Fire Eyes Read online

  She nodded. "Yes, Standing Bear. I'll do what I can for him." She looked down as the unconscious stranger rolled onto his back, even farther across her feet. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and his dark hair was matted with blood, his face bruised and swollen from the beating he'd taken. The late afternoon sun glinted across the metal badge pinned on the tattered remains of his shirt. A lawman. She stepped back.

  Standing Bear made a motion, and four of the eight warriors accompanying him jumped to the ground and approached the wooden porch where Jessica stood.

  She took another step back, her heart pounding in her throat even as her mind directed her to be calm. They meant her no harm, she told herself quickly. They were only trying to help. Ignoring her, they lifted the beaten, bleeding lawman, and carried him through her doorway straight to her bed.

  "Not—" Jessica began.

  They roughly deposited him right in the middle of the white and blue quilt Jessica's grandmother had made for her as a wedding gift.

  One of the braves gave her a harsh look, and she forced a smile. "Fine. That's just fine."

  The muscular, bare-chested Choctaws brushed past her as they came back across the threshold. Jessica looked up once more at the chief, and could have sworn, for a moment, she saw amusement in his coal-black eyes.

  "Marshal Turner is a friend." He nodded toward the front door. "He will not harm you, Fire Eyes. He can be trusted." Standing Bear paused. "We will not harm you, either." His gaze flicked over her, and she knew he had seen her momentary fear.

  "I-I know, Sir." Jessica's feet were sticky with the lawman's drying blood. "You've been good to me—" She hesitated. "I just get anxious sometimes." Her gaze drifted past him to the two warriors who were returning from the barn where they had stabled the marshal's horse. One of them carried Turner's saddlebags, which he laid at her bloody feet before swinging onto his own mount's back.

  Standing Bear nodded, turning his horse to go. "We will come again in three days. Do not allow him to die." He said it imperiously, as if by his command, it would be so, and the man would live, regardless of his injuries.

  Jessica's mouth tightened in silent rebellion as, without a backward glance, the warriors melted into the nearby trees. What had she done? She couldn't promise anything. She should have refused. Should have sent him with them, to their village and their own medicine man. Was it too late? She stepped forward, trying to glimpse the last sign of them. "Wait! I—"

  Silence answered her. They were gone.

  For a moment she questioned her sanity. Had the Choctaws ever been here? She glanced down at the red streaks of blood across her skin, at the leather saddlebags on the porch. Oh, yes. There was no doubt of it.

  Do not allow him to die.

  A plea? Or a warning? Jessica wasn't sure, and that annoyed her more than anything else. The man had looked dead already. And she hadn't meant for the last one to die. She'd done all she could, yet he'd lived only a few hours after Standing Bear and his warriors had dumped him on her porch, just as they had this man. Oh, why had they brought him? He was one more burden she didn't need.

  She walked to the well and splashed some water over her toes. It would have to be a quick cleaning. Into her thoughts crept the baby's high-pitched fretful wail from inside the cabin. Lexi. She'd be hungry, need feeding and changing.

  But first, Jessica had to see to the marshal. She hurried toward the open door, pushing her own weariness aside. It would have to wait until much, much later.

  * * * * *

  Lexi lay on a pallet, kicking, her face reddening under the olive tint of her complexion. Jessica scooped her up and comforted her, kissing her smooth cheek. She carried Lexi toward the large bed, shushing her gently. As she laid the baby down to change her, Jessica eyed the big man sprawled atop her most prized possession—blood, dirt, boots and all. Still unconscious, she thought, and a good thing, from the looks of what he'd been through.

  Do not allow him to die.

  "That your kid?" His voice was slow, raspy with pain, and it startled her so much that she stuck her own skin as she slipped the pin through the fresh diaper. "Dumb question," he whispered. "Never mind."

  She gasped and held her finger for a moment, giving him a wary look. "You're awake."

  "Yeah. I'm 'wake." He paused, moistening his lips. "An' feelin' every minute—"

  "Don't try to talk." She peered across the bed at him. His cut, swollen lips were pressed together, as if to stifle any sound of pain that might try to work its way through. His eyes were puffy and bruised, and a long gash arced across his forehead. So much blood, all over him.

