"What's wrong with your hand?" Will Tucker's voice sent a start of apprehension up her spine.
She stilled the knife, her heart hammering. "Nothing."
"Turn around and show me."
Desperate to avoid him learning the truth, she doubled her effort to slice the bread neatly. Silence had fallen over the room.
Wood scraped. Boot heels thudded across the wooden floor. "I said show me your hand."
His voice was so authoritative, she would have obeyed if she'd been able to move. Instead she stood there, her knees starting to shake, her heart thumping wildly in her chest, her bandaged hand still clutching the knife.
His enormous hand came into her line of vision, took the knife from her and laid it down. Capturing her wrist, he raised her hand for his inspection and frowned at the wrapping. "What did you do?''
"It's nothing. I'm fine."
Without hesitation, he began to peel away the white bandages. He continued gently unwinding, and as more fabric fell away, the last layer of material stuck to a portion of the wound. He stopped, but she couldn't hold back a cry.
He sucked in air through his teeth and bore his stormy gaze into hers. "This is a burn."
She nodded mutely.
"What happened?"
She looked down. "I splashed a little of the boiling lye mixture when I was making soap."
"Day before yesterday?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Benches scraped and the back door squeaked open and shut a couple of times. The ranch hands had all made a speedy exit by the sound of it.
"I didn't want you to be mad." She didn't look up. "I didn't want you to send me away because of my clumsy mistake."
"You should have asked someone to help you." The anger lacing his voice was a direct contrast to the gentle way he held her hand cupped in his. She stared at the sight of his enormous fingers on her pale skin, and warmth crept into her cheeks. Her breathing constricted as it had while looking at his unclad body earlier.
With the other hand, he reached up, and she stoically kept herself from flinching. He tucked a knuckle under her chin and forced her head up until she had no choice but to look at him. "You're the damned stubbornedest woman I ever knew."
Linnea's heart hammered from his closeness, the warmth of his hand and the fervent look in his storm-gray eyes.
"Lets me off the hook," Aggie said from behind him.
He cast the old woman a sidelong glance. "You're still the crotchetiest." Turning back to Linnea, he said, "Let's pour a little water over that and loosen the bandage."
Letting go of her chin, he kept hold of her wrist, and they moved a few feet to the basin. Will Tucker dipped a ladle of warm water from the well on the stove, tested the temperature with a finger, then drizzled it over the bandage. After a few seconds, the fabric loosened enough that he could pull it cleanly away.
"I'm turnin' in," Aggie said. She had stood and turned toward the back hall.
"Call out if you need anything," Linnea told her.
The woman waved off her suggestion and shuffled away.
"What did you use on this?" he asked.
"The salve in the green tin, I think."
He touched the backs of his fingers to her cheek and startled, she stiffened and pulled away. "You have a fever," he said gruffly.
"I'm just hot from the stove."
"I don't think so. You shouldn't have been using this hand, cooking and lifting. Not giving it time to heal was damned foolish."
An ache grew in her chest at his admonishment, and overwhelming feelings of loneliness and discouragement swept over her. She'd been doing the best she could, surviving the only way she knew how, living with the constant worry of failing and having nowhere to go and no way to provide for her baby.
"Sit in the rocker," he said.
Resigned, she did as he ordered.
He bent over Aggie's sewing basket and found a needle, then struck a match and ran it through the flame. Taking a tin of salve from a cupboard, he asked her if there were clean bandages.
"In the crate there," she said, gesturing.
He tore the strips narrower, then carried them and the tin to where she sat and knelt.
He extended his large palm in a gesture ordering her to give him her hand again. She meekly did so.
Will studied the red blistered skin. The burn must pain her something fierce, but Linnea had kept on with her work for two days without so much as a word to him, as though he was some sort of tyrant.
Her hand was small and delicate in his, the bones of her wrist so fragile, he took care not to bruise her.
With steady, sure movements, he pierced half a dozen blisters with the needle and used a clean rag to dry them. Mindful of her injury, he spread a thick layer of salve to seal the wounds.
Throughout his doctoring, she hadn't made a sound. He looked up at the same time she did, and their gazes locked. Tendrils of hair had come loose around her face and curled becomingly near her temples and ears. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were wide and luminous in the lantern light.
She had a clean feminine smell all her own, a delicate combination of her crisply starched apron, her lustrous hair and some mysterious woman scent that captivated him as no perfume ever could.
His gaze slid to her lips, parted and moist looking, and he had a crazy fleeting image of kissing her. He imagined the sweet softness and taste of her mouth and his body reacted.
Will turned his attention to wrapping her hand. "You're not to use this hand again until I say you may."
"But there's water to heat in the morning, and breakfast to cook, and—"
He looked up again. "I'll get water. Roy will put on breakfast."
"But it's my job," she protested, her voice weak. "I get paid to do those things."
Her burns were not severe, but they would heal more quickly if she cared for them and rested the hand. He knew she was hurting and wished he could take the pain for her. "Your job for now is to rest and heal. Understood?"
She nodded resignedly, her expression so crestfallen, he couldn't comprehend. He finished the bandage, tied the end in a small secure knot and sat back on his heels to look at her.
The memory of her soft crying across the campfire that first night came to him again as he studied her. He'd wondered then if she missed her husband; it hadn't been that long since his death. She was alone and carrying a child—he hadn't known that at the time. But never in all the days and hours since then had he seen her cry. And he hadn't actually seen her that time—she had thought he was sleeping and had hidden her weeping beneath a blanket.
