The Outcast tp-3 Read online

"MacDatho could rip out your throat if I gave him the order." She was so close to this man, only a breath away, their mouths and noses almost touching. Warmth spread through her body, a result of fear, uncertainty and sexual awareness. Some deep-seated yearning within her urged her to taste his lips, to warm their cool surface with the heat of her mouth.

  Reece reached up with his other hand, encompassing her neck completely with both hands. "And I could snap your soft, silky neck like a twig." Glancing at the woman's huge dog, he wondered if the animal would attack with or without his mistress's command.

  Reece felt the woman's pulse beating rapidly in her neck. No doubt about it, she was afraid of him. Good. He needed her scared so she wouldn't do anything stupid. If he could control her, he could control her animal. But the moment he glanced from the dog back to her face, he almost regretted having threatened her. There was a wounded look in her eyes.

  MacDatho growled deeply, raising his tail, his teeth still bared.

  "No, Mac. I'm all right." Trying to convince herself as much as MacDatho, Elizabeth sent a message to Mac that this stranger was their friend, a friend in need of their help.

  MacDatho eyed the stranger, then lowered his tail, but his hackles remained raised and his teeth partially bared in a snarl.

  "You've got that animal trained pretty good, haven't you?" Keeping a tight hold on the woman, Reece raised himself up off the floor. Every bone, every muscle, every fiber of his being ached. The warmth inside the cabin sent pinpricks of pain through his body, the frigid numbness slowly replaced by nearly unbearable feeling.

  "We're going to get up off the floor," Reece said, shoving himself against the soft solidity of the woman's body.

  Elizabeth followed his orders, struggling to stand when he forced himself to his feet. He kept a stranglehold on her neck with one hand, the other hand biting into her shoulder. Once on his feet, he swayed. Elizabeth slipped her arm around his waist, instinctively trying to help him. He jerked away from her touch, momentarily releasing his hold on her.

  She had never known anyone so afraid of human contact, so distrustful of another person's offer of help. "You need to get out of those wet clothes. You need to get warm."

  Reece grabbed her by the arm. MacDatho growled again. Elizabeth sent Mac a silent message to stay calm, but she could sense his intention to attack Reece-and soon.

  Elizabeth had only one choice. When she was on her feet again, she bowed her head, concentrating completely on stopping Mac from acting on his animal instincts to protect her.

  "I don't want to hurt you," Reece heard himself saying and wondered why he felt such a strong need to reassure this woman. He pulled her close to his side, forcing her to walk beside him to the enormous rock fireplace.

  Shivers racked his body. His hands trembled, and for a moment he wasn't sure he would be able to continue standing. When he shoved Elizabeth away from him, she almost lost her balance, but she caught hold of the wooden rocker near the wood stack on the wide hearth. MacDatho approached Reece with slow, deliberate strides.

  You mustn't attack him, Elizabeth warned. Closing her eyes, she cautioned MacDatho that this stranger was an alpha male, a pack leader, the dominant animal.

  Mac stopped dead still, eyeing Elizabeth as if questioning her, then he looked at Reece, dropped his tail, cringed low on his hind legs and began making licking movements with his tongue.

  "What the hell's wrong with him?" The damned dog acted as if he'd suddenly become deathly afraid of Reece, and his actions didn't make any sense.

  "It's Mac's way of accepting you, of letting you know he wants to be your friend." No need to explain to this stranger that she had convinced MacDatho that another male animal was the dominant one. He probably wouldn't understand, anyway.

  "I don't want his friendship, or yours, either." The pain in Reece's head intensified, the tormenting aches in his body blazing to life as the numbness faded. "I'm hungry. I need some food. And some aspirin."

  "If you'll come into the kitchen, I'll fix you something. Or if you want to rest in here, I'll bring out something on a tray."

  "You're not going anywhere without me." Reece glanced around, looking for all the exits from the huge room. No matter what she said or how sweetly she acted, he couldn't trust this woman. He didn't dare.

  He wouldn't hurt her. Hell, he wouldn't even hurt her damn, crazy dog. But he couldn't let her know that she had nothing to fear from him or she might destroy his only chance of escaping a prison sentence and proving himself an innocent man.

