Tempting Prudence: The Bride Train Page 3

  Dazed and not sure she wasn’t asleep, she spoke. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

  His eyes widened with surprise. He parted his lips as if he might say something, but then closed his mouth and gave her a crooked half-smile, which transformed his features into a compelling blend of flirtatious boy and rugged man.

  He twisted away. She followed his movements as he pulled a straight-back chair over to the side of the bed. “You got conked on the head pretty hard. I hear that can rattle your memory.”

  Her gaze wandered to the ceiling and she frowned, confused. The hotel didn’t have rough-hewn timbers or a clapboard roof…and this place had an earthy smell, like a root cellar.

  A rush of memories blew away the fog that had settled over her mind. The coffin, the three devils abducting her, she hadn’t dreamed the nightmare, it had really happened.

  Alarmed, she tried to sit up.

  The world went spinning.

  “Whoa, slow down.” The auburn haired man—he was the one who’d chased after her—caught her arms, preventing her from rising. She didn’t have the strength to fight him, and her head rang like the inside of a church bell.

  With a groan, she slumped onto the pillow. So soft, it had to be down. “Goose feathers,” she murmured.

  He patted her shoulder. “Horsefeathers, you mean. Yep, it is awful frustrating when you can’t sit up without the room whirling. But you got to rest. Give yourself a chance to heal. That cut bled like the dickens, took five stitches.”

  “Cut? Stitches?” This explained the roaring headache.

  “You don’t remember?” Sitting back in the chair, he rested his hands on his knees. His knuckles bore numerous white scars and the tip of the little finger on his right hand was missing. In addition to that bump on the bridge of his nose, a thin white scar slashed through his right eyebrow making it appeared raised. He looked as battered as the old tomcat that had lived in the barn. Even his unruly hair reminded her of the cat’s reddish fur.

  Thank heavens he’d donned a shirt. Though the memory of his muscular chest was tattooed on her brain. How was it she could recall the patch of brown hair over his breastbone and his hard pectoral muscles when she couldn’t remember striking her head?

  She lifted her hand to assess the damage to her forehead.

  He caught her wrist. “Don’t pull off the bandage. It took me two tries to get it wrapped right.”

  “What happened?”

  “My brothers brought you here.”

  She shuddered. “I remember that part.”

  He leaned forward, seeming to search her eyes. “Do you recall me telling you it was all a big mistake? I tried to get you to sit down and rest, but you ran off, down the path to the creek. Tripped on a root, hit your head and cracked it open… I had to doctor you through a fever. You talked crazy for a couple days. Your fever broke last night.”

  His voice hinted at weariness and the signs of strain were visible around his mouth and eyes. Maybe he’d thought she would die and he would be blamed for it. Or he might’ve dreaded having to find a place to dispose of her body. Although, if he wanted her dead, or simply wanted to use her for sport, he wouldn’t have brought her into his home and tended her.

  At a troubling thought, she slipped her hand beneath the covers. She wore nothing but her thin shift. He’d even removed her drawers. Horrified, she pulled the quilt to her chin. “You…you undressed me.”

  No leer or smirk crossed his face. “Had to,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You were bleeding all over your clothes, and I couldn’t bathe you down fully dressed.”

  The thought of him removing her clothes, those large, scarred hands on her body, did strange things to her insides. Her skin heated as if the fever had returned. She didn’t dare mention it. He might try to bathe her again.

  “You feelin’ poorly?” He leaned forward, reached out to feel her forehead. The faded blue cambric shirt pulled across his shoulders and bunched up around the suspenders.

  She stared, mesmerized, unable to forget what he looked like without the shirt. His virile body stirred hungers she never knew she had.

  A warm, calloused palm made contact with her cheek and the quivers intensified; spread like wildfire across her body, making her skin prickle and her breasts peak. His touch should appall her. She shouldn’t feel all hot and shivery, and heaven forbid, excited.

