Saving the Rifleman by Julie Rowe Page B

fire and set it on the table to cool, then checked on John. He was shivering now, and when she put her hand on his brow, he grasped it and hung on as if she were his universe.
    She managed to get him to hold on to the back of her dress instead while she wrestled with his trousers, rolling them up so she could check his wound. She unwrapped the bandage and carefully examined both sides. The entry point seemed fine, but the exit was swollen and red.
    “Hot, so hot,” John muttered.
    “Are you thirsty?” She released his leg, letting it rest on a corner of her cloak.
    “Yes, thirsty.” His hand clenched and unclenched the material of her dress. She pulled his hand away and poured the willow bark tea into the bowl, then helped him sit up to take a drink.
    He screwed up his nose and turned his head away.
    “I know it doesn’t taste good, but you need to drink it. Please.”
    He looked at her and smiled. “Only for you.” He took a sip, then another, looking at her all the while. “Pretty, pretty lady.”
    She sighed. “Your fever must be worse than I first thought.”
    He frowned at her.
    “Only a man in the grips of a fever would think I’m pretty.”
    He reached out with one shaking hand to cup her check and run his thumb across her bottom lip. “Pretty mouth. Pretty eyes.” His gaze dropped to her chest. “Pretty heart.” He swallowed hard as his hand slid down her neck to curve around her shoulder. “I’ve wanted you since the moment you stepped into the closet with me.”
    She stopped breathing, stopped needing air entirely. “What?”
    “You’re so soft and you smell so good.” He pulled her toward him, and she had to move the bowl out from between them or risk spilling the tea. He buried his nose against the base of her neck. His lips feathered over her skin, sending shivers through her entire body. “Want to kiss you.”
    “You are kissing me,” she managed to say. Her breathing had restarted, but it came in pants instead of even breaths.
    “Your mouth. Please, Maria.”
    Oh God, she wanted him to kiss her, but not like this. “John, you’re not yourself. You have a fever.”
    She tried to pull out of his grasp, but he retained his grip.
    “Are you afraid of me?” he asked, his frown turning sorrowful.
    “A little.” He could hurt her in his fevered state. He might not mean to, but he had the power to hurt her more than anyone else ever had.
    “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” He stared at her, his eyes glassy and unfocused, then released her with hands that shook. “What’s wrong with me?”
    “You have a fever.” She smiled to show him she wasn’t upset. “We have to bring it down a little and I need to clean your wound, if I can.”
    “What if you can’t? Will I die?”
    She stared at him, terrified of answering, terrified of the truth.

Chapter Nine
    “I’ll do everything I can to make you well again.” The thought of him dying made her stomach churn. She wouldn’t let that happen. “Everything. Can you drink more tea?”
    He struggled to sit up and swallowed down several more sips of the bitter brew. “Why are you afraid of me?”
    Maria opened her mouth to explain, but closed it before voicing a word. He was in no condition to understand.
    “Did someone hurt you?”
    She met his gaze and saw intelligence in his eyes. Even fevered he was more aware than most men ever were. “Yes.”
    “A man?”
    She hesitated before answering. “Yes.”
    “What did he do?”
    “John, I don’t want to talk about it.”
    He put his hand on hers and held it. “I won’t hurt you. Never, never.”
    “I know.” But she couldn’t hold his gaze, not with the memories so painfully present in her mind.
    “I could hurt him for you.”
    That brought her head up. “What?”
    “You’re still afraid.” He rubbed his midsection. “It makes me angry and my gut sore.”
    “I…” She lost the ability to speak. He didn’t know a single detail about what had happened, yet he ached