* * *
Triggered by memories clear to him now, Clint tore his eyes from hers in order to seek out the places he remembered tracing with his lips: the soft skin beneath her earlobes, her supple neck, the hollow at the base of her throat, that tempting mouth . . .
This woman had not only awakened, she'd somehow engaged, long-buried emotions. But then, he'd been out of his mind with fever. He allowed that thought to calm him and remove his guilt a bit. Now he needed to find out how far he'd taken it. "You look tired. You okay?"
"I'm fine," she said, though it was obvious she wasn't. Her face showed the strain. Her skin was pale, and half circles darkened her eyes. She looked crestfallen. Knowing he had caused it, his heart ached in a new way.
"Let's have a look at this arm," she said in a small voice. Slowly she started to unwrap his bandages, grimacing when it stuck to places where blood and pus had dried. She scooted the wash basin over on its small table and put his arm in it. "We'll soak this, bandage and all, so I can remove it without causing you more pain."
Clint heard the sadness in her voice. He grieved over what he'd done, how he'd somehow hurt her. He knew he couldn't avoid it any longer. "Look, Jessie, about last night."
Her head shot up. Her eyes were huge with alarm. "You remember?"
"Yeah . . . well, no. Not at first. I didn't realize it was real. Thought it was a dream until Mary put two and two together about your chin."
Jessica flushed scarlet. She dropped her head and touched her chin.
Aw shoot. Sometimes his words were too straight forward.
Almost instantly her head came back up. "W-what must Mary think?" she stammered.
"She thinks I'm the louse that I am, I guess. Don't worry about her. She's getting a kick out of this, I'd bet," Clint said, irritated all over again.
"She thinks it's funny?" Jessica groaned. "And why would she think you the louse, when I'm the one who took advantage of you?"
Surprise shot his brows up. "You took advantage of me?" He worked at not choking out a laugh. Could she be this naïve? Yes, he thought. She could. He chuckled warmly. "That's not possible, little one."
"Why isn't it?" Her expressive hazel eyes went wide with distress. "You were totally delirious, out of your mind with fever." She paused. "Though I didn't know it at the time," she added, almost too quietly to be heard. "But I was perfectly in my right mind."
Clint's heart did a funny wavering thing. Her willingness to shoulder the blame tugged at him. "Jessie . . . it's not your fault. It wasn't you who hauled me on top of you, now was it? I remember doing that now, although it was like my mind was on fire, and foggy all at the same time." He shook his head, trying to loosen more memories.
She blushed again, probably at his openness this time. Then he watched as she sat up straighter and lifted her chin. "But don't you see? That's exactly what I'm talking about. You weren't in your right mind, or you wouldn't have done it."
Her statement took him aback. Would he have done it? He waited for a gut reaction, something firm and inarguable that could set him back on solid footing. But he was left with only a tepid no, one that could be flipped to a yes faster than he wanted to admit.
She waited, her eyes boring into his, daring him to disagree. When he said nothing, her shoulders slumped. Her expression, one of sheer disappointment, broke his heart. He had to remove that fragile, sad look.
Apologize. "Listen, Jessie . . . I . . ." Stumped, he let the sentence drop.
She squeezed her eyes closed at his lousy attempt. Sheer agony colored her sweet face, tearing him up inside. Truth be told, he had been poleaxed by her last night. Now, he needed time to get his mind straight. Problem was, he couldn't formulate any words to make it better for her when he was in such turmoil himself. But somehow he knew his thoughtless efforts to make things right had crushed something precious in her.
His gut twisted, knowing he still had to find out. When her eyes opened, he started again, more painstakingly. "I . . . I don't remember it all. I need to know what happened." That didn't sound quite right. He sincerely hoped she wouldn't think he'd just laid the whole responsibility of it on her.
Her expression shifted from sorrow to dejection, then to a sort of wild look when she finally hit him with a response. "Nothing happened that you don't remember, I'm sure."
