To Love a Stranger (3 page)

Zoey went to the barn and started pitching hay down from the loft. She noted that Cully had been there earlier to let the horses out into the pasture. She worked tirelessly until her arms began to ache
and her stomach rumbled from hunger. She’d only nibbled at breakfast this morning, and lunch sounded good right now. She suspected Cully would be hungry too.

On her way to the house, Zoey remembered that she’d used the last of the potatoes in the bin. She’d have to go to the root cellar for more. Rounding the corner of the house, she noted that the cellar door was slightly ajar but thought little of it. The door was heavy, but Zoey was accustomed to performing difficult tasks and pried it open with ease. Zoey carefully made her way down the steps into the murky darkness.

The sack of potatoes, she recalled, was sitting in the far corner. She felt her way across the dirt floor, nearly falling when she stumbled across an obstacle in her path, an obstacle that hadn’t been there yesterday. She dropped to her knees, and her searching hands encountered something warm, something soft … something human. She recoiled in alarm. God, why hadn’t she brought a lantern down with her?

She stifled a scream when the object moved beneath her hands. Proceeding with caution, she encountered what felt like a bundle of rags. But the bundle of rags had muscles, hard muscles, and a wide chest, and … and … a face covered with stiff bristles. A man! She sat back on her haunches and stared hard at him. Shocked, she wondered why he was so still and what he was doing in her cellar.

Suddenly he grasped her wrist and she cried out. A moment later a light appeared at the opening of the root cellar.

“Are you down there, Miz Zoey?”

Cully stood at the top of the stairs, holding a lantern.

“Oh, Cully, thank God. Come down here quickly.”

“I heard you scream. You find a big rat down there?” He started down the stairs. “I set some traps the other day when I saw they were eating the potatoes and carrots.”

“Not a rat,” Zoey said, wresting her wrist from the stranger’s grasp. “There’s a man down here.”

The intruder let out a groan and Cully rushed to his side, holding the lantern high. Both he and Zoey got their first good look at the man in the cellar.

“Well, I’ll be danged. What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know, Cully. He sure is pale. Maybe he’s ill.”

Then she saw the pool of congealing blood beneath him and blanched. “Set the lamp down and turn him over slowly,” she told Cully.

Cully did as he was bid, cursing beneath his breath when he saw blood soaking the dirt floor. “He’s lost a heap of blood, Miz Zoey.”

Zoey carefully raised Pierce’s jacket, vest, and shirt, finding the bullet wound beneath his shoulder blade. “He’s been shot. The bullet is still in him. If it’s not removed soon, he’ll die of infection.” She pulled off Pierce’s bandanna and held it to the wound.

“There ain’t no decent doctor in Rolling Prairie since old Doc Tucker took to drink,” Cully said. “And it’ll take too long to fetch a doctor from another town. The stranger would be dead before the doctor arrived.”

Zoey felt a jolt of pity for the man. She’d never considered herself a particularly tenderhearted woman. She couldn’t afford to be, but something about this wounded stranger moved her. “Can you remove the bullet, Cully?”

Cully scratched the thatch of grizzled gray hair growing in tufts on his head, and shrugged. “I can try, Miz Zoey, but I can’t promise he won’t die anyway. We’ll have to move him into the house. You sure you want to do this? The man could be dangerous. He could be wanted by the law. You might be letting yourself in for a heap of trouble.”

Zoey glanced down at Pierce, more than a little startled to discover that he was quite handsome in a rugged sort of way. And he could be exactly the kind of man Cully described. But somehow she didn’t think so.

“I’m sure, Cully. You take his shoulders and I’ll take his feet. Together we should be able to get him into the house.”

P
ain. Stabbing, excruciating pain. Burning pain. Pierce tried to escape it but was inexorably drawn deeper into torment. Why was he lying on his stomach, pinned down like a sacrificial lamb and suffering beyond human endurance?

“He’s coming around, Cully.”

“I’m not quite through, Miz Zoey. Don’t let him move.”

“I’m trying, Cully, but he’s awfully strong.”

Suddenly Pierce let out a shout and went limp.

“I got it, Miz Zoey!” Cully’s voice was exultant as he dropped the bullet he had pried from Pierce’s flesh into a basin. “Now hand me that bottle of whiskey so I can disinfect the wound.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“It’s all we got.”

