Chapter 14

Lacey had gone mad waiting for the men to arrive home with the new cattle. Or, more particularly, one man. She sat on the rocker, once again, counting the porch planks. There weren't even enough boring chores, with most of the men gone, to break up the boredom.

Dora came out onto the porch drying a plate and looked down the empty path. "They'll be home today. I can feel it."

Lacey wasn't convinced. Dora had been making the exact same prediction every morning this week.

Dora walked back inside and then almost immediately walked back out, still drying the same dish. "Hope those boys didn't run into any bad weather."

Dora was starting to make her nervous. "I think I'll head to the barn and give Irish a grooming."

Lacey led the old horse out into the sunlight and tied her to a fencepost. She brushed Irish's neck and the horse turned her head suddenly, nearly smacking Lacey with her nose. The usually unflappable mare was finding something very interesting in the distance. Her nostrils started twitching. Lacey felt a vibration under her feet and squinted toward the gate. He was back.

She ran to the house and collided with Dora who dropped the plate she'd been drying all morning. It shattered. Shards of china, now polished to a high sheen, were strewn in the dirt.

Lacey bit her lip at the sight of him astride his horse. His black hat was powdered with trail dust as was his long black coat. He swung out of the saddle even before reining the horse to a full stop. He scooped up Dora and swung her around in a wide arc. Lacey tried to look inconspicuous. She hoped he didn't think she was waiting for a hug. She decided it was best to walk away.

"That's a fine welcome, Duchess," he yelled.

Before she'd even squeaked out the word hello, he had her in his arms.

She clutched desperately at him.

"Miss me, little thing?"

She clung to him unable to say a word. Lacey felt as if she could go on holding him forever.

He felt so warm and solid. So totally dependable. Something she had never expected to feel about him.

Dora cleared her throat. Slade rubbed the top of Lacey's head with his chin before setting her on her feet.

* * * *

Lacey plucked another ripe tomato off the vine. She glanced up as Dora approached with a little lift in her step, like a woman with good news to deliver.

What if Grady had returned? She fumbled the tomato. It landed by her feet, splitting down the center. With each passing day, she'd dreaded his return more. How would she be able to hide her feelings for Slade? More importantly, how would she be able to pretend she had feelings for Grady?

"Lacey, honey, come back to the house."

Lacey braced herself for the worst.

"I had Tait and Blue clean up the clutter in that old sewing room. Now there's a big open space to work in. I even mopped the floor so you can cut your patterns out right there in the center of the room."

Lacey felt her shoulders relax. "Patterns?" she asked.

"For your wedding dress, silly thing. Unless you're willing to wear those ragged denims on your big day."

Lacey looked down at her trousers. She'd taken a long ride on Irish earlier in the day and hadn't gotten around to changing. Her pants were covered with dirt and horse hair. In addition, the hems were tattered and frayed.

It would suit her fine to stand at the altar looking like this. It was a wicked thought. Because there was one thing about Grady she remembered well, he was always immaculately garbed.

"I don't think you should put it off any longer, dear. It's obvious you are a remarkable seamstress, but a fancy gown like that will take time to make."

"Of course, you're right, Dora. I'll just gather a few more vegetables." She lifted her half-filled basket to show Dora. "And then I'll go in and get started."

Dora grabbed the basket and pushed her toward the house. "Don't you worry about the tomatoes. I'll get what I need for supper."

"Supper," Lacey said, a little too enthusiastically. "Certainly, it would be ridiculous for me to get started sewing when mealtime is only a few hours away. You'll need my help."

"Nonsense. I've been cooking by myself for years. I'm sure I can manage without you for an afternoon."

"I suppose, I should get started." She shuffled back to the house like a scolded child being sent to her room for punishment.

* * * *

"Ouch! Bloody needle!" Lacey cursed as she pricked her finger for a third time. "Blasted thing."

Kneeling over the cloth, she angrily repositioned the flimsy paper pattern she had cut. The slippery silk fabric thwarted her at every turn. Normally, sewing, even something as difficult as a wedding gown, would have been a challenging, yet enjoyable task. But today, she couldn't seem to do anything right.

With a sigh, she sat back on her heels. She jutted out her bottom lip to blow a strand of hair from her face. Why hadn't they married in England? She could have easily found the right dress in the European shops. If it hadn't been for Dora and delivering those legal papers, she could have bypassed Colorado completely.

How horrible of her to think this way. Poor, innocent Dora had nothing to do with her unhappiness.

