Caleb by Sarah McCarty Page B

rock against her a minute
before. She lurched sideways, hitting the wall with her shoulder and then her
head. She fell to her knees. The two seconds it took to wrap the sheet around
her were all her stomach gave her before it rebelled. Nausea rolled over her in
a violent wave. Never, ever, had she thrown up this hard. It felt like her guts
were turning inside out, but nothing came out. The next spasm sent her tumbling
forward. Caleb caught her, his hand a welcome support against the violent
heaves.
    “I
told you to stay put.”
    If
she could have spared the energy to turn, and actually had something to throw
up, she would have vomited on his toes. “Shut up.”
    “You
need to lie down.”
    She
knotted her fist into the sheet and pressed it against her stomach. “I just
need a minute.”
    Dear
God, please let this be a dream and do not let me be vomiting in front of the
stud muffin of my dreams.
    “A
minute isn’t going to do it.”
    If
this was a dream, it was an annoying one. Not to mention embarrassing. “How do
you know?”
    “I’ve
seen this before.”
    She
caught his hand before he could move it off her hip. “What exactly is ‘this’?”
    “Your
body’s just getting shed of the poison in it.”
    The
coldness of the next wave of nausea had nothing on the coldness of horror. “I
was poisoned?”
    One
palm pressed into her forehead, the other into her stomach. It might have been
her imagination, but the pain and sickness seemed to lessen beneath his touch.
“In a manner of speaking.”
    In a
manner of speaking? Had that brief image of her packing cleavage reduced his
impression of her brain power to zero? “There’s no ‘manner of speaking’ when it
comes to poison. Either I was, or I wasn’t.”
    “Come
to bed, and I’ll explain.”
    “Said
the spider to the fly.”
    He
ignored her mutter, just slipped his arm under her knees and behind her back
and lifted her. The swirl of nausea kept her protest trapped in her throat.
    “Easy.”
    Allie
swallowed hard and gritted her teeth. She had about one intact nerve left and
that “easy” was getting on it fast. “I’m not a horse.”
    “Things
would be a hell of a lot easier if you were.”
    Well,
that was a heck of a note. A shift in his grip and then the coolness of the
bottom sheet met her spine. She felt along the expanse with both hands. “I know
I came here with clothes.”
    “You
did.”
    “So
where are they?”
    His
hands came back to her head and stomach. “You lost your supper on them.”
    Again
the pain and nausea seemed to recede. She should probably leave the horse
comment alone, but damn it, she had to know. “Why a horse?”
    “What?”
    “Why
would you rather I was a horse?”
    “It’s
not a matter of a rather, but convenience. If you were a horse, you wouldn’t
ask so many questions.”
    The
bed dipped as he sat beside her. She checked her body’s tendency to roll with
the flow. “And you wouldn’t have to provide so many answers.”
    “Yeah.”
    Sick
as she felt, the way he said that “yeah,” all low and slow, made her pulse skip
a beat. She grabbed his forearm. The rock-hard muscle didn’t give a fraction
under her frantic grip. “Caleb?”
    His
“Yes?” was distracted.
    “I’m
too tired and sick for word games.”
    “I
know.”
    There
was no doubt about it, she was feeling better. And the good feeling was
spreading outward from his hands. Was he a healer? She’d read about healers.
“Please, tell me what happened.”
    Beside
her, there was sudden stillness. The hand on her forehead slipped down to her
cheek, conforming to the curve as if he were memorizing the shape of her face.
“I’d rather wait until you’re stronger.”
    “And
I’d rather know now.”
    His
hand drifted down to her throat, the fingers curving around the base of her
neck, his thumb lingering on the pulse point almost caressingly. She recognized
that touch. She’d been on the receiving end of it too often to mistake it. It
was