Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  “Kind? I don’t think so.” He felt, in fact, immensely angry and very guilty. Although he hadn’t known Jimmy was among his men, he felt somehow that he’d failed to protect him. If he had known, he’d have sent the boy home.

  It did no good to second-guess the fates, though, and Philippe didn’t make the attempt that evening. He went upstairs to get fresh clothes, and thence to the bathhouse. He didn’t bother to heat the water before he bathed because he was in a hurry, and he was shivering when he finished his ablutions. He’d had to wash his hair three times to get the grit out.

  His mind wandered back to the evening he’d seen Heather, in all her naked glory, bathing in this very room, and his sex stirred. Damn, he’d be glad when she accepted his proposal and he could slake his lust. Until that time, he’d just have to suffer, he reckoned. The notion held little appeal.

  When he finished cleaning up and returned to the house, several of his men had come back. He greeted them, told them about Jimmy, and said he’d talk to them later. Two of them offered to help, and Philippe thanked them sincerely. He asked one of them to take care of his horse, as he hadn’t had time to do so. After that was attended to, he asked Sandy, a hardy sixteen-year-old from Fort Summers who knew all the Mahaffeys, to clean himself up and to be prepared to notify Mr. and Mrs. Mahaffey at first light that their son was at Philippe’s ranch.

  “Try not to frighten them. We’ll probably have more news before them. You can give them the latest report from Doc Grady.”

  Sandy nodded. Philippe got the impression he knew exactly how to approach parents of injured sons, undoubtedly having had such experiences in the past. He would have grinned except he was too tired to do so.

  When he returned to the parlor, Heather had stopped crying—thank God—and was absorbed in her task.

  * * *

  “Merciful heavens, Jimmy Mahaffey, whatever possessed you to ride into a stampede?” Heather’s heart had been lurching around like a wounded sparrow ever since she saw Mike carrying the small body into the house. She hadn’t known it was Jimmy until Mike had told her. If he hadn’t told her, she’d only now be discovering the truth, because the poor boy had been covered from head to foot with filth, sticky with blood, and unconscious.

  “I didn’t mean nothing by it.” The voice was small and hurt, and Heather could tell poor Jimmy was trying his best to act like a man. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “So he’s conscious at last, is he?”

  She started a little, having forgotten that Philippe had told her he’d come back. When she saw him standing there, tall, muscular, competent, and about as handsome as a man could—or should—get, she wondered how she could have forgotten him for as much as an instant. She was so happy to see him, she nearly burst into tears again. She wouldn’t do that, however. Tears were for emergencies and funerals, unless one were feeble. This particular emergency was over; if Heather could help it there wouldn’t be any funeral, and she was definitely not feeble.

  “Yes.” She smiled at Philippe. “He woke up a few minutes after you left.”

  “I didn’t mean to take so long.” Philippe didn’t return her smile. He looked worried. “How’s he doing?”

  “He hurts all over, I expect.” She made sure her tone was light. She didn’t want to worry Jimmy.

  “Yeah,” the patient grunted. Then, when Heather took her soapy rag to another scratch, he added, “Ow! Dang it, Heather, be careful.”

  Finally Philippe grinned. “He sounds like he’ll be all right.”

  “Eventually.” Heather stuck her tongue out at her brother. “If you hadn’t gotten hurt, I wouldn’t have to be washing you off, Jimmy. You just stay still and stop complaining.”

  “I’m not complaining,” the boy muttered.

  “Could have fooled me,” said his adoring sister.

  Philippe came over and stood behind where she was kneeling on the floor next to the sofa. She felt him there like a warm, protective presence, and wished she could turn and ask him to hold her. If she’d accepted his proposal on the spot, she guessed she could, but she hadn’t, blast it. Trying to keep her mind on the business at hand, she said, “Philippe, I don’t believe you’ve been formally introduced to this scamp. My brother, Jimmy. Jimmy, say how-do-you-do to Mr. St. Pierre. You’re reclining on his sofa at the moment.”

  “How do you do, Jimmy,” said Philippe. “I’d shake hands, but you seem to be laid up.”