She glanced over at Oliver who was fast asleep in a corner of the room. He snored loudly, without a care in the world. Oliver, sensing her watching him, woke and clumsily rose to his feet. Wagging his heavy tail, he walked over and planted a sloppy kiss on her face. Lacey threw her arms around the dog and hugged him tightly.

"You better go back to your corner. I don't need you walking over this fabric and making a mess of my work. I'm having a hard enough time as it is."

The wolfhound delivered another wet kiss to her face before she pointed in the direction of his previous napping spot. "Go on, Ollie, go lay down." He dejectedly obeyed.

On her hands and knees again, Lacey prodded herself to get back to work. A noise from Slade's room made her look up. She'd convinced herself that this would be the perfect time to work on the dress. All the men would be out in the fields. It's merely Dora straightening up his room, she assured herself.

Moments after returning to her pinning, the latch clicked. The door swung open and Slade ducked through the doorway. He surveyed the sea of white satin unfurled on the floor, then he turned his eyes to her.

He cocked an eyebrow. "I kind of like seeing you on all fours like that, brat," he drawled suggestively.

She sat back abruptly and hurled a pin cushion at him.

"What are you up to, Duchess?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? Sewing curtains?"

"Actually, looks more like a wedding dress to me."

"You really are quite the detective, aren't you? What are you doing inside the house at this hour? Don't you have some cows to chase or something?"

"I was changing into a dry shirt. Pardon me for not checking in with you before I used my bedroom."

She motioned to the door with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Well, be off. As you can see, I am busy." Lacey occupied herself with adjusting the pattern pieces. It did not take long to realize that he was still standing over her. She stopped and looked up at him. Their eyes locked.

"You really going through with this?"

"I think it's quite obvious that I am." She picked up the scissors and began cutting the fabric. She heard him leave. He hadn't bothered to shut the sewing room door, and she could see him walking away down the hallway. She felt bad that she'd lashed out at him. The man hadn't done anything to deserve it.

A sudden sharp whistle woke Oliver with a start. The huge dog raced across the pristine white cloth in a hurry to get to Slade.

"Bloody grand." The shiny satin was now covered with dusty paw prints. The strategically placed pattern pieces were now scattered around the room. Who was she kidding? The man was far from blameless.

* * * *

The mud was knee deep and Slade could feel it oozing into the tops of his boots. He looped the rope around the steer's neck, and the animal jerked against it with more strength than Slade would have credited. Stupid beast. If Lacey hadn't heard the pitiful moaning and called them in from the fields, the animal would surely have drowned.

Slogging back out of the watering hole, weighted down with mud, Slade heaved himself into the saddle. He wound the rope around the pommel and prodded his horse forward.

He could feel the burn of the rope through his buckskin gloves. The mud made a sucking sound as the animal pulled free, its front legs buckling as it clambered onto solid ground.

Slade dismounted, intent on freeing the cow. It was then, he made what could have amounted to a fatal mistake—he looked in Lacey's direction.

She was wearing his fur-lined coat. It covered her to the tips of her toes. Raindrops glittered in her black hair. He watched as she tilted her head back and closed her eyes, smiling as the rain sprinkled her face.

He'd only taken his eyes from the steer for a moment, but it was long enough. The animal, not the least bit grateful for having been saved from a suffocating death, bellowed loudly and lowered his head. It charged at him. Slade jumped back, dodging the horn aimed for his gut. His boot heel slipped, catching in the muddy edge of the hole, and the steer made a second, successful pass at him.

Shouting curses, Blue and Thorpe jumped off their horses. They hurled rocks at the animal. The steer gave an angry snort, tossed its head, and bolted away. Slade watched as the blood, watered down by the rain, turned his pant leg a pale pink.

She seemed to be at his side in an instant. He was unsettled by the tears streaming down her face.

"Go home," he ordered.

Lacey worked her hand out from beneath the long sleeve and reached for him. If he'd had any sense, he would have dodged her touch because she was definitely the biggest threat to his well-being.

Pain momentarily forgotten, his body shuddered with need as she rubbed his arm.

"Blue, get her the hell out of here."

"Needn't bother, Blue, I'm leaving." She shrugged out of the coat. "He's shivering," she said and handed it to Blue.

Slade couldn't help noticing how easily she sprang into the saddle. Or how she hunkered fearlessly over the horse's neck as she raced over the fields.

"Man, you goin' to just stand there and bleed all over your boot like that?"

Having nothing else to bind the wound, he removed his shirt and ripped it in half. Hoping to staunch the bleeding, he wrapped it tightly around his thigh. He snatched the coat from Blue, shoving his hands into the sleeves. Slade shook off Blue's hand at his elbow and hobbled over to his horse.