  Jessica picked Lexi up and put her in the crib, then hurried to make the baby a sugar teat from a worn piece of flour sack until she could spare the time to make some oats. Lexi sucked hungrily at the cloth, but Jessica knew she wouldn't be put off for long.

  She reached into the rough kitchen shelving for a small leather bag that held all of her ointments and healing herbs. With a tentative step, she approached the bed once more, laying her hand on the stranger's right wrist. It was a gentle touch, a caress almost, but he sucked in his breath and bit back a sharp groan of agony. She jerked her hand away quickly, as if she'd touched a hot stove.

  "Broken," he muttered.

  Jessica reached for her scissors and cut the ripped cuff away from his sun-dark skin. At first she thought the bones might have been accidentally broken during his fight for freedom. But as she examined the injury more closely, she could see it had been done with cruel calculation. Her lips thinned. "They meant for you to never use this hand again," she murmured. "You shoot right-handed?"

  A slight nod. "Yeah. Used to, anyway."

  Jessica heard the unasked question. Will I again? She reached for a blue enamel cup and poured some water into it, stalling for time. She couldn't make him any promises. She knew more medicine than most, but bones were hard to predict.

  "I'll do my best to fix it," she said. It was the only reassurance she could give him; not nearly enough, she knew. Slipping a hand under his thick, dark hair, she lifted his head, and pressed the cup to his lips. "Here, drink this."

  "Whiskey?"

  She raised an eyebrow at the hopeful note in his deep voice. "Water. You be a good patient and we'll see about the whiskey later on. Take it slow, now."

  After a few sips, she drew the cup away and set it on the nightstand. In his condition, too much at one time could make him sick. Moving to pull his boots off, she tried not to jar him. She put them within easy reach beside the bed.

  Taking up the scissors again, she cut away his clothing, starting with the sleeve she'd already slit. He lay still as she pulled away the bloody chambray. When she lifted the front placket of material from his broad chest, he gave a low, agonized curse. His breath hissed inward, and he shifted.

  "What? Did I—oh, my God." Jessica squeezed her eyes shut, unwilling to believe what she had seen.

  The badge. U.S. Marshal. Turner's lawman's star wasn't pinned to his shirt any longer. The pin was jammed down through the material into his bronze skin, a bright crimson ring around the outline of the star itself. By that one act of cruelty, Jessica did not need to wonder any longer whose handiwork this sadistic beating was. She knew, as surely as if the marshal had spoken it.

  Now, she wished she'd asked Standing Bear if his warriors had killed any of the men who had been responsible for this. She hoped they had surprised the white men, and murdered them all. She hoped they'd taken scalps. She hoped—

  "Just pull." Her patient moistened his lips. "Straight up. That's how it…went in."

  She wanted to weep at the steel in his voice, wanted to comfort him, to tell him she'd make it quick. But, of course, quick would never be fast enough to be painless. And how could she offer comfort when she didn't even know what to call him, other than 'Turner'?

  "You waitin' on a…invitation?" A faint smile touched his battered mouth. "I'm fresh out."

  Jessica reached for the tin star. Her fingers c
losed around the uneven edges of it. No. She couldn't wait any longer. "What's your name?" Her voice came out jagged, like the metal she touched.

  His bruised eyes slitted as he studied her a moment. "Turner. Kaedon Turner."

  Jessica sighed. "Well, Kaedon Turner, you've probably been a lot better places in your life than this. Take a deep breath, and try not to move."

  He gave a wry chuckle, letting his eyes drift completely closed. "Do it fast. I'll be okay."

  She nodded, even though she knew he couldn't see her. "Ready?"

  "Go ahead."

  Even knowing what was coming, his voice sounded smoother than hers, she thought. She wrapped her hand tightly around the metal and pulled up fast, as he'd asked.

  As the metal slid through his flesh, Kaed's left hand moved convulsively, his fingers gripping the quilt. He was unable to hold back the soft hint of an agonized groan as he turned away from her. He swore as the thick steel pin cleared his skin, freeing the chambray shirt and cotton undershirt beneath it, blood spraying as his teeth closed solidly over his bottom lip.

