Read Liz Ireland for Free Online Page B

her head a little as she watched him. “You said that name in your sleep. Lang Tupper, I believe you said.”
    “But my name’s…Johann,” he said. “Johann Archibald.”
    Johann had been one of the hands on the Wilkerson farm where Lang was foreman—though just how he’d sprung to mind at this juncture Lang couldn’t say. But perhaps the thought of being saddled with the crazy name made his next wince more than a little convincing.
    Emma gasped and leapt forward, kneeling next to him, close enough that he could smell a trace of perfume in the air. The sweetness of it—of her—made him squirm guiltily.
    “Try not to move,” Emma commanded gently, and her touch was just as gentle as her voice. He looked her up and down, admiring her concentration as she checked the dressing on his wound. Surprisingly, he felt a quick pang of desire as her fingers brushed his skin. That had to be a sign of health!
    “You must be an angel.” Though it came from his own lips, the comment surprised him.
    Emma practically shot six feet into the air. “An angel!” she exclaimed, her cheeks pink. “How silly! I’m merely looking after you.”
    “And I appreciate it,” he said truthfully, covering her shaking hand with his own.
    She lifted the blanket back over him and pulled away. “And what do you do, Mr. Archibald, that makes a man want to shoot at you?”
    He laughed. “What makes you think it was a man?”
    Her lips twisted wryly. “Just a guess. Am I wrong?”
    “No….” He thought for a moment. Having a man shoot him did sound more plausible than some altercation with a woman. Also a little more dignified. “I must confess, Miss Colby…it is Miss, isn’t it?”
    Her cheeks flamed crimson, and for a moment he wondered if he’d insulted her in some way. “Yes.”
    “I’m not the most sterling character. I’m a…gambler.”
    “Ah!”
    “Yes—you see, I got in a little over my head in a blackjack game back in San Antone….” He shrugged, deciding that providing more detail was just liable to trip him up later on. “I suppose you can guess the rest.”
    “Mmm.” He wished she were a little more readable—he couldn’t tell whether or not she was actually buying the load of nonsense he was selling her. “You’re still a little feverish.” The observation brought her to her feet. “I’ll get you some water.”
    “Much obliged,” he said with relief as he watched her walk quickly away. “But Miss Colby?”
    She turned at the doorway, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”
    “Since you saved my life, I’d take it kindly if you just called me Johann.”
    “All right…Johann.” She smiled, turned, then disappeared.
    Lang sank down against his pillow, so tired, but fighting the urge to fall back asleep. Maybe this thin disguise would buy him some more time, time he needed to get better…and to find his gun. And to his way of thinking, some time with Emma Colby wouldn’t be half bad, either. He allowed himself to smile as he thought about her trim figure, her soft hands, her gentle voice. And those eyes. Green like the first shoots of spring grass. She had a serene look about her that made the troubled, frantic past month of his life fly out of his mind. Miss Emma Colby had obviously lived a sheltered kind of existence.
    He looked around him, doubt creeping into his thoughts. She was holed up in nice digs for a single lady. But where had she learned to deal unflinchingly with near-dead menand how to clean up bullet wounds? He frowned. As long as he had more holes in him than a worm-eaten fence post, he couldn’t be too cocksure about anything. Maybe Emma had bought the story about his being Johann Archibald, gambler, but she’d looked relieved when he’d said it…as if she’d been glad to know he wasn’t Tupper. Which meant that she definitely knew who Lang Tupper was.
    Which led to an interesting question. If Emma did know who Lang Tupper was, and if she’d assumed he was that man, why had she