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Chapter One

Wolf Creek, Arkansas, Early March 1887

Blythe Granville vaulted into the saddle and settled herself astride the horse, even though the action hiked up her skirts to show a shameful portion of ankle. Without so much as a glance at the scandalized young man who’d saddled the rented mare, she kicked the animal into a trot and headed out of town.

The Arkansas winter had been long, cold, wet and filled with shame, anger and melancholy. Today, Saturday, was the first day to hint at the promise of spring, the first to offer an escape from the strictures of her new life.

The feelings of unrest were new and totally unlike her. She’d always been the shy, quiet sister to her two brothers, Philip and Win Granville, and her half brothers, Caleb and Gabe Gentry—all self-assured, confident individuals who were successful in a variety of ways. She was the embarrassment of the family. The failure.

Even her mother, Libby Granville, was following her dream of opening a library. And to cap the climax, she’d recently accepted retired doctor Edward Stone’s marriage proposal. Her mother was marrying a man who adored her, while Blythe’s fledgling dreams of finding love were reduced to ashes and she was teaching school in a little town in Arkansas.

Her mother, who had been living in Wolf Creek for a while, and Win, who had moved there permanently near the end of December, had settled into their new lives just fine, but the slow pace of Wolf Creek was smothering what little spirit was left in Blythe after the recent debacle that destroyed her life and any future she’d hoped to have. Wolf Creek was a nice, quiet place to live and raise a family if you liked small, leisurely paced places, but she’d grown up in Boston and loved the hustle and bustle of the big city.

Nevertheless, here she was and here she’d stay, thanks to Devon Carmichael, with whom she’d eloped just after Thanksgiving, finally giving in to his constant pleas to marry him. Three days later, on the afternoon after they’d returned from their wedding, Philip, who’d hired a Pinkerton detective to look into Devon’s background, had confronted her with the news that her new husband was not Devon Carmichael, but one Wilbur Delaney. Not only had he lied about his background, he already had a legal wife hidden away somewhere. Devon, the man who had promised to be faithful to her for the rest of his life, was a bigamist, not to mention a liar and a thief.

Blythe was beyond mortified by the scandal that ensued, and worse, she was horrified that she had consummated her marriage to a man who was not actually her husband. The ever-practical Philip was more concerned that the wedding had given Devon control of the inheritance she’d received from her father on her twenty-first birthday. Hoping it was not too late, she and her brother had gone immediately to the bank, only to find that the money was gone, moved to heaven only knew where, and so was Devon, alias Wilbur.

As news of the scandal spread throughout Boston society, her friends had turned their backs on her one by one, and Philip had suggested—no, insisted—that she move to Arkansas with Win, who would be making his permanent home in Wolf Creek. Philip told her that it would be a good place to let her heart and emotions heal and to make a new life for herself.

The problem was that Blythe did not want a new life. She liked her old one just fine, thank you very much! And even if she did want to start over, she wasn’t sure how to go about it. Though her two Granville brothers were scandalized that she wanted to go into trade, she’d always dreamed of owning her own boutique where she would style and sew gowns for the socially elite.

Part of her wondered how she could have been so naïve as to fall for Devon’s lies. The realistic part of her knew it was in part because she was inexperienced and innocent and also because, at twenty-three, she was on the shelf and overly anxious to find a husband and be married. Simply put, she’d been in love with the notion of being in love rather than the man himself, and that made her easily swayed.

Devon’s betrayal had dashed that dream and crushed her girlish fantasies. According to her brothers, her chances of ever finding a husband who would overlook her lack of common sense was almost nonexistent, so, at Philip’s insistence, she’d come to Wolf Creek with no plans beyond lying low and licking her wounds.

She’d been surprised when, within days after her arrival, Mayor Homer Talbot had come to plead with her to take the job as schoolteacher for the remainder of the year, since he would be losing his prize instructor, Allison Grainger, when she married Sheriff Garrett on New Year’s Eve.

Blythe realized teaching was a noble calling, but it wasn’t hers. Her mind wasn’t filled with letters and numbers and geography lessons. It was overflowing with images of bolts of fabric in every color and texture, delicate laces and satin ribbons, pearl buttons and faux flowers. Even so, she’d agreed to finish out the year. As her mother said, at least it would help pass the time.

