“Christ. I should have read the labels, I guess. I might have bought something that wouldn’t burn.”
“It’s f-fine. I appreciate that you even bothered. It wasn’t part of our deal, you buying stuff for me.”
“Our deal. You sound like one of my dad’s scratched records. I wish you’d get that bargain you made with me out of your head.”
Feeling strangely vague and detached from reality, she glanced up. “You really have a dad?”
He narrowed an eye. “No, a stork dropped me on my mother’s doorstep.”
“Well, of course you have a dad. What I meant was—” She broke off, not entirely sure what she meant. Her mind didn’t seem to be tracking right, which left her mouth to operate solo. “It’s just that you—well, looking at you, one doesn’t picture you with a family. Parents, brothers and sisters, and all of that.”
“I assure you that I’m normal in that respect, with a mom, a dad, and a brother.” He loosened his hold on the spread with one hand to rub his bewhiskered jaw. “God, do I look that bad?”
Maggie’s thinking was so hazy it took her a moment to realize he’d turned loose of one side of the bedspread. She grabbed for the drooping section.
“Oops! Sorry.” He jerked the chenille back up. “I didn’t see a thing. Honest.”
Above the scraggly growth of beard, the skin over his high cheekbones turned a ruddy red. She knew he was lying through his teeth. At least he had the good grace to blush.
“All done?” At her nod, he relinquished the spread into her keeping while he helped her lie back down. “It hurts like hell, doesn’t it? I got sandwiched between a corral rail and a bull once. Cracked two ribs, so I can sympathize.”
“So the cowboy apparel isn’t just for looks?” she asked, her breath snagging with a catch in her side.
He tucked the covers over her. “For looks? You’re joking, right? Even back when I was a rancher, I never dressed to make a fashion statement, and I’ve gone downhill on greased runners since.”
Maggie studied his chiseled features, trying to imagine what he’d look like cleaned up. His blue eyes were the kind to make a woman’s heartbeat skitter, and his large, sharply bridged nose was attractive on him, but she could see little of his lower face with the whiskers covering so much. He had a strong, square jaw and chin. She could discern that. And a full, sensual mouth when he wasn’t grim-lipped and scowling.
He distracted her from her perusal of him by thrusting one of the towels at her. “Cover the goods. Now it’s my turn.”
Tugging the towel under the bedding, she fumbled to spread it over her chest. When she went still, he drew the covers down to her waist. Maggie crossed her arms over the terry cloth so it wouldn’t shift.
He soaked a sterile cotton ball with medication, then started dabbing at her closest shoulder and arm. She felt so uncomfortable she closed her eyes. An instant later when she felt him blowing on her bare skin, her lids popped back open. He flicked her one of those whiskey-and-smoke looks that unsettled her so, but he didn’t stop puffing.
“Sorry, but I know how it must sting.” He returned his gaze to her shoulder. “The asshole wears a ring, doesn’t he?”
A picture of Lonnie’s diamond flashed in Maggie’s mind. Oh, how she detested that ring, knowing he’d bought it with some of her dad’s life insurance.
“You know, I’ve changed my mind about asking nothing of you as payback for the money I spent,” Rafe suddenly told her.
Her heart leaped and then sank with crushing disappointment.
“As payback, answer me this. You’re covered with bruises from the neck down. How come there isn’t so much as a mark on your face?”
Maggie swallowed, the walls of her throat feeling as if they were coated with fast-drying glue. “That’s it? All you want is the answer to one question?”
“Maybe two or three.” His eyes glinted with laughter. “Let’s agree on three. That way, I’m leaving myself some room to be nosy again if the urge hits.”
Maggie nearly smiled. “You’re selling out cheap.”
“Yeah, well, I’m letting you off easy. Usually I’m more shrewd at dickering.” He dabbed at a scrape above her elbow and blew softly on the moistened patch of raw skin, making her stomach flutter.
“Well? You gonna pay up? Or do I have to take my money’s worth out in trade?” When he met her gaze, the glint of laughter in his eyes had turned unmistakably mischievous. “Don’t press your luck too far, Maggie girl. You come nicely packaged, even if you are a little too colorfully spotted with red and purple blue to suit my tastes.”
