Chapter Seventeen
Jeremiah groaned as he opened his eyes and then squeezed them tightly shut against the sunlight that poured in the window beside him.
Where the hell was he?
Feminine humming reached his ears. Jeremiah cracked open one eyelid and saw a soft bodied woman in a black skirt, light blue blouse and red apron kneading bread. Something about the woman was familiar and he studied her closely, attempting to determine exactly what it was.
She had soft brown hair, pulled back in a tight bun upon her head. She had side to him and he could tell by her profile that she was a pretty enough woman. A bit thin-lipped and a bit too full bodied but still decent.
But who the hell was she?
The woman turned to face him and a smile curved her lips, deepening dimples at their corners. Her wide eyes were almost silver in color—rare and quite beautiful. Not that he had any interest in the woman. Apron wearing women were homemaking women, settling down women, and Jeremiah didn't have any use for one of those.
"Well I see you're awake again," she stated and even the lilting hint of a Scottish accent was familiar to him somehow.
Jeremiah frowned. "Again?" he rasped, his throat and mouth painfully dry.
The woman nodded as she took a glass of water from the table and carried it across the room to him. Jeremiah was happy for the help as she assisted him in taking a few good swallows. "You were awake several days ago but you succumbed to fever once again. You're cool to the touch now so I'm fairly certain you're going to be fine."
"I was awake?"
It was the woman's turn to frown. "You don't remember? You were quite unpleasant," she assured him before returning to the kitchen and her bread.
Jeremiah thought back hard and several flashes of memory returned to him. He didn't remember clear details but he caught onto enough to let him know he was lucky the woman hadn't bashed his skull in. He'd been damned mad when she'd tossed him out in the dirt but looking back now, he had deserved it.
What the hell had happened to him? He'd been spiraling for years. Ever since Marston had caught the crazy and settled down. He'd been drinking more, whoring more and caring less and less about everyone around him. Granted, he'd been raised to be a cold-hearted jackass but there had actually been a time when he had been the nicer brother!
But then had been before. Before Rose. Before Marston had caught the crazy. Before Duke had decided to settle down. Before Jeremiah had turned his back on his nephew. Before Jeremiah had lost what little shreds of decency he might have once had.
Jeremiah's head ached and he wished he could stop thinking. Damn, but he could sure use a drink of whiskey. He knew he wasn't going to get one though. He could remember the woman pouring it all out. He was still pretty damn pissed over that. Once his wounds were healed, he might have to pay her back for that act.
Jeremiah lifted the blanket a bit to assess his wounds and realized that he was naked. Where the hell were his clothes? He didn't like knowing that Holly Homemaker had seen him naked. Usually he wouldn't care but Jeremiah didn't look like anything more than a dirty skeleton just now.
The bandage around his thigh was red with blood and his leg felt hot, proving that he'd been infected. He hoped that since his fever had left, it meant he was on the road to recovery. He was damned lucky he hadn't had to have his leg removed.
"Would you like some broth?" that lilting voice asked.
Jeremiah grumbled as he let the blanket fall back over himself. He was about to yell at the woman but then he remembered that doing so the last time had gotten him tossed out in the rain.
"I guess I better eat something. I'm looking a little thin," he grumbled. He took the bowl she offered him and sipped down some of the liquid, surprised by just how good it tasted. For some reason it made him angry. "There ain't no way I could get a bit of whiskey in this broth, is there?"
The woman crossed her arms under her ample chest and raised her brow. "No, there is no way you can have any whiskey in that broth. You would do well to remember what happened the last time you demanded some."
Jeremiah quickly looked away from those lips and the dimples that tugged at the corners. He took another sip of broth. "You threw me out in the rain and tried to kill me, woman," he growled.
"I've told you before that my name is Delilah, not woman," she snapped as she turned and grabbed her bread off the table. She slid it into the oven and met his gaze. "And you were being a rude, obnoxious drunkard. Besides, it wasn't raining when I threw you out."
"Why do you have such a stick up your ass?" Jeremiah demanded. "Just because a man likes a little whiskey now and then and he curses some don't give you the right to look down your pretty little nose at him."
"Pretty nose?" Delilah repeated.
Jeremiah rolled his eyes and grumbled. "I didn't say that." He knew he was being an ass but he didn't do sober well. He didn't do bed-ridden well. Hell, anymore, Jeremiah didn't do living well.
"Yes, you did," Delilah insisted. She lifted her fingertips to her nose and was quiet a moment as if thinking hard. Finally she shrugged and took the empty bowl from his hands to refill it. "As I've said before, this is a God-fearing home and I do not allow whiskey or cursing."
Jeremiah watched the woman fill his bowl and allowed his eyes to follow the curve of her well-endowed backside. He'd been a while without a woman....that must be why this harpy was attractive to him. Desperation was a dangerous thing.
