“I’ll be long gone before I’d put your family in harm’s way. Now, I could use another shot of that magic potion of yours. I don’t think I can get down the stairs without it and a large bottle of whiskey.”
“You won’t be able to get down the stairs with that combination, I guarantee it.”
“You have a better idea?”
Isabel had several, but she kept them to herself. I’ll learn your secrets, Jake Coulter, she told him silently, one way or the other.
Out loud, she told him, “I’ll give you something that’ll put you to sleep for several hours and from the look in your eyes, that will be a relief to both of us.”
Not waiting for his retort, she plunged ahead, taking refuge from his disturbing presence by organizing his release from the Silver Rose. “Besides, you’re going to need something for the ride home. I’ll ask Elish to help move you to his cart, but it’s a rough ride to my place.”
“So’s life,” Jake said with a short, mirthless laugh. “Go ahead and bring me my poison, witch.”
Jake woke to the voice of an angel singing and wondered if he’d died in one of Elish Dodd’s beds after all. Heaven, though, surely must be a lot less painful, he decided as he shifted a little in the direction of the sound. His leg ached and when he forced open his eyes, the glare of afternoon sunlight through an open window knifed his head. Wincing, he turned away, focusing instead on the unfamiliar room.
Heaven or hell, it was definitely not the Silver Rose. The high-pitched ceiling of the upstairs log cabin loft reflected a woman’s touch, from the woven, multicolored rug on the pine plank floor and the lace curtains at the window, to the earthenware jar of rosemary and lavender on the dresser. Her touch. Chessie’s witch; his angel of mercy.
She meant it, he thought, remembering Isabel Bradshaw’s threat to pack him off to her “hospital” with or without his permission. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or annoyed that she’d pulled it off.
Before he could decide, a hot drift of breeze carried the angel’s song into the room again, a clear, pure voice raised in a soulful Spanish ballad. Ignoring the wash of pain and dizziness, Jake flung back the quilt and limped to the window to look down on the garden below.
Isabel was there, singing to herself and a large raven perched on the rock wall beside her. As he watched, she bent to pluck a few sprigs from some leafy plant. She rubbed them gently between her fingertips, then cupped the leaves to inhale their scent before adding them to the collection in the basket looped over her arm.
Sunlight washed her dark-golden hair and Jake found himself wondering what it would look like, freed from its confining braid, spread over her shoulders and—
He cut short the thought, shaking his head to clear it. Whatever potion she’d given him was clouding his thoughts, making him crazy. He turned to move away from the window and shut out her vision. The stiffness in his leg made him awkward and he knocked against a small table, rattling the pitcher and bowl there.
The clatter, in the late day stillness, brought Isabel’s head up and for a moment, their gazes locked. Jake could almost hear her catch her breath and he felt himself holding his.
“What are you doing on your feet?” she called up, breaking the spell. She shook her head, giving an exasperated sigh. “I hope you aren’t going to be this stubborn over everything or I’ll never be rid of you. Get back into bed, I’m coming up.”
“Now there’s an invitation I can’t refuse,” Jake said, unable to resist baiting her.
Isabel only glared at him then quickened her step to the door below his window. Jake heard it slam behind her and smiled.
She found him propped up against the pillows, the quilt pulled carelessly up to his waist as if he’d just tossed it there after hearing her footsteps. He’d flung his shirt and it lay in a heap in the corner. She chose to ignore the reality he now wore nothing but the quilt.
Putting down the tray she’d carried up on the dresser top, Isabel turned to face him, determined not to give him the upper hand.
“If you’re going to lecture me about staying in bed, save your breath,” Jake said before she could open her mouth. “I’m beginning to regret even opening my eyes.”
“I’m not surprised. Do you always make a habit of acting before you think, Mr. Coulter?”
“Usually I don’t have the luxury of time to think.”
“Does that mean you’re usually on the run?” Isabel could see her bluntness surprised him. But it was obvious he wasn’t going to volunteer the information.
“I see subtlety is one art you don’t practice. And no, ma’am, I’m not usually on the run, although I’ll confess I’ve worn out a few saddles in the past years.”
“I see,” Isabel said, although she didn’t. She studied him a moment, then from the tray picked up a pile of fresh cloths and a new poultice she’d made. Setting them down on the bedside table, she poured water from the pitcher into the bowl, then turned to him again. “I need to look at your leg.”
“It’s becoming a habit with you. Do you enjoy it that much?”
Isabel smiled. “Don’t flatter yourself.” Flipping back the edge of the quilt, she busied herself removing the old bandages. When she’d finished, she ran her fingers lightly over the bullet wound.
Jake flinched at the gentleness of her touch and she glanced at him in concern. “Is it that painful?”
“No—no. It’s—I’m not used to being touched like that.”
“That I can believe. You have more scars than my furniture and believe me, with two boys in the house, that’s saying a lot.”
“You said you had children.”
She nodded, her attention fixed on cleaning his wound and reapplying a poultice and bandage. Her hands moved deftly over him, warm and sure, more soothing than the herbs she used to ease his pain. “My grandmother and sister live here, too. You’re my only boarder.”
“And your husband?”
“Is dead,” she said shortly. She kept her eyes down, not because of any pretense of modesty, Jake guessed, but because she wanted to guard her feelings from him.
“Don’t get any ideas that I can’t protect myself and my own,” Isabel said when he let the silence stretch between them. She yanked the quilt back over him, her stance defiant. “I’m used to doing it and it’ll take more than a down-on-his-luck outlaw to give me trouble.”
“That, I don’t doubt.”
“And what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Why are you in Whispering Creek?” With her family to protect, she had to know. Obviously, Jake Coulter was no miner, and he didn’t have the smooth charm of a gambler, nor the rough edges of a cowboy.
He reminded her, instead, of a hunter, dark and dangerous, and not quite civilized.
“I’m here because I can’t ride out on my own,” Jake answered. “But you don’t have to worry. You’re not going to find my face on any of the sheriff’s wanted posters. No one will be looking for me here.”
“I see,” she said, unsatisfied. She decided to try another approach. “Where are you from, Mr. Coulter?”
“Jake. And where I’m from depends on what day it is. Yesterday I came from Taos. Does it matter?”
“I don’t know,” Isabel said slowly. “Perhaps it should.”
“It doesn’t to me, not