The Cattleman And The Virgin Heiress. Jackie Merritt

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      “No! You need to stay awake,” Matt said sharply, causing her eyelids to flutter open again. “You have to stay awake until I can get you inside, do you understand?” He didn’t have to be a doctor to know that she should not be seeking sleep in this unholy situation; it was just common sense. She was obviously weak and probably chilled to the bone. She needed to get warm, she needed dry clothes and a doctor, and she needed those things now, or as close to “now” as he could manage them.

      He made a decision then. The fastest, most efficient method of getting her to the house was for him to carry her there. Him, not Dex, not a truck.

      “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “I’m going to slide my arms under you and pick you up so I can carry you to the house. Please just lie still and let me do the work.”

      Once again he received a totally blank stare, almost as though she didn’t comprehend speech at all, and yet she let him pick her up and slip and slide to his feet in the mud without any sign of objection.

      It was slow going. He estimated her weight to be around 110 pounds and thanked the good Lord it wasn’t more. By the time he reached the house, however, it felt as though he were carrying a ton. His whole body ached, especially his arms and back. During the entire struggle, she had not uttered one sound, though he’d glanced down every so often to make sure that her eyes remained open.

      “We’re here,” he said, gasping the message because he was out of breath and tired. Even so, he managed to hang on to her and still turn the doorknob.

      A minute later, walking down the hallway to the bedroom area of the house, he felt renewed strength; it was almost over. There were three bedrooms, and he entered the first one he came to and strode to the bed. Laying her down on it, he straightened his back and groaned silently. It wasn’t that he was physically out of shape—far from it—but carrying another person for a good quarter of a mile wasn’t a common occurrence for him. Hell’s bells, was it a common occurrence for anyone?

      Standing there, looking at her, he realized what a mess he had on his hands. She was injured, soaked through and muddy from head to shoes. Along with her worrisome physical condition, there was her listlessness, and the un-caring tone of her voice the few times she’d spoken. Shock, Matt thought. She had to be in shock. Her head injury was the most probable cause, but how had she gotten hurt in the first place? And way out here, on his ranch, to boot? It didn’t add up.

      Regardless of so many questions without answers, she was here, in his house, and other than the ranch hands—who were probably wondering why he wasn’t at the breakfast table with them—there was no one else to help her. He was it, and he wished to high heaven there was another woman on the place, because someone was going to have to help her get out of those filthy, wet clothes.

      “Okay,” he said under his breath, dreading that prospect. “Let’s take care of first things first. Miss, I’m going to call a doctor, Doc Adam Pickett. He’s a good doctor and a good friend, so don’t you lie there worrying. Stay put, all right? I won’t be long.” Matt took his slicker away from her and replaced it with a warm down comforter. “Try to relax, but don’t fall asleep.” He hurried from the room and headed for the kitchen telephone.

      His heart sank when he put the receiver to his ear; there was no dial tone. The phone lines were down and who knew when they would be repaired?

      “Damn!” he exclaimed, and tried the wall switch for the ceiling light. It came on, so the electricity was still working. “For how long, though?” Matt muttered as he left the kitchen.

      Walking back into the bedroom, he saw that she’d either fallen asleep or passed out. Or died? No! he thought frantically. She hadn’t been hurt that badly, had she?

      Hurrying over to the bed, he again felt for a pulse. Surprisingly it was a little stronger than before. Standing straight again, he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. What should he do now? Check her head wound and hope to God it was something he could take care of with antibiotic cream and a gauze bandage?

      The mud in her hair was already beginning to dry and cake. He would have to clean her hair in some way before dressing the injury. Cautiously he pulled back the comforter a little. If she were a man he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to take off those wet clothes, even if he had to cut them off with a pair of scissors or a knife.

      Her gender really didn’t matter, did it? She was a person in distress, a human being like himself, and she was alone and injured. Would he care if a strange woman undressed him under similar circumstances?

      Of course not. He was being silly. He had to help her the best he could until he could get hold of Doc Pickett.

      Matt strode purposefully from the room to get a pan of warm water and some clean towels and washcloths. He would also bring the first-aid kit back with him.

      An hour later Matt was in the kitchen, staring broodingly out the window over the sink. He had a stressful knot in his gut, caused by Ms. X in his guest room. Before undressing and bathing her, his thoughts had been strictly impersonal. Certainly he hadn’t considered her an attractive female, and she was. She was young and pretty and her body was…well, it was perfect, that was the only word for it. Ripe, full breasts, a tiny little waist, long legs and a shapely but firm behind.

      He hated the way his mind was working now. He had no right to admire that woman’s sensual good looks. She was reasonably clean now, there was medication and a bandage on the gash he’d located in her thick, dark brown hair, and he’d managed to dress her in a freshly laundered sweat suit of his. It was miles too big—he was six feet three inches tall and she couldn’t be more than five-five—but at least she wouldn’t wake up naked, and it would warm her chilled flesh through and through.

      “Hell’s bells,” he mumbled and shot the telephone a dirty look. The lines were still down, and God only knew when the ranch would have phone service again.

      The questions in his mind regarding his mysterious guest just kept piling up and getting more urgent. Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she gotten to the ranch last night? How long had she been lying out there in the rain? And what about the chafed bruises on her wrists, as though her hands had been tied to something with a rope? Damnation, all he’d heard in the night was the storm. No telling what had occurred on his own land—and not that far from the house—and he’d been completely oblivious to it. Good Lord, was it possible that one of his men had brought her out here with the intention of forcing himself upon her, and she’d gotten away from him? As discomfiting as that idea was—Matt hated thinking that any of the men living at the ranch and working for him were capable of such a heinous crime—it made as much sense as any other conjecture. After all, that woman hadn’t just materialized with the storm, and with those rope burns on her wrists Matt felt pretty certain that she was a victim of some sort.

      But if any of that speculation had credibility, wouldn’t she be grateful that he’d rescued her, at least from the elements? Or was she the type to become hysterical when she realized she was in a strange house with a strange man? A man who’d undressed her and washed the mud from her naked body?

      Matt sighed heavily. He was out of his league here. Way out.

      Still staring out the window, he spotted Chuck heading for the house, wearing a rain slicker and dodging the deepest puddles. He was carrying something, and when he saw Matt at the window, he raised a hand in a casual salutation.

      Then he walked in through the kitchen door. “Hell of a morning,” he said by way of a greeting.

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