“Will he live?” Zoey asked with concern.

“Can’t tell. He looks healthy enough. No prison pallor. Don’t know who or what he was running from, but he don’t look like no outlaw to me. Course, that’s my personal opinion.”

“I trust your judgment, Cully. I can finish up here. You go get something to eat.”

“You sure?”

“Very sure.”

After Cully left, Zoey made a bandage from a soft cotton sheet she’d torn into strips and affixed it to the wound. Then she wound another long strip around Pierce’s chest to hold it in place. When she finished, she stood back to inspect her handiwork.

Cully had undressed the stranger down to his underwear while she’d boiled water and found the sharp knife Cully asked for. When she returned to the room, the stranger lay on his stomach, a sheet covering him from the waist down.

His back, arms, and chest were darkened from the sun, as if he was accustomed to working outside without benefit of a shirt. He was tall, broad, and splendidly put together. He was lean yet muscular in all the places that counted. There was no layer of fat around his waist. If she could see his legs, she expected they’d match the rest of him.

He wore his straight, dark hair slightly longer than most men, just brushing his shoulders, but it seemed to enhance his rugged good looks. A stray lock of hair had fallen into his eyes, and Zoey reached out unconsciously to push it back into place. It felt soft and thick and clean, and her fingers lingered longer than necessary.

Suddenly realizing what she was doing, Zoey snapped her hand away as if burned. It wasn’t like her to fantasize about a man, and a strange man at that. She had no idea who he was, for he had no identification on him, just a wad of money stuffed
into his vest pocket. His clothing was of good quality and his boots were practically new. If he was an outlaw, he certainly was a prosperous one.

Cully returned a short time later. “I’ll sit with him now, Miz Zoey. Go get yourself some grub. There ain’t nothing more we can do for him now but to see that he’s kept comfortable.”

“I wonder who he is,” Zoey reflected aloud.

Cully shrugged his thin shoulders. “Hard telling. We’ll just have to wait until he’s well enough to speak up.”

“I’ll return later,” Zoey said as she headed toward the door. She stopped a moment and added, “See if you can get some water down him before fever sets in.”

“Don’t fret, Miz Zoey, I’ll take care of him.”

Reassured that Cully would watch over the wounded stranger, Zoey left the room. There were still countless chores that needed doing. She had eggs to gather, and while she was at it, she might as well kill a chicken. A rich broth would do the stranger good. When he awoke, if he awoke, he’d probably be ravenous.

Pierce groaned and opened his eyes. Mind-numbing pain permeated every part of his body. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on something soft. A bed? He raised his head slightly and saw a man dozing in a chair beside him. He was spare of frame and wiry, his weather-beaten face the texture of wrinkled shoe leather, attesting to his advanced age and years spent toiling in the sun, wind, and rain. A shock of
grizzled gray hair sprouted in every direction atop his head.

Suddenly the old man’s eyes opened and met Pierce’s gaze.

“So you’re awake, are you? Would you like some water?”

Pierce swallowed painfully and gave a slight nod, which set his head to spinning. “Please,” he croaked.

The old man supported Pierce’s head while he drank. “Take it easy, stranger.”

“Thank you,” Pierce said weakly. “Where am I?”

“This here is the Circle F ranch.” The man asked bluntly, “Who shot you?”

“Oh, he’s awake!”

Pierce turned his head toward the voice, set his eyes upon an angel, and thought he was hallucinating. The woman who had just walked into the room was too beautiful to be real. Immediately he grew wary. Women who looked like that were even less trustworthy than the plain-looking ones. He’d learned that one had to be extremely cautious around beautiful women, for they were often too full of themselves.

This woman was extraordinarily lovely. Hair the color of ripe wheat hanging down her back in a single braid, and eyes as blue as the Montana sky on a cloudless day. Her curvaceous body looked as if it had been poured into the tight pants she wore. Her breasts were unfettered beneath her shirt, and Pierce imagined he could see the impression of her nipples pushing against the worn material.

She hurried to the bed. “How do you feel?”

“Like hell. There isn’t a place on my body that
doesn’t hurt. Did you remove the bullet?” The clean, subtly female scent of her teased Pierce’s nostrils, shortening his breath until it was an effort to breathe.

