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Kristin had visited the Calder mansion as a little girl, when her mother had been friends with Benteen Calder’s wife, Lorna. At the time, the large, white house had seemed as elegant as a fairytale palace. Now that she had seen Paris, London, and New York City, the place appeared no more than ordinary. But tonight it could have been Versailles, and she would have scarcely given it a glance. All her attention was fixed on the man who lay in the bed next to her chair, his rugged face as pale as the pillow that cradled his head.
Dosed with laudanum, Logan Hunter slept deeply. The long ride in the buggy, over rough roads, had been hard on him. To cushion the jarring, Kristin had cradled him in her arms. Even so, by the time Blake left them at the Calder home, the bandage on Logan’s wound had been oozing blood.
After undressing him and giving him more water, Kristin had broken into the Calders’ store of medical supplies to cleanse the wound and apply a fresh tourniquet. Now she watched him sleep, hoping with every breath that his body would be strong enough to recover.
Webb stood in the doorway of the guest room, an anxious look on his face. Did he care about his distant cousin, or did he just want to make sure the Dollarhides didn’t buy the ranch property?
But that wasn’t a fair question, Kristin reminded herself. Like most men, Webb Calder tended to put his own interests first. But he had a genuine heart. Hanna had told her the story of how Webb had fallen in love with Lillian, the beautiful wife of a middle-aged immigrant farmer. After her husband’s death, Webb had married her and fathered their son, only to lose her to a bullet in a senseless ambush. Webb had never stopped mourning his only love.
Webb walked into the room to stand by the bed. “How is he?” he asked.
“No worse than before,” Kristin said. “But his condition will be touch and go for the next few hours. If he were in a modern hospital, he could get a blood transfusion. But there’s no way to do that here.”
“I’m his closest relative. Could he use some of my blood?”
“It’s generous of you to offer, Webb. But it’s a lot more complicated than that.”
“Logan told me you were in the war,” he said.
“I was. And tonight I feel as if I’m still in the war. Why can’t you men settle things peacefully?”
“Sometimes we do. But you soon learn that if you want to keep what’s yours, whether it’s a piece of land or a horse or a woman, you’ve got to be ready to fight for it.” He gazed down at Logan’s sleeping face. “He’s a decent man, but stubborn as hell. Maybe too stubborn for his own good. Who do you think shot him?”
“I have no idea. I only know that it wasn’t me. And it wasn’t my brother. Maybe it was an accident. A bullet that misses its target, with nothing to stop it, can go a long way and still be lethal.”
“Hmph! That sounds mighty damned far-fetched to me.” Webb shook his head. “Are you hungry? I can have the cook bring you up some soup.”
“I’m too anxious to eat. But if you can ask your cook to leave some soup in the kitchen, I’ll feed it to Logan when he wakes up.”If he wakes up.She forced a smile. “He’s going to need nourishment. A hearty soup will be just the thing—and beef tea, if she knows how to make it.”
“Is there anything else you need?” He glanced down at her skirt. “You’ve got blood on you. Some of my wife’s old clothes are stored in that wardrobe over there. She was about your size before our son was born.”
“I’ll be fine. If all goes as hoped, Logan will be feeling better in the morning, and I’ll be free to go home.” Blood or no blood, she wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing Webb’s late wife’s clothes.
“I’ll leave you then,” he said. “My room is three doors down the hall. If you need anything, wake me.”
“I will.” She suppressed the politethank youthat sprang without thought to her lips. She had nothing to thank him for. She’d been brought here practically by force. If anything, he should be thankingher.
After he’d left, she checked Logan’s pulse once more. It was unchanged, steady but weak, like an engine running low on fuel. But the color in his left hand was healthy. At least the arm was getting enough blood.
Restless, she stood, stretched her cramped legs, and crossed the room to the window. When the sash yielded to her fingers, she tugged it all the way up, opening the stuffy room to the cool night breeze. The fresh air would be good for Logan, and for her as well.
Leaning past the windowsill, she breathed in the aromas of spring grass, cattle and horses, and the mellow odor of tobacco smoke rising from the bunkhouse across the yard. In her time away from Blue Moon, one of the things she’d missed most, besides her family, was the scent of Montana air. At least that hadn’t changed—except that if she were at home, her senses would also be basking in the fragrance of pine.
The moon, rising over the eastern mountains, flooded the landscape with silver-blue light. From the upstairs window where she stood, she could see the long driveway that lay like a pale ribbon from the house to the ranch gate, which was literally miles away, too far to see from here. The homes of the longtime ranch hands and their families were clustered in the distance, like a small town, complete with a school and a store. The barns, sheds, and corrals covered acres, and the pastures, dotted with thousands of white-faced Hereford cattle, spread as far as the eye could see.
The Triple C wasn’t just a ranch. It was a kingdom. And Webb Calder was king.
Raising a hand, she tried to rake her fingers through her tangled hair. She’d done her best to splash it clean at the ranch house pump, but she could feel the knots and snarls and the specks of dried blood that she’d missed. She probably looked ghastly. But what did it matter? She was a doctor doing her job.
The night breeze was getting chilly. Kristin closed the window and walked back to the bed to check on her patient.
Leaning over him to check his wound, she gasped. Logan’s eyes were open. Wide with confusion, they gazed up at her.
“Miranda . . . where the devil am I?” he muttered.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ASLOGAN’S VISION CLEARED, THE FEATURES OF THE WOMAN LOOKINGdown at him swam into focus—the eyes etched with weariness, the hair falling in tangles around a strong, beautiful face, cast into light and shadow by the bedside lamp.
