Johanna Lindsey - Angel

Angel braced himself. He debated whether to draw and end the coming fight before it started. But the feeling he’d had earlier in the week, that he deserved some sort of retribution, was still with him. He hefted his gun and handed it to the man behind the bar.

“Can you manage to keep it fair?”

The barkeep didn’t need to be told what “it” was. “Won’t be nothin‘ fair about it if you take on Morgan,” he said with a complacent nod. “I’d be appreciative, though, if you’d take it outside.”

“I’m willing, but I don’t think he’s open to the suggestion.”

At the moment, Morgan was telling his brother, “Let go, damn you, Richard. I’m not going to shoot him, I’m just going to break some of his bones.”

He ended with a mighty heave that gained his release, only to send him stumbling forward. Having decided after what he’d just heard that it wouldn’t be in his best interests to wait for Morgan to throw the first punch, Angel lifted his knee to meet him. And while the larger man was doubled over, Angel followed with a down-swinging right.

That should have put Morgan on the floor. With anyone else it might have, and ended it right there. But Morgan was over six feet tall with a hell of a lot of muscle to go with it. He was barely dazed. He was also too drunk to notice if any pain had been left behind. Angel wished he could say the same when Morgan came up swinging.

Ten minutes later he was wishing it again, though he was glad that Morgan had had too much to drink. He never would have beaten him otherwise, and he was kind of amazed that he’d managed to in the end. He’d merely gotten lucky with that last punch. Of course.

It was only by dint of will that he was still standing himself.

Angel put out his hand to the barkeep to retrieve his gun. The man handed it over, along with a bottle of whiskey and a grin.

“On the house, mister. It was a pure pleasure, watchin‘ Morgan lose for the first time. And never you mind the damages, either. I’ll take ’em up with his pa.”

Angel just nodded. Behind him, Richard MacKauley picked up a glass of beer from one of the tables that were still upright and was about to dump it in Morgan’s face. Angel took the bottle and left.

As much as he hurt, he actually felt better. He might even ask Miss Cassie to patch him up.

It was the whistling that woke Cassie. It took a moment for her to realize it was whistling, strident, tuneless, and sounding like it was coming from just outside her door, or close to it. She didn’t bother to wonder who might be making that god-awful noise, but she certainly wondered why someone was.

Without looking at the clock on her bureau, she knew it had to be midnight or later. She’d stayed up late herself, waiting to hear Angel return, worrying, because he’d told her where he was going. To town, on a Saturday night, the one night set aside for hell-raising by the local cowboys, the one night almost guaranteeing some sort of trouble. What was it about men that made them court disaster?

She’d imagined the very worst thing happening, of course, a shootout, another death— ultimately her fault, because Angel wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t written to Lewis Pickens for help. She’d imagined him thrown in jail this time, and her arguing with Frank to release him, and, failing that, breaking him out of jail and sending him on his way, a free man, but now a wanted man. And it would all be her fault because she hadn’t been able to deal with a few stubborn Texans on her own.

It was incredible that she’d gotten to sleep at all, and she was certainly wide awake now. But she didn’t move from her warm bed. She listened instead, waiting to hear some silence to indicate he’d found his own bed. She’d ask him tomorrow about his whistling. It was the first time in the four days since he’d moved himself into the house that he’d been this discourteous. Usually, she had to strain to hear the tiniest sound from his room.

But the next sound she heard, a dull thud, as if he’d fallen to the floor, had her out of her bed in a flash and throwing the door open. She stopped short, however, upon finding him still standing, though just barely. The light she’d left burning in the hall for him revealed him leaning, with his back against his door, at such a tilted angle that his feet were probably going to slide out from under him at any moment. And he was still whistling.

Understandably, Cassie became annoyed at that point. “Just what is your problem?”

His head came away from the door, only to immediately drop back against it instead of turning toward her. “Can’t get my door open.”

“Did you lose the key?”

“Ain’t locked.”

She frowned. “Then why won’t it open?”

“My hand’s too swollen to turn the handle.”

“Both of them?”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t you use your other hand?”

