Stacey Kayne – Mountain Wild (страница 8)

“Wildflowers?”

Sapphire eyes and black hair against delicate ivory skin surfaced in his mind.

The woman. She’d stayed nearby, stroking his skin, encouraging him to drink.

Rest, Garret. You have a fever.

The soft, husky voice tantalized his memory with the alluring scent of her skin, her silky softness beneath his lips.

“A dream,” he muttered. The only safe place to love a woman.

He pushed the wool blanket aside and froze, surprise prickling through him. He wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. His gaze skated around the room, searching every shadowed corner. He was alone. In the corner beside the stove was a rumpled blanket and tooth-scrapped bone. Wherever his caretaker had gone, she’d taken his dog. Why was he here? If he was sick, why wasn’t he in his own bed? And yet…he didn’t recall getting sick. For all he knew some woman had knocked him from his saddle and dragged him to her bed.

Her delicate feminine features surfaced in his mind.

A man could suffer a worse fate.

Another glance around the rough rock walls snuffed that thought. He doubted the delicate creature of his dreams would live in such desolate surroundings. Had he dreamed up her pretty face to match the soothing voice and gentle hands that had been caring for him?

He shifted his feet to the floor with silent caution. His bare toes touched down on a cold, smooth surface.

Polished wood? He glanced again at the tidy space, noting the canisters, boxes and stacked dishes lined up all nicelike on the wide-set shelves, the stack of blankets folded at the foot of the bed. He’d known a couple of miners who’d carved out similar dwellings—but he’d never known any miner to be quite so tidy. Every breath drew in a clean floral scent and the mouthwatering aroma of stew.

How the hell had he gotten here? He closed his eyes, trying to remember. Last he could recall he’d been riding range…he’d ridden home at noon and—Duce. He’d been looking for Duce. His business partner hadn’t made it in for the noontime meal. The way the countryside had been strewn with violence and mishaps lately, too many ranchers turning up dead and a storm rolling in…

Chills prickled his skin as he recalled the cold, whipping rain washing out horse tracks he’d followed into the hills—old panic clenched his chest.

He hadn’t found Duce.

Garret shot to his feet, pulling the blanket around his waist as he stood. The quick movement made him lightheaded and wafted him with the scent of spring flowers, reminding him that whoever lived here had done more than simply tend his fever. He’d been bathed.

He moved toward the door, each step a slow stretch of tense muscles. The way his head and body ached, he could have been struck by lightning. Maybe Duce had found him and brought him to this place.

Spotting his boots tucked beneath the small table beside the rickety door, he pulled them out and stepped into the tall leather shafts. His clothes were nowhere in sight. Surely he’d been fully dressed when he’d arrived. He scanned three large barrels stacked on top of the other in the far corner and a large chest at the foot of the bed. He was tempted to search their contents for his britches. A pinch in his bladder urged him to search out a privy first. After he relieved himself, he’d find whoever had taken his clothes and his dog and demand some answers.

He pulled open the door and had to shield his face from a flurry of snowflakes. Cold wind buffeted against his bare chest, sending an instant chill shivering across his skin. He stared gap-jawed at the snow piled some three feet high on either side of the door, a path having been recently shoveled.

“What the hell?”

Through the haze of swirling flakes tall timbers reached toward a gray sky. White-topped mountain peaks rose up from all sides.

He was in the high country. He wouldn’t have ridden into these snow-packed mountains.

A familiar bark echoed over the rush of wind and Garret stepped into the brisk cold. “Boots!”

Snow burst from the embankment up ahead as his dog bounded onto the shoveled path. Garret grinned, relieved to see his shaggy friend.

“Hey, boy,” he said, reaching down to pat his furry head while keeping his gaze on movement near the end of the path. He narrowed his eyes, trying to peer through the falling snow as the stranger drew near. The small form slowly emerged through the flurry of flakes, a white hooded coat blending with the winter landscape. He couldn’t make out more than a faint outline and a shotgun clutched in the left hand.