  "Come into the kitchen. I have some leftover chicken stew from supper."

  Elizabeth glanced back at the stranger as he followed her toward the kitchen. He walked on unsteady legs, his movements slow paced and lethargic. If he made it to the kitchen it would be a miracle. The man was dead on his feet.

  Reece felt the dark, sinking nausea hit him. His knees buckled. He grabbed at thin air, trying to steady himself. Don't you dare pass out again! If you do, you'll wake up in prison! He heard the woman say something to him, but the loud, buzzing roar in his head obliterated her words.

  "Please, let me help you. You need to lie down." Elizabeth reached out to him, trying to touch him.

  Irrational panic seized Reece. The woman was lying to him, trying to catch him off guard. She didn't know him. Why would she want to help him? He couldn't trust her.

  "Stay away from me!" Clutching the gun in his right hand, he pulled it out of his coat pocket, then shoved her away, pointing the weapon directly at her.

  He swayed toward the wall, his shoulder hitting the wooden surface with a resounding thud. Blackness encompassed him.

  Elizabeth watched, feeling totally helpless as the stranger slid down the wall, falling onto his side. Rushing to him, she knelt beside him and realized two things. He was still alive. And he held the gun in his hand with a death grip.

  "Come on, Mac. We've got to take care of him. He's probably suffering from hypothermia and Lord knows what else." Elizabeth wished her abilities extended to healing. Unfortunately, she didn't have the magic touch, only a basic knowledge of herbs and the power of the mind to restore one's health.

  "I don't know how we'll ever move him. He's such a big man." After prizing the gun from his tenacious grasp, Elizabeth proceeded to remove the stranger's coat, then his shoes and socks. When she saw the county jail identification stamped on the dark blue coveralls he wore, she realized that this man, this stranger who had invaded her mind and her heart months ago, was an escaped convict.

  Her trembling hands hovered over his body. Her mind raced through the thoughts and images that had been bombarding her for months. She tried to sort through her feelings, to separate her emotions from logic. This man posed a threat to her. That was a certainty. But not physically. She sensed he would never harm her, that he did not have the soul of a killer.

  But he was dangerous.

  "If only he'd regain consciousness." Elizabeth spoke more to herself than MacDatho, although the wolf-dog listened intently. "He's too heavy for us to move, and he needs to be in a warm bed. He could have a concussion. Look at the dried blood on his forehead and the swelling right here." Her fingers grazed the knot on his head, encountering the crusted blood that marked a line between his eyebrows and down his straight, patrician nose. She lifted a lock of brown hair, matted with blood.

  Elizabeth would never have been able to explain to anyone else how she felt at this precise moment, for indeed, she could not explain her feelings to herself. All she knew was that she must help this man, that she and she alone could save him from not only the immediate physical pain he endured, but from the agony of being trapped like a caged animal, doomed to suffer for wrongs he had not committed.

  With utmost haste Elizabeth divested the stranger of every article of clothing except the white boxer shorts that were plastered to his body. Where earlier the stranger had felt cold, nearly frozen to the touch, he now felt somewhat warmer.

  Elizabeth rubbed his face. "Please co
me to, just a little. I don't think Mac and I can get you to a bed without your cooperation."

  Why couldn't he have stayed unconscious when he'd first passed out in the living room? At least it was toasty warm in there, the roaring fire close. She could have made him a pallet on the floor until he'd regained consciousness. But no, he had to pass out in the cool, dimly lit hallway leading to the kitchen.

  Elizabeth slapped his face gently at first, then a bit more forcefully. "Come on. Wake up."

  Reece moaned. Elizabeth smiled.

  "That's it, come on. All I need is partial consciousness. Just enough to get you moving."

  Reece moaned again. His eyelids flickered. He heard a feminine voice issuing orders. She was demanding that he awaken, that he get on his feet. Why didn't she leave him alone? He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to stand. He didn't want to move. But she, whoever the hell she was, kept prodding him, kept insisting that he help her. Help her do what?