"Well I'll admit that my bible studies are a bit on the rusty side," Jeremiah stated, taking his full bowl from her hands. "But didn't your imaginary friend turn the water into wine?"
Jeremiah had just placed his lips against the bowl when Delilah grabbed her black bible from the table beside the bed and brought it down had on the back of his head. Jeremiah's bowl was sent clattering to the floor, hot broth spilled down the front of him and he came up sputtering.
"I'll kill you!" he bellowed as he made an attempt to stand, only to realize that his body was too weak and his leg too injured to make it possible.
He glared at Delilah. Her silver eyes didn't seem the least bit frightened as she glared right back with her hands folded in front of her still gripping that bible. "You will not do anything to me," she assured him. "I saved your life and you might be a no account drunkard with a temper and a gun but even you must feel some gratitude toward the person who picked your bleeding backside up out of the dirt and took you in."
Jeremiah couldn't help but noticed that her accent became more pronounced when she was in a temper. He stared up at her and clenched his fists. "I... you....grrr!" Jeremiah flopped back against his pillows, what little energy he'd had thoroughly used up thanks to his temper.
Delilah stepped closer and her gaze softened. "The Lord is not my imaginary friend and He is the only hope that a man like you has."
"There's no hope for a man like me," Jeremiah countered. "My hope got taken away a long time ago."
When Delilah remained silent, Jeremiah spared a glance up at her face only to realize that she appeared thoughtful and sad. Great. Now she felt pity for him. Jeremiah didn't want her pity. He wanted to heal, get out of this bed, punch her one good time in the face and then go find a whiskey vat and a whore.
Jeremiah had no reason to be good. Langley hated him. Duke and Marston had disowned him. Jeremiah didn't have anyone else.
"There's always hope," Delilah assured him gently.
Jeremiah snorted and rolled onto his side, giving her his back. "I guess we'll just agree to disagree."
"Do you want more broth?"
Jeremiah shook his head but said nothing. He heard a chair scrape across the floor and then suddenly, Delilah's voice was filling the air as she read from that little book of hers.
Jeremiah realized that that's why recognized her voice. This wasn't her first time sitting by his bedside and reading from that bible. What Jeremiah wanted to do was get the hell out of there but that wasn't currently an option. So, he merely closed his eyes and, since her voice had a soothing quality to it, he let it lull him to sleep.
Delilah heard the man's snores and knew that he had fallen asleep. She stood and walked to the other side of the bed so she could look down at his face. He was terribly skinny and unkempt but it was clear that he would be a very handsome man if he cleaned up and put on a bit of weight.
Delilah smiled as she used her fingertips to move a dark lock of the man's hair from his brow. She had dreamed about him the night before she had found him in the road. Delilah knew she was supposed to save this man. She was supposed to heal him both physically and spiritually.
She thought about those eyes now hidden from her. They were cold, yes, but they were such a rare shade of gold and they demanded attention. Something about this man tugged at her heartstrings.
She'd been a widow for twenty years. She had been married at seventeen and her husband had died in a drunken saloon fight before her nineteenth birthday. Her mother had died giving birth to her and her father had been killed in the same fight that had claimed her husband.
Delilah was alone. But she had a habit of helping people. Even those that everyone else saw as hopeless. In Delilah's mind, there was always hope. No one was beyond saving.
Delilah went back to the kitchen and began preparing a pie. This man, Delilah realized she did not even know his name, needed to gain weight and if there was one thing Delilah could do well, it was cook.
***
"This is good," Jeremiah admitted, shoving his third fork full of pie into his mouth.
"Thank you. It was my mama's recipe," Delilah replied, never looking up from her knitting.
"My name's Jeremiah."
"It's nice to meet you, Jeremiah," Delilah replied, gracing him with a warm smile.
Jeremiah felt something tighten in his chest and he quickly dropped his fork and laid his hand over his heart, certain he was dying. "Are you okay?" Delilah demanded, setting her knitting down and preparing to rise from her chair.
Jeremiah nodded and held out his hand. "I'm fine. Don't get up." He picked his fork back up. "I don't make a habit out of apologizing but I'm sorry for the way I acted a few days ago. I said some things that weren't real nice and, you're right. Even a gun-toting drunkard likes me feels gratitude toward someone who saves his life."
"Thank you for the apology," Delilah acknowledged cheerfully. "You seem much more agreeable this evening."
"Don't get used to it," Jeremiah grumbled, shoving another big bite of pie into his mouth. Crumbs tumbled down his chest and Delilah laughed.
The sound of her light laughter had Jeremiah's chest seizing up yet again and he gasped as he put the back of his hand against his brow. Surely he was still delirious with fever!