The Lawman's Vow. Elizabeth Lane

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СКАЧАТЬ a red fog of fever, Ishmael sensed that somebody was unfastening his trousers. The light touch suggested a woman’s hand. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have minded. But if the lady was bent on a bit of fun, why was she being so stealthy about it? Why not just wake him up and give him a chance to cooperate?

      Only one thing made sense. The little slut was trying to rob him.

      His hand flashed out and seized her wrist. With a cry she reeled back, struggling to pull away. But even sick, he possessed an iron grip, and he wasn’t about to release his hold.

      “Let go of me!” she sputtered. “Don’t you know I’m trying to help you?”

      He forced his eyes open. His vision swam, but the blurred image of her face bending over him confirmed that she was pretty. “Looks to me like you’re helping yourself to my pockets…” The words came out slurred and garbled. What was wrong with his tongue?

      “You’re sick.” She sounded like a schoolmarm scolding a backward child. “I’m just trying to get you out of your wet clothes and into bed.”

      “Seems t’ me you’d have better luck if you got out of your own clothes first.”

      “Stop it!” she hissed. “If you weren’t out of your mind, I’d slap your face.”

      “A l’il rough stuff might be fun, if that’s what you enjoy. I aim to please…” He could feel himself sinking again. It was hard to breathe, even harder to think. His fingers loosened around her wrist. He felt her pull free as the fog closed around him.

      “Stay awake!” Her hand seized his jaw and gave it a firm shake. “Once I get your clothes off, you’ll need to get under the covers. After that I’ll dress your head wound and give you something for the fever.”

      “Fever…?” He mouthed the word. Strange he should have a fever when his skin had shrunk to shivering goose bumps. And now the woman’s hands were fooling with his trousers again, her fingers undoing the buttons and untying the tape that held up his drawers. Not that he was in a mood to argue—the sensation was not the least bit unpleasant. But he was still uncertain whether she was a nurse, a pickpocket or a whore.

      “Now!” She yanked the waist of his pants and drawers, peeling them down his body and off his feet in one wrenching motion. By the time she’d left him naked beneath the quilt she was winded from the effort. Ishmael could hear her breathy gasps from the foot of the bed. His head had begun to fog again—a good thing, that. The words his mouth was too muzzy to speak would probably have gotten his face slapped.

      He heard the splat of wet clothes dropping to the floor. “I’m going to turn down the bed,” she said. “You’ll need to get up for a few seconds.”

      “Try…” He could barely lift his head. He was as weak as a newborn kitten.

      “Here.” She bent down and slid a hand under his bare shoulders. “You can move onto the stool by the bed. Hang on to that quilt.”

      Yes, the damn quilt. It mattered to her that he stay covered, Ishmael realized. Whoever she was, she was a female of tender sensibilities. A lady? She looked too poor for that. More like an innocent, church-bred girl. He’d do well to curb his tongue.

      Wisps of corn-silk hair brushed his face as she bent over him. She smelled of sea air and homemade soap, fresh and clean. How could he have misjudged such a creature?

      Or was he misjudging her now? His thoughts were wandering like half-witted sheep without a herder.

      Her arm was beneath his shoulders now. She was straining to lift him, but his dead weight was too much for her. Gripping the quilt with one hand, he worked his free arm underneath his body and pushed himself up. Caught off guard, she stumbled backward against the wall. Fear flashed in her startled eyes, but only for an instant. As she righted herself, her pretty face took on a look of grim determination.

      “It’s all right, girl,” he mumbled. “Do what you need to. You’ve nothing to be afraid of.”

      “And neither do you, as long as you behave yourself,” she snapped. “Now, get out of the way while I turn down the bed.”

      Keeping a grip on the quilt, he hoisted himself onto the stool. Being upright made the dizziness worse. The ringing in his ears was like a howling gale. An impression flashed through his mind—crashing waves, the pitching deck, the blue-white glare of lightning on wave-slicked rocks, then blackness. Was it a memory or only a trick of the fever? Whatever it had been, it was gone.

      Sylvie barely had time to throw back the covers before he slumped on the stool. She seized his shoulders, tipping him toward the bed as he fell. He crashed onto his left side, his legs trailing off the bed. The quilt slipped to the floor.

      “Ishmael, can you hear me?” She leaned over him. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed. He gave no sign that he’d heard her. Averting her gaze, she boosted his legs onto the mattress and flung the blankets over his body. Then she picked up the quilt and laid it on top of him. Even that, she feared, wouldn’t be enough to keep him warm.

      He’d begun to shake again. His teeth chattered as Sylvie tucked the blankets around his shoulders. From the kitchen she could hear the faint whistle as steam escaped from the boiling kettle. She raced for the stove to lift it off the heat. A few minutes of steeping and the willow bark tea would be ready. She could only pray it would help. It was the strongest thing she had.

      While she waited, she would dress his head wound.

      Daniel’s Mexican mother had taught her what little she knew about herbs and poultices. One of the most useful remedies was a salve made of pine tar. Sylvie kept a jar of it handy for the scrapes and bumps that befell her active little brother. But she’d never treated anything as serious as the gash on Ishmael’s head. She could only hope it wouldn’t need stitches.

      After tearing strips from an old flannel nightgown, she filled a bowl with warm water and returned to the bedroom. Ishmael lay on his side with his eyes closed. His body shook with chills.

      Bending over him, she sponged away the sand-encrusted blood. The wound wasn’t as bad as she’d feared, but the bruised swelling around it indicated a fearsome blow, certainly hard enough to cause memory loss.

      She applied salve to the wound, then made a cold compress of raw potato slices to bring down the swelling. For the deeper damage, there was no cure but time.

      She bound his head with flannel strips and took a moment to check on Daniel. By then the tea was ready. As she carried the first cupful into the bedroom she could only hope he’d be able to swallow, and that the willow bark would do its work.

      She would do all she could. But in the end, Ishmael’s survival was in the hands of fate.

      Breathing was torture. In spite of that, he slept, woke and slept again, drifting between fever and quaking chills. He was dimly aware of a hand supporting his head, a spoon forcing bitter-tasting liquid down his throat. At first he resisted, gagging and sputtering. But he soon discovered that his tormentor would not give up. It was less taxing to swallow than to fight.

      Sometimes he dreamed—vague, murky images that floated through his mind, unconnected to any meaning. A woman took form, tall, with cerulean eyes and a glorious mane of dark curls. Draped in burgundy satin, she was laughing, singing, teasing an audience of fantastically dressed skeletons. She glanced toward him with СКАЧАТЬ