“I’m not sure.”
“Have you ever seen him use one before?”
“No.”
“Who do you think taught him to use it?”
“My mother, maybe? I don’t know. Why are you asking so many questions?”
“He did have a gun trained on me,” Jericho said lightly.
Catherine studied him, not sure if her lingering unease was due to seeing Andrew with the gun or the strange warmth that had moved through her when Jericho Blue’s body had pressed against hers. That warmth stirred her even now. “I think he would’ve shot you!”
“I do, too, if I’d been a real threat.” In the soft light, his gaze held hers. “Which I wasn’t.”
Perhaps he didn’t think so, but for those long seconds she had.
“I would never hurt you, Catherine. Certainly not after you saved my life.”
She believed him. Or wanted to. “It’s forgotten now.”
“Is it? You’re pale and you were afraid of me.”
“It’s over. Why don’t you rest—”
“C’mon, Catherine. I know something was going on in that head of yours. What did I do to make you tense up like I was going to take a whip to you?”
“Nothing. You startled me. And I certainly didn’t expect Andrew to come charging in that way.”
“Something happened in here, Miz Donnelly.” The Ranger’s voice turned soft and coaxing. “I’d like to know if it was because of me.”
“And if it was?” She didn’t like being pressed on this issue. She had no intention of allowing herself to get so close to him again. “As I said, I was startled. There was no harm done.”
“Someone hurt you. A man you knew? Or didn’t know?”
She wasn’t stirring up those memories again. “I was raised by nuns, Lieutenant. There were no men there.”
His narrow gaze said he didn’t believe her, but Catherine didn’t care. She wasn’t about to tell him he was the first man to excite her more than frighten her.
Fear was the least of what washed through her right now. The sight of him sitting on the side of her bed turned her insides soft and warm. Hazy lamplight sculpted the hard muscles of the wide shoulders and chest that had been pressed against her only moments ago.
His gaze bored into hers, then dropped to her lips, sparking that unfamiliar warmth low in her belly.
She couldn’t seem to stop remembering the undeniable press of his arousal. Her gaze went there involuntarily and a curious heat swept through her. Even now, he strained against the cotton of his drawers.
“Your leg,” she gasped, stepping reflexively into the room. “It’s bleeding again.”
Blood glued the fabric to the corded muscles of his thigh and molded the part of him that had frightened and excited her only minutes ago. “I’d better change your dressing.”
“I’ll do it,” he growled, grabbing the pillow and putting it in his lap.
“But what if you’ve torn the stitches?”
“I’m fine.”
“I think I should—”
“I can’t imagine you’re that eager to get so close to me again, Miz Donnelly. I can change the bandage myself.”
His words stung, but they were true. “Very well. I’ll bring you some fresh dressings with some soap and water.”
He nodded curtly.
Knowing that he wanted her should’ve scared her senseless, but her apprehension was outweighed by the curiosity that had nagged since he had arrived at her front door. Curiosity she had no intention of indulging.
Turning, she walked out to get the things Jericho would need to change his bandage. The nurse in her insisted on tending him; the woman in her couldn’t get close.
He slept poorly. Blood soaked through his fresh bandage and his drawers stuck to him. The pain didn’t do much to keep his mind off the fact that he’d been powerfully aroused last night and Catherine had borne witness to it.
Jericho couldn’t recall the last time he had taken his ease with a woman. Now, thanks to the brush of Catherine’s breasts against him, that was about all he wanted.
Since he’d started chasing the McDougals, his focus had been solely on the outlaws. He’d spent more time contemplating a woman in the last week than he had in nearly two years. Not just any woman, but one who had kindly taken him in and tended his wounds. One whose brother had most likely given Jericho those wounds. The terror in Catherine’s eyes was as much to blame for his sleeplessness as the discomfort of his freshly opened wound. But it was her words that pricked at him.
“Get off,” she’d said.
He hadn’t been on her, hadn’t been touching her at all right then. Jericho found it strange that she hadn’t asked him to “step back” or “back away,” as Andrew had. The Donnelly boy wasn’t the only one hiding secrets. So was his sister.
Jericho wanted to know who had hurt her. Was it someone she’d loved? She was sweet and, judging from her skittishness last night, most likely untouched. Her innocence drew him even though he knew his concern should be about what it hid.
Was she involved with one of the McDougals? Had one of them hurt her?
The thought of a McDougal putting his hands on Catherine had Jericho’s fist balling. A savage protectiveness sprang loose inside him.
He didn’t understand the ferocity of the emotion. What difference did it make what had happened to her? Losing so much blood had tangled up his reason. He was here to find the McDougal gang, not muse over the arousal triggered by his nurse. Something Jericho wouldn’t act on because of her link to the outlaws.
Even though the image of her in bed with him came too easily, he needed to stay away from her. But for now all he could do was lie in her bed and hope his leg didn’t rot off. He levered himself to a sitting position and leaned against the headboard.
Through the door he caught the sounds of her and Andrew moving around, the low murmur of their voices. His window was open and he heard the pair step onto the porch.
“Have a good day, Andrew.”
The boy grunted, then darted past. After a few seconds, the front door shut and Catherine’s light footsteps sounded on the wooden floor.
After seeing Andrew with that gun last night, Jericho was certain he’d spotted the boy at the ambush that had killed his friend and fellow Ranger, Hays Gentry. Andrew had been right up front with Angus McDougal. Either Catherine was a mighty good liar or she really didn’t suspect her brother of being involved with the gang.
She walked in, interrupting his thoughts. She was a sight today. His gaze hungrily took in the silky fall of black hair over her shoulder. Her pale blue dress with its white apron made the blue of her eyes startlingly bright. She smelled clean, with a hint of verbena; he was so sick of his own smell.
“Good morning.” Her voice was subdued and she didn’t meet his eyes. “How did you sleep?”
Like hell. “Fine.”
Moving to the right side of the bed, she aimed a smile in his direction but still didn’t look at him. Beneath her cool competence, she was embarrassed, he realized. And his damn body responded to her even now.
“I trust you changed your bandage?”
“Yes.” He wanted to set her mind at ease, but keeping his distance was probably best.
She