“Bruises on my face would have been a dead giveaway that he’d beaten me up,” she hastened to reveal.
“Ah.” He nodded. “Makes sense. Can I take that to mean there’s someone else in your life who might take exception to his working you over?”
“Is that your second question?”
“Always on your toes, aren’t you?” He nodded. “We can count it as my second question if you’re forthcoming with the right answers. Not only who that person is, but why in the hell he hasn’t stomped the snot out of the bastard.”
“‘He’ is a she. My mom. And she’s a dear heart who would never dream he might hurt me unless she saw evidence of it. I’ve kept it from her. She’s in fragile health and shouldn’t get upset.”
“She can’t be much of a mother if she never noticed you gimping around.”
“She’s as good a mother as she can be, and that’s all the information you’re getting unless you want to use up all three questions.”
Rafe leaned closer to work on her arm, taking care not to let his chest graze hers. She lay rigid, her small chin lifted a notch, as if it took all of her self-control not to shove his hands away. His heart broke for her. It was horrible enough that she’d been so badly abused. But to be placed in this position, on top of it all, having to endure the indignity of a stranger touching her…Sometimes there was simply no justice in the world.
He yearned to gather her close and promise her no one would ever lay a hand on her again. But even as the thought took shape, he shoved it away. He’d been around this girl one night and part of a morning. He had no business caring about her like this. The rush of feelings he was experiencing didn’t even make sense.
When he was finished cleaning her cuts, he drew the sheet over her back, positioning the top hem well above her shoulder blades as he pushed to his feet. Regarding the back of her dark head, he said, “I have to go out for a while. Jaimie is sleeping right next to you. If he cries, do you think you’ll wake up?”
Clutching the sheet close, she eased painfully onto her side, her face so pale it was nearly as white as the pillowcase. Her long, dark eyelashes fluttered, and she fixed him with a befuddled gaze that told him she was mere inches away from flickering out like a candle flame.
“He can’t roll off the mattress?”
“I rolled up a towel as a bolster pad. He’ll be fine.” Rafe raked a hand through his hair, wincing at the tug when he hit a tangle. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Where are you going?” she asked faintly.
“To get some food, for one thing.”
She searched his face, her expression conveying resigned hopelessness. “You’re not coming back, are you?”
The thought had occurred to him a couple of times. He couldn’t deny it. Only he couldn’t bring himself to be quite that rotten. The edge of fear he heard in her voice made him wonder what in God’s name had happened in her young life to make her trust so little. Did she really think he would just walk out and leave her like this? She was too weak to take care of herself, let alone that baby.
“I’ll be back.”
“I know it’s not your problem, but if you don’t, I’m afraid I won’t hear Jaimie if he cries.” She gestured limply with her hand. “If I can just rest for a little bit, I’ll be better and…” Her voice trailed away, and she blinked.
A part of Rafe felt glad that she had at least come to
trust him enough to want him to come back, but another part of him sensed the trap and yearned to run. He bent to collect his coat from the floor where she had dropped it. “I’ll be back, Maggie. I promise,” he said hoarsely.
As though that was all she’d needed to hear, she let her eyes fall closed. He drew on the coat and stood there for a moment, his gaze tracing the lines of her face. He couldn’t recall ever having seen a sweeter countenance. Even in that, he found cause for alarm, for until now, he had never entertained such thoughts about any woman but Susan.
After checking to make sure he had the room key, Rafe retrieved his hat and quietly let himself out. Once on the porch, he double-checked the lock to make sure no one could get inside. Then he stood and grabbed deeply for breath, his lungs aching at the influx of icy air.
As he struck off across the empty parking lot, he kept hearing the echo of her voice. His guts knotted, and he clenched his back teeth. Never in his life had he broken his word. It shamed him to realize that he yearned to now.
Chapter Four
Wind buffeted Rafe as he strode along the sidewalk toward the restaurant at the corner of the block. He shoved his hands deep into the lined pockets of his overcoat and hunched his shoulders. When he came upon a drugstore with colorful Halloween displays in the windows, seeing the jack-o’-lantern made his heart catch.