“Didn‘ think of that. ’Predate it.”

At that moment she realized he was drunk, seriously drunk, and alarm bells went off. She didn’t want to deal with a drunken Angel. She ought to go right back into her room and let him muddle his way to bed — or not. But then he turned and she saw his face.

She gasped. “What happened to you?”

One eye was so discolored and swollen it wouldn’t open. A patch of skin had been scraped raw high on his cheek with other abrasions around it. Twin trails of blood ran unchecked from his nose, though it had at one point been smeared across the other cheek. She now saw the open bottle of whiskey in his hand, and blood on all four of his fingers. They did happen to look swollen, and that happened to be his gun hand.

His one good eye didn’t exactly focus on her; he merely looked toward the sound of her voice. “Had a li’l run-in with your beau.”

“What beau?”

“Morgan.”

For some unaccountable reason, she blushed. She wasn’t sure why she would have preferred he not find out about Morgan having paid court to her. But fortunately, Angel wasn’t paying attention to her reaction. He’d turned a bit more to try the door handle with his other hand. The door opened this time, but he’d still been leaning on it, so he went inward with it, flat on his face.

Cassie rolled her eyes, staring at his legs sticking out of the doorway. She was no longer the least bit concerned that he might be dangerous in his present condition. He was obviously quite harmless and definitely in need of assistance.

When she peered into his room, she saw his head was cradled on both arms. Miraculously, the bottle of whiskey hadn’t spilled, and he was still holding it, rather protectively, in the crook of one arm, even though he’d passed out.

She thought briefly of leaving him right where he was, merely removing his boots and throwing a blanket over him. She couldn’t do it. He was battered enough. A night on the hard floor wouldn’t help. So with some pushing, pulling, and a good deal of vocal prodding, she managed to get him into bed. He barely woke up for it. And as long as he was unconscious, she fetched some water and cloths to clean up his face.

No doubt about it, he was a mess. She wondered what had started the fight and what condition Morgan was in. Mostly she wondered why Angel had let it happen to begin with when he’d worn his gun to town. That just didn’t seem like something he’d do.

“You have a soft touch, honey.”

Cassie jerked, lifting the damp cloth from his chin. He hadn’t opened his eyes to say it. In all likelihood, he wasn’t quite awake and didn’t even know whom he was talking to. Still, it made her feel strange inside when he called her honey, kind of warm and mushy.

“Can’t say the same for other females who’ve patched me up,” Angel continued, still without looking at her.

Cassie would have let him ramble, assuming that was what he was doing, except her curiosity was aroused. “What other females have patched you up?”

“Jessie Summers, for one.”

That jarred her memory. “That’s right, I recall hearing something about you being shot by some rustlers on her land. How badly were you wounded that time?”

“Bad enough.”

“Then possibly it’s the wounds you remember, rather than the fixing of them.”

“Could be — nah, I could count on two fingers the women I know as gentle as you… make that one finger.”

She smiled at that point. “Are you trying to flatter me, Angel?”

He finally cracked one eye open. “Is it working?”

Yes. “No.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Just what were you angling for?”

“For you to lie down with me. I could use some soft cuddling about now.”

Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. “You could probably use a doctor,” she said tartly, amazed that he would suggest such a thing. It had to be the drink… hell, he was probably so far gone he really didn’t know whom he was talking to.

She continued to think that, even when he replied, “A doc can’t fix what’s ailing me now — unless it’s a female doctor.”

“Ours isn’t, and I suggest you try sleep as a second option.”

“Sure you won’t accommodate me on the first?”

“Quite sure.”

“You might like it, Cassie.”

She drew in her breath sharply. He knew who she was after all, and that simple fact had an amazing effect on her. She actually reconsidered. What harm could it do to lie down next to him? The man was certainly in no condition to do more than cuddle, despite the improper remarks he was making, and… She must be mad!

Cassie shot to her feet and hurried out to the balcony, where she’d placed a wet cloth to chill for his eye. Angel let out a sigh behind her. Even drunk, he couldn’t get her off his mind.