was usually hard to rile, but after everyone in the rescue party jumping to conclusions and Will’s lack of gratitude, her usual self-control was nowhere to be found. She finished buttoning her skirt, then glared back at him.
“Why, thank you, Miss Granville, for finding me and doing your best to take care of me while I had a raging fever and a hacking cough.” Her voice reeked with disdain.
His gaze shifted from hers. She hoped he felt guilty for his attitude.
“I am grateful for that,” he said, though he sounded anything but.
“Please, Mr. Slade,” she said, looking down her straight nose at him. “Don’t insult my intelligence by spouting platitudes you don’t really mean.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “Why didn’t you take me to town instead of staying here with me overnight? Then none of this would have happened.”
Blythe stared down at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. Was he serious? “How much do you weigh, Mr. Slade?”
Dull color crept into his whisker-stubbled cheeks. He knew where this was going. “Somewhere between one eighty and two hundred pounds would be my guess.”
He started to say something more, but she stopped him with an upraised hand. “I suppose I should have just left you in the woods while I hitched the wagon, then picked you up, tossed you over my shoulder, dumped you into the wagon bed and let you get even wetter while I drove you into town in the middle of a storm.” She didn’t tell him that she had no idea how to hitch the horse to the wagon, much less drive it.
He threw a forearm over his face and drew in a deep sigh that set off a fit of coughing. When he finished, he looked at her with another daunting frown; Blythe took her coat from the back of the chair where she’d left it to dry and shrugged into it.
“I would fetch you some of your cough remedy, but I’m having second thoughts about coming to your aid, since it’s clear you don’t appreciate anything I’ve done,” she quipped. “My mother has a saying that I didn’t really understand until a few minutes ago.”
“Oh?” he challenged with an uplifted eyebrow.
“‘No good deed goes unpunished.’” Then, because she was so miserable that he felt no gratitude for the sacrifice she’d made for him, and because she still had to deal with Win, she added, “It’s plain to see why your wife ran off with another man.”
The shock and anger in Will’s eyes were impossible to ignore. Blythe longed to call back the spiteful words, but that was the thing about things spoken rashly and in anger. There was no taking them back. Even if one apologized, the words were out there, ready to be called up at a moment’s notice. Instead of even trying, she lifted her chin and turned to let herself out the door. Let him stew in his own juices and fetch his own medicine! She was finished with the dreadful man.
* * *
Will lay in the back of the bouncing wagon, his head aching, his chest tight and fury simmering through his veins. It wasn’t enough that he was so sick he’d have to get better to die; he also had to deal with the blasted Granvilles. Again. More specifically, Win Granville, who’d been trying to buy the mill from him for more than a year. Even though things at the mill had started going wrong before Martha walked out more than two years ago, Will had no intention of selling as long as he could scrape together enough cash to keep the saw blades turning.
As if he didn’t have enough on his mind, he’d received a letter from Martha a couple of weeks ago, saying that she’d made a terrible mistake, that she’d found out the man she’d left him for was a liar, and she wanted to come and see him and talk things through. The long and short of it was that she wanted him to give her a second chance.
For the space of a few heartbeats he’d considered it, but then reality settled over him. He knew her well. Martha didn’t play fair. She would come fully equipped with a plan that involved using every strategy in her womanly bag of tricks, including regrets, tears and apologies, and vows of lifelong devotion. If all else failed, she would park herself on his doorstep until she got what she wanted.
With that sobering thought, the moment of insanity had passed and he’d promptly sent her a letter telling her not to waste her money on a train ticket and saying that after her betrayal he had no intention of marrying her again. In fact, he added, her behavior had soured him on the entire female species. He might never wed again.
Looking back, he wondered why he’d ever married her in the first place. She’d been far too flighty and flirty, too superficial by far, but she was a beauty who knew how to use her feminine attributes. He’d been taken in, and once she got what she wanted—marriage to a successful businessman—the real Martha had emerged and he’d known without a doubt he’d made a mistake. Still, his mama had told him that marriage vows were sacred and not to be broken, and he’d have stayed married to her until the Second Coming if she hadn’t walked out on him.
For months after her departure, the embarrassment of what she’d done had driven him to drink, and he’d spent far too many hours looking for answers to his misery in the bottom of a glass. When the pain eased and he sobered up, he’d realized, through talks with his friends, that even though nothing was ever the fault of one person, Martha would never have been satisfied with him or a life in Wolf Creek.
Martha liked men, especially men with money who could grant her heart’s desires, which were many and varied. For two years he’d done his best to give her everything she’d wanted, but when someone had come along who could give her more, she’d wasted no time in flying the proverbial coop, telling him that he spent far too much time working.
Trying to explain that if he didn’t cut trees into boards he’d have no money to buy her the fripperies she was so fond of had made no impact on her. All that counted was what she wanted. It didn’t help matters that it was about that time that equipment at the mill started breaking down and he didn’t have enough cash flow to keep both the business running and his wife happy.
So, here he was, two years later, Martha hounding him to come back and the mill still barely scraping by. He felt as if he’d been treading water. Now there was this newest...situation.
Had he really passed out in the woods? His jaw tightened. Not exactly a manly act. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never hear the end of it. And why, out of all of the women in Wolf Creek who might have stumbled onto him, did the one who found him have to be Win Granville’s sister?
Rumor had it that she’d been through a situation somewhat similar to his back in Boston. She’d thought she was marrying a rich guy, but the joke was on her when he’d cleaned out her bank account and she’d found out the marriage wasn’t even legal. That didn’t say much for her intelligence, did it? Like most pampered, rich women, she probably wasn’t good for much besides playing hostess at parties or showing off her jewels at the theater.
She was smart enough to figure out how to get you back to the house and inside when she saw you were sick.
Well, he’d give her that, and despite his anger over everything that had happened this morning, he was grateful for what she’d done for him. If she hadn’t come across him by chance, there was no telling how long he might have lain on the wet ground with the cold rain pouring down on him before he came to and made his way back to the house. If he’d been able to make it to the house.
Blythe Granville was no bigger than a minute. Will tried to imagine her getting him onto the travois and then up the porch steps
