bad as it had been a moment ago. A beautiful woman’s regard had a wonderful dulling effect on a man’s pain. The cuts and scrapes still stung like the dickens, but not so bad he couldn’t enjoy a little feminine admiration.
Her footsteps clicked quietly against the wooden floorboards as she crossed to his bunk. For a tall woman, she moved with remarkable lightness and grace. Always so cool and calm, so perfectly tidy. Made a man want to muss her up a bit so she didn’t feel so far above him.
Stone gripped the edge of the bunk, commanding his hands to behave themselves. There’d be no mussing today or any other day. He was here for the girl, not the woman. Besides, Charlotte Atherton saw him as
the enemy. She wouldn’t be lowering her guard, let alone her hair, around him anytime soon. And that was fine with him.
“Thank you for what you did.” The woman murmured the words in an offhand manner as she collected a three-legged stool that had been shoved into the corner behind his bunk and carried it to where he sat. She stopped about an arm’s length away from him, set the stool down, then pulled a lacy handkerchief from a pocket in her skirt and wiped the dust from the seat. Frowning slightly at the soiled cloth, she arranged it dirty side down on the stool before sitting herself atop it. “Your quick actions no doubt saved Stephen’s life.” She finally looked him in the face. “I’m only sorry that your bravery caused you so much harm.”
“Any other man worth his salt would have done the same.” Of course any other man would’ve had a weapon at his disposal and therefore probably would have avoided becoming a human scratching post, but he had no regrets. He was alive. The kid was alive. Shoot, even the cat was alive. He’d count that a victory.
Miss Atherton glanced toward the open door, a tiny line forming at the edge of her mouth. “Most of the men I’ve known wouldn’t have risked themselves to such an extent.”
“Then most of the men you’ve known haven’t been worth their salt.”
That tight little line at the corner of her mouth relaxed into a hint of a smile. Better. When she turned back to face him, her eyes danced, and his heart drummed out the cadence of another victory. “You may be right.”
Their gazes held, and Stone could swear that something tangible stretched between them. Something he’d never experienced with a woman before. Almost as if he recognized her. Not her physical appearance, but her.
He tore his gaze away, the jerk of his head restoring the throb from his earlier injury. His head. Of course. That would explain the odd feeling of recognition. Some kind of side effect from all the battering he’d encountered today. First a rifle butt to the forehead, then a crack on the back of his skull while he was feigning unconsciousness, and now falling out of a tree and wrestling with a bobcat. Any man would be off his feed after that kind of day.