  “How do, Mr. St. Pierre.” Jimmy’s big blue eyes rested with fascination on Philippe. Heather was beginning to believe he’d pull through this ordeal without too much lasting damage. He hadn’t cried once so far—which was a better record than his older sister could claim—and if he was more interested in Philippe and his surroundings than upset about his medical condition, she considered it a good sign.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt, Jimmy,” Philippe continued. He squatted next to Heather on the pretty Persian carpet covering the parlor floor. “Mind telling me what you thought you were doing in the middle of a stampede?” He grinned to let the boy know he wasn’t accusing him of anything. Heather’s whole body throbbed with love for him in that instant.

  Jimmy let out an exasperated sigh that made his sister smile, although she tried to hide it. “I didn’t mean to ride into a stampede, Mr. St. Pierre. It was when that man came and said Heather was hurt and asking for me. That’s why I was there. I just went. I didn’t stop to worry about stampedes.”

  “What?” Heather hadn’t meant the word to come out quite so shrilly.

  “I beg your pardon, Jimmy,” said Philippe, no longer grinning. “But did you say someone came to your house and said Miss Mahaffey was hurt?”

  “Yeah.” Jimmy’s gaze flicked between Heather and Philippe. “I don’t know why he come. You don’t look hurt to me.” He gave Heather an accusatory frown.

  “I’m not hurt.” She’d stopped smiling too; indeed, had seldom felt less like smiling. “Who came to the house?”

  Jimmy shrugged, then winced. “I dunno. Some man. Tall, black hair, mustache, blue eyes. Ma sent me because she couldn’t leave Billy and Pa.”

  “I see,” said Philippe.

  “I don’t,” said Heather. The person who’d come to her parents’ door sounded uncannily like D.A. Bologh. But it couldn’t have been. Nor could it have been D.A. who’d shot her father. She shook her head, wondering if the whole world was going mad, or only her.

  “Well, I don’t see, either,” said Jimmy. “But he didn’t give us a name. Just said you was hurt bad, was asking for your family, and took off. I sure as blazes didn’t know I’d run into a stampede.”

  “Mind your tongue, young man.” Heather spoke the reprimand automatically. She was too busy thinking to care if Jimmy swore.

  Jimmy sighed heavily, as one grievously put upon. “Well, I didn’t. And it was danged hard to see in the dark, too, and there was lightning and thunder all over the place, and the wind like to’ve knocked me off my horse. It wasn’t any fun, I’ll tell you.”

  “It sounds terrible, Jimmy. Thank you for riding to my rescue.”

  “But you didn’t need rescuing,” Jimmy pointed out, obviously unhappy about having been tricked.

  “But I might have, and I think you were very brave and awfully sweet to come.” Heather wondered if she was merely being silly to be so touched by her little brother’s worry. Probably.

  “It wasn’t much,” muttered Jimmy, embarrassed by his sister’s lapse into sentiment.

  “This all sounds like part of a great big puzzle to me,” said Philippe.

  His tone carried a strange note, and when Heather turned to look at him, his expression was strange too. His brow was furrowed, and the lines beside his mouth were deep. “What is it, Philippe?” she asked softly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think it’s—connected to everything else?”

  He understood what she’d left unsaid. “I don’t know.” He shook his head and shoved himself to his feet. “But l
et’s not worry about it now. Do you need any supplies?”

  “I could use some more hot water and rags. I think I have enough soap here.”

  “Dang it, Heather, you’re scrubbing me raw. I’m already hurt. I don’t need you to finish me off.”

  With a laugh, Philippe said, “I don’t think you’re sister’s going to do you in, Jimmy. And if she is, I’ll be abetting her, because I’m going to get more hot water this minute.”

  Jimmy let out an aggrieved huff.

  Heather said, “Thank you,” in a voice she realized too late was dreamy.

  When she glanced at her brother again, he was watching her through slitted eyes, as if he neither appreciated nor approved of that tone of voice when directed at Philippe St. Pierre.

  Heather flushed and renewed her efforts on her brother’s behalf.

