by Linda Howard
Yet he was still only a man, for all his dangerousness. He was tired and ill, and despite the things he had done that had terrified her, he had not only not hurt her, he had seen to her comfort and safety to the best of his ability. She didn’t forget that it was to his advantage to keep her safe, or that any discomfort she suffered was purely his fault, but at the same time he hadn’t been as cruel or brutal as she had feared, or as many other men would have been. He had done and said things that had terrified her, but never from sheer cruelty; it was oddly reassuring that he always had a reason for doing what he did. She was beginning to feel that she could take him at his word: when he was recovered, he would take her back, unharmed, to Silver Mesa. On the other hand, if she tried to escape from him, she was equally certain that he would stop her in any way he could, including shooting her out of the saddle.
“All right, it’s your turn now.”
She turned around and saw that he was completely dressed, including his gun belt. His dirty clothes lay in a pile on the floor, and he had laid out a second clean shirt for her use.
She stared at the shirt, caught in a dilemma. “Which do I wash first, myself or the clothes?”
“The clothes,” he answered. “That way they’ll have more time to dry.”
“And what do I wear while I’m washing them?” she asked drily. “If I put on your shirt now, it’ll get wet.”
He shrugged. “What you do depends on how bad you want clean clothes.”
She understood what he meant, and snatched up his clothes and the bar of soap without another word. She wasn’t in a very good mood as she marched to the stream and knelt down on the bank. He followed, and settled down about five yards away with the rifle resting across his lap. She set to work with grim determination, for the water was icy and her hands were numb in only a few minutes.
She had wrung out his shirt and hung it over a bush to dry, and was scrubbing his pants, before she spoke. “It’s too cold for snakes. And bears, too, I presume. What are you guarding me from? Wolves? Mountain lions?”
“I’ve seen bear out this early,” he replied. “A healthy wolf isn’t going to bother with you, but an injured one might. Same thing with mountain lions. You’d be in more danger if a man wandered through and stumbled on you.”
She bent over and dunked his pants in the stream, watching the soap rinse away in a pale cloud. “I don’t understand men,” she said. “I don’t understand why so many of them are so senselessly cruel, how they can abuse a woman, child, or animal without giving it a thought but get killing mad if anyone accuses them of cheating at cards. That isn’t honor, that’s—I don’t know what it is. Stupidity, I guess.”
He didn’t answer. His restless eyes continued to skim their surroundings. Annie struggled to wring the water out of the heavy garment, but her hands were cold and clumsy. He got up and took the pants from her, his strong hands effortlessly twisting the water out of the material. He shook them out and spread them over another bush, then took his seat again.
She doused his underwear, then began soaping them.
“Some people are just naturally bad,” he said. “Men and women. They’re born mean and they die mean. Others kind of drift into it, a little at a time. And sometimes they’re pushed.”
She kept her head down, her attention on her chore. “What kind are you?”
He thought about it. Finally he said, “I don’t reckon it matters.”
It certainly didn’t matter to him. He had been pushed, but the way it had happened had ceased to mean anything. He had lost everything he had believed in and fought for, lost his family, seen the reason for it all turn bitter and crumble into dust, had been hounded across the country, but finally the reasons hadn’t counted for anything, only the reality. The reality was that he was constantly on the move, watching his back trail; he trusted no one, and he was willing to kill whoever came after him. Beyond that, there was nothing.
CHAPTER
5
Washing her own clothes was so much trouble that accomplishing the task was a testament to her considerable determination. Keeping her back to him, she sat down and removed her stockings, then untied the tapes of her petticoat and drawers. When she stood, both garments slid down her legs and she stepped out of them. She refused to look at him to see if he had noticed; of course he had. The blasted man didn’t miss anything. Her cheeks were hot as she knelt again on the bank and began scrubbing her unmentionables. Irritated, she wished some of the heat in her face would transfer itself to her hands. How could water be this cold and still run?
To wash her shift and blouse, she had to return to the cabin and change into his shirt. He remained outside, for which she was painfully grateful, but she still felt wretchedly exposed with the window coverings propped open and the chilly air washing over her bare breasts. She jerked his shirt on over her head as quickly as possible, and sighed in relief at the comfort of the soft wool covering her.
The shirt was so huge on her that she was startled into a soft laugh. She buttoned every button, but the neck was still so loose that it exposed her collarbones. The hem hung to her knees, and the sleeves flapped a good six inches past her fingers. She began briskly rolling them up and laughed again, for when she rolled them up to her elbow there was practically no sleeve left, as the shoulder seam drooped down almost that far. “Do you have an extra belt?” she called. “There’s so much material here it’ll get in my way.”
He appeared in the doorway as soon as she spoke, and she shivered as she realized he had been leaning against the cabin, just out of sight. He had been only a few feet away when she had been half nude. Had he looked? She didn’t want to know.
He cut a few feet of rope and she tied it around her slim waist, then snatched up her remaining clothes and marched back to the stream, where she finished her laundry. Then she had to haul more water back to the cabin and begin heating it for her own bath. She was so exhausted that she wondered if it had been worth it, but she couldn’t have endured another day without washing.