"Jessie, really I—"
"No, let me finish," she said, cutting him off and shooting to her feet. A boldness he'd never seen in her before took over. "It was staggering and erotic," she went on, her words biting. Her eyes flashed and her thick ponytail flung about with each emphasized word. "It was delicious and remarkable and I don't regret one minute of it." Her fists were clenched at her sides now. "Though I should, since I'm sure God isn't pleased." She drooped at those words, like she'd withered a little inside. "Then you just . . . went limp." She swallowed audibly. "Get it? I was so phenomenal, I put you to sleep."
She closed her eyes and gulped in an uneven breath, like she was damming up a great sob. "You were delirious the whole time!"
She opened her eyes and bounced a glance off him so fast he wondered if she'd actually done it. He stared hard at her profile. Mottled red had crept up her neck, and deep grief lines deepened around her mouth. Lines he never wanted to be the cause of again in this lifetime.
Her suffering struck him through the heart with the precision of an iron-tipped arrow. He started to speak but she held out a hand to stop him then shifted her gaze to his eyes. Sporadic tears now streaked down her rosy cheeks. "You're innocent." Her voice had diminished, as if there wasn't enough energy left to finish. "So, you see, you have nothing to worry about." She'd choked out her last words.
With that, she turned on her toes and fled from the room. At the soft, restrained click of the front door, he flinched, impacted more by that than if she'd slammed it.
Clint cursed, struggling to sit up and get his arm out of the basin at the same time. All he managed to do was slosh the water onto the floor. Her blatant confession rattled him. What had possessed him to do such a thing? Even delirious, he would have had some sort of restraint, wouldn't he? The questions and doubts swam through his mind.
"Mary, are you out there?" he hollered, rattling the rafters.
Mary hustled into the room with a look of terror. "What's the matter? Why are you trying to get up?"
He muttered a curse, remembered himself, apologized to Mary and all around felt half out of his mind with powerlessness. "It's Jessie. I got to go find her." He grunted with effort. "Help me up, Mary!"
She hesitated, then brought him her husband's old cane and hefted him to his feet. He wobbled, then planted the cane in front of him and shuffled toward the door.
Mary gripped his forearm. "You're still in your underwear, dear boy. I'll get your pants." He scowled when he saw her almost amused expression.
"I'm glad you find this so amusing, Mary, but I don't! Whether you believe it or not, I would never purposely hurt Jessie. I've got to fix this."
He started for the door again. Mary brought his pants to the front of him. Staring at her, he rolled his eyes and submissively raised one leg then the other. One-handed he buttoned them enough to keep them from falling off while hobbling toward the door. Mary followed.
He glared at her. "Stay here!"
She stopped and nodded her agreement.
Once out the front door and down the porch steps, he staggered toward a small pathway that led to a mountain stream, hoping that was where Jessie had fled. At first he thought the women's predictions that he'd faint would come true, but gradually he gained a little strength, powered by the resolve to find her.
Soon, he heard hiccupping somewhere in the woods. He slowed, cocking his head to guess the direction. Like he'd anticipated, the sounds came from the direction of the stream. He took a short cut, weaving his way through the pines, ignoring the pain the forest floor gave his feet.
He found Jessie on her knees at the edge of the stream, splashing the cool mountain wate
r on her face. Every few seconds a hiccup escaped her.
He trudged toward her but stopped short, not knowing exactly what to do. Planting a shoulder hard against a pole pine, he propped himself upright to keep an eye on her while he tried to figure it out. But all he could think was: delicious, erotic, remarkable. All those charged words coming out of Jessie's mouth may as well have come out of his. What do I do with this, God?
What am I doing? Why am I asking God?
Then the answer came as clear as if it had been spoken aloud. Love her with your heart.
Clint blinked. Then blinked again. The fever must have jumbled his mind. But deep down he knew that wasn't it.
A spike of brittle anger rose up. Now you speak to me, God? The fury was unreal, a power so overwhelming and ugly that it could only have been fed by Satan himself. Yet it had been dwelling all this time deep in his own soul.
But the rage from his past—not gone by any means, only buried—paled in comparison to his present resentment. How, God, could you have let me hurt Jessie? She loves you! She trusts you!