Feeling the tension on the reins, the mare tossed her head, bringing Blythe back into the dreary present. She slowed the horse to a walk. At least the wild ride had soothed her smarting pride. She turned the mare down a narrow lane and rode for several minutes, praying as she went, asking God’s forgiveness for being so headstrong, asking Him to help her settle into her new life, to find happiness in Wolf Creek, and if not happiness, something worthwhile and satisfying to fill the emptiness she saw stretching out forever.

Stopping to get her bearings, she spied a pretty white house in the distance. As she sat wondering who lived there, she became aware of the chuckling of a nearby creek and the barking of a dog. Deciding to investigate, she dismounted and headed toward the sounds. She’d no more than reached the edge of the creek bank when the dog—very huge and very black—approached and began barking at her.

Blythe stood stock-still, her hand clenched around the horse’s reins. She hadn’t been around dogs much and had never seen one the size of this creature. It was big and raw-boned and as black as night. As she stood there, uncertain what to do, the hound came closer, barked and then turned and started back the way it had come. When she only stood there, he repeated the gesture twice more. Realizing that he didn’t intend to tear her limb from limb, she began to understand that he was trying to get her to follow him.

After tying the reins to a bush, she trailed after the dog to a spot about twenty yards farther down the creek, where she found him licking the face of a man lying on the damp ground.

Blythe’s heart began to race. Who was it? What had happened? Should she go for help? Even as the questions raced through her mind, she was running to his side, taking in impressions as she went. Whoever he was, he was a big, burly man. Young.

Kneeling beside him, she realized that despite his size, he was very fit and clearly no stranger to hard work. She couldn’t tell the color of his eyes, but his just-a-bit-too-long hair was a rich chocolate brown, a little curly and a lot unruly...as the man himself looked. His nose was bold, straight and well-formed. Several days’ growth of beard covered his lean cheeks.

Sudden recognition caused her to draw in a shocked breath.

Will Slade.

And she knew exactly what color his eyes were. Black. As black as sin.

Will, the owner of a small sawmill, had been one of the favored subjects of town prattle, all because his pretty wife had run away with a bigwig from Springfield and divorced him. After that, he was rumored to hit the corn pretty regularly. Those same gossips claimed that he’d sobered up and was once again walking the straight and narrow, though he’d grown bad-tempered and moody. She’d also heard that his wife wanted him back.

All Blythe really knew about him was that he’d intervened on her behalf when a pushy reporter who’d followed her from Boston had made a scene at the train station the day she and Win arrived in town.

She stared down at Will, wondering what she should do. His breathing was heavy, labored. Had he fallen off the wagon, got drunk and passed out? She was almost afraid to try to wake him, since she’d heard that some people got mean when they were liquored up. She leaned down to see if she could smell alcohol on his breath.

Nothing she could discern. She did notice, though, that there was a rattling in his chest. Alarmed, she pressed a palm to his forehead. He was burning up with fever. He wasn’t drunk; he was sick. What should she do? she wondered as she chewed on her lower lip. The testy Mr. Slade was not her favorite person, even though he had come to her rescue, but it would be criminal to leave him here to develop pneumonia—if he didn’t already have it.

She glanced up through the still-bare trees. The day and the temperature were falling fast, and the clouds moving in looked swollen and rain-filled. The sunny springlike afternoon was fast reverting to winter, and the man lying on the cold, wet ground needed to be in a warm bed being spoon-fed chicken broth with Doctor Rachel Gentry attending him.

Genuinely worried, Blythe grabbed his shoulder and gave it a rough shake. The dog barked. “Mr. Slade, wake up!”

Nothing. She tried several more times with the same results while the dog stared at her, drool collecting at the corners of his drooping lower lip. Uncertain what else to do, she lightly slapped Will Slade’s whiskery cheeks. Before she had any inkling of what he was about, his eyelids flew upward, his heavy brows drew together and one hand had grabbed her wrist in a hard clasp.

The dog growled and the man on the ground barked a hoarse, “Stop it!”

Blythe gave a little yelp of her own and stared from her captured wrist to the dog and then to Slade’s face. The expression in his eyes was murderous, but she had enough wits about her to realize that fever dictated his actions.

“I was only trying to wake you. You need to be inside, out of the damp air,” she explained, trying to pull free. “If I help you, can you stand?”

“Stand? Of course I can stand,” he snapped.

