Free Western Man by Janet Dailey

from his previous position. The lines in his face seemed more deeply etched, giving the impression of pain being suppressed. There was a tinge of grayness around his compressed mouth and the pinched-in tightness of his nose. His eyelids were closed, long lashes casting shadows on the faint hollows under his eyes.
    Sharon hesitated. There was no sign that he’d heard her come in. She didn’t want to disturb him if he had managed to fall asleep or drifted into that in-between state that is neither sleep nor wakefulness. Rest was more vital to him than the cigarettes in her hand.
    “If you’re through staring, you can bring me my cigarettes.” The roughness of impatience was in his voice.
    Startled, it was a second before she noticed the narrow slits of his eyes, observing her while they appeared to be closed. Recovering, she walked calmly to the side of the bed.
    “I thought you might be asleep,” she said.
    “If I was, I suppose you were going to wake me like those damned nurses, so you could take my pulse and check my temperature,” Ridge grumbled.
    “I’ll bet they enjoyed sticking a thermometer in your mouth just for the pleasure of shutting you up,” Sharon countered, and observed the slight widening of his eyes to more than slits.
    “It’s wonderful that you’re so understanding,” he murmured with dry sarcasm.
    “I understand, all right,” she assured him. “You feel rotten, so you behave rottenly to everyone around you. Misery loves company.”
    He shut his eyes and made no comment to her remark. “Light me a cigarette.” As an obvious afterthought, he added an explanation to the demand. “Right now, the pain’s bearable and I don’t want to move.”
    Sharon shook a cigarette from the pack, then picked up the book of matches from the bedside table to light it. “Shall I smoke it for you, too?” she asked and blew out the match flame along with a stream of smoke from her mouth.
    “Very funny,” Ridge murmured. “Why don’t you pretend it’s a thermometer.”
    With his eyes shut, Ridge didn’t see her amused smile as Sharon reached over and placed the lit cigarette between his lips. Her fingers briefly touched his mouth before she drew them away. They tingled slightly from the intimate contact with his smooth, hard lips.
    As she straightened, she noticed the cautious way he lifted his hand to take the cigarette from his mouth after he’d taken a short drag. Even then, he winced as if jarred by the careful motion.
    “Where would you like me to set the ashtray?” Sharon realized that it would be too painful for Ridge to twist himself around to use it if she left it on the bedside table.
    “Just somewhere within reach,” he said, then added hastily, “but not on my stomach. It hurts to have anything touch it—even these clothes.”
    “Do you want me to help you take them off?” she offered, as she placed the ashtray on the bed next to him and half-turned from the bed in the direction of the chest of drawers and the clothes closet. “Last night, Mom and I looked for a pair of pajamas and a robe to take to the hospital, but we couldn’t find any. Where do you keep them?’
    Ridge started to laugh, but the bruised muscles in his stomach must have screamed a protest because it ended in a groan. When he finally answered, his tight voice was heavily threaded with suppressed pain.
    “I haven’t owned a pair of pajamas since I was ten,” he told her. “And as for a robe . . . when you live in an all-male household, you don’t need one.” A smile deepened the corners of his mouth at the stunned look on her face. “Do you still want to play nurse?” Ridge mocked.
    She recovered instantly. “For heaven’s sake, I’m not a schoolgirl anymore,” she flashed in annoyance, irritated with herself—and with him fordrawing attention to her brief moment of self-consciousness. “I’m not likely to be shocked by the sight of a man’s body. I do have a brother.”
    “In that case, I would