Love on the Range (Brothers in Arms #3)(2)

With a moment of desperate recklessness, Molly sat down beside Wyatt, cradled his rough, calloused hand as she’d seen Cheyenne do, dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper, the best she could do to imitate Cheyenne, and said, “I’m here, Wyatt. I’m here. This is Cheyenne.”

She held tight. Her right hand to his. A bullet wound in his upper left shoulder. She rested more weight on him, trying to keep him still, and set the cool cloth on his forehead.

“I’m here. Stay still, please. Lie still.”

For a moment, his eyes fluttered open. They were dazed and cloudy with the fever. The bullet wound didn’t appear to be suppurating. It gave her hope that he just needed to beat this fever, and he’d be fine.

But that didn’t help her get through this moment, right now.

“You’re not Cheyenne.” He’d quit thrashing at least.

“I’m taking care of you until Cheyenne gets back. She’ll be here right away.”

Let him think she just went to get supper or tidy her hair. Molly wasn’t about to remind him that his sister was off marrying Falcon Hunt. That news had almost shot him out of bed before. Cheyenne had at least told him though. More than Kevin had managed when he’d sneaked off to his wedding.

“Why is it so h-hot?” Wyatt’s throat worked as if he was parched. “Oh. Summer.”

Molly gingerly released his hand, got a few sips of water down him, more willow bark tea. Then she dipped the cloth in the basin again to cool it, then wrung it out and folded it, keeping an eye on him in case he started rolling around. Trying not to say anything that got past his dazed confusion. Once he started remembering things, like the bullet wound, who knew what all he might recall.

“You’ll be fine. You need to rest.” She had a doctor’s voice, and she used it as best she could. She lifted the cloth away so he could see her, and he shook off the hold she had on his right hand, grabbed at her left with the cloth, and pressed it back to his brow.

“Feels good. Stay, stay with me.” He held her hand with the cloth beneath it. “Burning. Hot. Hot.”

His eyes locked with hers as he refused to let her go. Of course, she wasn’t exactly fighting to escape. The poor man needed someone to care about him. His cheeks were flushed. His gazing eyes were that same brown shot through with gold that Kevin and Falcon both had. There was a dimple in his chin that was barely noticeable with his three-day scruff of beard. All three brothers had those eyes and that chin dimple in common, features they shared with their worthless father, Clovis Hunt.

Beyond that they didn’t look much alike. Wyatt was a handsome man, though he could use a haircut. Falcon was a rough-looking mountain man dressed in homespun clothes with little interest in haircuts and shaves. She had her suspicions about his interest in baths, but Falcon had recently been swept a long way down a stream, and they’d cleaned him up when he got back, so that was two baths in a short stretch of days.

Kevin was . . . well, Kevin was her brother. It was hard to think of his looks because he just looked like himself.

Since Wyatt gave her no choice, she kept the cloth in place.

Slowly his grip relaxed. The willow bark tea mixed with yarrow was bringing the fever down. Before this most recent feverish stretch, she’d gotten a fair drink of water down him and some broth with bits of bread soaking in it. It combined to give him the strength to . . . sleep.

And he was one of the strongest men she knew, so that was a sad commentary on his condition.

He sank down into real sleep. She stayed with him, hoping the cool cloths fought his fever. Finally, she was satisfied the fever was coming down again.

This time she promised God no whining. No self-pity. Before her mind could start churning again, being awake for twenty-eight straight hours caught up with her.





Two




Wyatt woke up to a woman in his bed.

Very few things in his life had ever been stranger.

She had her hand resting flat on his chest, right over his heart. Her head lay on his uninjured shoulder. His arm was around her.

She was on top of the covers, and he was under, but it was still the strangest and most wonderful thing that’d ever happened to him.

And he’d once watched a cow sniff a little cloud that rolled into a mountain valley, leading a horde of clouds that settled into fog.

That fog rolling in like little balls of fluff and that sniffing cow had been the strangest and most wonderful thing . . . up until now.

Molly. And boy, oh boy, this was now number one. The sniffing cow wasn’t even a close second.

Molly what? What was her last name? He’d hardly ever talked to her. Well, a few times. And she’d served him delicious food. She was a way better cook than Cheyenne and a fair sight better than Win. She’d patched some of his clothes, washed them, hung them on the line. He’d seen her doing it. She’d cleaned up after all of them. She’d kept this house running through a time of madness.

And now she was sleeping in his bed, in his arms, and it felt . . . right.

Most everyone around here was named Hunt. His mind rabbited around to Win marrying Kevin, and then like a jolt of lightning, he remembered Cheyenne marrying Falcon. He leapt out of bed . . . except he didn’t.

He tried. Realized he was all but tied up. Remembered why—his broken bone—and figured he was too late to stop the wedding anyway.