The Scout's Bride

Reaching across him, Rebecca tried to loosen the bandage. “You’re going to have to move. I can’t get to it.”

As he turned, his knees brushed against her, but she did not notice. Intent on her task, she stepped around his long legs to remove the wrapping, her apron catching on the sixgun at his side.

“So this is what reeks of alcohol,” she choked out when the fumes hit her.

“And a waste of fine bourbon it was, ma’am.” The scout drew deeply from his flask. “But O’Hara insisted.”

“The arrow seems to have missed the bone,” she said with relief. “Thank goodness, it passed through muscle and came out the other side.”

“Thank Sergeant O’Hara.” Teddy roused himself unexpectedly. “When he couldn’t pull it out, he pushed it through.”

She flinched at the thought.

“It’s not that bad.” Injun Jack sounded almost reproachful.

“No.” She tried to keep her concern out of her voice as she inspected the punctures. Both were seeping a nasty brown fluid. “There’s just a good deal of debris… and something else.”

“Tobacco juice,” Teddy supplied the answer groggily.

“Tobacco juice?” she echoed, her stomach pitching and rolling.

“O’Hara worked it through the wound,” the scout explained. “It’s not uncommon in the field. Are you all right, ma’am?”

“Fine.” She swallowed deeply. “It must be the heat.”

“Now look what you’ve done, Teddy.” Setting his flask on the floor, Injun Jack stood and steadied her with his good hand. “The Yankee angel looks like she’s going to faint.”

“Sorry.” Teddy was asleep before the word left his mouth.

“I’m not going to faint.” Irritated by her own weakness, she sidled away and found herself backed into the wall.

“Are you sure?” The big man’s voice was husky. He swayed toward her, his bourbon-scented breath stirring the tendrils at her temple.

“Of course.” Intending to convey calm confidence, she smiled up at her patient, but her smile wavered at the startling heat in his blue eyes. Washing over her, it sparked an answering flicker deep within her, melting her resistance. His lips were close, so very close. Her own parted and she held her breath… waiting….

Waiting for what? Coming to her senses in a rush, she drew herself up, increasing the distance between them without moving. What was she doing, behaving like a schoolgirl over an unkempt, uncouth scout who was drunk and getting drunker by the moment?

Deliberately she removed Injun Jack’s hand from her waist. Standing on tiptoe, she placed her hands on his brawny shoulders and pressed down until he sat on the bed. “If I am to treat you, you must comport yourself as a gentleman, sir,” she advised.

“If I can remember how,” he replied coolly. Hanging his gun belt on the bedstead, he sat down and retrieved his flask. He sipped from it and extended his injured arm, scowling when she came no closer. “Go on,” he growled. “I’m not going to shoot you.”

She looked as if she doubted his word. “I’m afraid you must take off your shirt before I can clean your wound.”

“I’m afraid you must cut it off,” he countered. “Since I can’t pull it over my head, perhaps you’ll accept the gentlemanly loan of my knife?”

Terrified she would cut him, Rebecca gingerly sliced through the damaged shirt from armhole to neck. The scout stared straight ahead, lifting his arm a little so she could split the side seam of his shirt, but he did not look at her. When she finished, he shrugged out of the ruined garment, his muscles rippling under bare, bronzed skin. A necklace of odd, ivory beads encircled his sturdy neck, nestling in the black hair that furred his chest.

Catching herself staring again, she lifted her abashed gaze. Just as she had feared, Injun Jack was watching.

“For a woman who doesn’t embarrass easily, you sure blush a lot,” he baited, taking his knife from her.

She said nothing, but refused to look at him as she washed his arm from the shoulder to the tips of his fingers. Carefully, she cleansed his wound, probing gently for debris, and treated it.

He bore her painful ministrations in silence. By the time she tied a new dressing into place, his flask was empty and his eyes were glazed.

“Won’t you lie down?” She tried to ease him back on the bunk. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. Rest is the best thing for you now.”

“Not till I thank you for your charity to a stranger,” he slurred, hauling himself to his feet. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my manners. Allow me to properly introduce myself, ma’am. Jonathan Braithwaite Bellamy, at your service.”

His attempt at a bow ended precipitously when he overbalanced and lurched toward her. Bracing both hands and a shoulder against his chest, she leaned against him to keep him from falling forward.

Jack shook his head, confounded. He had intended to kiss her hand, but both hands seemed to be planted against his chest and her body was pressed against his. He hadn’t even seen a woman for three months and now he was holding one, he realized through an alcoholic fog. Things were working out better than he had planned.

She gasped in surprise when he slipped his good arm around her waist, drawing her against him. “Mr. Bellamy,” she protested, her hands trapped between their bodies, “please.”

“Please,” he whispered, remembering his manners. Her eyes are hazel with little flecks of gold. How could he have forgotten?

She stiffened when his lips claimed hers, but did not shrink away. She fit against him, her small firm breasts pressed against his chest. She felt so right, he thought hazily, pulling her even closer.

Rebecca was motionless as his mouth covered hers, hot and bourbon-flavored, inciting a riot of unfamiliar sensation, inviting an unlearned response. There were no thoughts, only feelings as she returned his kiss, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, for fear the unexpected, exquisite pleasure would end.

When it did end, the feelings receded. Her face burning from the brush of his stubbled cheek, she blushed crimson in mortification. Plastered against his muscular length, her toes barely touched the ground. She attempted to squirm out of his grip, but he would not release her.

Grinning down at her, he mumbled, “You kiss even better than you doctor. I’m downright thankful to be your patient, ma’am.”

“You…”

But before she could muster a fitting tirade, he toppled backward, taking her with him. She landed atop him in a black billow of skirt and petticoat.

Untangling herself from his loose embrace, she scrambled to her feet. “Ooh! You, sir, are a disgraceful, uncivilized savage.”

Injun Jack did not hear. A silly grin on his disreputable, bearded face, he sprawled on the narrow bunk and began to snore.

Chapter Two (#ulink_3261ef5b-1b74-5efb-ba03-badb6d24d6c8)

Rebecca’s patients did not awaken at the sounds of Dress Retreat from the parade ground. Teddy stirred fitfully when the sunset gun was fired, but Injun Jack snored on, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

Or the dead drunk. The woman glared at him. The scout lay with his back to her, his good arm crooked beneath his head.

He hadn’t awakened when she redressed his wound after their fall or when she washed his exposed upper body, unwilling to remove his leather pants. He didn’t move now as the nurses bustled around, lighting the lamps against the approaching night. No innocent babe ever slept more soundly, Rebecca thought tartly, and Injun Jack Bellamy was far from innocent.

He had tramped into the hospital, threatened the nurses and tried to intimidate her. He had insulted her, pawed her and made her lose her temper, something she tried never to do. But most disturbing was the memory of his drunken kiss and the feelings it stirred in her. No one, not even Paul, had affected her so.

“Why don’t you go home and get some sleep, Rebecca?” Trying to keep his gravelly voice low, Doc Trotter joined her.

“I thought I’d stay awhile yet.” She smiled at the short, stout man.

“As you say, my dear.” Careful not to waken Teddy, he peered beneath the blanket at his wounded leg. “We must keep an eye on that red streak,” he muttered. “He’s resting easily enough. I thought he might need more painkiller, but apparently he does not.”