  Elizabeth said a prayer of thanks when she had roused the stranger enough to get him to sit up. His head kept leaning sideways, resting against his shoulder. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. Finally, summoning every ounce of strength she possessed, she helped him to his feet. He slumped against her, his heavy weight almost sending her to her knees. She struggled against her body's insistent urging to release the burden far too enormous for her to carry.

  "Come on. Help me, dammit! I can't carry you." Elizabeth encouraged him, both physically by squeezing her arm around him, and mentally by concentrating on discovering his name.

  For months she had been, unwillingly, a part of this man's life. She had witnessed his suffering, his anger and his degradation at being caged, but she had never been able to delve deeply inside him. She had sensed fragments of his emotions, caught quick glimpses of his past, present and future. But nothing concrete. Not even his name.

  He leaned more and more heavily against her as she tried to force him to take a step. Finally she shoved him up against the wall, bracing her body against his, trying to keep him standing. If only she could get through to him. If only he wasn't shielding his mind.

  She ran her fingers over his face, gently, caressingly. Lowering her voice she spoke to him, pleadingly, with great concern. She felt the breach, the slightest opening in his mind.

  "I want to help you. You need me so much. Don't fight me."

  Reece! His name was Reece. He had given her that much. If he hadn't been so weak, so helpless, she doubted he would have let down his protective barrier long enough for her to have gained even that small piece of information.

  "We need to get you in a warm, soft bed, Reece. You're sick, and I need your cooperation so I can help you get well."

  The voice spoke to him again. So soft and sweet. The woman cared about him. She wanted to help him. Was she his mother? His mother had been the only person who'd ever given a damn about him. No. It couldn't be Blanche. Blanche was dead. She'd died years ago.

  "Reece, please, take just a few steps. My bedroom is right through that door."

  Her bedroom? Was she one of Miss Flossie's girls? Was she trying to seduce him? No. That couldn't be it. Miss Flossie had gone out of business ten years ago, and it had been longer than that since a woman's tempting body had been able to seduce him into doing something foolish. He chose the time, the place, the circumstances and the woman. Reece Landry was always the one in control.

  "Take one step. Just one." If she could persuade him to take a step, then he'd realize he could still manage to walk, and she might have a chance of getting him to bed.

  MacDatho sniffed around the discarded clothing that lay on the floor, pawing at the coveralls, his sharp claws ripping the material.

  "Reece, listen to me. You're safe here with me. No one's going to put you back in a cage. Can you hear me?"

  "No cage." He slurred his words, but Elizabeth understood.

  "Let's walk away from the cage."

  "Away from the cage," he said.

  If she couldn't get him to walk soon, she'd just have to lay him back down on the floor and do the best she could for him.

  Reece took a tentative step, his big body leaning on Elizabeth for support.

  "That's it, Reece. Walk away from the cage."

  She guided his faltering steps out of the hallway, through the doorway leading to her room and straight to her bed. He dragged his feet, barely lifting them from the floor, but he cooperated enough with Elizabeth that they finally reached her antique wooden bed, the covers already folded back in readiness. Trying to ease him down onto the soft, crochet-lace-edged sheet proved impossible. Elizabeth simply released her hold around his waist, allowing him to fall across the handmade Cathedral Window quilt she used as a coverlet.

  MacDatho stood in the open doorway, guarding his mistress. Pushing and shoving, tugging and turning, Elizabeth managed to place Reece's head on one of her fat, feather pillows. His boxer shorts were as damp as his other clothing, but she hesitated removing them. Feeling like a voyeur, Elizabeth tugged the wet shorts down his hips, over the bulge of his manhood, down and off his legs. With a speed born of her discomfort at seeing him naked when he was unable to protest, and the need to warm his shivering body, Elizabeth rolled Reece over until she was able to ease the covers away from his heavy bulk. Quickly she jerked the top sheet, blanket and quilt up over his hairy legs, sheltering him from the cold. Then she reached down to the foot of the bed where a wooden quilt rack stood, retrieved the heavy tartan plaid blanket hanging alongside a Crow's Foot quilt and spread it on top of the other cover.

