Cherish by Catherine Anderson

cleavage, his heart started to pound against his ribs like a water-powered triphammer on an anvil. Sweat popped out on his brow. Son of a bitch . What in the world was the matter with him? Nothing in Race’s past gave him a basis of comparison to help him answer that question. He only knew he felt as if he were invading sacred territory. Kind of like when he accidentally wandered intoan Indian burial ground, only then he never had to worry about any of the dead people coming suddenly awake.
    What was he going to say if she suddenly opened her eyes? Howdy? How did he get himself into fixes like this?
    The chemise parted, and her breasts spilled out, plumper and more well-rounded than he expected. She wore the chemise way too tight, undoubtedly to flatten her chest and conceal the curves God had given her. Damned fool girl. As if she could hide the fact that she was female? He wasn’t used to a bosom jumping out at him. It was enough to make a man’s heart stop.
    He averted his gaze and groped for a quilt, dragging it up to cover her chest before he proceeded with undressing her.
    So far, so good . He’d just pretend she was a man, keep all of her covered that he possibly could, and think on what he had to do next. He’d get through this. And later, after she woke up, he’d be able to look her in the eye without a trace of guilt, knowing he’d barely even noticed anything he shouldn’t have. Well—almost barely, anyhow.
    As he tugged to remove her bloomers, one slender leg slipped out from under the quilt, exposing an expanse of milk-white thigh. Race noticed some scrapes on her skin that needed to be tended as he tucked the cover back around her.
    No problem. He’d just bare one part of her at a time to clean her cuts with whiskey, leaving the upper portion of her chest and her nether regions covered. If she had any hurts in those places, they’d just have to heal on their own.
    He grabbed the jug of Mon’gehela on the floor beside him, popped the cork, and was in the process of moistening a square of cloth when it occurred to him that he needed a dose worse than she did. He took a hearty gulp. As the warmth spread through him, lending him courage, he bent to lift the quilt and peek under the edge at her belly, which made his own clench like a tight fist. He spied a cut on her midriff and reached under the cover to dab at it with the whiskey-moistened cloth. Once finished,he took another long pull from the bottle. For purely medicinal purposes, mind. A man needed some fortification in a situation like this.
    Gulp, dab. Gulp, dab . Once he got a rhythm going, he relaxed a little.
    She’d definitely taken a nasty tumble and had a number of abrasions on her torso and legs. After doctoring them, he sat back on his heel and did a peel-and-peek body check to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots. Thus convinced that he’d dabbed them all, he blew like a badly winded buffalo. Taking care of a woman was a hell of a lot different from taking care of a man.
    Almost as if she sensed the liberties he’d just taken with her person, the girl began to toss her head, her fair brows pleating in a frown. Race almost jumped out of his skin, thinking she was about to wake up.
    He grabbed the fresh nightgown he’d laid out and started stuffing her into it. Getting her limp arms down the sleeves was like trying to thread wet leather laces through boot eyelets. When he tried to reach up the sleeve to get hold of her hand, his fist got stuck in the cuff. He shook his wrist and jerked. If she woke up right now, half in and half out of her nightgown, with a strange man’s arm shoved up the front and one hand stuck in her sleeve, she’d fly into raving hysterics, for sure.
    He finally got his hand out of the cuff by pulling with such force that he nearly toppled backward. She continued talking out as he finished wrestling her into the nightgown. Nothing she said made much sense. Nightmares . Race hurried to fasten the buttons that ran