had always made her feel queasy.
“Let it bleed a little more.” Mary would have tended to Tanner herself, but a bad knee made it painful for her to get down beside him. “It’s a deep wound, and Lord knows what was on that knife blade. The more dirt washes out, the less the chance of festering. That’s the real danger now.”
“But there’s so much blood. You’re sure it’s safe?”
“I’ve seen worse.” Mary’s mouth tightened, and Clara knew she was remembering the long-ago day when her youngest son had lost an arm in a threshing machine accident. The boy had survived and grown up to be a teacher. Mary had eventually considered the injury a blessing because, when he was of age, it had kept him from going to war.
“Tanner should be fine as long as we can keep the wound clean,” she said. “But any sign of infection, and we’ll need to get him right to a doctor.”
Tanner’s eyelids fluttered open. “No doctor,” he rasped. “I’ll be fine.”
“We’ll see about that.” Mary handed Clara two more clean towels, dropped the wrappings in the rocker and turned to walk inside. “Go ahead and stanch the bleeding, Clara. Then you can disinfect the wound with whiskey. I’ll need a few minutes to make a poultice.”
Clara wadded one of the towels and held it against the wound, leaning forward to increase the pressure of her hands. His eyes watched her, blinding blue in the shadows of the porch. The ripped shirt showed a glimpse of fair skin with a virile dusting of light brown hair.
“How do you feel?” she asked, unsettled by his nearness.
“Like hell.” He managed a grimace. “But thanks for asking.”
“You’re in good hands with my grandmother. She makes her own poultices with herbs the Indians used in the old days—yarrow, cedar bark, pitch pine and things I can’t even name. There’s nothing better for wounds.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t take well to being a patient.” A grunt of pain escaped his lips as Clara increased the pressure of the towel.
“It may take time to get your strength back,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. And by the way, I haven’t thanked you for saving us.”
“I wasn’t sure you needed saving. You seemed to have the situation well in hand with that vicious little paring knife.”
A beat of silence ticked past before she realized he was teasing her. “They were going to take Foxfire,” she said. “Nobody takes my horse.”
His eyes narrowed. “That sounds like a warning.”
“Take it any way you like,” she said.
“Whatever you might think, I’m not a thief, Clara. Galahad, as you named him, was borrowed—with his owner’s per mis sion.”
He bit off the end of the last word, as if realizing he’d said too much. Questions flocked into Clara’s mind. Where had the stallion come from? Why would anyone lend such a prized animal when an ordinary mount would do? She willed herself to keep silent as she lifted the towel and checked the wound. Showing too much curiosity might put Tanner on alert.
But he’d just given her the perfect opening, Clara reminded herself. She’d be a fool not to seize it.
The bleeding had slowed. Applying a fresh towel to the wound, she cleared her throat. “Speaking of Galahad, I’ve a favor to ask.”
Tanner’s left eyebrow quirked in an unspoken question. Clara took it as a signal to plunge ahead.
“I have two fine mares, both of them champion quarter horses. They’ll be coming into estrus soon. I’d like to breed them with your stallion.”
Tanner’s brows met in a scowl. “You’re quite the little negotiator, Miss Clara Seavers. First you get a man helpless on his back. Then you ask him for a favor. What would you do if I said no—stick that knife in my shoulder again?”
“Of course not. If it’s a question of money, I’d be happy to pay you a reasonable stud fee. How much would you want?”
He winced as she lifted away the towel. “Maybe you ought to ask Galahad.”
“Be serious! This is important to me.” She picked up the whiskey bottle and twisted out the stopper. The bottle was nearly empty. Less than an inch remained in the bottom. “Brace yourself, this is going to sting.”
Before he could argue or stop her, she splashed the whiskey into the open wound. He shuddered, mouthing curses between clenched teeth. Seconds passed before he exhaled and spoke.
“I am being serious. I wouldn’t feel right about taking money for Galahad’s services, especially from you or your family. But as a gesture of goodwill, why not? If Galahad and I are still around when your mares are ready …” A shadow flickered in the depths of his eyes. “You can borrow him on one condition.”
“Name it.” She laughed nervously. What was she getting herself into?
“Just this. If I ever need it, promise you’ll grant me one request.”
Apprehension tightened Clara’s throat. Her voice emerged as a whisper. “What sort of request?”
“I won’t know until the time comes. But trust me, I’d never do anything to put you in harm’s way.”
“You sound as if you’re asking for my soul.”
His laugh was quick and harsh. “And you’re looking at me as if I were the devil himself.”
“For all I know, you could be.”
He laughed again, flinching at the pain in his shoulder. “Would the devil be lying here bleeding on your grandmother’s porch, Miss Clara? Galahad’s a champion Thoroughbred with a pedigree as old as the Mayflower. I can’t show you his papers but I can promise he’ll sire damned good foals. So what’s it to be, yes or no?”
“What if it’s no?”
“Then it’s no loss to either of us—and no gain.”
Clara hesitated. At the age of six, on a visit to her uncle Quint in San Francisco, she’d survived a frightening ordeal at the hands of kidnappers. And while that story had a happy ending, having brought her uncle Quint and aunt Annie together, the experience had left her with an excess of caution. She tended to seek out familiar situations where she felt safe. That need for security had colored her choices, including the decision to stay on the ranch instead of going away to school.
Now she quivered on the edge of what she feared most of all—the unknown. Tanner’s stallion could sire a line of superb horses, maybe the finest in Colorado. But to get that line demanded risk—perhaps more risk than she dared take.
The man intrigued her as well—his air of mystery, the virile energy that drove his body and the secrets that lurked in his eyes, like a flash of darkness in a blue mountain lake.
How could she trust him?
How could she walk away?
Mary’s