Then he looked around and frowned when he realized he was lying on the ground. If Blythe didn’t know better, she’d think she saw a hint of panic in his eyes.

“What happened?”

“I haven’t a clue,” she told him. “I was out for a ride when your dog—” she glanced at the beast sitting near his master’s shoulder “—led me to you. All I know is that you’re sick, and I need to get you to the house and go for the doctor.”

She might as well have been talking to the dog. Will Slade’s eyes were closed and the tenor of his breathing told her he was unconscious again.

Blythe pushed to her feet and stared down at him. She had no idea why he was out in the middle of the woods when he was so ill, but common sense told her that the house she’d seen must be his. How could she get him from here to there? She certainly couldn’t carry him! The sensible thing to do was to ride into town and bring back someone with a wagon, but a foggy mist was settling in and she feared that if she left him and the rain started in earnest, his condition would worsen.

Think, Blythe.

She recalled a piece she’d read in the newspaper a few months earlier about how the Plains Indians moved the sick, wounded and elderly on a contraption made with two long poles and pulled by an animal. She didn’t have any poles, but maybe she could fashion something comparable. She had designed an intricate and detailed wedding gown, for heaven’s sake. How hard could it be to take a quilt and make something to drag an unconscious man through the woods?

Telling Will Slade that she would be back as fast as possible, knowing he didn’t hear her, she gathered her woolen skirt in her fists and ran back to the lane toward the house and barn in the distance. She heard the dog barking at her and, when she turned, she saw that he was still sitting beside his owner. The canine’s devotion was admirable; she’d give him that.

Twenty minutes later she’d assembled a makeshift travois from a quilt she’d dragged from one of the beds and a couple of long pieces of rope she’d found in the barn. She tied the riggings to the saddle horn and let them trail along the horse’s sides, then attached the other ends to the corners of the quilt. The dog barked at her at regular intervals, and she was struck by the uncanny notion that he was urging her to hurry.

“I’m going as fast as I can,” she grumbled. By the time she finished, her fingers were numb with cold.

Back down on her hands and knees, she shoved with all her might until she’d rolled the sick man onto the quilt. With a little prayer that he wouldn’t fall off or the knots give way, she led the mare out of the clearing while the dog trotted along beside his master. Thank goodness the rain had held off.

Her good fortune was short-lived. By the time the little caravan reached the front porch and she’d tied the horse to the hitching post, it had begun to drizzle. She was chilled to the bone and wanted nothing more than to be out of the weather in front of a fire.

The problem was how to get the unconscious man inside.

Unable to come up with another idea, she undid the ropes from the saddle horn and tied them around her waist. Using the muscles of her legs and arms and every bit of strength she could muster, she inched her way up the porch steps and shuffled across the painted porch boards and through the doorway that led to a combined kitchen and sitting area.

Once they were inside, she closed the door and untied the ropes from around her middle. Rain fell in sheets. A crack of lightning rent the sky, followed by a boom of thunder. Blythe cringed. She hated storms, and this one was gaining strength by the minute.

The dog barked from the other side of the door. Did he want in? She gnawed on her lower lip in indecision. Would Will be furious at her if she let the creature inside? And did she want the huge animal in the same room with her, when she wasn’t sure he liked her much?

When he began barking again, she grabbed a flour-sack towel from the tabletop and jerked open the door simultaneously as another boom of thunder hit. The mutt almost knocked her over in his haste to get inside. Despite the situation, she almost laughed. The big baby was as frightened of the storm as she was. So much for his bad-dog act.

“Wait!” she cried, throwing herself across his back to keep him from going any farther into the room. To her surprise, he stopped and stood while she rubbed the rain from his glossy fur and dried his feet. Satisfied for the moment, he settled his lanky body down next to the fireplace, never taking his eyes from her.

What now? she wondered, looking at the sick man once more. She’d planned to get him settled and ride to town for help, but it was storming, and the day was all but gone. Not only did she dislike dogs and storms, she was also no fan of the dark. There were streetlights to illuminate the gloom in Boston, but out here, surrounded by woods, it would be pitch-black when night fell. If she left the safety of the house, she would be terrified. She might even get lost in the unfamiliar area. Perhaps the storm would pass in the night and she could ride for help at first light.

The sick man sat up suddenly, once again taking Blythe by surprise. His wild-eyed gaze roamed the room. “Lie down, Mr. Slade.”

