Storming Paradise. Mary McBride

denial. On her knees, Libby edged closer to him. “We need to get that bleeding stopped,” she said firmly. “Do you have a clean handkerchief, Mr. Jones?”

      “No, ma’am.” He pointed to the blood-soaked bandanna now lying in the dust.

      Then Shad narrowed his gaze on her worried face. If she bit any harder on that lower lip, he thought, pretty soon she’d be bleeding, too. It dawned on him suddenly that she wasn’t wearing her hat, that her dark hair had a reddish cast out here in the sunlight. He didn’t know why that pleased him or sent a quick jolt of desire through him. The lady could be bald for all it mattered to him. What mattered, after all, was the fact that she was a lady. And he wanted no part of that.

      “I’m fine,” he told her gruffly. “Save your mothering for your daughter, Miss Kingsland. I don’t need it”

      “What you need is a clean bandage, Mr. Jones,” she snapped, “and if you’ll turn your back for a moment, I’ll provide you with one.”

      The soft worry in her features had hardened to flint now, Shad noticed. Amos Kingsland’s stubborn fire burned in her blue eyes. “Turn my back?”

      “Please. I need to tear off a strip of my petticoat.”

      “Go ahead.”

      “I will,” she said, “as soon as you redirect your gaze.”

      “I’ve seen petticoats before, ma’am.”

      “Not mine, Mr. Jones,” she countered sternly.

      Biting down on a curse, Shad turned and stared off across the creek while he listened to assorted rustlings and then to one quick, decisive rip.

      He jerked slightly at the cool touch of her hand on his leg.

      “Sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she murmured as she wound the torn cloth around him. “That was a very selfless gesture, Mr. Jones. What you did for little Andy. I’m grateful to you.”

      Shad didn’t reply. He was trying to concentrate on something else. Anything else. The way the creek eddied around the slant of a downed cottonwood branch. A bluebottle fly edging along the pull-strap of his discarded boot. Patterns of sun and shade. Anything but the soft, almost dazzling drift of her fingertips. Anything but those feathers and flames. He was thinking he much preferred the bite of a rattler. It did less damage in the long run.

      “There,” she said, making a last little tear, giving a last little tug as she tied the bandage. “That ought to do, at least until we reach Paradise.”

      Hallelujah. He could feel the sweat trickling down his side and he knew it had nothing to do with the sun overhead. “Thank you, ma’am.”

      “You’re quite welcome.”

      He heard the dovelike swish of her skirts—those sacred, well-guarded petticoats—that meant she was getting up. He could almost breathe again.

      “Oh. One more thing, Mr. Jones.” She was standing just behind him, her shadow spilling over him like dark silk. “I hate to ask after what you did for Andy, but I wonder if you’d mind riding the rest of the way up front with Mr. Talent? The poor child’s calmer now, but…”

      “Glad to,” he answered quickly. God, how he was glad.

       Chapter Five

      Libby lifted the side curtain to gaze out at the passing landscape. At the final relay stop, Shula had popped her head out of the coach and inquired—Princess fashion—about the time they’d be reaching Paradise. Eb Talent had slapped his knee and hooted with laughter.