He grinned as he departed.
I looked over at Brodie, eyes closed, trussed up with that bandage, but hardly asleep.
“The man has a devious nature,” he commented, exhaustion in his voice.
“You should be grateful to him.”
“It would encourage him, though he does seem to think highly of ye.” He winced. “It might have to do with the fact that he knows yer right handy with the revolver.”
I had no experience with broken ribs and could only imagine the pain Mr. Conner had described.
I set the lock in the office door and put more coal on fire in the firebox, then returned to the bedchamber. With a thought to sleeping in the outer office, so not to disturb him, I grabbed the extra blanket folded at the foot of the bed.
I felt that dark gaze on me.
“I would have ye sleep here, lass,” he said.
“You’re injured. I don’t want to cause any difficulty.”
I could have sworn he laughed, a low sound in his throat, then swore and cursed again.
“There’s more the difficulty if someone should come through the office door and I need to protect ye.”
It was an old argument.
I said nothing as I returned the blanket, then undressed and slipped into the bed on his other side.
He shifted to make more room, and I heard the sudden breath he took at the pain it caused. He slowly breathed out as he wrapped his arm around me and pulled me close.
“Your ribs?” I cautioned.
“This is all I need.”
I felt the bristly touch of his beard on the back of my shoulder as he kissed me there.
“Go to sleep, lass.”
Five
Brodie satin the chair at his desk as he read the notes I’d made from the day before.
Mr. Conner had returned a short while earlier and sat across from him.
“I’ve seen worse,” he commented as he looked across at Brodie. “The color purple suits ye. There will be a scar from the cut, but the ladies are drawn to that,” he added, with a look over at me, amusement in his eyes.
“What is the plan for today?” he then asked.
It had been a restless night. Brodie had hardly slept, shifting from one side to the other, then back again. I had risen early with the hope he might get more sleep. He had then appeared at the adjoining door with a bruised expression and a single word as he slowly made his way to the desk.
“Coffee.”
I had set a fresh pot on the stove when I first rose that morning. I poured a cup and handed it to him.
My skills in that regard had improved admirably. Or perhaps not, as he grimaced, cursed, then struggled to swallow, and looked at me with narrowed eye.
“Ye could stand a spoon in it.”
I took it as a compliment.