He frowned at her. “Martha? What are you doing here? I told you not to come back here.”

Martha? For just a second Blythe had no idea who he was talking about and then she remembered that was his former wife’s name. Good grief! The fever was making him delirious.

“I’m Blythe, not Martha, Mr. Slade,” she said, kneeling beside him and pressing against his wide shoulders.

“Blythe?” he asked with another frown. “Do I know you?”

“We’ve met. Lie down, please.” She felt the tension in him relax and, with only a minimum of resistance, he did as she asked.

“Close your eyes and rest.”

Surprisingly, he did. Blythe sighed and got to her feet. Like him or not, he was a sick man who needed her help. Should she stay and help him however she could or take a chance and try to make it to town?

It crossed her mind that if word got out that she’d stayed overnight in the home of a single man, she would once again be the talk of the town, but she pushed the thought aside. Under the circumstances, she had little choice. It was almost dark. It was storming. A very sick man who needed tending lay on a quilt in front of the fire. She knew it was her Christian duty to do what she could for him, no matter what the outcome might be.

Everyone would understand. If not, then her reputation would suffer again. It was already in tatters. What else could be done to her? Would she be tarred and feathered? Her only regret was that her mother would be beside herself with worry if she wasn’t home by suppertime.

Hands on her hips, Blythe regarded her patient. First things first. Heat. She fed kindling to the glowing coals in the fireplace and added a couple more split logs. A blaze soon crackled and warmth began to spread throughout the room.

Grateful for the much-needed heat, she took off her scarf and coat and hung them on the back of a chair near the fire. Then she unpinned her hair and finger-combed it so it would dry faster. She didn’t need to get sick, too. Without considering the inappropriateness of it, she unfastened her muddy skirt and stripped down to her petticoats, hanging the skirt, as well. It should be dry by morning and she could brush off the worst of the dirt.

The next thing was to get the sick lumberman into bed. She looked at him lying on the floor, all six-foot-plus of him, and knew that was an impossibility. She’d gotten him inside, but there was no way she could get him into bed. The next best option was to make him a pallet near the fire.

After locating a quilt box, she spread a couple of blankets onto the floor next to the hearth and once again rolled him onto the pallet. It was a struggle, but she managed to tug and pull until she got his wet coat off. Thankfully, his lightweight jacket had kept his shirt more or less dry. His denim pants were damp, but she’d managed to get him home and inside before they’d gotten too wet.

Sick or not, she drew the line at removing them. Her inexperience might have led her into the trap Devon had set for her, but she didn’t intend to deliberately put herself in a pickle again. She pulled off Will’s boots and piled several quilts on top of him, tucking them beneath his sock-clad feet.

“Who are you?”

Once again the sound of his raspy voice caught her off guard. She met his questioning, fever-bright gaze. He had no remembrance of her telling him her name just moments before.

“Blythe Granville.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I found you unconscious in the woods and brought you back here out of the weather.”

He managed a hoarse laugh and turned his head aside when it turned into a fit of coughing. When the spell passed, he gave her a look of disdain. “I don’t feel so good, but I’ve never passed out in my life, lady.”

“Well,” she told him with a hint of asperity, “you did today.” Typical man. Unwilling to admit to the least sign of weakness.

“I’m thirsty.”

The fever. “I’ll get you some water.” She got to her feet and went to a long, tall table situated beneath a window to dip him a cup of water from the bucket. She carried it back to him, once more dropping to her knees.

“Do you need help sitting up?”

He looked at her as if she had lost her mind and snapped a surly, “Of course not.”

He did manage to push himself upright, but it looked as if it took every ounce of strength in him. He drank down all the water and handed her the cup. “I remember you.”

“Do you?”

“You’re that banker’s sister who fell for some man who lied about giving you a better life.”

Though Blythe had played the fool, she didn’t like the fact that Will Slade had reminded her of it, or that his opinion no doubt echoed that of most of the people in Wolf Creek. Why was it that everyone wanted to paint her as a bad person because she thought she’d fallen in love?

She held her tongue. “You need to rest, Mr. Slade. Do you have any sort of medicine that might help your cough and fever?”

He lowered himself back onto the feather pillow. “Ma brought me some willow bark...on the shelf.”