  Chapter Sixteen

  By the time Doc Grady had come and gone; pronounced Jimmy healthy but for an alarming number of scrapes and cuts and a wrenched shoulder; prepared a very interesting sling for him to wear for two weeks; dosed the boy with a vile-tasting substance that Jimmy barely gagged down; and Philippe had carried Jimmy to a spare room upstairs, midnight had long since passed. Mrs. Van der Linden had been cajoled against her will into preparing Jimmy’s room, and had then retired to her own with a sharp word from Philippe speeding her on her way.

  Philippe had recruited one of his hired hands to sleep in Jimmy’s room and to report if the boy experienced any strange symptoms. The hired lad wasn’t much older than Jimmy, but already he was willing and able to assume the duties of an adult. Such behavior wasn’t uncommon in the territory, and Heather appreciated her fellow New Mexicans a lot during that crisis.

  As she stood in the hallway outside of Jimmy’s room after giving her brother an unwanted goodnight kiss, she realized she was so tired, she was shaking. Passing a hand over her eyes, she murmured, “Thank God he’ll be all right.”

  She felt Philippe’s hand splay gently on her back, and almost succumbed to the urge to turn and throw her arms around him. “I’m glad of that. I was worried when I first saw him. So was Mike.”

  Heather managed a wan smile. “I imagine he was. Mike has a brother just Jimmy’s age.”

  “He’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “I reckon.”

  Knowing she had to do it sometime, and it would be wise to do so before she fell over in fatigue, Heather turned and held out a hand to Philippe. “I can’t thank you enough for all of your help tonight, Philippe. You’ve had plenty to worry about without having to take care of my family, as well, but you have been taking care of us.” Tonight she was too tired to resent it. “And I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

  He took her hand, but didn’t shake it. Instead, she felt his thumb gently massage her knuckles. The caress sent sparks through her. “Taking care of you and your family is a pleasure, Heather. It’s not a bother.

  Her hand felt so good in his. He was so big and safe and comfortable, and she felt so small and insecure and alone.

  “Heather . . .”

  Her eyes drifted shut, and she didn’t want to speak. She sort of wanted to cuddle up and purr, actually. “Yes?” she managed after several seconds.

  “About tonight.”

  “Yes?” Glory, she hoped he wouldn’t renew his proposal now, because she knew good and well that in her present state she wouldn’t be able to dilly-dally or to “think” about it. Rather, she’d accept him on the spot, thereby ruining his life. Or maybe not. Her physical strength was too depleted for her brain to think the matter through.

  He tugged gently on her hand, and she stumbled forward—smack up against him. Since she was there, and since she didn’t care to fall over, and since she’d wanted to do it all evening anyway, she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against his broad, hard chest. She felt so good there.

  His lips touched her hair, and she sighed deeply, pressing her breasts against him. Oh, my, that felt good. Because she was longing for some kind of closeness, she tilted her head back and looked up at him, hoping he’d kiss her. His eyes warmed her through and through. She wouldn’t have been surprised if steam had risen from her, in fact.

  “Heather,” he said again, his voice rough.

  She sighed.

  He didn’t speak again. Instead, he did as she’d hoped he’d do and kissed her. Thank God. Heather melted into him as if she and he had been crafted together at the beginning of time, separated somehow by an evil fate, and had finally been reunited there, in the upstairs hallway of Philippe St. Pierre’s ranch house.

  Before she could slither into a puddle of melted flesh on the hall carpet, Philippe swept her up into his arms. Heather was awfully glad of it because her legs had begun to quiver like rubber bands. She hoped he wouldn’t carry her far—for example, downstairs to her own room—but would opt for a nearby and more intimate resting place. Hang the consequences.

  Fortunately for her, Philippe was of a like mind. His room was only two doors down and across the hall from where they’d stashed Jimmy. Heather was very happy when he carried her there, kicked the door open, and took her inside.

  She heard him murmur, “This is wrong,” and a frisson of alarm shot through her.

  “No it isn’t,” she whispered, frantic. If he stopped now, she’d die; she knew it. “It’s not wrong at all.” It was precisely what she needed, although she wasn’t sure what “it” was, exactly. Something that only married people were supposed to do—that much she knew.

  He carried her to the bed. “You’re right. It’s not wrong.”

