The Men of Pride County: The Pretender Read Online Free

cool against his fevered skin, an irresistible invitation. Opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of his angel, he turned toward the kiss and was met by a wet black nose and flaring nostrils.
    “What the—?”
    The music stopped.
    “Boone, get away from him!”
    Remembrance returned as Deacon jerked back upon a wash of fresh pain. His movement startled the lanky dog into leaping back as well, setting up a din of barking that pounded through Deacon’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the returning swells of sickness.
    Dog toenails scrabbled against wood flooring followed by a baleful yip, a rush of cold air, and blissful silence. Then came his angel’s voice.
    “I’m sorry. He doesn’t like strangers.”
    Deacon slit his eyes to gaze up at the figure who was both stranger and strangely familiar. The baggy clothing, the short black hair, and the easy movements belonged to the quarry he’d been studying all week.
    But the soft voice—so like music itself—and the sinfully lovely features were those of a tempting siren. He stared, amazed that he could have made such a glaring error.
    From a distance, the mannish clothes and cropped hair disguised what could never be questioned up close—that this was no man, no boy. The bulky shirts and trousers couldn’t conceala form so ripe with curves. The hair couldn’t detract from the gentle contour of her wind-burned cheeks, the mysterious slant of dark eyes fringed with impossibly long lashes, the full lips pursed as if awaiting a man’s attention.
    Good God, what a beauty hidden away in this isolated hole in the mountains beneath the inappropriate garb. Such beauty was meant to be captured on canvas, in marble, or by some lucky aristocrat who would adorn her with silks and lace. The cruelty of fate distracted him long enough for her to grow concerned.
    She bent to touch her work-roughened palm to his brow, to his unshaven cheek. Air sucked through his teeth in a noisy hiss.
    “A fever’s started,” she pronounced in dismay. “I’d better check your wound again.”
    In his rapid reassessment, Deacon figured her to be Davis’s wife or perhaps his sister, but when she reached out to peel back his shirt, he realized the truth. It was inexperience coloring her cheeks in fiery embarrassment. It was youth that made her hesitate before placing a hand upon his exposed torso. The maturity ripening her face and form had not yet touched her spirit. She was little more than a child in that regard. Yes, now he remembered. This must be Davis’s daughter.
    “It’s not my wish to discomfort you, Miss Davis. You needn’t compromise your delicate nature. I can tend myself.”
    Words meant to soothe her agitation instead braced her with a new determination.
    “That’s all right, Sergeant. I’m hardly delicate, and this war has left little room for modest sentiments.”
    Sergeant? He was about to correct her when she pulled the crude dressing away, tearing at the edges of his wound, making him gasp. The shock of hurt restored his clear thinking. Sergeant. Yes, of course. He remembered the rank sewn upon his stolen coat. He’d almost betrayed himself in his rare distraction over a pretty girl.
    He’d have to be careful.
    The girl chewed her lip as she surveyed the wound. “It’s still bleeding something fierce. I’m afraid I don’t know what else to do. You can scarce afford to lose any more blood if you’re going to pull through.”
    That was quite the comfort.
    Deacon ground his teeth as he came up on his elbows. He blinked hard into the watery waves of sickness, forcing them to ebb back to a manageable level. One look down told him everything she said was true. He wouldn’t last until morning unless something drastic was done.
    “Miss Davis—it’s Miss Davis, right?” At her jerky, wide-eyed nod, he continued in a tight voice. “If you’d be so kind as to hand me that stick of kindling …”
    She followed his gaze to the fireplace, but not his reasoning.