He drew to a stop and stared, waiting for the pain to strike as it always did when something reminded him unexpectedly of his family. Only the pain was no longer there. A sad acceptance had taken its place. He closed his eyes, searching within himself almost frantically for the grief that had been a part of him for so long. Its gradual lessening was one of the reasons he’d been drinking so heavily these last few months. He was starting to get over losing his family. How could that be? What kind of man was he, to forget them so quickly?
Forcing himself to move, he made his way almost blindly along the sidewalk. Damn. He needed a swig of whiskey. Strike that. He needed an entire bottle. Oblivion. That was what he wanted. So he wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that he no longer wanted to curl up somewhere and die when he remembered his family.
As though in answer to a prayer, an overhead sign loomed in his blurred vision. Liquor Store. Rafe’s stride faltered, and the money in his front trouser pocket seemed to sear his left thigh. He’d gotten seven hundred dollars for his wedding ring. Why shouldn’t he buy something for himself with some of it?
A bell tinkled as he pushed open the door. His hands began to shake. Vaguely aware of a tall, thin woman watching him from behind the cash register, he headed straight for the ceiling-high shelves of booze that lined the right wall, his familiarity with the labels leading him unerringly to the whiskey section. Early Times. Rafe curled his hand around the neck of a half-gallon bottle, his mouth cottony with a raging thirst.
“That’ll be twenty-three fifty,” the woman said when Rafe approached the counter. “Plastic or paper?”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure what she meant. Then he realized she was asking about his preference in sacks. “Paper.”
He set the bottle on the counter, then drew back the tail of his coat and shoved up the sleeve to dive his hand into his jeans pocket. As he pulled out the wad of money and started sorting through the bills, his gaze snagged on the inside of his left wrist. A shade lighter than the rest of him, squiggly little lines marbled his skin. It looked as if he’d trickled bleach on himself.
Flashing back to the motel room, Rafe remembered dribbling baby formula on the inside of his wrist. He stared at the irregular lines, realizing that their paler brown color was his skin showing through the gray-brown buildup of grime. Jesus. Was he that filthy? It hadn’t been that long since he’d had a shower. He shifted his gaze to his shirt cuff. Not only was it badly frayed at the edge, but it was nearly black in places with ground-in dirt. He could remember a time when he had showered and changed clothes from the skin out twice a day.
Uncertain how long he’d been standing there staring at his wrist, Rafe jerked his gaze back to the clerk. She peered at him from behind a pair of rhinestone glasses, her brown hair tidily styled to frame an aging face. She looked like the type who used a magnifying glass to pluck her eyebrows. Fiery heat crawled up his neck.
“That’ll be twenty-three fifty,” she repeated, clearly ill at ease.
He looked at the bottle of whiskey. For well over a year, he’d been aware he was hooked on alcohol, but he’d laughingly told himself he couldn’t be classified as a problem drinker until he decided to quit and couldn’t. Since he had no intention of quitting, wherein lay the problem?
Now that he was sober, he couldn’t quite see the humor in that way of thinking. He was a bum—a filthy bum. He lived from one moment to the next wondering how he would get his hands on the next bottle. Less than an hour ago, he’d mixed formula, handling the nipple of Jaimie’s baby bottle. He had washed his hands first, but gazing down at them now, he saw the black under his fingernails and on his knuckles. Clean? Not by a long shot. And he sure as hell couldn’t claim to be germ-free.
“Mister? You gonna buy this whiskey, or stand there while it ages?”
Rafe closed his fist over the money. “I’ve, um…” He retreated a step from the counter, his gaze locked on the bottle. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“I already rang it up.”
Rafe kept backing away. Just looking at the whiskey made him shake. But the yearning would have to keep until he parted company with Maggie and Jaimie. He had to think of that baby, damn it. Maggie couldn’t care for him by herself right now, and if Rafe meant to assume her responsibilities while she got a few hours’ rest, he’d be damned if he’d do it drunk.