  Jessica lifted the material away, biting back her own curse as she surveyed the damage they'd done to him. His chest was a mass of purple bruises, uneven gashes, and burns. Her stomach turned over. She was not squeamish. But this—

  It was just like what they'd done to Billy, before they'd killed him. Billy, the last man the Choctaws had dumped on her porch. Billy Monroe, the man she'd come to loathe during their one brief year of marriage.

  She took a washrag from the nightstand and wet it in the nearby basin. Wordlessly, she placed her cool palm against Kaedon Turner's stubbled, bruised cheek, turning his head toward her so she could clean his face and neck.

  She knew instinctively he was the kind of man who would never stand for this if it wasn't necessary. The kind of man who was unaccustomed to a woman's comforting caress. The kind of man who would never complain, no matter how badly wounded he was.

  "Fallon." His voice was rough.

  Jessica stopped her movements and watched him. "What about him?"

  His brows drew together, as if he were trying to formulate what he wanted to say. "Is he…dead?"

  What should she tell him?

  The truth.

  "I—don't know."

  "Damn it."

  "You were losing a lot of blood out there," Jessica said, determined to turn his thoughts from Fallon to the present. She ran the wet cloth lightly across the long split in his right cheek.

  His breathing was controlled, even. "I took a bullet." He said it quietly, almost conversationally.

  Jessica stopped moving. "Where?"

  Chapter Three

  Where? she'd asked. He was shot, but damned if he could tell her.

  Kaed wanted to answer, but try as he might, he couldn't form the words. He tried to move his left hand, to show her where. He thought he remembered the right one was broken. Didn't want to move it, or touch it. Didn't want her to touch it, either. She was careful, but it didn't matter; some things were just going to hurt.

  She carefully unbuckled his belt, then began unbuttoning his jeans. He should try to tell her where he was shot, since he couldn't show her. His side. Left side.

  She was undressing him. Improper…very improper… He tried to tell her, but the words wouldn't come. His head was so foggy with pain he could barely keep a rational thought. She had a baby, which meant she was probably married, wasn't she? Hell, it didn't matter. He was just her patient. A very temporary inconvenience to her.

  He tried again to move his left hand, to help her, but she pressed it back down to the mattress.

  "Just lie still. Let me have a look."

  His mind drifted and he let it go, unable to hold on. Sometimes his thinking was clear. The next moment, he felt he was losing control of his sanity.

  They weren't doing anything compromising; she was trying to save his life. The bed would be soaked with his blood by now. He felt a momentary regret. Hadn't meant to ruin her things, to come in here and bleed all over everything. He let his breath go on a slow sigh, feeling his ribs pull. He'd never been this tired. Couldn't even open his eyes.

  Cold metal moved against his waist, down across the tense muscles of his thigh, then past his knee, and finally to his ankle. Perfectly good pants, cut to pieces because he'd gone and gotten himself shot. He'd had his share of injuries, living this life. Marshaling was a hard way to make a living. The scissors started up the other leg, urgently, as if the woman were afraid. It might look bad, with all the blood, but it wouldn't kill him. At least, he didn't think it would. But, hell, he could be wrong. He'd been wrong before. Been wrong about walking into that camp, trying to bargain for those two little girls' lives. It sure as hell hadn't worked.

  The woman gently worked the belt back through the loops of his jeans. She pulled away the top layer of cloth and made a startled sound. Kaed finally managed to open his eyes, and tried to look at the bullet wound. Left side, he remembered. It was still oozing blood, the rest of his body slick and sticky with it from the waist down. The coppery, metallic smell of it filled the air, but the dark-haired woman began to carefully wash away the crimson stickiness, determination in her lovely features. And all he could do was allow it. He gritted his teeth, chafing at his own weighted weariness, and the pain that seemed unending, no matter what care she took.

