Free My Desperado by Lois Greiman

charming smile that had tripped her heart?
    "And three in the room wouldn't be proper?" he asked quietly.
    She tied off the bandage and stood abruptly, hurrying away to fumble about with the washbasin for a moment longer than necessary before returning, eyes downcast.
    Travis watched her return. She was a lady. A true-to-life raised-to-marry kind of lady, and though he may be no better than slime on a pond rock, he wasn't low enough to mess with a lady.
    "You have to leave," he said again, knowing his voice had dropped to a husky murmur. "Get to safety. Now."
    "I won't." She sat and looked directly at him. "I won't leave, Travis Ryland, until you can leave, too."
    His chest ached, as if there was insufficient room for his heart to pump, as if he'd been shot. Don't care, he warned himself. Don't care. But, damn it all, he did.
    "I'll take the floor," he managed huskily. "The bed's yours."
    "No. Please." Her hand touched the curved muscle of his biceps, barely covering half its circumference, and he could feel the heat of her spreading from his heart in all directions. "Lacy says you need to rest quietly. Please," she repeated, her tone deep and hoarse. "You'll need your strength."
    For the first time since her girlhood Katherine wanted to touch a man. But her father had been beyond her reach, needing nothing more than his religion. What is it this man needs? she wondered raggedly. "Please," she whispered again, but now the word seemed a plea for something different.
    He couldn't help but kiss her. Her lips were as soft as a dream, and her face, when he touched it, felt like satin, like the pure fine fabric Rachel had said their mother wore at her wedding.
    Raw, aching need slashed across his senses, and he pressed into her kiss, curving his hand behind her delicate neck.
    "No." She pulled away abruptly. "No. I'm sorry. This isn't right."
    Her eyes were as large as a doe's, very close and deep and beautiful.
    No! I'm sorry, Travis wanted to scream. He dropped his hand as if burned.
    She looked confused and lifted her fingers to her mouth, touching the lips he just kissed. "I'll see to your leg." She reached out, but her hand shook and he caught it.
    "It's fine." His voice sounded rougher than he'd planned, as if he'd lived too many hard years alone. "Just fine, lady. Please." He drew a deep breath and hoped she was as innocent as she seemed and had no idea what she did to him. "I think it's best to leave it be, or it'll only start bleeding again."
    She stared into his eyes, only inches from her own. They were sky blue and filled with enough pain to last three lifetimes. "Yes." She drew away with a rush. "Yes. I think you're right."
    The night seemed endless, though Katherine's spot on the floor was comfortable enough. The music from below had ceased, but other noises now intruded—laughter, deep and male or quick and high-pitched. And then the sounds from next door, the rhythmic groan of the bed's ropes, low gasps of breath.
    It was intolerable. She knew Travis was awake, could sense it, though she couldn't see if his eyes remained open. The rhythm behind the wall picked up speed, the breathing growing louder.
    "Lady." Ryland's voice was quiet and deep. "Were you singing—before I came to my senses?"
    "I thought you couldn't hear," she said, feeling endlessly grateful for the darkness that hid the hot flush of her cheeks.
    "Just a memory," he murmured. There was a gasp of primal pleasure from next door. "Sing for me, lady."
    "I don't sing really."
    "Please," he said huskily. "For both our sakes. Sing loud."
    For the life of her Katherine could think of nothing but hymns, and though the inappropriateness of those songs struck her as strange, the intolerable situation was more than she could bear.
    Perhaps the walls of that establishment had never heard the haunting melody of "The Old Rugged Cross," but they heard it now, followed by every song Katherine could recall from church.
    When the last note faded, utter silence held the