From chapter 27
Clem
waited in the house. "How you been, Miss Diana? Heard there was some
trouble."
She
hung her jacket and wool muffler in the hall, dropped her hat and gloves on a
chair. "What did you hear?"
He
hooked his thumbs into his vest pockets. “Well…you and Del had a big fight and
you tried to kill him. 'Course, it's also been said he shot himself by
accident."
"That's
what he told the sheriff."
“Miss
Diana--" Clem gave her a searching look, but she shook her head. No. She
would not discuss the incident. Teresa
bustled down the stairs bearing a tray laden with empty dishes. Clem turned to
her. "How's the patient today? Does he want comp'ny?"
"He
is much better.” Her eyes were bright. “But he wishes to see the Signora."
Oh,
no. Seeing Del was the last thing Diana wanted to do. "I don't have time
now. Teresa, can you please get me a change of clothing from my room?"
With
a shake of her head, the housekeeper declared, "You must get for yourself
anything you want. You cannot delay seeing him. He is your husband and must be
obeyed."
Clem
smiled. "I'll be back tomorrow."
Engulfed
by a torrent of angry thoughts, Diana didn't watch him leave. Husband? Well,
yes. Master? No. Never.
But
eventually she went to her room. So warm. Someone was keeping the fireplace well-fed
lest the invalid get a chill. Without a glance at the bed, she strode to her
bureau and opened a drawer. Why didn't he say anything? If he was asleep she
could avoid a confrontation. She took a chance, looked into a mirror and saw
her own pink-cheeked face, and Del, gazing at her with half-closed eyes, a
cryptic smile on his lips.
Flustered
by the weight of his gaze, she lifted several nightgowns out of the drawer,
then turned to face him. "I needed some things. Teresa refuses to fetch
them."
He
didn't speak but continued looking at her. Propped up by pillows, a quilt drawn
to his bandage, he was bare-chested, all black hair and hard muscles. Much too
masculine for the lace trimmed pillowslips and the elegant roses embroidered on
the quilt. Ebony dozed on the floor at the foot of the bed. Another traitor. Like everyone else at the ranch.
She
licked her dry lips. "Will you be able to move back to your room
soon?"
A
shrug lifted one shoulder. "Soon's doc says I can. Are you keeping my bed
warm?"
"I've
been sleeping in Randy's room." Face tingling, she hugged the clothes and
looked aside. "Why don't you ask Alfredo to give you a shave?"
"Alfredo's
busy. Why don't you do it for me?"
Her
gaze swung back to him. "Ha. Put a razor in my hand I just might slit your
throat."
“Diana."
His tone was softly chiding and she stared at him in surprise. "I trust
you. Why don't you trust me? Come sit so we can talk."
Despite
her reluctance, she perched on a chair beside the bed and looked out the
window. What did he want to say? Why
didn't he get it over with? She asked, "How do you feel?"
“Like
I’ve had a bullet carved out of my side. Like I've had my flesh stitched
together. Want to see it?"
"Oh
no. No!" Embarrassed, she added, "I can't look. I–I have an aversion
to the sight of human blood. I panic. I can look at animals covered with blood,
dead or dying. But wounded people--never." Damn, she was jabbering. She
rubbed her brow. "I--didn't mean to
shoot you. It--just happened."
Another
awkward silence. At last he said, "I'm sure I deserved this. Go ahead,
call me a miserable son of a bitch." He paused, but when she said nothing,
he continued, "What do you think the sight of you half-undressed does to a
man? Especially when he knows you aren't the saint you pretend to be? Why don't
you stop acting the prude?"
— Cat
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