  Thank heavens. Heather had been worried there for a minute. He set her tenderly on his bed. It was a high bed, a four-poster with a heavy tester. It was a lovely bed, really, and Heather liked it a lot. She sank into the feather mattress and felt like the princess in the fairy tale, only without the pea. She couldn’t feel anything but blissful softness.

  “You’re a beautiful woman, Heather.”

  Oh, how sweet. “Thank you.” She wondered if she was supposed to say something about his handsomeness and decided it wouldn’t hurt. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”

  His crooked grin looked a little cynical. Heather blinked, wondering if her eyes were too tired to be seeing things correctly. She guessed she wasn’t when he spoke again. At the same time, he started unbuttoning his shirt. Heather listened and watched, fascinated.

  “I’m handsome. I’m rich. So why do you have to think about accepting my proposal of marriage?”

  He slipped his shirt off, and Heather gaped at his chest, covered with black curls. Not too many black curls; just enough. And what a chest he had. Corded with muscles, lean, spare. The man was perfect. She swallowed and said, “Um—what?” She’d forgotten his question.

  Chuckling, Philippe unbuckled his belt. Mercy sakes. This was it. Or it was about to be it. She stared at him, figuring it was impolite of her but unable to resist. Since he was staring back at her, she guessed she wasn’t being too awful, although she was pretty sure her mother would think so.

  Lord, what a perfect way to dampen one’s ardor. Heather mentally smacked herself and told herself she didn’t need to think about her family right now. In fact, family was the last thing she needed to think about in this instance.

  In order to get herself back into Philippe’s bedroom, she slipped off her robe and let it puddle on the bed. That left her in her unrevealing flannel nightgown—she hadn’t had time to dress when they’d brought Jimmy into the house—and she decided to leave it on until Philippe either took it off of her or worked around it. She had no idea how these things went forward.

  Philippe nodded at the nightgown as the last button on his trousers popped open. Heather noticed that there seemed to be a huge bulge behind his fly, and she could hardly wait to see what was causing the bulge. She was also a little frightened, but overall she was pleased to note that her anticipation far overrode her fear.

  “I’ve
seen more seductive garments on horses, Heather.”

  Startled, Heather glanced down at her nightgown and then up at Philippe. He was smiling at her, genuinely, and with a good deal of warmth in his expression, so she guessed she shouldn’t be offended. In fact, he was probably right. With an answering grin, she said, “I’m afraid my mother would have horsewhipped me if I’d tried to wear anything less, um, flannel.”

  He laughed and shoved his trousers down. Heather suppressed a gasp with difficulty when his fully aroused sex thrust out at her.

  Good God! Was that thing supposed to fit inside her? Impossible. At least, it looked impossible from where Heather sat. She was no longer sure this was such a good idea.

  Heather guessed she was goggling because Philippe said softly, “Don’t be frightened. I’ll try to be very careful. The first time always hurts a little bit.” He sank down onto the feather mattress next to her, and lifted an eyebrow. “It will be your first time, will it not?”

  Shocked out of her trepidation by his question, she blurted indignantly, “Of course it will be! What kind of woman do you think I am, anyway?”

  His fingers found the tie at the throat of her nightgown, and he laughed softly. “The kind of woman I want to marry.” His big hands pushed the fabric aside and down her shoulders.

  “Oh.” That put everything in a much better light. Heather sucked in a deep breath. Merciful heavens, his hands felt good on her naked skin. Were women supposed to feel this way when men touched them?

  “Oh? Is that all you can say?”

  “Um, yes.”

  “Ah.” Philippe’s warm lips touched the flesh at the base of her throat, and Heather feared she’d die right there, in his bed, from sheer pleasure. “That’s the word I wanted to hear.”

  Her thoughts were getting fuzzier by the second, but she didn’t think fuzzy thoughts accounted for her not understanding his comment. “I, ah, beg your, ah, pardon?” The pardon ended on a gasp when his hand pushed the nightgown all the way down until it pooled around her naked hips and his mouth—his wonderful, talented, brilliant mouth—covered her left nipple. Her head fell back when his warm tongue flicked over the pebbled nub. Good heavens, that felt good.