Sandra Steffen - The Bounty Hunter's Bride

There was pain.

He took another step. There was darkness.

He drew in another slow, careful breath. There was snow.

Pain. Darkness. Snow. Pain. Darkness. Snow. And a flickering yellow light.

A yellow light? He breathed too deeply, clutched his arm and nearly blacked out. Being more careful, he strained to see through the blinding snow. High on the next ridge, a light flickered. Maybe he could make it to that light before he died. Or maybe he was already dead and was having one of those out-of-body experiences and was being drawn up toward that light. Not likely. He had a pretty good idea which direction he was going when he died. And it wasn’t up.

He’d never planned to grow old, but by God, he didn’t plan to bleed to death on some nondescript little mountain in Tennessee, either. He closed his eyes. Since the light was still there when he opened them again, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Blasted blizzard. Blasted weakness. Blasted poor excuse for a mountain.

Josie McCoy stopped humming long enough to open the door on the woodstove and add two more logs to the glowing coals. The fire crackled and popped, the flames curling upward like a living, breathing being that gobbled up wood in exchange for blessed, glowing heat. She closed the door and latched it securely before turning in a circle inside the old hunting cabin high on a narrow bluff in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The wind whipped snow against the single windowpane. “You know Mother Nature is only doing this out of spite.” She spoke out loud and—since there was no one else to talk to—to herself. Her father and the boys were probably having a good belly laugh right about now at her expense. “Go ahead and laugh,” she said as if they could hear her halfway down the mountain.

The howling of the wind was her only answer. Peering out the window, Josie smiled, because it was answer enough. J.D., the brother closest to her in age, had claimed she’d never make it two whole weeks with nobody to talk to. Hah! They’d never make it two whole weeks without somebody to cook their meals and wash their clothes and haul their big feet out of the way in order to tidy the place up a little. Her father and brothers might have been mountain men, but thanks to the satellite dish on the shed’s roof, the twentieth century had finally made it all the way to Hawk Hollow, Tennessee. Right on its heels had come women’s lib. That’s what Josie was doing. Liberating herself from those ingrates who were her closest relatives.

“Men!” she sputtered. “With their chew and whiskers and clodhopper boots. Who needs ’em?”

Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers over her face, spreading them wide into her hair, over the collar of her flannel shirt, and—slowly—down to her waist. Surely all men weren’t like her father and older brothers. Surely there was one man out there—somewhere—who was tall and debonair and pleasing to the eye. And sexy. She opened only one eye and fixed it on her bed. God, yes, he would have to be sexy.

A log popped, making her jump. Shivering against a sudden draft, she folded her arms, eyed the dwindling stack of logs piled next to the stove and promptly headed for the front stoop where she’d had the good sense to heap enough firewood to make it through the night.

Bracing herself for the shock of the wind, she tugged on the latch. The door swung open with so much force it banged against the wall. A shock went through Josie, but not from the wind. A man stood on her doorstep. A big man. She didn’t have time to scream. She barely had time to break the man’s fall before he hit the floor, unconscious or dead, she couldn’t be sure.

She put all her weight into pushing his legs out of the way so she could close the door. He groaned, and for the first time she saw that his shirt was covered in blood. Gliding down to her knees, she leaned over him and placed a hand on his chest to see if he was breathing. His chest rose slightly beneath her palm. By the time her gaze made it to his face, his eyes were open and he was watching her.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

“Slater. Kane. Slater.” His breath caught between each word, and then, before her eyes, he lost consciousness.

“What am I supposed to do with you, Slater Kane Slater?” She lifted the soiled lapel of his sheepskin coat. Swallowing, she closed her eyes for a moment and tried to calm her churning stomach. Growing up with four older brothers, she’d seen her share of blood over the years, but this was the first time in her twenty-three years she’d seen a wound like this all the way through a man’s shoulder.

“Lordy, mister,” she mumbled after retrieving a threadbare towel from the table and pressing it over both sides of the wound. “I came up here to get away from the men in my life and I sure as shootin’ don’t need the likes of you bleeding all over my floor.”

“Tracks. Snow. Got away.”

His voice was harsh and raw and so unexpected that she jumped back in surprise. He let out a long, audible breath and fought against her hand that was pressed over the blood-soaked towel, as if somewhere in his befuddled mind he thought he was still in danger. The next thing she knew he’d rolled to his knees and was staggering to his feet.

Josie rose more slowly. If his eyes hadn’t drilled her to the spot, she would have taken a giant step backward. He was tall. Even bleeding he was formidable. He had the face of an outlaw, four or five days’ worth of whiskers, skin that looked tough and chapped. His hair was matted to his head. Clean, it would probably be light brown. His eyes were light brown, too. At the moment, they looked kind of crazed.