  Sitting beside Reece, she laid her hand on his warm forehead. As long as he'd been exposed to the frigid weather there was every possibility that his injuries had created serious health problems.

  He looked so totally male lying there in her very feminine bed, his brown hair dark against the whiteness of her pillowcase. Even in sleep, his face was set into a frown, his eyes squinched as if he'd been staring into the sun. His face was long and lean, his mouth wide, the corners slightly drooped, the bottom lip fuller than the top. His stubble-covered chin boasted a hint of a cleft.

  Mentally, Elizabeth began sorting through her knowledge of herbal medicine, taught to her by her great-aunt Margaret, a quarter Cherokee. If only Aunt Margaret was here now, but she wasn't. The old woman was past seventy and stayed close to home during the winter months. Besides, with the roads in such deplorable condition, Elizabeth doubted she could get into Dover's Mill and back, even in her Jeep.

  Reece had so many problems with which she would have to deal. His ears and nose and hands had begun to regain some of their color but still remained unnaturally pale. The best remedy to reverse the hypothermia and possible frostbite would be to keep him warm.

  Reaching under the weight of the covers, Elizabeth lifted Reece's hands and laid them on top of his stomach, elevating them slightly. Then she slipped a small pillow from a nearby wing-back chair beneath the cover and under his feet.

  Glancing across the room to the well-worn fireplace surrounded by a simple wooden mantel, Elizabeth realized the fire needed more wood. It would be essential to Reece's recovery to keep her bedroom warm. Just as she rose from the bed the lights flickered, then dimmed, returned to normal and suddenly flickered again, this time dying quickly. The warm glow from the fireplace turned the room into golden darkness, shadows dancing on the walls and across the wide wooden floor.

  "Damn!" She'd been expecting this, knowing how unreliable the electricity was here in the mountains during a storm. She'd light the kerosene lamps and keep the fires burning in all the fireplaces and in her wood-burning kitchen stove. The generator that protected the precious environment of her greenhouses had probably already kicked on. She would check to make sure the generator was working before she gathered all the ingredients for Reece's treatment.

  An antiseptic to clean his head wound would be needed, birch perhaps, along with some powdered comfrey to promote the healing. Mullein would do nicely to help w
ith the frostbite.

  Having made her mental list of necessary herbs, Elizabeth double-checked to make sure Reece was covered completely before adding another log to the fire.

  "Stay and keep watch, Mac. If he needs me before I return, come for me."

  The antique grandfather clock in the living room struck the midnight hour. Resting in a brown leather wing-back chair by the bed, Elizabeth tucked the colorful striped afghan about her hips, letting it drape her legs. She had done all she could do for Reece, cleaning his cuts and bruises, then applying powdered comfrey. The mullein had served several purposes in its various forms of healing aids-as an oil to treat the frostbite, as a bactericidal precaution and as a decoction to calm Reece's restlessness. While he'd been partially awake she had persuaded him to drink the warm mullein brew.

  MacDatho lay asleep to the right of the fireplace, in a nook between the wood box and the wall. Elizabeth dozed on and off, mostly staying awake to keep vigil, unable to refrain from staring at the big, naked man resting uneasily in her bed. This man was a stranger, an escaped convict, guilty of some horrible crime. In her mind's eye she kept seeing his large, well-formed fingers dripping with blood. Had he killed someone? Was she harboring a murderer? Obviously her visions of his being caged came from the fact that he'd been imprisoned, locked away securely behind bars.

  She had been trying unsuccessfully to break through the mental shield he kept securely in place, even while he slept fitfully. Occasionally Elizabeth caught a glimpse, a glimmer, a sliver of emotion. She simply could not believe Reece was a murderer.

  Perhaps she didn't want to believe him capable of murder. After all, the instincts within her feminine heart pleaded with the logical side of her brain to protect him, to heal not only his body but his soul. How could she argue with her unerring instincts? But this was the first time she'd ever been unable to read a person, at least partially. Even Sam Dundee, obstinate, rigid, controlled, self-sufficient Sam, hadn't been able to hide his thoughts and feelings from her all the time. Perhaps it was because Sam trusted her.