His Wild West Wife. Lauri Robinson

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      Chapter Two

      Blake fought a mighty battle against the pain of the older woman digging into his flesh with her scissors. He wouldn’t let it show, not how much it hurt, nor would he let it overpower him. If he blacked out, Clara might be gone when he awoke and he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d looked too hard and long to find her.

      The woman—Mrs. Sinclair—kept giving him swigs off a bottle of whiskey, which blistered his throat almost as bad as it did his leg when she poured it over another hole. He’d never been shot before, so didn’t have anything to compare it to, but knew one thing. Getting hit with the buckshot hadn’t hurt as much as having it dug out. His only iota of comfort came from Clara, when she dabbed a wound dry and covered it with a bandage before moving on to the next, and that was grating his nerves. He didn’t want anything from her, except her signature—a clearly defined end that would prevent her from ever entering his life again.

      “There we are,” Mrs. Sinclair said, dropping another pebble into the basin. “That’s the last of it.” A clang was still resounding against the metal as she lifted the whiskey bottle again. “Here now, a little more of this and then you can rest.”

      Blake was already flat on his back with his head propped just high enough that the whiskey she poured into his mouth flowed down his gullet. He closed his lips, gulped down the bitter brew and shook his head when she came at him with the bottle again. Nothing should taste that bad.

      “All right,” she said. “I have to put it up high with the children in the house, but Clara knows where it’s at. Let her know if you need more.” Additional wrinkles appeared on the woman’s aged face as she drew her lips into a serious grimace. “Just for medicinal purposes.”

      Blake nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. I’ll remember that.” There was no other reason to gag that stuff down. “And thank you for your doctoring abilities. I’m sure the finest surgeon in Chicago couldn’t have done as well.” Yes, he was lying, but the woman had dug out every last bit pellet, and he was grateful for that. The shot hadn’t been life threatening, but blood poisoning could be. He knew that much.

      “I’ve had my share of practice, that’s for sure.” She dropped the bottle into one of the wide pockets on the front of her apron before shouldering past Clara. “Bandage that last one and help him get the rest of his clothes off. He’ll be more comfortable and can rest for a bit. Be good as new in no time.”

      That had been something Clara had helped him do several times during their few weeks together, undress, and he’d been more than delighted by the act. Truth be, even with his thigh throbbing and knowing she’d left him, wanted a divorce—which he did, too—his body tingled, thrilled at the thought of her assistance.

      She wasn’t excited. Obviously. Then again, she wasn’t happy about having to tend to him, or about how he’d found her. That had been evident by the argument she’d had with William—who, as it turned out was her brother—in the hallway while the older woman wrenched off his britches after William had helped him into the house and onto the bed.

      Clara’s bed. She’d proclaimed that in the hallway argument, as well. Blake hadn’t known she had a brother. Not a surprise. Turns out he’d known very little about her.

      He half expected Clara to refuse Mrs. Sinclair’s request, and was a bit surprised when she approached the bed as the older woman, after gathering up the basin and other items, left the room.

      Not wanting to reveal the anticipation flashing inside him, Blake closed his eyes, pretended the pain was more than he could take right now. The act wasn’t too hard to pull off. The pain in his thigh had dulled into nothing more than an ache. However, that wasn’t what he was trying to hide, which infuriated him. She’d left him, and he shouldn’t want her to touch him. Didn’t want her to touch him. Now or ever. He dug up her deceit to combat all that was going on inside him. “Was Oscar Wells even your grandfather?”

      Without looking up, she snapped, “Of course he was.”

      Blake had his doubts, despite her answer, but she’d started pulling off his socks, and the blood in his legs was pulsing. Mrs. Sinclair had tugged off his boots, right before relieving him of his britches. The older woman had left his drawers intact, just sliced the material covering his injured leg up to his hip with a single snip of her foot-long scissors. The older woman’s touch hadn’t affected him whatsoever, but Clara’s...If a single touch could make blood dance, hers made his.

      He damned his reaction to her all over again.

      His shirt came next, and Blake could have groaned, may have, at the way her scent filled him. It was like walking past a flower garden—how she smelled—and he was as amazed by it now as much as he had been the first time he’d met her. He breathed deeply, lying perfectly still as she undid the buttons and slipped the shirt off his shoulders. Barely moving—on the outside that is—he offered little assistance as she eased his arms out of the sleeves.

      “We need to take these off, too,” she said, once the shirt was draped over a chair. Her hands had slipped beneath the sheet covering his hips, and he held his breath, hoped she wouldn’t notice how her nearness had his full attention. She was acting so aloof, he had to, too. He couldn’t let her know how badly he wanted to pull her close, kiss her until they were both breathless and clinging to each other as they had so many times in the past.

      That wasn’t why he was here, and therefore it wouldn’t happen. Still feigning to be overcome with pain, he wiggled slightly, aiding a small amount as she pulled his drawers off his hips, down his thighs, being extremely careful of the injured one. The gentleness of her touch was pure torture. Had every nerve humming and his pulse throbbing.

      “There.”

      She was standing beside him again, and he fought his entire length, willing not so much as a muscle to twitch.

      “Blake?” A hand, soft and tender, settled on his forehead, stayed there as he kept his breathing steady and his eyes closed. Her fingers combed into his hair, making him want to groan again as visions—no, memories—spun in his head. There’d been days, when they’d missed each other so much, they’d never made it as far as the bedroom when he got home. She’d met him at the door, whether it was noon or evening, and her eyes had sparked, telling him exactly what she’d wanted. He’d wanted the same thing. Their love had been so new and fresh they couldn’t get enough of each other.

      Blake’s throat thickened and he steadied himself. Love didn’t have anything to do with it. Not on her part. It was no longer within him, either. His restraint, however, was vanishing. One kiss wouldn’t matter. It might remind her of what she’d given up by running away.

      Grabbing her waist, and not caring an iota what the movement might do to his freshly doctored wounds, he lifted her off the floor and flipped her over him to land on the bed beside him.

      Shocked, surprised, stunned—he didn’t take the time to notice her expression. Instead he took her face between his palms and kissed her like he had on their wedding night.

      If she struggled, he didn’t notice, not with the way her lips parted, opening for him like the petals of a flower. The passion between them flared into life, like it always had, and overcame him instantly. It gave him satisfaction, too, how she responded.

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