  Prudence screwed her eyes shut, praying he couldn’t see how his touch affected her. This had to be some odd reaction that came about as a result of his intimate care when she was senseless. She couldn’t be attracted to the heathen. His evil brothers had abducted her. Then he’d balked when she asked him to be returned. She couldn’t imagine what he intended to do with her, but she wasn’t staying around to find out.

  Somehow, she had to get away. How would she manage when she couldn’t lift her head more than a few inches off the pillow, much less stand without toppling over?

  She heard sloshing water and then a damp cloth covered her forehead and eyes. The coolness absorbed some of the heat on her face and eased the throbbing headache.

  “Relax now. You’ll feel better quicker if you don’t fight it.” He brushed his fingers over her temples, so gentle it seemed like he was stroking her hair. Her mind had gone for sure if she mistook simple compassion for sweet affection. He had no tender feelings toward her. More likely, he presumed she would welcome him into bed if he petted her.

  “You have a dog,” she murmured, reaching down to a warm indentation in the quilt. Thank goodness. That wasn’t her imagination. She felt safer with the animal between them.

  “You met him. Rebel. He’s been curled up next to you for two days.”

  Two days. She had been here two days.

  “Has anyone…come by?”

  “No.” He didn’t offer an explanation.

  Who would care, really, if she simply vanished off the face of the earth? Oh, her friends might ask around, but then what? They’d assume she had up and gone home because she hadn’t found a man to her liking.

  Her lips quivered and her eyes began to burn. She reached up and put her hand on the cloth, holding it in place, swallowed to rid her throat of the wad of misery stuck there. Wallowing in self-pity would get her nowhere.

  The man whistled. Something landed with a thud on the bed. She reached down without looking. The dog licked her fingers then stretched out and wriggled up next to her, trying to get as close as possible. She stroked a smooth head and floppy ears. The pup scrabbled closer, and with a loud sniff, laid its head on her chest.

  Her tension eased, and she smiled. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” the man replied.

  “I was talking to the dog.”

  She heard a soft chuckle.

  “You and Rebel get acquainted. I’ll get you something to eat.” He made it sound so natural, as if he was used to having her around and getting her meals, waiting on her. She’d taken care of people all her life, but couldn’t recall anyone ever taking care of her. She could learn to enjoy the attention.

  Gadswoons. What nonsense.

  Prudence removed the cloth from her forehead. It was past time to come out of hiding and find out what kind of predicament she’d landed in. Moving slowly, so as not to jar her aching head, she came up on her elbows and scooted into a sitting position. She held the quilt to remain covered.

  A gray blanket nailed to overhead beams formed a partition between the sleeping area and the other side of the cabin. The privacy curtain made her feel marginally safer. Beyond the chair positioned by the bed was a washstand with a chamber pot.

  She remembered a little more from her dreams…something she’d rather forget. A man had assisted her with personal acts she hadn’t let her mother help with since she was a girl.

  Now, she was in her right mind and had no intention of allowing him continued liberties. She would ask him to return her dress and escort her to town.

  “Mr. Archer?”

  The dog’s head came up. His tong
ue lolled and he thumped his tail on the quilt. When he stretched out, she could see that one of his back legs was severed at the knee. Part of an ear was missing, as if some animal had taken a bite. The dog must’ve tangled with a larger creature and come out on the losing end.

  She scratched behind Rebel’s scarred ear. “You look like a war veteran. Is that why he calls you Rebel?” Or it could mean his owner had Confederate sympathies.

  Mr. Archer didn’t look within five years of thirty, which meant he’d been a youth when the war broke out. That wouldn’t have stopped him from joining the fighting. Mere boys had lied about their age and signed up on both sides.

  Rustling sounds came from the room on the other side of the blanket. He must not have heard her the first time she called.

  “Hello? Mr. Archer?”

  After a moment, the blanket drew back and her host entered the cramped space, carrying a steaming ceramic mug. An unpleasant aroma filled the air. “You hungry? Got some soup here. Marrowbone. It’ll build your strength. My Ma swears by it.”

