The Cattleman And The Virgin Heiress. Jackie MerrittЧитать онлайн книгу.
came to and strode to the bed. Laying her down on it, he straightened his back and groaned silently. It wasn’t that he was physically out of shape—far from it—but carrying another person for a good quarter of a mile wasn’t a common occurrence for him. Hell’s bells, was it a common occurrence for anyone?
Standing there, looking at her, he realized what a mess he had on his hands. She was injured, soaked through and muddy from head to shoes. Along with her worrisome physical condition, there was her listlessness, and the un-caring tone of her voice the few times she’d spoken. Shock, Matt thought. She had to be in shock. Her head injury was the most probable cause, but how had she gotten hurt in the first place? And way out here, on his ranch, to boot? It didn’t add up.
Regardless of so many questions without answers, she was here, in his house, and other than the ranch hands—who were probably wondering why he wasn’t at the breakfast table with them—there was no one else to help her. He was it, and he wished to high heaven there was another woman on the place, because someone was going to have to help her get out of those filthy, wet clothes.
“Okay,” he said under his breath, dreading that prospect. “Let’s take care of first things first. Miss, I’m going to call a doctor, Doc Adam Pickett. He’s a good doctor and a good friend, so don’t you lie there worrying. Stay put, all right? I won’t be long.” Matt took his slicker away from her and replaced it with a warm down comforter. “Try to relax, but don’t fall asleep.” He hurried from the room and headed for the kitchen telephone.
His heart sank when he put the receiver to his ear; there was no dial tone. The phone lines were down and who knew when they would be repaired?
“Damn!” he exclaimed, and tried the wall switch for the ceiling light. It came on, so the electricity was still working. “For how long, though?” Matt muttered as he left the kitchen.
Walking back into the bedroom, he saw that she’d either fallen asleep or passed out. Or died? No! he thought frantically. She hadn’t been hurt that badly, had she?
Hurrying over to the bed, he again felt for a pulse. Surprisingly it was a little stronger than before. Standing straight again, he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. What should he do now? Check her head wound and hope to God it was something he could take care of with antibiotic cream and a gauze bandage?
The mud in her hair was already beginning to dry and cake. He would have to clean her hair in some way before dressing the injury. Cautiously he pulled back the comforter a little. If she were a man he wouldn’t hesitate for a second to take off those wet clothes, even if he had to cut them off with a pair of scissors or a knife.
Her gender really didn’t matter, did it? She was a person in distress, a human being like himself, and she was alone and injured. Would he care if a strange woman undressed him under similar circumstances?
Of course not. He was being silly. He had to help her the best he could until he could get hold of Doc Pickett.
Matt strode purposefully from the room to get a pan of warm water and some clean towels and washcloths. He would also bring the first-aid kit back with him.
An hour later Matt was in the kitchen, staring broodingly out the window over the sink. He had a stressful knot in his gut, caused by Ms. X in his guest room. Before undressing and bathing her, his thoughts had been strictly impersonal. Certainly he hadn’t considered her an attractive female, and she was. She was young and pretty and her body was…well, it was perfect, that was the only word for it. Ripe, full breasts, a tiny little waist, long legs and a shapely but firm behind.
He hated the way his mind was working now. He had no right to admire that woman’s sensual good looks. She was reasonably clean now, there was medication and a bandage on the gash he’d located in her thick, dark brown hair, and he’d managed to dress her in a freshly laundered sweat suit of his. It was miles too big—he was six feet three inches tall and she couldn’t be more than five-five—but at least she wouldn’t wake up naked, and it would warm her chilled flesh through and through.
“Hell’s bells,” he mumbled and shot the telephone a dirty look. The lines were still down, and God only knew when the ranch would have phone service again.
The questions in his mind regarding his mysterious guest just kept piling up and getting more urgent. Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she gotten to the ranch last night? How long had she been lying out there in the rain? And what about the chafed bruises on her wrists, as though her hands had been tied to something with a rope? Damnation, all he’d heard in the night was the storm. No telling what had occurred on his own land—and not that far from the house—and he’d been completely oblivious to it. Good Lord, was it possible that one of his men had brought her out here with the intention of forcing himself upon her, and she’d gotten away from him? As discomfiting as that idea was—Matt hated thinking that any of the men living at the ranch and working for him were capable of such a heinous crime—it made as much sense as any other conjecture. After all, that woman hadn’t just materialized with the storm, and with those rope burns on her wrists Matt felt pretty certain that she was a victim of some sort.
But if any of that speculation had credibility, wouldn’t she be grateful that he’d rescued her, at least from the elements? Or was she the type to become hysterical when she realized she was in a strange house with a strange man? A man who’d undressed her and washed the mud from her naked body?
Matt sighed heavily. He was out of his league here. Way out.
Still staring out the window, he spotted Chuck heading for the house, wearing a rain slicker and dodging the deepest puddles. He was carrying something, and when he saw Matt at the window, he raised a hand in a casual salutation.
Then he walked in through the kitchen door. “Hell of a morning,” he said by way of a greeting.
“Hell of a storm,” Matt replied. “Phone’s out, and probably the electricity will go next. What’ve you got there?”
“A woman’s purse. Here’s the mail and yesterday’s newspaper, too.”
Chuck laid the mail and paper on the table, but handed the purse to Matt. “Where do you suppose that came from? It’s got a whole bunch of stuff in it.”
“It does?” Matt opened the purse, saw numerous items and took out a wallet. Flipping it open he found himself looking at a Massachusetts driver’s license photo of the lady he’d rescued. “Her name is Hope LeClaire,” he said quietly.
“Whose name is Hope LeClaire?” Cluck asked with a curious expression.
Matt returned the wallet to the handbag and set it on the table next to the mail and newspaper. Then he looked at his foreman and told him what had taken place that morning.
Chuck was fifty years old, a lifetime cowboy, fiercely loyal to Matt and a kindly man. But he was an observer of mankind and its foibles, and not too much that passed between heaven and earth surprised him. The only thing that really bothered him about the story he’d just heard was that there were red marks—quite likely rope burns—on Hope LeClaire’s wrists.
“This could be serious business, Matt,” he said soberly.
“I’m sure it is. Chuck, we can only guess at what happened to her last night, but how in hell did she end up way out here, on foot and during one of the worst storms we’ve had in years?”
“Have you asked her?”
“The few times she’s said anything at all she seemed to be disoriented. I attributed it to shock and didn’t press her for any answers.”
“Well, you’re looking pretty damned gloomy about it, so I think the next time she opens her eyes you should ask those questions.” Chuck walked over to the outside door. “The men are hanging at the bunkhouse. Anything you want done?”
“Not in this downpour. Tell them Mother Nature gave them a day off. If they can get to town, which I doubt, they might even enjoy the free time.”
Chuck shook his head. “They