Bandera's Bride. Mary McBride

of a woman divesting herself of a petticoat or two.

      “What I meant was,” she continued, “that it’s foolish for you to rip up your shirt when I have all this silk and muslin doing nothing but puffing out my skirt.”

      She plopped back down beside him, her arms full of white lacy garments. “There. You see? Now, please just tell me how wide I should tear the strips.”

      Her voice, as well as the brass tack glitter in her eyes, brooked no argument, so John held up his thumb and forefinger, indicating a decent width for a bandage.

      “Two inches, give or take, I’d say,” he murmured.

      “All right.” She began ripping. And ripping. No sooner had she shredded one petticoat than she began on the other. John watched in appreciative silence while her fingers fairly flew. In a matter of minutes, she was done with the ripping and had begun knotting the lacy strips together.

      He stole a glance or two at her determined face. Her mouth was a study in purposefulness, and when her tongue peeked out a fraction to wet her lips, he felt his body tighten instantly at the sight. The thought of how he’d react if he actually kissed those lips made his mouth so dry he almost couldn’t speak. Not the words he wanted to say, anyway.

      “I’m grateful, Emily,” he said at last. “I’ll repay you for your loss as soon as we get back to the ranch.”

      “Nonsense. I’ll be glad not to have to carry the weight of these petticoats on our walk tomorrow.” She pulled the final white knot tight. “There. Now let’s get you out of that shirt.”

      He started to shrug out of it on his own, but then there were her hands all of a sudden and her cool fingertips guiding him, gliding down his back and arms while her mouth made all sorts of soft and sympathetic little noises.

      “Oh, you poor dear,” she exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such bruises. Especially here.”

      Her light touch on the site of his injured rib was as exquisite as it was painful. John sucked in his breath.

      “I can manage,” he said, reaching for one end of the long knotted strip.

      Emily jerked it out of his hand. “I’m sure you can, but I suspect I’ll manage better. Just tell me whether it’s too tight. It should be tight, shouldn’t it, if it’s to do you any good?”

      She was already beginning to wind the petticoat strips around his chest, her hair brushing his skin, her breath warm and sweet on his cheek, his neck, his shoulders. For a moment John felt almost guilty, as if he had deliberately conjured up the violent storm and its aftermath for the sole sake of this moment of intimacy. He closed his eyes the better to savor it. He’d dreamed of this—her!—so very long.

      “There.” She wove the ragged end of the bandage through the strips already in place. “That ought to do it. For now at least.”

      John drew in a tentative breath, deeper than the shallow ones he’d been practicing for the last few hours. It was better. He let the breath out as a rough sigh of relief.

      “Much better,” he said. “Muchas gracias, Emily. I’m in your debt.”

      She sat back now and laughed. “De nada, John. Did I say that right?”

      He nodded, trying to suppress a smile.

      “Anyway,” she continued, “I don’t think Price would ever forgive me if I didn’t do all I could for his partner when he was in trouble, do you?”

      He could feel his expression alter and hoped she wouldn’t be able to read the disappointment that seemed to wash over his face at the mention of Price’s name. Their moment of intimacy, so precious to John, had just blown away like smoke.