the growing sunlight.
Afterward, what with the emotion of the moment and the quickness with which Mrs. Beulah Glore snatched up the tiny gun and dropped it into the pocket of her wrapper, Drumm was not even certain he had seen it. A derringer was certainly a peculiar item for a lady to carry in her bosom. He was trying to assess this development when their subject curled herself into a ball, like an eel. Eggleston lost his grasp on her ankles. Jack Drumm slipped on the muddy ground; he and Miss Larkin fell heavily together, her wet body plastered against his.
It was an awkward position. She lay across him, pinioning him to the ground. Exhausted from his own near-drowning and his efforts to rescue her, he could only lie there, panting and helpless, her face against his. He saw with great clarity the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the delicately shaped eyebrows—plucked, surely—the glorious red hair now hanging dankly about her face.
"Let me help her to her feet," Eggleston suggested. "I think she is coming round."
Drumm waved him off.
"She had better not be disturbed," he explained. "It is dangerous to awaken unconscious people too quickly. It can lead to disorders of the brain."
Phoebe opened her eyes, stared into his. Bemused by their cerulean depths, he could only stare back. She hiccuped. "Where am I? What-what—"
"You come back from the dead, dear!" Mrs. Glore told her. "Mr. Drumm here threw himself into the water to pull you out!"
Phoebe continued to look into Drumm's eyes. He was uncomfortably aware of his maimed mustache and the blood-caked scar. But she seemed bemused.
"You saved my life!" Her lip trembled.
They lay together in the bright sunlight, the valet and Phoebe's traveling companion hovering over them. Jack Drumm cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I—I suppose so." He turned to Mrs. Glore. "If you will help her up now, ma'am—"
Eggleston and Mrs. Glore hauled her to her feet and supported her between them. She continued to stare at Drumm with admiration.
"At the risk of your own life!"
In the dry air his drawers were clammy. Embarrassed at her show of emotion, he shivered and looked about for his blanket.
"Nothing," he muttered. "It was nothing! I am a good swimmer. And Eggie here helped me."
Phoebe pulled away from them and rushed to Drumm. Throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him hard on the lips. Astounded, he could only stand mute, hands dangling at his sides, feeling the soft body pressed against him, the full red lips wetly on his. He tried to speak but found it difficult. Finally he managed to disengage her.
"Thank you!" she gasped, looking into his eyes.
Embarrassment spoke for him, put words into his mouth he did not intend.
"I—I—well, I guess I would have done the same thing for anyone that was drowning."
Her face changed; the blue eyes became wide and hurt. She drew back.
"But—but I'm not just
anyone
! I'm Phoebe Larkin! You risked your life for me, and I'm bound to be grateful!" When she seemed to step toward him again, he stepped awkwardly, warily, back.
"Well," he muttered, "I'm—I'm glad you're all right, anyway."
A flush came into her pale cheeks. One hand attempted to arrange the wet strands of hair. When she spoke her voice trembled slightly.
"I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—to bother you!"
Frustrated, trying to find the proper words, he shook his head. "You didn't bother me! You didn't bother me at all! That wasn't what I meant!"
"I know what you mean," Phoebe said icily. "It's my fault, Mr. Drumm. You see—I have a very loving nature. Sometimes it betrays me. I am grateful you saved me, but sorry you misunderstood my gratitude!"
Almost desperately he looked around at the camp, devastated once by an Indian raid and now by a perverse flood. Everything was coming out wrong. He had planned the Grand Tour well, but the Arizona Territory had a way of upsetting things.
"Eggie," he muttered, "we must get some order back
Afterward, what with the emotion of the moment and the quickness with which Mrs. Beulah Glore snatched up the tiny gun and dropped it into the pocket of her wrapper, Drumm was not even certain he had seen it. A derringer was certainly a peculiar item for a lady to carry in her bosom. He was trying to assess this development when their subject curled herself into a ball, like an eel. Eggleston lost his grasp on her ankles. Jack Drumm slipped on the muddy ground; he and Miss Larkin fell heavily together, her wet body plastered against his.
It was an awkward position. She lay across him, pinioning him to the ground. Exhausted from his own near-drowning and his efforts to rescue her, he could only lie there, panting and helpless, her face against his. He saw with great clarity the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the delicately shaped eyebrows—plucked, surely—the glorious red hair now hanging dankly about her face.
"Let me help her to her feet," Eggleston suggested. "I think she is coming round."
Drumm waved him off.
"She had better not be disturbed," he explained. "It is dangerous to awaken unconscious people too quickly. It can lead to disorders of the brain."
Phoebe opened her eyes, stared into his. Bemused by their cerulean depths, he could only stare back. She hiccuped. "Where am I? What-what—"
"You come back from the dead, dear!" Mrs. Glore told her. "Mr. Drumm here threw himself into the water to pull you out!"
Phoebe continued to look into Drumm's eyes. He was uncomfortably aware of his maimed mustache and the blood-caked scar. But she seemed bemused.
"You saved my life!" Her lip trembled.
They lay together in the bright sunlight, the valet and Phoebe's traveling companion hovering over them. Jack Drumm cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I—I suppose so." He turned to Mrs. Glore. "If you will help her up now, ma'am—"
Eggleston and Mrs. Glore hauled her to her feet and supported her between them. She continued to stare at Drumm with admiration.
"At the risk of your own life!"
In the dry air his drawers were clammy. Embarrassed at her show of emotion, he shivered and looked about for his blanket.
"Nothing," he muttered. "It was nothing! I am a good swimmer. And Eggie here helped me."
Phoebe pulled away from them and rushed to Drumm. Throwing her arms about his neck, she kissed him hard on the lips. Astounded, he could only stand mute, hands dangling at his sides, feeling the soft body pressed against him, the full red lips wetly on his. He tried to speak but found it difficult. Finally he managed to disengage her.
"Thank you!" she gasped, looking into his eyes.
Embarrassment spoke for him, put words into his mouth he did not intend.
"I—I—well, I guess I would have done the same thing for anyone that was drowning."
Her face changed; the blue eyes became wide and hurt. She drew back.
"But—but I'm not just
anyone
! I'm Phoebe Larkin! You risked your life for me, and I'm bound to be grateful!" When she seemed to step toward him again, he stepped awkwardly, warily, back.
"Well," he muttered, "I'm—I'm glad you're all right, anyway."
A flush came into her pale cheeks. One hand attempted to arrange the wet strands of hair. When she spoke her voice trembled slightly.
"I—I'm sorry! I didn't mean to—to bother you!"
Frustrated, trying to find the proper words, he shook his head. "You didn't bother me! You didn't bother me at all! That wasn't what I meant!"
"I know what you mean," Phoebe said icily. "It's my fault, Mr. Drumm. You see—I have a very loving nature. Sometimes it betrays me. I am grateful you saved me, but sorry you misunderstood my gratitude!"
Almost desperately he looked around at the camp, devastated once by an Indian raid and now by a perverse flood. Everything was coming out wrong. He had planned the Grand Tour well, but the Arizona Territory had a way of upsetting things.
"Eggie," he muttered, "we must get some order back
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