she looked as weak and pitiful as she felt, so she needed to give some sign of strength to ward him off. “If you came to gloat, go ahead. Take a few jabs then go away.”
She made herself get the bold words out before she let herself focus on him, and she was instantly glad she had because the sight of him gave her a disheartening jolt. If she hadn’t already been weak, seeing him again would have made her weak. For women like her, men like this one defined the very essence of masculinity.
Hard-bitten and rugged, Morgan Conroe was the quintessential Westerner, a purebred Texan from the crown of his outlaw black Stetson to the bottoms of his underslung heels. Tough, masculine and arrogant, Morg was the kind of man who’d bleed Texas dirt or Lone Star crude if scratched. Part protector and defender of the weak, part vigilante, as autocratic as an old time cattle king, and far too volatile to trifle with or cross. And so overwhelmingly male that he was at least half Neanderthal, though far less predictable and safe.
His weathered face was so permanently tanned that it hinted at a Spanish ancestry, and his expression was, as usual, set in harsh lines. His high cheekbones and black hair emphasized those hints of ancestry, but his eyes were a deep, dark blue that could either frost the soul, or glow like blue flame. Rarely, oh so very rarely, did they go soft with tenderness or sparkle with amusement. It was far more common to see them glitter with irritation or displeasure. Or only a bit less often, to show a blue lightning flash of temper.
He had a certain gruff charm when he wanted to charm, but that was a rare thing, easily overlooked or forgotten since his no-nonsense, my-way-or-the-highway disposition was so prominent. It wasn’t in Morgan Conroe’s nature to be passive or ambivalent, or to bow or bend to anything or anyone less than his Maker. How she’d survived living under the same roof with him that last five years after she’d fallen so out of favor might qualify as the eighth wonder of the world.
His low, gravelly drawl sent a bracing chill through her heart. “I came to take you home.”
It took her a dizzy moment to register the shocking words. The hurt and frustration of both the present and the past reared up, and the pain in her head bloomed so quickly that she reflexively jerked up a hand to make it stop.
“Go away,” she whispered, and pressed a palm to her forehead as if to contain the explosion.
The big fingers that closed around her wrist as her weak arm gave out were hot and hard with thick calluses. Morgan lowered her arm to the bed and those hard fingers shifted to warmly clasp her hand. But then his other hand brushed lightly over the top of her head.
“Hurts, don’t it, baby.” The calm, growling statement sent a warm breath of comfort through her. “Just relax,” he said then murmured, almost to himself, “These damned concussions…”
The way he’d said it gave the impression that he was on her side, fighting the injury with her. Which put her heart in peril, though the hurt in her head distracted her from the full impact of that wary observation.
Remarkably, the harsh pain began to subside, and then that big, hard palm began to move in gentle, soothing strokes that avoided the tender place on her skull and reduced the knife blades of pain to a much less awful ache.
Memories of watching Morg with an injured or frightened animal ghosted through her thoughts. There was no one better with animals than Morgan, especially the little ones. For all his brusqueness with people, he had a certain magic with animals and children. The smaller and more helpless or hurt they were, the more they instinctively trusted him.
That was one of the many reasons she’d loved him once upon a time. At twelve, she’d idolized him. She’d been a skinny city kid whose flighty, neglectful mother had married his father. She’d been painfully shy and terrified of horses and cattle and the frightening roughness of ranch life.
But the much older Morg had been kind to her, and so patient that she’d followed him around and hung on his every word. He’d taught her the manly arts of riding, roping, fly-fishing and target shooting, but he’d also instructed her on how well-brought-up young ladies were expected to behave in public.
He’d passed judgment on the length of her hems, had private “man talks” with the boys who’d dared to take her on dates, and he’d taught her to dance. He’d taught her everything she’d needed to know, and he’d made sure she’d had a secure place in his family and in his world.
But all that changed a handful of years later when she’d developed a crush on him. As if he’d sensed it, he’d begun a subtle withdrawal. She no longer got to go everywhere with him. And then he hardly ever let her be around him in situations when they’d be alone.
Hurt by his remoteness, and those first inklings of rejection, Selena had tried all the more to be with him and take part in everything he did. Until that awful, awful time when she’d been seventeen, and frustration, youthful stupidity, and the excruciating pain of unrequited adolescent love had driven her to corner him and confess.
Even now, she couldn’t bear to let that memory come. But turning her mind away from it put her attention right back on the soothing movement of his hand. And the wild, sweet stirrings of the soul-deep feelings for Morgan Conroe that had matured years past adolescence and promised to be even more dangerous to her heart than ever.
Selena found the strength to pull her hand from his and weakly move her head. “S-stop. Please.”
Oh God, that had sounded just as forlorn as she felt. But it was torture to have him touch her like this—to touch her at all—when she knew there’d inevitably come a time when he’d again withdraw from her. And then if he somehow sensed how besotted she was—and in spite of everything, she was still besotted—he’d reject her as brutally as before.
“All right, little one.”
The low rasp went through her hurting body like a warm balm, and she felt the hypnotic pull on her heart. His big hand shifted away from her head, but the back of a knuckle trailed lightly down her cheek. Selena was too weak now to control the flutter of her closed lashes as the pleasure of that registered.
“Get some sleep. Everything’s taken care of.”
The gruff words sent a quake of happiness and relief through her groggy mind.
Everything’s taken care of translated to I’ll take care of you. Words she might have died to hear from him again, words that common sense warned her to immediately protest, but words too formidable to either reject or ignore in her feeble physical state.
Mercifully, the blackness dropped over her then and dragged her to a place where Morgan Conroe couldn’t follow.
“Mr. Conroe made arrangements for you to recover at your family’s home. I understand you’ll have someone nearby around-the-clock.”
The doctor’s statement rocked her, but before Selena could protest, his added words kept her silent.
“Otherwise, I couldn’t release you for at least another day.”
One of the cardinal rules she’d lived by all her life—to keep family dirt private—ensured her silence now. Growing up, she’d never mentioned family problems to outsiders because she’d been ashamed of her mother’s behavior and their gypsy life. Then after her mother had married Morgan’s father, she’d kept silent about her mother’s secrets, the fibs, the infidelities, the little manipulations.
She’d suffered her crush for her stepbrother without
