to her forehead. It felt clammyand warm. “All right, have it your way.”
For now
, he thought. The way things were going, it wouldn’t be long before she got too sick to care. He unbuttoned the back of her dress and started to pull it off her shoulders.
“Just loosen the corset,” she said, “I can do the rest.” But she didn’t look like she could. “Turn around,” she ordered.
“Christ, Priscilla.”
“Please don’t blaspheme.” It was little more than a whisper.
Brendan turned his back to her. “Finished?” he asked. When Priscilla didn’t reply, Brendan turned to find her slumped forward, her dress half on, half off.
“Damn you, lady.” But his hand shook as he took in her sallow complexion, the ragged sound of her breathing.
As gently as he could, he undressed her, removing first her dress, then her flashy red-embroidered petticoats—which still coaxed a smile—and the most god-awful steel-sided corset he’d ever seen. In a burst of fury at her maddening sense of propriety, he bunched it up and threw it as far as he could. Nothing but a damned nuisance. And it wasn’t as though she needed it.
Determined to strip her naked and put on her nightgown, he pulled the string to her white cotton drawers, but wavered. Damned woman would probably rather be dead than have him see her naked.
Cursing her again for her infuriating modesty, he left her in her soft cotton drawers and chemise. He tried not to notice the gentle curve of her hips, howsmall her waist was even without the corset, the peaks of her upthrusting breasts.
Mostly he tried not to notice how deathly pale she looked—or how much it hurt him to see her so sick.
Chapter 6
Stuart Egan swung down from his palomino stallion to join the broad-faced, thick-chested Indian who crouched a few feet away, carefully studying the earth.
“What do you make of them?” Stuart asked, trying to read the wide swath of hoof marks.
“Comanche,” Tall Wind replied. “Ten, maybe more. They head north. Go back home.” Once a great Kiowa warrior, Tall Wind had succumbed to the lure of the white man’s whiskey. He’d wound up drunk and half starved wandering the desert like a nomad until he stumbled onto the Triple R.
“They shouldn’t have been around here in the first place,” Stuart said. “They’ve agreed to a peace—shaky as it is—besides, they know damn well what will happen if they raid the Triple R.”
Tall Wind stood, the hot breeze ruffling his breech-cloth as well as his coarse black hair. “Some afraid. Others not care. They fight for their land. They die for the ways of their people.” Something in his hard black eyes said he admired them for it, though Tall Wind had pledged his loyalty to the man standing near him—the man who had come to his aid when no one else would have. Stuart Egan. The man who had saved his life.
“They’ll die, all right,” Stuart said, “make no mistake about that.”
Tall Wind didn’t answer. Stuart knew the Indian didn’t doubt his word, or his power to make it happen. Though a part of the warrior would remain with his heritage, Stuart trusted him, as he did most of the men who worked for him. He demanded loyalty from those around him. He knew how to get it, and he would tolerate no less.
“You don’t think they’ll double back, do you?” Noble Egan, Stuart’s only son, swung down from his saddle. “Barker could be crossing the trail south of here. We’ve got no way of knowing which ship he’ll be taking to Corpus, or when it might arrive.”
“Comanche ride north,” the Indian repeated, pointing in that direction.
“That’s good enough for me,” Stuart said. “With that latest shipment of cattle, we’re damned short-handed. We can’t afford to lose a single hand.”
“What about Miss Wills?” Noble pressed. He stood nearly as tall as his father, with Stuart’s same light complexion, sandy hair, and hazel eyes. At eighteen, he was mature for a boy of his age, and he
For now
, he thought. The way things were going, it wouldn’t be long before she got too sick to care. He unbuttoned the back of her dress and started to pull it off her shoulders.
“Just loosen the corset,” she said, “I can do the rest.” But she didn’t look like she could. “Turn around,” she ordered.
“Christ, Priscilla.”
“Please don’t blaspheme.” It was little more than a whisper.
Brendan turned his back to her. “Finished?” he asked. When Priscilla didn’t reply, Brendan turned to find her slumped forward, her dress half on, half off.
“Damn you, lady.” But his hand shook as he took in her sallow complexion, the ragged sound of her breathing.
As gently as he could, he undressed her, removing first her dress, then her flashy red-embroidered petticoats—which still coaxed a smile—and the most god-awful steel-sided corset he’d ever seen. In a burst of fury at her maddening sense of propriety, he bunched it up and threw it as far as he could. Nothing but a damned nuisance. And it wasn’t as though she needed it.
Determined to strip her naked and put on her nightgown, he pulled the string to her white cotton drawers, but wavered. Damned woman would probably rather be dead than have him see her naked.
Cursing her again for her infuriating modesty, he left her in her soft cotton drawers and chemise. He tried not to notice the gentle curve of her hips, howsmall her waist was even without the corset, the peaks of her upthrusting breasts.
Mostly he tried not to notice how deathly pale she looked—or how much it hurt him to see her so sick.
Chapter 6
Stuart Egan swung down from his palomino stallion to join the broad-faced, thick-chested Indian who crouched a few feet away, carefully studying the earth.
“What do you make of them?” Stuart asked, trying to read the wide swath of hoof marks.
“Comanche,” Tall Wind replied. “Ten, maybe more. They head north. Go back home.” Once a great Kiowa warrior, Tall Wind had succumbed to the lure of the white man’s whiskey. He’d wound up drunk and half starved wandering the desert like a nomad until he stumbled onto the Triple R.
“They shouldn’t have been around here in the first place,” Stuart said. “They’ve agreed to a peace—shaky as it is—besides, they know damn well what will happen if they raid the Triple R.”
Tall Wind stood, the hot breeze ruffling his breech-cloth as well as his coarse black hair. “Some afraid. Others not care. They fight for their land. They die for the ways of their people.” Something in his hard black eyes said he admired them for it, though Tall Wind had pledged his loyalty to the man standing near him—the man who had come to his aid when no one else would have. Stuart Egan. The man who had saved his life.
“They’ll die, all right,” Stuart said, “make no mistake about that.”
Tall Wind didn’t answer. Stuart knew the Indian didn’t doubt his word, or his power to make it happen. Though a part of the warrior would remain with his heritage, Stuart trusted him, as he did most of the men who worked for him. He demanded loyalty from those around him. He knew how to get it, and he would tolerate no less.
“You don’t think they’ll double back, do you?” Noble Egan, Stuart’s only son, swung down from his saddle. “Barker could be crossing the trail south of here. We’ve got no way of knowing which ship he’ll be taking to Corpus, or when it might arrive.”
“Comanche ride north,” the Indian repeated, pointing in that direction.
“That’s good enough for me,” Stuart said. “With that latest shipment of cattle, we’re damned short-handed. We can’t afford to lose a single hand.”
“What about Miss Wills?” Noble pressed. He stood nearly as tall as his father, with Stuart’s same light complexion, sandy hair, and hazel eyes. At eighteen, he was mature for a boy of his age, and he
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