She also couldn’t endure bathing with the windows and door open, wondering if he were watching her. Not only that, it was too chilly, though it hadn’t seemed to bother him much when he had bathed. She closed the windows and built up the fire, then faced him defiantly. “I’m not bathing with an open door.”
“Fine with me.”
Her cheeks got hot again. “Or with you in here.”
“Don’t you trust me to keep my back turned?”
Distress darkened her soft brown eyes. Rafe reached out and cupped her chin, feeling her silky texture of her flesh. “I don’t turn my back on anyone,” he said.
She swallowed. “Please.”
He held her gaze while his thumb brushed lightly over the tender section beneath her chin. Annie felt herself begin to tremble, for he was standing far too close to her and she could feel the heat and tension of his big body. The bright, terrible clarity of his eyes made her want to shut her own to escape, but she was caught in paralyzed fascination and couldn’t. This close, she could see that his eyes were gray, like winter rain, without any softening blue tinge. Black and white specks gave his irises the impression of crystalline depth. Search as she might, she could find no compassion in that clear, cold gaze.
He dropped his hand and stepped back. “I’ll be outside,” he said, and she nearly sagged with relief. He watched the play of expression across her face before adding, “Take off your skirt and I’ll wash it for you.”
She hesitated, her longing for clean clothes battling with modesty. She couldn’t wear only his shirt for the length of time it would take her clothing to dry, but maybe she could fasten one of the blankets around her. Quickly, before she lost her courage, she turned her back on him and unfastened her skirt, grateful that he was such a large man and his shirt was so enveloping.
Silently he took the skirt and left the cabin, closing the door behind him. As he walked down to the stream he pictured her bathing, and he was acutely aware of her na
kedness just on the other side of that door. Fever burned through him again, but it was the heat of desire rather than illness. He wanted to touch more than just her face. He wanted to lie down with her and feel her soft body in his arms as he had during the night, and he didn’t want to see fear in her eyes. He wanted to see her slim thighs open for him, welcome him into their embrace.
That was what he wanted. What he needed to do was to get through the next few days, building his strength, then take her back to Silver Mesa as he’d promised and quietly disappear. He needed to keep his mind on what he was doing, rather than speculate on how she would look naked. A woman was a woman. They differed in size and color, just like men, but the basics were the same.
And the basics had been driving men mad since the beginning of time.
He laughed a little at himself as he washed her skirt, but there was no humor in the sound. She wasn’t just like every other woman, and it was useless to try to convince himself that she was. Her hands held a strange, heated ecstasy that he couldn’t forget, and he craved every little touch she gave him. He even felt some of it when he touched her, for no other woman’s skin had ever felt so supple and silky to him. It had taken all of his willpower to release her and roll out of the blankets that morning, and he’d be a damn fool if he thought the temptation wasn’t going to get worse with every passing hour. He’d be a double-damn fool if he let the temptation make him forget about Trahern.
He wrung out her skirt, then glanced at the sky. The sun had slid behind the mountains, and the air was already getting colder, so there wasn’t any point in hanging the skirt over a bush to dry. Instead he gathered up their still-damp clothing and went back to the cabin. He could hear water splashing. “Haven’t you finished yet?” he called.
“No, not yet.”
He leaned against the cabin wall for support and pondered the mystery of why women took so much longer to bathe than men did, when they were smaller and had less to wash.
It was another fifteen minutes before she opened the door, her face glowing with warmth and the brisk application of soap and water. She had washed her hair, probably first thing, for the fire had already partially dried it. She wore his shirt and had wrapped one of the blankets around her like a toga. “There,” she said, sighing in tired satisfaction. “I feel much better now. I’ll fetch fresh water for the horses, then start supper. Are you hungry?”
He was, a little, though he wouldn’t have minded if she had sat down to rest for a while. Except for when they had been sitting in the little meadow while the horses had grazed, she had been working from the moment her eyes had opened that morning. No wonder there wasn’t any extra flesh on her narrow frame.
The blanket made it awkward for her to fetch water, but she refused to let him help and he wasn’t certain enough of his strength to insist. All he could do was follow as she trudged back and forth, his frustration wearing his temper thin. None of what he felt was revealed in his face or actions, however, for she would be the only one to suffer if he released his anger, and none of it was her fault. Rather than whine, whimper, or complain, any of which would have been reasonable reactions from any woman who had been forced into such a situation, she had squared her shoulders and done what she could to make their circumstances easier.
But at last all of the chores were taken care of, and they could go into the cabin and close the door against the cold. Annie allowed herself perhaps thirty seconds of rest before she plunged into the preparations for supper. She was limited by their scanty provisions, but cooked some beans and bacon and made another batch of pan biscuits. She was gratified when Rafe ate with the first enthusiasm for food he had shown, a good indication of his improving physical condition. Afterward she put her hand on his forehead, and smiled at the slight dampness she found. “Your fever has broken,” she said, placing her other hand against his cheek for confirmation. “You’re sweating. How do you feel?”
