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Carrie was awake, but she refused to open her eyes. She snuggled deeper under her blanket instead. It was soft in here. And warm. She felt safe.
Her boots were off and she wiggled her toes, digging them into the softness of the wool. The breeze that blew past her was cool but not cold. She did not want to rise. Her journey had been a nightmare. Perhaps that's exactly what it was—a nightmare. She might have dreamed the whole thing. In fact, she was certain of it.
Everything from the bumpy stagecoach ride to the men who had robbed her had been no more than a night terror. She smiled at the thought. A nightmare. That awful Fred Connor had been an especially cruel monster, no doubt summoned up by a bit of indigestion.
He had used his charms to beguile her, to lure her away from the safety of her coach and get her alone. His face had been dark and handsome, but that was the wickedness in him. She could see it clearly now. He used his charms to help women only so he could get what he wanted from them. She had not been fooled though. She laughed the dream away.
"What's so funny?" a man's voice asked.
She opened her eyes and saw Fred’s deep blue eyes staring back at her from an inch away.
"Aaaahhh!" she screamed and jumped up. Her right foot gave out almost immediately and she fell onto her backside.
He pushed back the blanket they'd been sharing and stood. Concern was in his eyes, but also a devilish grin that refused to fade away. The corners of his mouth lifted as he laughed at her.
"What are you screaming about?"
"You!" she shouted. "The bootlicker!"
Fred's eyebrows lifted. He looked amused. "Bootlicker? You're rather feisty this morning, aren't you?"
"I thought I'd dreamed you!"
"You were dreaming about me?" He got down on his knees and leaned in close to her. "You don't have to dream me when you can have the real thing anytime you want it." He winked at her and Carrie's mind reeled. She threw the blanket at him. It bounced off his body as if nothing had even hit him.
"Suit yourself," Fred said. "The offer's always open."
"You-you-you—"
"Saved your life?" Fred offered. "Yes, I did. You're welcome."
Carrie flushed. She looked at the camp around her. They were alone. Her boots were off, but her dress was still on. Thank the Lord.
"What were you doing in my bed?" she asked.
"Your bed?" He laughed. The sound was hypnotizing. Carrie found herself wishing he would laugh again. It seemed to still the beating of her heart. "I made that bed myself last night."
"Well, why did you not make a second one for me?" she asked.
Fred's eyes twinkled back at her. He was laughing, but it was not spiteful. It was playful. Her heart raced as he stood up.
"Forgive me for not carrying around two sets of bedding materials when there's only one of me. Unless you count Bessie here, but she sleeps standing up."
"Bessie?" Carrie asked. "Who is that? Your wife?"
Fred bent over at the waist and slapped his hand on his thigh. He pointed toward a large chestnut horse with a black mane and tail. She whinnied at Carrie, whose cheeks turned red.
"Bessie is your horse?" she asked, realizing how silly her question had been.
"That's right. The best horse you could ever ask for, isn't that right, old girl?" Fred said, going to her and stroking her muzzle. Bessie nickered lightly at him. Carrie felt her body relax. Her brother Tom had taught her that a man who cared for his animals was a man who could be trusted.
She attempted to stand, refusing to accept that she could not move without help. Her family always told her she was stubborn.
"Whoa!" Fred said, running to her just as she began to fall. His arms jolted out, catching her around her midsection. He pulled her up as she attempted to balance on one leg. "What do you think you're doing?" he asked, his mouth so close to hers that she could smell him. His scent was sweet yet masculine. The sweat of a day's work mixed with the pine needles of the trees around them.
"I wanted to get up," she said, breathy. Her head was light. Her balance was poor because of it and she started to tip over.
"I've got you," Fred said, sweeping her feet up so that he was carrying her in his arms. She could feel his muscles working to hold her, but he didn't look put out by it. It was as if she weighed no more than a cat. The idea that she ought to purr for him entered her mind but she slapped it away, her face going red.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said, biting her lip. "I only realized that you were right."
He arched an eyebrow at her. "Oh, yeah? Does that mean you want to crawl back under that blanket with me?"
Her eyes widened, and her heart stammered. She tried to get her breathing under control. "No," she said, looking away from him. Her hands were wrapped gently behind his neck. She could feel his pulse beating beneath his skin. It was almost in sync with hers.
"I meant about my life," she said. "You did save it last night. Thank you."
She dared another look at him and watched with fascination as his pink lips formed the most perfect smirk she'd ever seen. It was light and full of mischief, just like his eyes.
"Anytime," he said.
He held her gaze a moment longer than she should have allowed, but she did not want him to put her down. Never before had a man intrigued her like Fred Connor. She reminded herself that she was betrothed to another, Duncan Lilliard. She pursed her lips. Duncan did not have nearly as nice a sound to it as Fred. He had sent her the ticket for the stagecoach, though, and she had taken it. Their contract was sealed.
Carrie cleared her throat and squeezed Fred's arm, signaling that it was time for him to set her down. He reluctantly complied, but forced her to sit back on the blankets.
"When are we leaving?" she asked him.
"Leaving?" he asked, looking strangely at her.
"For Helena."
"We are going nowhere until your leg has healed," he said. "It's not broken, but it is twisted. You shouldn't be moved."