"Take my horse. He's so smooth you won't feel a bump."

"I prefer riding mine."

"I think we all know what you'd really prefer ridin', Boss," Thorpe said with a ribald laugh. Thorpe seemed not to notice that no one shared in his laughter, or that Blue took the precaution of stepping away from him. "I doubt, there's a one of us, who hasn't dreamed of ridin' that fine little filly. Right, Blue?" he asked with another burst of laughter.

Slade turned hard on his heels. He wouldn't have thought he'd have the strength at the moment to break a man's nose, but he was wrong. Blood dripped through Thorpe's fingers as he cradled his newly remodeled nose.

"You deserved that, you damn fool," Blue said.

* * * *

Lacey stood at the parlor window and watched through the sheer lace curtains for any movement. His angry dismissal of her had again, made it painfully clear that she was in the way. No matter how hard she tried to adapt to ranch life, he continued to see her as a nuisance. She felt a deep hurt. Yet nothing could have pulled her away from the window as she waited for his return.

She plucked at the wet shirt that clung to her skin. In the fading light, Lacey could only make out the silhouettes of the men as they returned. Two of the men split off and headed toward the bunkhouse.

She took a deep breath and waited as she heard his one confident step followed by a dragging sound. Escape to your room; don't give him another opportunity to break your heart. All useless thoughts once she caught sight of him.

Near the watering hole, Lacey had been unable to make out the extent of his injury. But the homey yellow glow of the lantern she'd lit hid too little.

Her stomach lurched. The blood had already seeped through the makeshift bandage. It would be only moments before the leg of his pants would be saturated.

"Woman," he said as his pale eyes rested on her, "You're drenched. Get into some dry clothes."

He swayed for a second and put a hand on the wall to steady himself.

"Shall I get Dora?" she asked in a half-whisper.

His lips curled into a sardonic smile. "Unless you have a notion to nurse me yourself?"

Backing out the door, Lacey dashed off in the direction of the kitchen. When she returned with Dora, he was no longer in the parlor. They followed the dotted trail of blood to his room. He'd managed to prop himself against the headboard and was in the process of rolling himself a smoke.

Dora's face blanched at the sight of his bloodied leg. "Makes my belly do somersaults just looking at that mess," she said, but approached him nonetheless. Her mouth was set in a grim line as her sinewy, strong hands tore away at the fabric of his pants, exposing the wound. "I'm thinkin' it looks worse than it is."

"Easy for you to say." Slade winced at the rough way she handled his thigh, turning it this way and that to get a better look.

"Lacey, fetch some of that Scotch whiskey Slade keeps stashed in the top of his bureau."

"So much for my secret hiding place," he said with a groan. "Don't use my good stuff. The rotgut you've had stored in the pantry for the last twenty years will work fine. If there's anything to burn out the wound, that's sure to do the trick."

"I wouldn't chance it. I don't think it's pure enough. Lacey, the Scotch, please."

Lacey felt very uncomfortable rifling through his things. With relief, her fingers found the neck of the bottle.

Slade shut his eyes as Dora drenched his wound with the fiery liquid. "Enough," he said. With a grunt of disgust, he snatched the bottle from Dora. Tilting his head back, he swallowed half the bottle before recapping his precious liquid.

"Now Lacey," Dora instructed, "I need an old sheet from the linen cupboard. Not the one with the lavender sprigs. Just a plain, old, white one to rip into strips. And my sewing kit. The bottom shelf of the same cupboard."

"You know, I'm fonder of you than my own mother, but there is no way you're comin' near me with a needle, Dora. I've seen how you hem a shirt."

Obviously insulted, Dora put her hands on her hips and frowned down at him. "Way I see it, Slade Michael, you haven't a choice. No, I'd forgotten, there is old Doc Strafe and his bag full of rusty implements."

Jolting Lacey from a sort of trance, he tugged at a lock of her hair. "You stitch me up, Duchess," he said. "I've seen your fine handiwork."

Far from being pleased at his compliment, Lacey felt her face drain of all color. "I couldn't possibly."

"Not going to make an injured man beg are you, Lace?"

He curled a strand of her hair around his finger and rubbed the ends with the pad of his thumb. An unnatural shiver started from the roots of her hair and traveled to her feet. His ice-blue eyes met hers. Far from pleading, his gaze unnerved her with its intense, unreadable quality. A bit ago, he'd ordered her out of his sight, and now, he was fondling her hair and pleading with her to tend to his wound. If he didn't get his moods straight, she'd surely go mad.

