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He spoke through his teeth, with his eyes still closed, and when I touched the wound gingerly I heard the hissing of his breath and thought, for a moment, that he had fainted.
“Lucas…” I could not control the shaking of my voice, and his eyes half-opened looking into mine.
“Stuck my… knife in the coals. Was going to do it myself, after I… got myself damn good and drunk… but now you’re gonna have to… try. Hear me, Ro?”
“No!” I shook my head, even though I knew that there was no other way. I was going to have to get that bullet out or he would die… and if I didn’t do it right he’d die anyway, and it was my fault, my fault!
The nightmare reached its climax during the next hour. The only light I had was the flickering, orange glow of the fire, and I needed another drink first. This time the liquor didn’t burn quite as badly, and I think it even steadied me slightly as I tried to remember the thick medical books I had read. But reading textbooks in order to answer questions was one thing, and reality, was another. He told me between gasps what I would have to do, and I poured half the contents of that jug of tequila down his throat before I started.
I couldn’t bring myself to use the knife because I was afraid that the shaking of my fingers would make it slip. So I poured some of the tequila over my fingers, and gritting my teeth against the sickness that threatened to engulf me, made myself probe for the bullet. Oh God—can I ever forget the feeling? My fingers, slippery with blood, knowing that I was hurting him almost past endurance, and the thought, more frightening than anything else—suppose the bullet had been deflected off bone and penetrated even deeper than we had thought? Suppose…
His eyes were closed, and I saw the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, running down his pale face and over the livid cut that the knife had laid across his cheekbone.
My teeth bit down so deeply into my lower lip that I tasted blood. I wanted to cry out to him, to scream, “Lucas! I can’t do it—I can’t find it!” but mercifully he had lost consciousness, his body so still that I found myself wondering if he was dead. No… he couldn’t be, I wouldn’t let him be! And then, at last, I felt what I was looking for and extracted a flattened, ugly-looking piece of metal. I flung it away from me, and drops of blood spattered against my wet face as I did. I had to stop the bleeding now, and before that… I picked up the jug of tequila and poured some of the raw spirits into the wound, wincing as I did.
His body jerked involuntarily, and I thought I saw his eyelids flicker as he flailed out angrily with his other arm, knocking me backwards.
“Oh, damn you, Lucas! Will you hold still?”
I was sobbing. When I came back to him with the knife I leaned the weight of my body over his, remembering how swiftly he had cauterized the cuts on my fingers. It had to be done and I did it, gagging weakly when the smell of burning flesh assailed my nostrils.
By now the blanket had fallen away from me, and I had forgotten it. There was still more to be done. I boiled water in the battered, blackened coffeepot, dipping strips of cloth torn from my skirt in it, laying them over the wound and then bandaging it tightly again, passing the bandage around his neck, crossing it as I brought it back around his arm and shoulder. Only then was I aware that I was a mass of aching bruises, and that I was so tired I was shaking and limp with exhaustion.
I tugged at the blanket I’d allowed to drop, and felt even that effort almost too much for me. I leaned my face against his chest and heard, with relief, the quick, irregular beating of his heart. He was shivering, his skin cold, and he had begun to stir uneasily, his head moving. I had barely enough strength left to pull the blanket over us both, pressing my body against his, and feeling the long shuddering chills that shook him, willing some of the warmth of my body to find him. And then I must have slept, or fainted.
How much of the night had gone before I woke I do not know. Realization of where I was and what had taken place came slowly, as my eyes opened, blinking to focus on the fire, which had burned itself down to a bed of ashes.
Lucas was muttering something in a husky, incoherent voice, and his skin, no longer cold and clammy, was dry and burning to the touch. He kept trying to push the blanket away, to push my weight away.
“I’m not going to let you die, do you hear me, Lucas?” My voice sounded angry. He couldn’t hear me, of course; I knew that, but I needed the sound of my own voice to give me reassurance as I crawled from under the blanket, shivering, and put more wood on the fire. Small, necessary things, to keep myself sane. Like filling the coffeepot, looking for coffee. It was there, in a canister on one of the shelves he had built along the wall, but I took some time to find it, discovering sugar and beans and flour first, and even a slab of bacon wrapped in several layers of newspaper.
I could still hear the rain beating down on the roof and against the door, the receding mutter of thunder, and underneath it all, like a sullen, ominous counterpoint, the rushing sound of water.
Suppose the whole hillside came crashing down on top of us, burying us under acres of mud and rock? Suppose…?
I had no idea whether it was still night or morning, but I no longer cared. Amid the leaping flames the coffee boiled quickly and I poured out a cup, taking it back to where Lucas had again pushed the blankets off himself. I poured some of the tequila into the cup and sipped at it, wincing when the fiery liquid scalded my lips. I managed to drink half of it before I became so tired again that I put the cup down and crawled under the blankets.
I was light-headed, and dozed fitfully, sometimes hot and sometimes feeling as if I was going to die of the cold. When I awoke—consciously awoke again, my head was aching, my eyes smarted, and my limbs felt as if they were strangely weighted down.
Rain still drummed on the roof, but pale glimmers of light seemed to have filtered inside. The fire had burned down to ashes, and the soot-blackened coffee pot still beside it.
I turned my head to find myself looking into Lucas Cord’s drowsy, half-closed eyes.
“Thought I’d dreamed you!” he muttered huskily, and I felt his arm tighten around my shoulders. I had been lying on my side, my head resting on his unhurt shoulder, my body pressed far too closely against the length of his. “Warm—don’t go yet, Ro.”
Hardly aware of my own action I put my hand up, and touched his beard-stubbled face, and then his mouth came down over mine—seeking, impatient, hungry. I remember sighing, as if I had been waiting a long time for just this to happen, and had been holding my breath in anticipation.
Twenty-Eight
“Don’t go! Rowena…” his husky, shaken whisper sounded like a cry of reproach, but his arms had not enough strength to hold me, as they had done when we had kissed before. This time it had been I who had been the first to wrench myself away from the clinging, desperate pressure of his lips. I did it because I had to, and not because I had wanted to: I did it because the rush of violent emotion that seized me when his mouth first covered mine came close to making me lose all control of myself. We were like animals, pressing closely against each other for body heat until that heat was replaced by the force of our desire. Wanting more than kiss
es, I put my arms around his body, feeling him wince with pain.
Lucas’s skin still felt too hot and dry, and when I rolled away from him, my breathing sounding more like sobbing. I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and fever-bright. He didn’t want me to leave him. I stood up, belatedly remembering, when I saw the look in his eyes, that I wore nothing to cover myself.
“I’m not going far. I—I have to put some wood on the fire, don’t you see? And you still have a fever.”
I reached for the blanket, but he held it.