Carrie's eyes widened. "But that might take weeks!" She could not believe that he expected her to stay out here alone with him for that long. The idea was scandalous. But also... thrilling.
"I won't risk moving you and hurting you further," he told her.
"But I have no clean clothes. No food." Her stomach rumbled loudly in agreement.
"I'll get you whatever you need," Fred told her. "Breakfast will be up shortly, I just need to catch it."
"You're going to hunt?" she asked.
"Would you rather I boil you some grass?" he asked. "There are plenty of pine needles, as well as a number of oaks. We can have a little of each if you prefer."
Carrie's cheeks reddened. "I should prefer rabbit. Or anything else you might catch, assuming you are not full of talk."
Fred's dark eyes burned brightly back at her. "A challenge?" he asked, bowing to her. "I accept." She could not help but giggle at his silliness. Fred smiled back at her, clearly pleased.
"I won’t be long," he said, heading into the forest.
"Wait!" Carrie cried. He stopped and looked back to her. "What if your friends return while you are gone?"
A shadow eclipsed Fred's face.
"They are not my friends. They are my associates. Business partners. And they shall not return anytime soon."
"But if they do," she persisted, gulping at the memory of the salacious look in their eyes. "They will kill me... or worse."
Fred paused, then headed back toward her. He kneeled down before her, his eyes so blue they were almost black. She could see her reflection in them. "Here," he said, taking the gun from his holster and handing it to her. "Do you know how to shoot?"
She nodded, speechless. He was trusting her with his gun? Something in her heart stammered. She could not find the breath to speak. "I... what about breakfast?" she asked. "Don't you need this?"
He smiled back at her. "You need it more, I think. Besides, I have another." He rose and went to the satchel tied to Bessie. A second gun appeared. He holstered it to his belt. "I'll return as quickly as I can," he said.
Carrie watched him go, her breath moving in and out of her in short bursts. Her head felt light and she lay back when he was out of sight, wondering what to do. She held the gun close to her, taking comfort in the hard edges. She checked to see if it was loaded. It was.
"How could he... why would he... his gun?" She didn't know what to make of Fred Connor. An outlaw with a heart of gold? Such things were fairy tales, nothing more.
She realized she was holding her breath and let it out. What would her brothers and sisters say if they knew she was holding the gun of an outlaw as though it were a treasure? But she felt safer with it. She was grateful that Fred had given it to her, but more than that, she was touched.
When Fred finally came back into sight a half hour later, her heart climbed high in her chest. Her pulse quickened. "You're back!" she cried, happier than she would have thought to see him.
He held up a rabbit. "As requested," he said and smiled at her. She returned the smile easily. He took the gun back and built a fire.
When they were through eating, Fred insisted on checking her ankle. "It was swollen last night," he told her when she refused to show it to him.
"It is not proper that you should be... so intimate with me." She hated the stammer in her voice but could not help it.
"Think of me as a doctor," he said. She laughed.
His eyes darkened. He kneeled, took both her wrists in one of his hands, and pinned her down. He swung one leg over her torso.
"What are you doing?" she cried, struggling against him.
"I'm helping you," he said, his voice gruff. "Whether you like it or not."
"Let me go!" she cried, trying to bite his nose. Fred leaned into her, pressing his weight against her midsection as he straddled her. His face was less than an inch from hers. She could feel the heat of his breath, smell the sweetness of it as he spoke.
Some never-before-used part of her body urged her hips upward. She tried to still them but found it nearly impossible. Her back arched. Fred continued to hover over her, breathing heavily. His cheeks glowed pink. His lips were impossibly close. She longed to reach for them with her own. She could see the nape of his neck, soft and glistening. Would it be salty or sweet? Her tongue would tell her in a matter of seconds if only she chose to free it from her mouth.
Fred looked as though he were fighting an impulse. Thick beads of sweat broke out on his brow. He licked his lips, making Carrie's heart stammer with the sudden appearance of his tongue.
"I wrapped your ankle in cloth last night," he said, his voice thick. "The way my mother taught me to do for such an injury. But it was dark. I must make certain that I didn't miss anything. A cut, a scrape... I need to check for infection. I cannot risk losing you." His eyes opened. His voice went hoarse. "I mean... losing your leg."
Carrie's breath caught in her chest, and she nearly choked on it. Slowly, she nodded. Fred crawled off her, but Carrie's racing heart did not still. If anything, it grew even faster as Fred took her foot into his lap and lifted her skirt a few inches above her feet, touching her bare skin with his broad hand. She felt the callouses on his fingertips as he scraped them gently over her ankle, testing it.
"Does this hurt?" he asked, pushing gently on one spot. She shook her head. "Here?" he pushed again. His hands were warm. His palms soft and tender. His hand drifted toward her knee... behind her knee. "Here?" he asked, still going up her leg.
Carrie drew in a breath and pulled her ankle away. "Yes," she said. "It stings."
Fred grinned slyly. "Looks good to me." He winked at her. "You're healing nicely. A few more days and we'll be on our way."
"A few more days?" Carrie gasped.
Fred looked at her quizzically. "It's not so very long," he reassured her. "You can trust me."
Yes, but can I trust myself?
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