Dora cleared her throat loudly, but Lacey was unable to pull her eyes from his. "I'll get your needlework bag," Dora said finally and left the room with an unusually heavy step.

When she returned, she plopped the bag at the foot of the bed. "Best get started, Lacey. He's making an awful mess of my linens," she said with a telltale sniffle.

"Not 'til she changes out of those wet clothes," he insisted.

"Do what he says. I don't need two invalids around this ranch."

Once in her room, Lacey shed her wet clothes and yanked on one of her old cotton dresses, ripping a seam in her nervousness. She made a face at herself in the mirror and mouthed the words bloody coward before returning to her patient.

His eyes mere slits, Slade watched as she rummaged through her bag. The sewing items seemed suddenly like foreign objects to her. The thought of putting needle through flesh made her grit her teeth. Thoughtlessly, she pulled out a long, curved embroidery needle.

"Darlin', you're not coming near me with that. Choose somethin' straighter and a helluva lot shorter."

"You sure?" she said, mustering a weak smile. "I've done some pretty fancy work with this one. Perhaps you ought to have a bit more whiskey before I start."

"Looks to me as if you could use a touch yourself. You're looking a little green."

She held up her trembling hand. "But I wouldn't be near so steady, if I did."

"Give it over for a second," he said, reaching for the needle. They both watched as he held it to the candle flame until it glowed red.

As she threaded the now blackened needle, she started to panic. "I do think you'd be far better off with Dora."

He shook his head no. The second Lacey pulled the chair up to the bed, Dora suppressed a sob with her hand and hurried out of the room.

When the needle first pierced his skin, Lacey had to swallow back the bile. 'Tis the same as stitching fabric, she told herself. She drew in a reedy breath and tried to concentrate, nearly biting through her lip in the process.

Pinching the gash together, she made two more perfect stitches, and then realized with a start that Slade hadn't uttered a sound. Her gaze flew to his face, expecting to see him out cold. His eyes were hooded, but it was clear they were focused on her. By the contents of the whiskey bottle, she surmised, he hadn't even helped himself to a drop more. Either the man was the bravest she'd ever met, or he was so hardened that nothing affected him.

After a few more careful stitches, Slade asked, "Christ, what are you doing, woman, embroidering your initials in my leg?"

"Actually, yes," she replied, suppressing a laugh.

"Hmm. Your initials on me. Can't say, I don't find the idea appealin'," he drawled.

Warmth flooded her face and she bowed her head lower to hide behind curtains of hair. Pushing his seductive comment from her mind, Lacey forced herself to concentrate on the final stitch. She must have been a bit rough in her enthusiasm to be done. For the first time since she'd begun stitching him up, he let out a low groan.

"That'll teach me to keep my thoughts to myself," he muttered.

She sponged away the last of the blood.

"I'll be damned," he said. "We got through that without you feeling the need to remind me of Grady."

His eyes drifted closed. It took some effort to lift his leg, so she could tuck the linen bandage beneath his thigh as she wrapped it around his wound.

"'Tis myself, I'm reminding," she muttered under her breath.

One of Slade's eyes popped open.

"I thought you were sleeping!"

With some struggle, he propped himself up on his elbows. "Explain yourself," he demanded.

"Nothing to explain." She began stuffing her sewing items back in the bag, managing to stab her finger on a needle in her haste. She brought her pinpricked finger to her mouth and gave him a reproachful look.

"You have to remind yourself about Grady because, otherwise, you don't think of him."

"I think of him." She attempted but couldn't muster any passion in her voice.

"The hell you do."

"Grady," she said, her chin starting to quiver, "was there when I needed someone."

"Obliging sort, aren't you? You're going to marry him just because he happened to have good timing."

She refused to cry again in front of him. "Do you need anything else?"

"Yeah, I need something else," he said, his voice huskier than usual. Brazenly, his pale eyes slid over her. There was no way to mistake the intent of that look or those words. "This injury may slow me down some, but I'd be willing to give it a try."

Lacey hurried to gather up her things.

"Not so damn obliging now, sweetheart," he said.

She stopped what she was doing. The man was injured, and although he wouldn't admit it, in pain. She suspected it was the whiskey talking. Choosing not to let him provoke her, Lacey moved to the head of the bed and straightened his pillows.

Leaning over, she pushed aside his hair and kissed his forehead. Surprised by her action, she could feel his body give a slight jolt.

"My mother used to do this to test for fever." She breathed a sigh of relief; he didn't feel warm. Unfortunately, infection would be a worry for a few more days at least.