Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

She felt his hand lightly stroke against her cheek and throat. “I know, Chauncey. It hurts like hell itself. Just a few more days and you’ll be up and about again. You’re young and strong, and there’s no more fever now.”

She clenched her hands into fists at her sides. Her shoulder felt as if someone had pressed a red-hot poker into her flesh.

“Here, drink this.”

He eased his arm behind her head. “It’s the last of my whiskey.”

The liquid burned a fiery path to her stomach. “Oh my!”

“That will help, you’ll see.”

He laid her back and pulled the blanket to her shoulders. He rose and looked down at her. “I must find us some food, Chauncey. Will you be able to sleep while I’m gone?”

She didn’t want to sleep; she wanted to howl at the damnable pain. “Yes,” she said, “I’ll sleep.”

Still, he didn’t leave the cabin until she had closed her eyes. When she heard the door close, she opened them again and cursed. To her surprise, the pain eased somewhat. “I’ll have to learn some more colorful language,” she muttered toward the fireplace. Why, she wondered, frowning, hadn’t Delaney asked her yet what had happened to her? Was he afraid to? Did he believe that the Indians had raped her? Her mind flinched at the thought. No, it couldn’t matter to him. He had treated her as if she were the most precious, fragile of women. He was as gentle and caring as he had been when she’d schemed to get into his house and ended up hurt.

She heard two swift rifle shots.

Ten minutes later, Delaney strode into the shack, his eyes drawn immediately to her face. “Did the shots awaken you?”

“No, I was thinking. Del, did Sam Brannan really sell gold pans for sixteen dollars apiece?”

He grinned at her, his white teeth flashing against his bushy caramel-colored beard. “So you did hear me going on and on.”

“Just bits and pieces.” She watched him place his rifle carefully on the rough-hewn table. He had shucked off his vest and was clothed in a full-sleeved w

hite shirt and dark brown buckskins. Black boots hugged his legs. His face was tanned from the hours he’d spent in the sun, and there were lighter streaks of blond in his hair.

“You are beautiful,” she said.

His grin widened. “In my dirty buckskins? And my bushy face? I begin to believe you delirious again.”

“I don’t think so,” she said in a serious voice. “But I can’t believe that any number of women wouldn’t have tried to abduct you and use you for their pleasure.”

“Ah, what makes you think that they didn’t? Why, I remember a lush brunette named Brenda. Lord, to remember what she did to my poor helpless body—”

“A brunette named Brenda? And I suppose there was a redhead named Rosalie and a blond named—”

He laughed deeply and she glowed at the wonderful sound. “Del, listen to me, please. Chatca, the Indian who took me—he didn’t rape me.”

He became very still. “No, I know he didn’t,” he said at last. “You started your monthly flow and he didn’t touch you.” He spoke very matter-of-factly, as if they were speaking of the weather.

“How,” she demanded, “did you know that?”

He knew her small show of bluster was a result of embarrassment. “You told me you weren’t pregnant,” he said calmly. His eyes lit with some amusement. “I do know something about how a woman’s body functions, you know.”

“Oh. Then why haven’t you asked me what happened to me?”

“I didn’t want to rush you. You’re still not up to snuff yet, love. You will tell me when you’re well enough and ready to.”

She fiddled with the rough edge of the blanket for a moment. “You have forgiven me for all I did to you? For all the awful things I thought about you?”

“Yes.”

“You feel sorry for me, don’t you? You feel responsible.”

“Yes.”