  Kaed lay tense and still beneath her hands, his mind going down all kinds of twisting, turning paths as she worked over him with steady movement. Her hands were gentle, but sure in their purpose. Was she a dream, or was she real? He couldn't remember anymore. One thing he knew. She'd stay.

  He must have lost more blood than he thought. Crazy ideas. Crazy thoughts. She was doing for him what Standing Bear had asked, nothing more. It was going to be hard as hell to explain to her husband when he came home and found them like this.

  "Kaedon?" Her tone was tentative. He wondered if it was because she wasn't sure she was saying his name right, or if she thought he'd died.

  "Just Kaed." He took a shallow breath, then another. "I'm here."

  She smiled, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know it. When she spoke, her voice was like music, pausing, then plunging forward again.

  "I need to stop the bleeding. You were lucky."

  "One lucky…sonofabitch."

  "I meant, because it went all the way through. So we don't have to…to dig it out." There was that hesitation again, but he already knew what it was she didn't want to have to say to him. He said it instead.

  "All we have to do…is burn it."

  She let her breath out in a rush, as if she'd been holding it, dreading just how she was going to tell him. "Right. Sounds like the voice of experience."

  "Yeah."

  She touched his good arm and he reached up for her, his warm, bronze hand swallowing her smaller one. Her fingers were cold, and he could tell she was afraid, no matter how indifferent she tried to act.

  "You've got one on me," he muttered.

  "What's that?"

  "Your name. Or, do I just call you angel?"

  He felt the smile again, knew he had embarrassed her a little, but had pleased her as well.

  "Jessica Monroe, at your service, Mr. Turner."

  "Don't go all formal on me." He paused, collecting his scattering, hard-to-hold thoughts. "I like Kaed better."

  "Better than 'Mr. Turner'?"

  He opened his eyes a crack and watched as she gave him a measuring look, her cinnamon gaze holding his probing stare for a moment. "What you're doin' for me warrants a little more intimacy, don't'cha think, Jessica?"

  She glanced back down at the seeping wound, worrying her lower lip between even, white teeth. Her auburn hair did its best to escape the bun she'd twisted it up in.

  Kaed's thoughts jumped and swirled as he tried to focus on her, wondering disjointedly how she'd look if she let her hair tumble free and unbound. And her eyes. Beautiful. A man could get lost in the secrets of her eyes.

  Ma
ybe he should've used a word other than intimacy.

  "How do you want it? I—I mean, your wound?" Her voice rolled over him like a full body salve, like warm honey, soothing the incessant pain. He almost smiled again at the flustered note that crept into her tone. He knew the instant she realized the double meaning of her words. "Burned, I mean. Uh, flat blade or black powder?"

  How do you want it?

  Kaed quit trying to force his eyes open to look at her. By the breathless sound of her voice, he knew she'd be flushed pink with embarrassment, and he didn't want to make it any worse.

  It was enough to know that maybe intimacy had been the right word after all.

  He was sure of it when Jessica hurriedly turned and began to unroll the bandaging, laying her scissors nearby in preparation for what was to come. His thoughts were elusive, scattering like leaves in an autumn wind each time he tried to hold on to one. He shifted, and the slight movement sent a brutal bolt of sharp lightning through his side, reminding him of his broken ribs.

  Jessica cast a glance toward the crib as Lexi began to cry in earnest again.

  "See to the baby," he muttered.

  But Jessica hesitated at the undisguised agony in his voice. "I hate to put this off. I know how you must be dreading it."

  "Feed her." He paused a moment, gathering his strength. "I can wait."

  Kaed tried to force himself to relax in spite of the excruciating pain. He bent with it as it washed over him in waves. His wrist throbbed like a blue bitch. And in spite of everything else that had been done to him, he had to admit that he was dreading the scorching burn of the white-hot blade against his skin more than anything else. Except getting his wrist splinted.

  The fever gripped him. He was hot, then cold. Dry, then clammy. His head pounded, and the light hurt his eyes, so he knew he shouldn't sleep. He probably had a hell of a concussion. He couldn't give in. Couldn't let himself drift away into the quiet sounds of the approaching night. The wind picked up, whistling around the corner of the house. Sounded like a storm might be on the way.