Read Online Knight in a White Stetson by Claire King - Free Book Online
Authors: Claire King
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He’d never mastered it before. Now he was swearing like a marine. Like Calla, in fact. His smile widened.
He had scared the hell out of Dartmouth tonight, he thought with a measure of satisfaction. He’d recognized the sudden sweat on the other man’s upper lip for what it was. He’d seen enough of it. Flop sweat.
He hoped Calla had seen that sweaty lip.
She was going to be furious with him. He felt a fuzzy dread of morning. He dropped an arm over his eyes and let his head spin. And hell, he was bound to have a brutal hangover.
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
H enry jolted awake.
He’d been dreaming. Calla had been walking toward him, wearing a long white T-shirt and nothing else. The shirt skimmed her smooth, strong thighs and he could see her rouge-tipped breasts swinging beneath the fabric. When he’d reached for her, she broke his grasp and walked past him. She walked up to the barn, pulled the big door open and stepped in. He tried to follow her but she closed the door on him. He peered, as desperately as a child, through the crack in the door.
He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Heidi smiled up at him, her red-tipped fingers pressing into his shoulder.
Henry sat upright on his bunk. His tongue was oddly thick and he couldn’t seem to shake the heavy feeling in his head. But despite the strange sensations, he knew the dream alone hadn’t shocked him awake. It was something else.
Someone was running.
He could hear the footsteps on the gravel. They were coming for the bunkhouse. Barely dormant instincts came to life in a rush.
He leapt to his feet and realized he hadn’t bothered to undress for bed. He was at the door in an instant, snatching his boots from the floor next to the door. He yanked the door open and ran hard right into Calla. He caught her as she stumbled into his chest.
“Henry!”
“What’s wrong?” His body was tensed from head to toe. Pete had called that something, during his training. What? Oh, yes, his fighting stance.
“You’ve got to come with me. I think I just killed Lester.” She straightened suddenly, jerked free of his grasp and took his hand in hers. “Hurry, Henry. He’s bleeding.”
“Where?”
“From his head.”
“Calla, where is Lester?”
“Oh, I thought you meant … he’s in the house.” Calla felt reaction set in, and started to shake. “In the kitchen.”
Henry didn’t wait to pull on his boots. He tucked them under his arm and loped across the compound to the house in his socks. Calla was at his heels, her bare feet traveling the gravel behind him. He’d watched her walk the compound a dozen times without shoes. The bottoms of her slender feet had to be as tough as the leather on the chaps she wore into the hills every morning.
He didn’t allow himself the luxury of imagining Calla in nothing but those leather chaps, as he had a dozen times already that day.
He could hear loud groaning before he reached the door. Lester wasn’t dead, at least.
Henry yanked open the kitchen door. Helen was on the floor, ministering to a bleeding Lester. Jackson was standing in the door of the laundry room, a first aid kit in his hands. Lester was sprawled ignominiously on the linoleum. Henry could smell alcohol, but couldn’t tell if it was him or Lester. He smelled something else, something definitely coming from Lester. Aftershave. Henry smiled in spite of himself.
“Lester, this is the second time today I’ve had to warn you about scaring Calla,” Henry said as he strode forward and kneeled next to Lester.
“Scaring Calla?” Lester squeaked. “She almost killed me.”
Henry examined Lester’s head. “Almost isn’t quite,” Henry muttered, borrowing one of Lester’s favorite expressions. There was the beginning of a goose egg and a small crack in the skin above his right eye. Not much more than a scratch. But the old man was bleeding profusely, Henry acknowledged. Years of drinking will thin the blood, Henry thought. He’d try to remember
He had scared the hell out of Dartmouth tonight, he thought with a measure of satisfaction. He’d recognized the sudden sweat on the other man’s upper lip for what it was. He’d seen enough of it. Flop sweat.
He hoped Calla had seen that sweaty lip.
She was going to be furious with him. He felt a fuzzy dread of morning. He dropped an arm over his eyes and let his head spin. And hell, he was bound to have a brutal hangover.
----
Chapter 7
« ^ »
H enry jolted awake.
He’d been dreaming. Calla had been walking toward him, wearing a long white T-shirt and nothing else. The shirt skimmed her smooth, strong thighs and he could see her rouge-tipped breasts swinging beneath the fabric. When he’d reached for her, she broke his grasp and walked past him. She walked up to the barn, pulled the big door open and stepped in. He tried to follow her but she closed the door on him. He peered, as desperately as a child, through the crack in the door.
He felt a soft touch on his shoulder. Heidi smiled up at him, her red-tipped fingers pressing into his shoulder.
Henry sat upright on his bunk. His tongue was oddly thick and he couldn’t seem to shake the heavy feeling in his head. But despite the strange sensations, he knew the dream alone hadn’t shocked him awake. It was something else.
Someone was running.
He could hear the footsteps on the gravel. They were coming for the bunkhouse. Barely dormant instincts came to life in a rush.
He leapt to his feet and realized he hadn’t bothered to undress for bed. He was at the door in an instant, snatching his boots from the floor next to the door. He yanked the door open and ran hard right into Calla. He caught her as she stumbled into his chest.
“Henry!”
“What’s wrong?” His body was tensed from head to toe. Pete had called that something, during his training. What? Oh, yes, his fighting stance.
“You’ve got to come with me. I think I just killed Lester.” She straightened suddenly, jerked free of his grasp and took his hand in hers. “Hurry, Henry. He’s bleeding.”
“Where?”
“From his head.”
“Calla, where is Lester?”
“Oh, I thought you meant … he’s in the house.” Calla felt reaction set in, and started to shake. “In the kitchen.”
Henry didn’t wait to pull on his boots. He tucked them under his arm and loped across the compound to the house in his socks. Calla was at his heels, her bare feet traveling the gravel behind him. He’d watched her walk the compound a dozen times without shoes. The bottoms of her slender feet had to be as tough as the leather on the chaps she wore into the hills every morning.
He didn’t allow himself the luxury of imagining Calla in nothing but those leather chaps, as he had a dozen times already that day.
He could hear loud groaning before he reached the door. Lester wasn’t dead, at least.
Henry yanked open the kitchen door. Helen was on the floor, ministering to a bleeding Lester. Jackson was standing in the door of the laundry room, a first aid kit in his hands. Lester was sprawled ignominiously on the linoleum. Henry could smell alcohol, but couldn’t tell if it was him or Lester. He smelled something else, something definitely coming from Lester. Aftershave. Henry smiled in spite of himself.
“Lester, this is the second time today I’ve had to warn you about scaring Calla,” Henry said as he strode forward and kneeled next to Lester.
“Scaring Calla?” Lester squeaked. “She almost killed me.”
Henry examined Lester’s head. “Almost isn’t quite,” Henry muttered, borrowing one of Lester’s favorite expressions. There was the beginning of a goose egg and a small crack in the skin above his right eye. Not much more than a scratch. But the old man was bleeding profusely, Henry acknowledged. Years of drinking will thin the blood, Henry thought. He’d try to remember
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