Page 83 of Mistletoe and Christmas Kisses

Surprised by his tender entreaty, she started to obey, knowing she would be lost but not caring.

Then, he halted suddenly and lifted his head; his face was the color of chalk. He lowered his brow to hers, shadows obscuring her view. Warm skin. Too warm. Moist. With a jolt of alarm, she realized he leaned against her to steady himself. “Mr. Barkley?”

A shudder shook him. “Miss...Peters.” A bead of sweat rolled from his face to hers. It burned across her cheek, trailed into her hair.

“Are you ill?”

He managed a laborious, choking laugh, but nothing more.

“Please, if you’re ill.” She had known he was, ever since he climbed into the stagecoach with uncharacteristic caution. “If you’re ill, you must tell me what’s wrong.” No matter how much she hated the man, she could not let him suffer.

With a groan, Tanner rolled to his back, his good arm settling across his face. Kate shoved to her knees. Heaven. Blood soaked the bandage circling his injured limb; a thin stream trickled down his wrist and between his fingers, coloring the straw beneath his palm red.

Tears sprang to Kate’s eyes, blurring her vision as she tried to blink them back. She bit her bottom lip and tasted tobacco and him. She rose to her feet, her knees shaking. “I think you need...I think you need a doctor. I’ll go get a doctor.”

Against his brow, he clenched his fingers into a fist, veins protruding, muscles flexing. “No. All I need is...a drink.”

“Are you crazed? You’re bleeding. You need a doctor.”

Tanner’s chest rose on a weak breath. Then he smiled, a flimsy show of white teeth and mulishness. His fist shook, so he closed it tighter. “I need a...woman. And if you won’t...oblige me, there is one...at the saloon. She calls me Cowboy.”

Kate stumbled back, as wounded as he looked. Deep in her chest—right below the blood smeared across her bodice—a dreadful ache settled. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “When did you get this cruel? When?”

“After you broke my goddamned heart. That’s when.”

Turning, she plowed through the shrubs, caring little if her dress got ripped to shreds, telling herself she cared little if Tanner Barkley bled to death in the field behind her mother’s shop.

* * *

“You damn fool.” Adam’s shadow spilled over the table, shading Tanner.

Tanner blinked in the sudden darkness. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ve been looking for you for over an hour, Tan. Did you see the doctor?”

He laughed and hooked his ankles atop a chair, his heels dangling off the edge. The chair wobbled, and he wobbled with it. “No. I’ve found all I need here, thank you.” He raised his glass in salute and emptied it in one swallow.

“Kate came to me. Right after she left you, apparently.”

Tanner untangled his boots and dropped his feet to the floor. “Cowboy-lover!” He grinned as Doris twitched her generous hips, skirted tables, pinching fingers and grasping arms, and slipped into his lap, lips drawn, exposing teeth the color of fresh corn.

“Hey, Cowboy.” She poured more whiskey in Tanner’s glass, bosom jiggling with each movement.

“Howdy, darlin’.” Tanner slipped his good arm around her waist. Somewhat fleshy, not as lean as his bitchy princess, but she would do. He sniffed. No scent of sandalwood and cinnamon. No ink stains on her fingers.

Or eyes the exact hue of whiskey and violent sunsets.

“Doris, get off his lap. And Tanner, what in the name of God is that stupid sling?”

“Cowboy, you gonna let him call my sling stupid looking? I ripped apart a new petticoat for that. Broderie anglaise and all.”

“Don’t talk to her like that. Prettiest sling I ever saw.” Still he gave her a shove, a bit relieved. Doris’ substantial weight, coupled with the scent of sweat and perfume, was beginning to offend the temperate part of his brain. “Later, darling, later. Mr. Chase and I need to talk.”

With a hug, Doris departed, navigating the maze of groping and catcalls.

“Christ, Tanner.” Adam yanked his fingers through his hair and flung himself into a chair.

“What? What? What?” Tanner took a sip of whiskey, his gaze roving the room. He would be damned, double-damned, triple-damned, if he let Kat Peters tangle him up in the deadly knots she had before. Or let his best friend push him around.