The words seemed forced from him, as if their short conversation and the mere drinking of a cup of water had worn him out. “Willow bark?”

“For tea.” He scraped a hand down his face and closed his eyes. “Brings down a fever. Whiskey and honey for the cough.”

Blythe had never heard of using willow bark tea for a fever, but he seemed familiar with it, so she’d give it a try. As for giving him whiskey...she was less sure about that. Wouldn’t it be risky to give anyone who’d once had a problem with alcohol any sort of liquor? Still, she supposed she’d have to take a chance on it. He certainly needed something.

She was about to ask where she could find the spirits, but when she glanced over at him, she saw that he was out again. She rummaged around until she found a jar of dark amber honey, complete with a hunk of honeycomb, a bottle of whiskey and two plain white mugs. The teakettle on the back of the stove was about half full and piping hot. Blythe poured the water over some willow bark to steep and more into a second thick mug. She stirred in a generous measure of whiskey and honey, added a bit of water from the bucket to cool it and carried both remedies to her patient.

He drank it down faster than she felt he should have, and by the time he finished it and the willow bark tea, she realized she was feeling a bit hungry, even though she’d had little appetite since leaving Boston. She’d find something in a bit. It was more important to finish doing what she could for the man resting on the floor.

She found a cloth, poured a basin of water and carried them to his side. For several moments she bathed his face and hands, hoping that the combination of the cool water and the tea would bring down his fever. He sighed in his sleep, as if to let her know her ministrations were nice.

Working over him gave Blythe ample opportunity to study his face from a woman’s point of view. Everything about him was uncompromisingly masculine and, from what little she’d observed, he did and said whatever he pleased, the opinions of others be hanged. Win claimed Will was a man’s man. Was that why Martha had left him for someone else? Had she found someone who would treat her more gently or perhaps cater to her every desire?

Blythe passed the cloth over his forehead and noticed the lines between his heavy eyebrows. Worry? Frowning into the sun? There were grooves in both cheeks that might be dimples when he smiled—if he ever smiled. She’d never seen him with anything but a scowl. What would a smile do to his somber, attractive features? Would his eyes crinkle at the corners? Was that why those little lines were there?

Though it was doubtful that she would ever allow herself to be tempted by a man again, there was no denying that he was quite nice-looking—if one liked their men big and burly and surly. She didn’t. She liked slender men with grace and elegance and charm.

An errant memory of Devon’s face filled her mind. When they’d first met, she believed she’d found everything she’d been longing for in a man. Not only was he handsome and fascinating, everything about him had given the impression of sophistication and refinement—from the immaculate cut of his clothing to his knowledge of how the elite world of society worked. Most important, he’d claimed to love her. She’d learned the hard way that his outward façade was as false as his declarations of love.

As usual, the mere thought of his lies and betrayal brought back the anger that had simmered just below the surface since she’d learned the truth about him. She removed the cloth from her patient’s forehead and tossed it into the wash basin, where it landed with a little splash.

Troubled without really understanding why, she pulled the quilts up to Will’s chin and went to find something to eat. She discovered a chunk of cheese and some slightly stale bread wrapped in a towel that would do nicely with a cup of tea. The dog stared at her with disapproval in his eyes and saliva dripping from the corners of his mouth until she’d offered him a portion of her meal.

Her hunger sated, she stood in the center of the large kitchen area, her hands pressed against her aching back. She’d done all she could for her patient at the moment. Weary beyond words, she carried a footstool from the parlor and set it next to the large rocking chair near both the fire and her patient. She found another woolen blanket in a small bedroom, wrapped herself in it and settled into the chair.

She was asleep in minutes.

* * *

Will woke at some time during the night. He felt some better. He turned onto his side and realized that he was on the floor. What on earth was he doing on the floor? In a bit of a panic, he raised himself to one elbow and looked around the room. The first thing to snag his attention was a drift of white eyelet trim that was attached to... Was that a woman’s petticoat?

His gaze moved upward. An unfamiliar woman was sleeping in the rocking chair. Why was he on the floor and why was an unknown woman in his chair...in his house? What was going on? He thought about waking her to ask, but with his head pounding and his breathing rattling around in his chest, the last thing he wanted was any kind of confrontation or conversation. All he wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t recall ever being so sick, and he didn’t like the helpless feeling that made it hard to even move. He lay back down and continued staring at her. Even that was a strain.