Caution tensed his muscles as the stranger drew close.

Mad Mag was the first thought to his mind, until she looked up. The deep blue eyes and delicate, feminine features lurking beneath that hood stole his breath.

She’s real. The passionate woman from his dream.

“You should be inside.”

Her voice was low, husky, and flooded his mind with the sounds of breathy moans, the image of her rose-tipped breast straining toward his mouth.

“Move.”

Her harsh tone and stern gaze jarred him from the tantalizing vision. He stepped back, allowing her to rush him through the doorway. She quickly shut out the wind and wisps of snow.

“Go lay down.” She pointed toward the far wall, her stern tone commanding as she stared him right in the eyes.

Maybe this bitty thing had clubbed him over the head and dragged him to her bed. Shock rippled through him…along with an undeniable stir of attraction.

Boots brushed his leg on his way to the corner, and Garret realized she was talking to his dog, not him. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble-coated jaw. He obviously wasn’t working with a full deck. His brain struggled to take hold of the notion that his dream lover stood before him. He stared at her, his mind lost somewhere between reality and a really good dream.

She propped her gun beside the door and glanced briefly at the floor. Her supple pink lips pressed to a firm line as her gaze moved over puddles of melting snow. He’d left the door wide-open.

“Sorry about that.”

Sharp blue eyes narrowed, her expression bordering on lethal. Not quite the passionate woman from his memory—his dreams, he silently amended. He eased back toward the warmth of the stove, his instincts warning him not to crowd the little filly. Her soft, delicate features were a clear contradiction to the hard blue eyes watching him with calculating caution.

She stayed beside the door, her posture stiff, defensive. The hand hovering near her waist made him wonder if she wore a gun beneath her coat. She pushed her hood back, revealing silky black braids tucked behind her ears. In his mind her hair was loose, fanned out across his arm, his chest—

“How do you feel?” she asked, her smooth voice washing over him like a sensual caress.

Uncomfortably aroused. He shifted his hold on the blanket and had to remind himself he didn’t know this woman. Other than the alluring images in his mind, he’d never seen her before.

“Alive, I suppose,” he answered. At the moment he wasn’t certain of anything else. His dreams blended with reality, distracting him from the questions he should be asking. Like why he’d awakened in the high country, where were his clothes and…had he actually bedded this woman? Best to start with something simple.

“Where am I?”

“About eight miles north of your ranch.”

Eight miles? Most of them straight up by the looks of the mountainous terrain he’d glimpsed outside.

She shrugged off her heavy fur. Garret wasn’t sure what he expected to see beneath the long coat, but the vibrant red flowers stitched across the shoulders of her white shirt took him by surprise. The garment hung to mid-thigh, cinched at her narrow waist by a beaded belt. She wasn’t wearing a gun. A leather sheath secured a long bowie knife at her hip.

Tiny but fierce, he thought, noting how her gaze didn’t stray from him as she hung her coat beside the door. Buckskin britches encased her slender legs, the bottoms tucked into her tall Indian-style boots. He only knew of one mountain woman to frequent these ranges, had been close enough to the old woman called Mad Mag to catch her stench, to see the filth on her hands as she had held a rifle to a man’s chest. The wide white cuffs of this woman’s shirt were etched with red thread and hid her hands, revealing just enough of her fingers to see her clean, short fingernails. She smelled as fresh as a spring rain.

“You were caught in the storm,” she said, drawing his gaze back to her young, pretty face.

He remembered a rainstorm, and the cold…waking to a beautiful woman sleeping in his arms. His gaze slid to the bed, a sense of dread tightening his gut.

“Do I have you to thank?” he asked. “Or was it your husband who brought me here?” A husband would be good. He needed some reassurance that the visions in his mind were just that—visions.

“You can thank your dog. If not for him, you likely would have froze before I found you.”

“You found me?”

Her posture stiffened. “That’s right.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but…I don’t recall your name or riding up to this…” His gaze slid over the stone walls. “Cabin.”