Midas, New Mexico October 1898
Rafe LaCroix looked down at the woman sleeping alone in
Doc Randall's bed and muttered a curse. He wasn't
surprised that the old goat had kicked the bucket. The
last time Rafe had passed through Midas, a growing town in
northern New Mexico, Randall had been knocking on death's
door. He'd even talked about taking on a partner — some
hotshot doctor from back East.
At the mention of "back East," Rafe had stopped listening.
If he never crossed the Mississippi again, he'd die a
happy man. As far as he was concerned, that muddy divide
cut a line between the happy times in his life and the
bitterness he tasted every damned day. It also marked the
spot where he'd become a man about five years too soon.
Shaking the vicious memory from his mind, Rafe looked down
at the lady doctor and pondered his options. Would she be
willing to go with him if he politely woke her up? He
doubted it. He'd spent half his life thinking up lies, but
even he couldn't make himself believe he had a wife giving
birth or a sick child — not when he thought about his
bloodstained duster and the careless stubble on his chin.
He looked like hell and smelled even worse. No woman in
her right mind would leave the safety of her bed with the
likes of him. She'd have to be crazy or stupid, and he
doubted that a woman with a house full of medical books
was stupid. Crazy was another matter. Rafe couldn't take
the chance that she'd say no to him — not with Nick
delirious and calling out for his mama. Leaving his friend
alone had just about killed Rafe, but he didn't know squat
about festering wounds, nor did he have the stomach to
take off the leg.
Damn his bad luck. A lady doctor complicated the
situation — especially this one. He'd always been partial
to brunettes, particularly leggy ones with high breasts
and upturned lips, and she had those attributes and more.
Her upstairs bedroom held the warmth of a woodstove and
she had tossed off the covers, giving Rafe a moonlit view
of bare skin where her shift had slid down her arm. Her
breasts rose and fell with each breath, and her mouth was
twitching as if she were living a dream. She also had
pretty feet and strong calves. She'd be good in the saddle
in more ways than one.
Rafe liked to look at women, that was for sure. But he
figured sex was more like a horse race than a visit to a
Boston art gallery. A man got excited when the gun went
off, settled in for the ride and then finished strong. As
for the race itself, he liked to win. Looking at the lady
doctor, he wondered if she had similar inclinations. Damn
him for a fool…he didn't have time for this nonsense. But
that would change as soon as he and Nick reached Mexico.
In another week he'd be swigging tequila in a cantina and
visiting the ladies who'd gladly invite him upstairs, both
for his money and his good looks. But first he had to take
care of Nick.
Manhandling a woman went against Rafe's gut in the worst
way, but the thought of burying Nick bothered him even
more. He pulled back the canvas flap of his duster and put
his hand on the butt of his gun. With her bed tight
against the wall, trapping her was a piece of cake. He
made his voice barrel-deep. "Lady, wake up."
He watched as she blinked away her dreams and took in the
sight of him — his gun belt, his Colt .45 and the bulge in
the front of his trousers. In a single motion, she gasped,
clutched the blanket to her breasts and pulled her knees
to her chest as she scooted against the headboard.
"Get out!" she cried.
Rafe roughened his voice. "Not without you. I'm guessing
Doc Randall's six feet under and you took over for him. Am
I right?"
"Yes, but that doesn't give you the right to barge in
here."
Rafe felt her gaze all over his cheeks and chin. He'd
pushed his hat low to keep from being recognized, but he
couldn't hide completely. A beam of moonlight had cast his
shadow on her bed, revealing his height and lanky build.
It also lit up the blue coverlet she'd pulled across her
breasts and revealed her intelligent brown eyes.
Rafe lowered his chin to deepen the shadow across his
face. "Get moving."
"Tell me why."
"You don't need to know. Just get dressed."
"And if I refuse?" Her tone made him think of river ice —
cold and hard but quick to melt in the warmth of spring.
"Then I'll change your mind for you." Raising his head
slightly, he turned his eyes into shiny stones to let her
know he meant business. Sidestepping, he opened her
wardrobe and threw a dress across the foot of the
bed. "Put that on."
The woman looked at it with stark longing. She wanted to
cover herself, but the dress was out of her reach and she
didn't want to rock forward to retrieve it. Nor did she
want to give in to him.
"It's your choice," he said, smirking. "You can do what I
say, or I'll tie you up and carry you out of here. It's a
bit chilly, though. That cotton isn't going to keep you
warm. It's not going to hide those breasts of yours,
either."
As her eyes narrowed with loathing, Rafe rocked back on
one heel to emphasize the gun strapped to his side. They
both knew he wouldn't use it — she had something he
needed — but he wanted her to see the worn holster and the
blood on his coat. He had her cornered, but he knew that
women could be sly and brave, more so than men who relied
on brute strength. He might have enjoyed watching the lady
wrestle with the choice he'd given her, but he didn't have
time. He indicated the dress with his chin. "Get going."
She gave him a hard stare. "I'll go with you, but not
alone." Rafe reached inside his duster, pulled out a
length of cord and snapped it tight. "You'll do as I say.
Is that clear?"
Her eyes flashed with rebellion. "I'll do what's right and
so will you. Put that rope away."
Rafe enjoyed trading sparks with a woman as much as any
man, but this wasn't the time. He lifted a set of leg
irons out of an inside pocket and dangled them in front of
her nose. "I'd rather not use these on you, but I won't
hesitate. You can walk out of here or be carried like a
trussedup deer. It's your choice."
Just as he'd hoped, the lady saw the wisdom of rocking
forward on her knees and snatching up the dress. With the
red calico clutched to her chest, she swung her legs over
the side of the bed and glared at him. "Turn around."