  He ordered the dog off the bed and handed her the cup.

  She’d prepared a strengthening broth from bone marrow for her parents when they were ailing, but this soup smelled like dirty water. “Thank you, but I think I’m strong enough.”

  “Go on. It tastes all right. You need to eat something.”

  Using one arm to hold the quilt so she wouldn’t expose herself, she returned the mug to its owner. “Thank you, but no. If you could bring me my clothes, I’ll get dressed and you can take me back to town. There’s plenty to eat at the hotel.”

  He sat in the chair and leaned to one side to put the mug down. She peeked over the edge of the bed. A deer hide partially covered the packed earth floor. Beside the bed was a bucket filled with water.

  “Miss Walker? We need to talk.” He appeared more solemn than he had been up to this point.

  “About what?” She rubbed her aching temple. Her head would likely throb for days.

  “Your head hurts.”

  “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

  “No. But if your head is hurting, you won’t be in any mood to talk.” Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew a small medicine bottle and popped off the cork, held it out to her. “Here, have a swig.”

  Her former betrothed had carried on his person a flask of liquor, although he had insisted it was for medicinal purposes.

  “If you’re offering me liquor, I’m not interested.”

  He waggled the bottle. “It’s a tonic my Ma makes for headaches. From a plant the Indians call the five-fingered friend. You’ll see why when your head starts feeling better.”

  Prudence took the bottle and sniffed. Smelled of herbs. Doctors prescribed tonics all the time, so how bad could it be? Considering her head felt like a split pumpkin, she might as well try his mother’s home remedy to see if it would help.

  She took a timid sip…slightly bitter, but not horrible. Tipping the bottle, she drank more. Before she could down another swallow, he swiped the container out of her hand.

  “Go easy. That’s strong medicine.”

  She did feel a slight rush of warmth, although the throbbing didn’t subside. “What did you say your mother called it?”

  “Headache tonic.” He corked the bottle and returned it to his back pocket, watching her with an expectant expression.

  “When will it work?”

  “Soon.”

  “Maybe the headache will go away after you find my clothes.”

  He braced his hands on his knees and pinned her with those piercing blue eyes. A jolt of excitement bounced from the top of her head all the way down to her toes. Did he experience the same reaction? If so, his face didn’t give anything away.

  “There’s no need for you to wrestle into a dress. You aren’t goin’ anywhere. You got to stay in bed and rest. I’d say, a week.”

  “A week?” She hugged the quilt, incredulous. Her head hurt, granted, but she wasn’t so frail she needed to be coddled. Sick or not, staying here alone with a man who wasn’t her husband or a family member was out of the question. “I’m sure I’ll be well enough to travel. After I get dressed.”

  “Miss Walker…” His solemn expression sent a chill down her spine. “You’ll need to stay in bed at least another week, or you risk falling ill again. Being a well-bred lady, you know how it’ll look with you disappearing and being out here with me for so long…alone.”

  “Of course I know what people will think, which is why I need to go back. Now. No one needs to know,” she added in a low tone.

  She would be glad to keep her mouth shut and tell no one about her shame. Except, his brothers might decide to snatch another unsuspecting woman, so she had to warn her friends.

  He regarded her steadily. “Hard to keep something like this a secret. The way I see it, there’s only one thing we can do.”

  A shiver passed through her. Despite the warmth of the air, her skin grew chilled. “What…what’s that?”

  “We got to get married.”

  Chapter 3

  Prudence gaped at the madman. “You’re as insane as your brothers, Mr. Archer.”

  The intensity burning in his extraordinary eyes flickered out as if her reply had doused the flames. His back grew as straight as the chair and his features took on a stillness that indicated she’d offended him. “Childers, that’s my surname, Miss Walker. Archer is my given name. But everybody calls me Arch.”

  She had gotten his name wrong, and insulted him. Despite the absurdity of his proposal and whatever motive had prompted it, she had no cause to be rude, and especially in light of how well he had cared for her. The fault had to be this headache—that, and her fearful situation. “I apologize, Mr. Childers.”