“A lot better.” He almost regretted his improvement, for that would mean she no longer had a reason to touch him. Odd, but the quality of energy from her hands had changed now that he wasn’t so ill; rather than that hot, sharp tingle, the sensation was like a warm caress spreading all over his body, flooding him with pleasure so intense he almost shuddered from it.
Her smile lit up her face. “I told you I could make you well.”
“You’re a good doctor,” he said, and her expression became so radiant that it took his breath.
“Yes, I am,” she agreed without either conceit or false modesty. Her words were a simple acceptance of fact. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.”
Humming, she walked to the door and stepped outside. Rafe cursed under his breath and got to his feet, his hand on the butt of his pistol as he strode after her. Annie all but collided with him as she came back in, two twigs in her hand. Her eyes widened when she saw the cold anger in his eyes. “I was just getting some toothbrush twigs,” she said, holding them out for him to see. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
“Don’t forget,” he said sharply, grasping her arm and pulling her out of the doorway so he could close the door. She flushed and the radiance died out of her face, making him regret the edge to his voice.
She poured out some salt to clean their teeth with, and Rafe lounged back with the twig in his mouth. Her fastidiousness reminded him of times when he had taken such niceties for granted, when he had been accustomed to daily shaves and washings and had always worn clean clothes. He had taken for granted the availability of shaving soap, soda tooth powder, and fine milled soap for bathing. He had worn expensive cologne and danced many a waltz with bright-eyed young ladies. But that was a long time ago, before the war, a whole lifetime ago. He couldn’t feel any kinship with the young man he had been then; he had the memories, but it was as if they were of an acquaintance rather than himself.
Annie got up and rummaged in her medical bag, taking out two small pieces of what looked like bark.
She popped one in her mouth and held the other out to him. “Here. Cinnamon.”
He took the piece of bark and sniffed it; cinnamon, just as she’d said. He chewed it slowly, enjoying the taste. He could remember those long-ago young ladies chewing cinnamon or peppermint pastilles to freshen their breath, and could remember tasting that freshness in kisses.
Maybe it was the memories, or maybe it was simply because he wanted it so much. He said, “Now that our breath is kissing fresh, it’d be a shame to waste it.”
She jerked her head around, her eyes wide, and Rafe slid his hand around the back of her neck, under her hair. She stiffened against the pressure that brought her head closer to his.
“No,” she blurted, panicked.
“Hush. It’s just a kiss, honey. Don’t be afraid.”
His low, drawling voice washed over her, making her go weak inside. She tried to shake her head, but his hand on her neck prevented the movement. Annie strained backward, her gaze fastened on his mouth as it came closer and closer. No, oh no, she couldn’t let him kiss her, she couldn’t let herself feel his mouth, not when her heart misbehaved so at the very sight of him. The temptation was too sweet, too piercing. She had felt her weakness where he was concerned on the night she had met him, and even when she had been terrified for her life she had also been aware of the dangerous attraction she felt for him. She had begun to think herself safe, for he hadn’t made any sexual move toward her, not even the night before when she had slept all but naked in his arms, but now she saw the danger she was in. If she wanted to return to Silver Mesa heart-whole, she should resist, she should turn her head aside, she should scratch and claw—
Too late.
His mouth settled on hers with the slow, sure pressure of experience, cutting off her quick gasp of protest, while his hand held her still for his tasting. Annie had been kissed before, but not like this, not with a lazily deepening intimacy that paid no attention to the useless pushing of her hands. The strong movement of his mouth opened her lips, and helplessly she felt her bo
dy quicken as a warm tide surged through her. Her hands stopped pushing and abruptly clenched his shirt. Under his guidance her mouth opened and he slanted his head to deepen the contact and take better advantage of the opportunity. His tongue moved into her mouth and Annie quivered at the shocking intrusion.
She hadn’t known men kissed like this, hadn’t expected him to use his tongue; she had seen a lot during medical school and in her practice as a doctor, but she hadn’t known that the slow stroking of his tongue inside her mouth would make her feel weak and hot, or that her breasts would tighten and ache. She wanted him to go on kissing her like this, she wanted to press herself close against him in an effort to ease the throb in her breasts, and feel his hard arms around her. Her inexperience made her helpless against him, unable to handle her own desires or anticipate what he might do.
Rafe forced himself to release the nape of her neck and slowly withdraw his lips. He wanted to keep on kissing her; hell, he wanted to do a lot more than that! But the twinge of pain in his left side every time he moved, as well as the lingering weakness in his legs, reminded him that he wasn’t in the best shape for making love. It was just as well his body had its limitations, because he’d be a fool to let this situation become complicated by sex. Returning her unharmed was one thing, but like the old saying went, hell held no fury like that of a woman who thought she’d been taken lightly and then discarded. She was less likely to tell anyone about him if she didn’t feel like a scorned lover. As he eased away from her, he hoped like hell that he could take his own good advice.