Gauging the distance between him and the corner where she kept a shotgun handy just in case, she said, “I hope that look in your eyes is from pain and blood loss and not because you’re a lunatic. I mean, you’re not an escaped prisoner or a murderer or a rapist, are you? Although I doubt that even a crazed lunatic could do much damage in your condition.”

The baffled expression that crossed his features came as no surprise to Josie. All men looked at her that way every now and then. “Well?” she demanded. “Are you?”

“Never been to prison. Not a murderer or rapist.” He started to sway.

Since he would be a lot easier to maneuver on his feet, she tucked her shoulder underneath his arm to steady him. She staggered beneath his weight. “Whoa, big fella.” In an effort to keep him upright, she locked her spine and wrapped one arm around his waist. His arm slid limply down the front of her, the back of his hand brushing her breast.

“Don’t have much in the curve department, do ya?”

This time her huff was mostly affronted pride. Slowly, jerkily, she started toward the bed on the far wall. With two more steps to go to make it to the bed, she gritted her teeth and ground out, “A gentleman would never say such a thing.”

He fell onto the lumpy mattress, the sudden jar eliciting a raw-sounding oath from his dry lips. Their gazes met, held, his throat convulsing on a swallow she assumed was from the need to cry out in pain. Instead, in a voice that was deep and shaky, he murmured, “It would be a mistake to think of me as a gentleman.”

Eyes closed, he sank into unconsciousness once again.

For what might have been the first time in her life, Josie was struck speechless. Staring at the grim line of his lips and the gray pallor of his skin, she finally said, “Just my luck. I finally have an interesting man in my bed and he’s half-dead and God only knows what side of the law he’s on.”

Wondering what on earth he’d been doing out on a night like this, she tried to decide what to do. The fresh blood soaking into his shirt propelled her into action. No matter what he’d been doing, it looked as if it was up to her to save him.

She started with his shoulder. After applying another clean towel over the entry and exit wounds of what could only be the result of a bullet, she reached for a scissors. When he groaned in his sleep, she said, “I know, I know. Bear with me for a few more minutes until I get you out of these soggy clothes.”

With shaking hands, she cut his coat and shirt away from his wounded shoulder, painstakingly sliding the wet garments from his body. The sight of a man’s bare chest was nothing new to her. Her brothers traipsed around the house without their shirts most of the summer. The McCoy boys were thin and wiry, their chests as hairy as apes. Kane Slater’s chest was broad and far from hairy, his stomach muscles forming interesting ridges that disappeared beneath the waistband of faded jeans.

“You’re a strong one, aren’t you? Well, mister, it’s a good thing because I don’t think a weaker man would have made it this far. I don’t know if it was good luck or the good Lord, but either way it looks as if it’s up to me to take it from here.”

She doubted he could hear her, but talking calmed her nerves. “Yes, indeedy, you’re gonna feel a whole lot better when we get you out of these wet clothes.”

It took her five minutes and a considerable amount of huffing and puffing to remove his soggy cowboy boots, and five more to get him out of his jeans. She hesitated a moment after that, uncertain how to go about removing his underwear without injuring his pride.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she curled her fingers beneath the elastic waistband and tugged. Other than getting stuck here and there, the garment came off without too much trouble. For some reason, her breath caught in her throat and her mind turned a little fuzzy. Something strange was taking place deep inside her. It felt a little like the flutter of butterfly wings or daisy petals ruffling on a gentle breeze. If the sensation would have settled any higher, she would have blamed it on hunger. If this was hunger, it was a kind she’d never felt before.

The stranger groaned again. Dropping the last garment of clothing to the rough plank floor, she muttered, “You’re a wicked, wicked woman, Josie McCoy. This man has lost a lot of blood and is in terrible pain and all you can think about are the changes takin’ place in your own belly.”

Without another word, she covered him with a quilt she’d warmed by the stove. He sighed, and dang if something else didn’t shift inside her.

“There, there,” she murmured. “That’s it. Let the heat soak into you. See? It’s better without the wet clothes, isn’t it? I’m afraid I ruined your shirt and coat getting ’em off you, but everything else came off real smooth. And I didn’t linger any longer than absolutely necessary.” She glanced at the shape of his body covered by the quilt, and then at the clothes heaped on the floor, thinking that as long as she never had to swear to that on a stack of bibles she’d be okay.

She kept up a quiet vigil the next several hours, talking to him in a soft, reassuring voice. At least it reassured her. The bleeding had finally stopped, and although his color wasn’t very good, his breathing was deep and steady and he seemed to be resting more comfortably. Once every hour, she cradled his head in her arm and held a cup of cool mountain water to his lips. He drank several swallows before falling into a deep sleep once again.

Every now and then he mumbled in his sleep. Most of the time she couldn’t understand what he was saying, but she answered him anyway, telling him about people he couldn’t possibly know and a life he probably didn’t give two hoots about. She didn’t mention the butterfly wings that had fluttered deep in her stomach, but she wondered what they meant. Maybe it was excitement, or maybe it was an answer to her prayers.