“You owe Cully for that.”

“You’re still not out of the woods,” Cully said. “And watch your language around Miz Zoey.”

“Sorry,” Pierce mumbled. His gaze slid slowly over Zoey’s curves. He’d never seen a woman wearing trousers before. What manner of woman was she besides a beautiful one? he wondered.

“Who are you?” Zoey asked curiously. “Who shot you and how did you end up in my root cellar? Most men would have asked for help at the door. Who or what are you hiding from?”

Pierce opened his mouth to answer but never got the words out. The small amount of talking he’d accomplished had exhausted his reservoir of strength. With a sigh, he slid back into unconsciousness.

“Is he all right?” Zoey asked with concern.

“He’s still breathing,” Cully said, “but I ain’t sure for how long.”

Zoey placed her hand on Pierce’s forehead. “He’s burning up. What can we do?”

“I’ll fetch water from the stream. I heard somewhere that bathing a feverish person in cold water will bring down their temperature.”

He left directly, leaving Zoey alone with Pierce. “Don’t die,” she whispered, “please don’t die.” She didn’t know why, but the thought of losing this stranger was unthinkable. She had no idea where he came from or who he was, but something about him moved her.

Lost in the depths of pain and shadows, Pierce heard a sweet voice calling him back from the darkness engulfing him. He decided then and there not to die. If this woman who didn’t even know him wanted him to live, he owed it to her and to his brothers to comply.

Pierce slowly returned to the world of the living. He had moved in and out of consciousness several times during the critical hours of his recovery, aware that someone was sloshing cool water over his body. Cool water and cool hands. And a voice that defied the devil to save him. His first cognizant thought was that he owed the woman named Zoey his life. His second was that thinking like that could get him into a heap of trouble.

“We almost lost you,” Zoey said when she found Pierce staring at her. “Welcome back.”

His voice sounded rough and scratchy. “How long have I been out?”

“Three days. We thought the fever would take you for sure. Are you hungry?”

“Not really. Just thirsty.”

“You have to eat something. I made some chicken broth. Do you think you can stand being turned over on your back?”

He gritted his teeth. “I reckon, if you help me.”

Zoey moved with alacrity, helping him to turn so that his shoulders rested on the pillows she had placed behind him. Pierce found the pain bearable and was glad to change positions after lying on his stomach for so long. Then an urgent need made itself known and Pierce winced with discomfort.

“What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I need … that is … perhaps you could send up that man who’s been helping you.”

When she realized what Pierce wanted, Zoey’s face turned bright pink. “I’ll send Cully right up and return later with your soup. Then we need to talk. I don’t even know your name.”

A half hour later Zoey returned to Pierce’s room bearing a tray holding a steaming bowl of soup. She set it carefully down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed to feed him.

“I don’t need your help,” Pierce said grumpily, unaccustomed to being waited on by a woman.

Zoey let him try, knowing he was still too weak to wield the spoon with any amount of dexterity. After several futile attempts, Pierce handed her the spoon and said, “You win.” He hated displaying weakness of any kind in front of women.

Zoey thought him too stubborn for his own good as she took up the spoon, dipped it in the broth, and brought it to his mouth. Pierce swallowed grudgingly. When the bowl was nearly empty, he turned his head away. “Enough.”

“Very well,” Zoey said, setting the bowl aside. “Now then, who are you?”

Pierce scowled. He didn’t like this helpless feeling of being cornered. The way he saw it, he had two choices. He could tell the truth or he could lie. Lying seemed a despicable thing to do in view of Zoey’s care of him.

“My name is Pierce Delaney. Who are you?”

“Zoey Fuller. Where are you from, Mr. Delaney?”

“Around. Here and there. Cully said this is the Circle F ranch.”

Suddenly Pierce recalled the conversation he’d heard while hiding in the root cellar. “Who is Samson Willoughby and why is he threatening you?”

Zoey recoiled in shock. “Who told you about Samson Willoughby?”

“I heard you and Willoughby arguing while I was hiding in the root cellar. What was that all about?”

Zoey bristled. “It’s really none of your concern, Mr. Delaney. Now, where were we? Oh, yes, who shot you?”