Maggie surfaced from a deep sleep to the sound of water running. She strained to open her eyes. The ceiling looked unfamiliar. Bleary-eyed, she scanned her surroundings, remembered Rafe Kendrick bringing her to a motel room, and turned her head to check on Jaimie. The baby no longer lay beside her. Alarm registered in her foggy mind. Gone? Oh, God.
Pain exploded the length of her body as she started to sit up. She gasped and grabbed her side, scarcely able to breathe. Then she heard a deep, resonant voice coming from the bathroom.
“Aren’t you a pistol? Look at those fists and feet go. You like getting a bath, I can tell that much.” Water splashed. “Well, you’re not alone, little guy. I kind of enjoyed my shower, too. It feels good to be clean, doesn’t it?”
Rafe. He was giving Jaimie a bath? Maggie sank back against the pillows and drew the blankets to her chin, relieved beyond measure that she needn’t move. Everything hurt, even her butt. She let her eyes drift closed, listening to the rich timber of his voice and wondering yet again if the man was heaven-sent. How strange that her savior should be a ragged drunk in a sheepskin coat and droopy Stetson. Maybe, she decided drowsily, he was her guardian angel in disguise. Or a frog who was actually a handsome prince who had come to carry them off into the sunset on his prancing steed.
The thought made Maggie smile slightly, for she’d long since stopped believing in fairy tales. That was for little girls her sister Heidi’s age, and, sadly, even for them, happy endings were few and far between.
Weighted with exhaustion, Maggie drifted in a sleepy haze. She felt as if she’d been rolled up in a heavy rug. She wasn’t sure how much time passed. It might have been a minute or an hour. When she heard the bathroom door open, she struggled to lift her eyelashes.
As the man standing at the foot of the bed came into focus, Maggie blinked, convinced she must be imagining him. He resembled Rafe Kendrick. His hair was jet black, at any rate, and he had the same dark skin, smoky blue eyes, and sharply bridged nose, but there all similarity ended. Not only was this man beardless, but he had short hair, looked well-scrubbed, and wore clothes so spanking new they still bore package creases. He was also one of the handsomest men Maggie had ever clapped eyes on, the very epitome of tall, dark, and dangerous. His new blue chambray shirt was open at the collar, revealing a
V of bronze, muscular chest, lightly dusted with black hair.
No question about it: she was dreaming.
Cradling Jaimie in one arm, he glanced down. “I can’t look that different. Except for the clothes, all I did was get a haircut, and shower and shave.”
Where had her drunken bum gone? Only a bit ago, she’d been likening this man to a frog, and now, as though she’d conjured him up, the handsome prince had materialized.
He brushed at a horizontal crease in the new jeans, which, unlike his old pair, fit him properly, revealing the powerful contours of his legs. “I thought I ought to clean up.” When he met her gaze again, she glimpsed a ruddy flush creeping up his tanned throat. “Handling the baby and all that, I didn’t want to—” He shrugged and thrust his fingers through his hair, which fell across his forehead in glistening, unruly waves the instant he released it. “I just thought I should clean up is all.”
“Clean up” didn’t describe the transformation. And since when did dream princes blush? A deep crease appeared in his lean cheek as his firm lips tipped into a crooked grin. Oh, God. He was drop-dead gorgeous.
Maggie closed her eyes, too exhausted to deal with this right now. With all the hair and baggy clothes, he’d looked older. Now he didn’t look a day over thirty. Remembering how she’d let him doctor her cuts, her heart flip-flopped. He’d seen her in the nude—close to it, anyway. And he’d touched her practically everywhere. That had been embarrassing enough before; now it was mortifying.
“Maggie?” he said softly.
She kept her eyes closed, pretending to be asleep. It wasn’t a difficult ruse to pull off. Right now her throbbing body craved rest, the need overriding all else. Later. She would worry about everything later.
As that thought sifted through her mind, Maggie let the warm, fuzzy blackness settle over her again. She was only distantly aware of the sounds Rafe made as he cared for Jaimie—his deep voice murmuring nonsensical phrases, paper sacks rustling, the clank of something metal in the bathroom, and then water running. In her sleepy mind’s eye, she pictured him as the ragged cowboy again, far more comfortable with that image than with the tall, ebon-haired man who’d taken his place.