  “No apology needed. Reckon I didn’t make my name clear enough.”

  “I’m apologizing for calling you insane.”

  “You offended me more by comparing me to my brothers.”

  Prudence searched his eyes. Amusement lurked in the blue depths. He was back to teasing her, which must be his way of dealing with a tense situation. After seeing him get so angry, she worried he might have a bad temper. Good thing he was more duck than bear—as her grandfather would’ve said—letting things roll off his back rather than taking a grudge into hibernation. “Only in one way did I seek to make a comparison—your sanity. I grant I might’ve been mistaken in that.”

  “Good to hear you make mistakes. A perfect woman can be tedious.” The side of his mouth lifted in crooked smile, prompting a flutter in her chest.

  “I’m far from perfect, I assure you…” Ah, this provided a way to refuse him without implying he was lacking in some way. “In fact, you’d find me a very poor wife. Stubborn. Opinionated. Difficult to please…” She listed her worst qualities. “One day you’ll thank me for refusing you.”

  His steady regard didn’t waver. The way he looked at her, as if he could see through her, made her nerves jump. Though her head felt better.

  Prudence touched her temple. Indeed, the throbbing had lessened and her stomach didn’t pitch anymore. “Why, I believe your mother’s tonic helped…”

  “Good. Now you need something to eat. If you can’t stomach that soup, how about biscuits?” He stood. Apparently her refusal didn’t upset him overmuch. He hadn’t demanded an explanation or attempted to change her mind. For some reason, this annoyed her.

  “You do understand why I can’t marry you…”

  He paused in front of the hanging blanket. “I understand why you might not be ready to accept my proposal, but we’ll get there…”

  Her mouth dropped open at the same time he dropped the curtain behind him. He intended to hold her here until she came around? He couldn’t truly mean to go through with it. Or maybe he did, and that’s why his brothers had abducted her. There were too many men, not enough women, so why not steal one? Only an immoral man could come up with that kind of logic.

  Prudence threw back the covers and
swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  The ropes beneath the feather mattress creaked.

  She froze, waiting, half expecting him to come storming back and order her to bed. He might use force to stop her from leaving.

  From the other side of the curtain came the sound of whistling.

  Dixie.

  Hearing that song made her skin crawl. Prudence put her hands over her ears. No dyed-in-the-wool Confederate for her, and he had to be a democrat. She made a face. Another reason she wouldn’t marry him—as if she needed another reason.

  Taking advantage of the continued noise behind the curtain, she braced her hands and inched forward, sliding until her feet touched the dirt floor. The room didn’t spin thank heavens. A wad of cotton inside her head remained, which was a feeling that would soon pass. After being in bed for two days, she ought to expect her mind would be fuzzy.

  She didn’t see her dress. He’d left his coat hanging on the back of the chair. She shrugged on the garment, which swallowed her in its bulk. Buttoned up, it would cover her, if not decently. She’d worry about decency after she escaped.

  He started banging pots…or was he cooking? He’d gone to a great deal of trouble for her. That didn’t mean she was obligated to marry the odd fellow, and certainly not if she had to listen to him whistle that infernal tune.

  She tiptoed to a window with greased paper covering the panes, which wasn’t uncommon out here. Actual windows were rare, glass even more so. Arch’s roughhewn cabin looked to be more permanent than some of the lean-tos and tarpaper structures dotting the countryside, which had been built solely to satisfy claim requirements. The land rush in Kansas had become famous for attracting fortune hunters. Arch might intend to stay, rather than sell out before the ink dried on his deed. She wished him luck. In spite of everything, he’d done her a good turn by tending her while she was sick. She wasn’t about to remain here, however. Not for another day, much less a week.

  Her stomach let out a growl so loud he would’ve heard it had he not been making such a racket. He’d started singing. A rich baritone that was far more pleasing than the whistling. Pity he didn’t know another song.