Desert Dreams by Deborah Cox Page B

afford to. He had to focus on the
goal-on El Alacran . The only reason he hadn’t left
her and Hondo behind was the gold-the gold that would lure his enemy out of
hiding.
    He sat in the chair the doctor had pulled up to the bed and
laid the package containing the new nightgown on the nightstand, not sure why
he'd bought it. It was an impulse. She’d obviously lost everything in the
accident, and he hadn’t had time to run all over the countryside retrieving
clothes and personal things. She needed a nightgown. He’d bought one.
    Of course, now he was faced with the dilemma of how to get
the damned thing on her. He wasn’t about to change her clothes.
    His jaw clenched. He had removed her shirtwaist because not
to do so would have seemed odd to the good doctor. Lying as she did on her back
with her arms over the covers, he glimpsed the much mended chemise he’d seen
earlier.
    Women liked fine things, soft fabrics, clean clothes. It seemed a shame to leave her like that when the gown, though nothing
fancy, was clean and crisp.
    He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he
released it in a great sigh.
    She moaned and murmured something incoherent. Her face was
red from sunburn, her lips raw and cracked. Already her nose was beginning to
peel, but at least it hadn't blistered.
    He couldn't resist the opportunity to really study her
closely for the first time. Her cheeks were hollows beneath high, delicate
cheekbones. Tiny, pale freckles dotted her nose. Her lips were full, but not
pouty like Christina's, and slightly parted in sleep. His gaze slid down her
throat to a fragile collarbone.
    His hands ached to feel the softness of her skin as his heart
ached to keep her out of danger, to send her back where she'd come from.
    "Why don't we live in a house like other people,
Papa?" she murmured, startling Rafe. "When can we have a house? When,
Papa?"
    Rafe swallowed hard and diverted his gaze. It was then he noticed
that she was still wearing her boots. He'd glimpsed them before when he'd
pulled her up on his horse. They looked even more disreputable on closer
inspection. Ugly, clumsy boy's boots.
    Grateful for something to do, he moved to the foot of the bed.
He untied the laces and pulled the first one free. A wadded-up sock fell out of
the toe, obviously put there to make it fit her small foot better. A semicircle
of red blisters ringed the back of her heel. How had she managed to walk, let
alone run?
    Quickly he removed the other boot, trying to remain detached.
    He carried the boots and set them next to a hard-backed chair
in the corner. Her shirtwaist and skirt lay on the seat of the chair and on top
of that, the pistol she'd bragged about being proficient with. He retrieved it
from the floor with a smile. It was an old seven-shooter. If she could
shoot—what had she said?—the head off a one-eyed jack at twenty paces with this
gun, she was a better shot than he was.
    He picked up the pistol and knocked her skirt to the floor in
the process, surprised when it made noise when it fell. Curious, he retrieved
the garment and turned it inside out to find a leather pouch hooked inside the
waistband.
    Pretty clever. He studied the pouch, wondering what had
prompted her to create such a thing. Maybe she had been in the path of the
enemy army at one time and had used it to guard her jewels or whatever she
prized. He remembered the locket he'd found, the locket with no picture in it,
wondering, with a twinge of guilt, if it had been a prized possession.
    And in spite of his vow to remain detached, he wondered what
else she might have hidden away. Surely she wouldn't have been foolish enough
to make a written record of what Luis Demas had told her. Surely not. But if
she had, what better place to keep it than in a secret pouch inside her skirt?
And even as he argued with himself, he was drawing the pouch open, looking
inside.
    First, he pulled out a worn deck of playing cards. Why the
hell would anyone care enough about a