Rafe gave her a wicked smile. "Not a chance."
"You're the one in a hurry. Not me."
"I'm also the one with the rope." Rafe respected her for
holding her ground, but they were wasting time so he
hardened his gaze. "Save the shyness for someone else.
I've seen too many naked women to be impressed by a flat-
chested spinster. Now move it."
She wasn't all that flat and she was too young to be a
spinster, but Rafe needed to douse the fire licking at his
belly. Judging by the heat in her eyes, she'd be a
passionate lover, the kind of woman who'd fight to take
more ground. The flames in his gut burned even hotter when
she arched her brows like the cynical woman she wasn't.
"Since you're already an expert on breasts, you won't mind
turning your back," she said.
"I'm not a fool." He nodded at her nightstand. "If I give
you the chance, you'll thump me with that medical book."
When she didn't budge, Rafe stared at her fingers, pale
and knotted in the dress. He couldn't waste all night, so
he grabbed for her wrist. At the same moment, she slid her
bottom off the bed and scrambled to her feet. She solved
her modesty problem by turning her back on him.
He watched as she raised the dress over her head and let
it fall past her shoulders, covering the white nightgown
in a curtain of red calico. The dress caught on her hips,
emphasizing her bottom as she shook the fabric free.
Hunching forward, she worked the front buttons, glancing
over her shoulder to give him the evil eye. Each time she
turned, her braided hair swished like a mare's tail.
Rafe liked the looks of her. She was taller than he'd
thought and more slender. Definitely coltish. She'd
probably been a tomboy growing up — the kind of woman
who'd know how to use her long legs in all the right ways.
And if she didn't know, he'd be glad to teach her.
Ah, hell. He had no business thinking about such things —
not with Nick scared and shivering in a damp cave. "Hurry
up," he growled.
Ignoring him, she lifted a pair of her cotton drawers off
a chair, stepped into them and somehow tied the strings
without giving him more than peek at her calves.
Rafe was about to make a smart remark when she dropped to
a crouch and reached under her bed. "I need my shoes."
As quick as fire, he snatched her wrist. "What else is
under your bed?"
Their gazes locked, hers boiling like strong coffee and
his resembling blue ice. Just as he expected, the heat of
her turned his icy stare into steam.
When she tried to pull back her hand, he squeezed harder.
Staring into her angry eyes, he reached under the bed and
curled his fingers around the double barrel of a shotgun.
The lady was full of surprises, but so was he. With
lightning speed, he released her hand, raised the weapon
to his shoulder and aimed it at the family photograph
above her bed. "Nice Remington."
"Be careful," she said. "It's loaded."
He considered firing it into the wall to scare her, but he
didn't want to risk waking a neighbor. Instead he cracked
open the barrel, removed the two cartridges and saw they
were full of rock salt. The pissant ammunition told him a
lot about the lady doctor — she'd protect herself, but she
didn't have the heart to kill. After dropping the
cartridges in his pocket, Rafe pushed to his feet, letting
the weapon dangle from his hand. He'd keep it as a
souvenir or maybe give it to Nick for his birthday.
"Go on," he said. "Get your shoes."
He watched as she pulled out a pair of mannish boots.
Sturdy and practical, they were perfect for tonight's
journey. She lifted them by the tops and faced him. "I
need stockings."
"Which drawer?"
"I'll get them." She stepped toward the highboy.
"No, you won't." Rafe planted his feet in front of her and
squared his shoulders. She probably had a two-shot
Derringer hidden between her camisoles. She needed to
remember who was in charge. "I'm not in the mood for
another surprise…unless it involves black lace and
garters."
"Then you're going to be disappointed."
Rafe jerked open the top drawer and rummaged through her
underthings — all cotton and plain. He tossed a handful on
the floor. "You're right. I'm bored already."
Her eyes blazed with fury at the violation. He couldn't
blame her. He'd gotten annoyed when Nick had gone through
his saddlebag looking for a can opener, and the contents
had been far less personal than her unmentionables.
She gave him a look of pure disgust. "The stockings are in
the middle drawer."
He pulled on the knob, reached inside and tossed a ball of
cotton on the bed. "Hurry up."
She sat on the mattress, untangled the stockings and
pulled the first one over her bare toes. "Why don't you
tell me why you're here? I'm going to find out soon
enough."
"My partner got shot in the leg. It's festering."
"When did it happen?" she said, tugging on the second
stocking.
"Five days ago."
Disgust filled her eyes as she wiggled her foot into her
boot and yanked on the laces. "You're an idiot for waiting
so long. He'll be lucky if he doesn't lose his leg."
The small room turned as fiery as a furnace. Rafe had
known the minute Nick got shot that he needed a doctor,
but he couldn't risk being found — not with Mexico a few
weeks away. Instead he'd dosed Nick with whiskey and
probed for the lead with his fingers, only to discover
that the bullet had broken into fragments. He'd thought
he'd gotten all of them, but he couldn't be sure. By the
time he'd finished, Nick had passed out and Rafe hadn't
been able to stomach a sip of water, let alone a swig of
the whiskey he needed as much as his friend.
He blocked out the memory by staring at the lady doctor's
fingers as she looped the laces on her second boot. The
moonlight turned her knuckles bone-white, but there wasn't
anything fragile about the way she made a bow and jerked
it tight.
Standing straight, she said, "I need my medical bag. It's
in the clinic."
"Then we'll fetch it." He wasn't about to let her get
behind him on the outside stairs. Putting his palm on the
butt of his gun, he gave a mocking bow and a sweep of his
arm. "After you, miss."