She'd been completely inappropriate for the job he'd wanted done—or so he'd thought at first. He'd been expecting a woman later in years, a woman with experience and a married life behind her, someone who could handle the hardships of ranch life.
He'd seen Linnea McConaughy as a frail little mouse of a girl, certainly not looking old enough to be a widow, and definitely not having the appearance of a sturdy capable worker.
Had he been so stubbornly narrow-minded that he hadn't wanted to give her a chance because of her tender age and her diminutive size? Had he imagined some weakness in her that was…perhaps a weakness in himself?
Will didn't like feeling out of control and he didn't like it when things didn't go as he planned. Linnea wasn't in his plans. And he definitely felt a progressive weakness toward her.
A weakness that created the sense of being trapped in a small suffocating space. That weakness frightened him, but the other sensations she prompted blotted out reason and logic and simply had him feeling.
There was nothing erotic or romantic about Linnea standing at the stove or pouring him coffee or leaving clean laundry on the foot of his bed. But there was something familiar and reassuring about having her here, bustling about his house and sharing meals. Her voice was a silver bell in the midst of the men's clanging banter, and Will had come to listen for it.
He did
n't necessarily like the surprising jumble of thoughts and feelings, because he hadn't planned on having them—hadn't planned on Linnea. But at that moment he couldn't resist reveling in the sensory pleasure of her feminine scent and softness, in the lure of her liquid brown eyes and soft-looking lips.
Her size, her vulnerability, the hesitant way she looked at him, made him feel protective toward her.
"Linnea…" he said simply.
Her luminous gaze fluttered over his hair and face to fasten on his mouth. That was his undoing.
He leaned toward her, raised his face and pressed his lips to hers.
Chapter Thirteen
She didn't move a muscle, didn't breathe beneath the tentative kiss.
Her mouth was as soft and warm as he'd imagined, and she smelled like starch and vanilla and the ointment on their fingers. With only their lips touching in a sweet warm persuasion of the senses, he prolonged the contact, waiting patiently until she relaxed and began to breathe, and then he changed the angle of their lips and deepened the kiss.
His fingers ached to reach for her, to delve into her hair and experience yet another sublime sensation, but he held himself in check, not wanting to frighten or rush her. He didn't want her to pull away and end the pleasure of this sweet discovery.
To bring about the dream of his ranch, he'd learned to shut out physical needs and loneliness. His determination and anger had kept him from losing focus. Until now.
It was Linnea who broke the contact finally, easing away and pressing the fingertips of her good hand against her lips. Her brown eyes were wide with surprise and confusion as she stared at him.
She was no longer the tired mousy-looking girl who'd arrived that first day. Her clothes hadn't changed; they were still brown and dull, but her eyes no longer had that weary-to-the-bone look, and her face and form had filled out. Her hair now had a shine and her skin glowed pink in the lantern light. Looking at her made his throat feel thick and his chest ache.
"What are you thinking?" he asked, wondering if he'd ever given her reason to think kindly of him.
Linnea shook her head and glanced away, unable to collect her thoughts enough to voice them—unwilling to reveal her confusion. But she looked back—she couldn't help it—and studied his handsome face in the glow of the lantern. Moisture from the kiss glistened on his lower lip. Her own lips felt thick and hot.
Want and fear spiraled through her chest and left her achingly incomplete. That touch of lips, and the way Will looked at her right then, made her feel more womanly than she had at any other time in her life-even more womanly than carrying this baby had ever felt.
He stood then, his dark hair brushing across wide shoulders with the movement, and reached for the supplies on the table. She was intently aware of the length of his arm, the size of his hand, the play of muscle beneath his shirt. He moved efficiently, swiftly, carrying the tin and bandages to their proper places and returning. The trembling which had begun inside her earlier intensified.
"You're shaking," he said, and knelt before her once again. "Is it—are you—did I scare you?"
"Yes—no," she amended quickly. She turned her knees to the side to move away from him and stood, her legs trembling.
"Are you feeling sick?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I'm all right."
"I'll help you to your room." He took her elbow, the warmth of his touch burning through her cotton sleeve, picked up a lantern and walked beside her until they reached the hallway. Its narrow space forced him to fall behind, and she was acutely aware of his presence.
He walked her into her room. After placing the oil lamp on the chest of drawers, he glanced around, and she could only imagine what he was thinking. Nothing had changed in the time she'd been here. Her few garments were neatly stacked inside two of the five drawers on the bureau, and her hairbrush, combs, pins and the daisy hat in a third.
"A person would never know at a glance that I've been staying here," she said, speaking her thoughts aloud.
"They would if they'd seen the house before you came," he replied, and she understood he referred to the dishes and dirty laundry that had piled up.
But she could pack her belongings in one bag and be gone without leaving a trace. She felt small and empty at the thought that her presence was so insignificant that she could vanish and no one would know she'd ever been there.
"You've made a difference since you've been here," he said, his voice rough. "Things are better."
She turned to face him. "Things are easier for you? That's what you wanted."
He nodded. "And for the men. We never ate so well."
She experienced a small satisfaction at his admission. She had agonized over making herself so indispensable that he wouldn't send her away. But that small measure of relief was overshadowed by the magnitude of what had happened only moments ago.
Will Tucker had never shown any fondness toward her. She wasn't ignorant to the fact that a man would take his pleasure with any woman, even one he didn't like or find attractive. What would she do if he expected to come to her bed? She had no delusions about what he would want. But she wasn't married to him and he didn't own her.
"I won't take you into this bed," she stated baldly. "You're not my husband and you don't have any claim on me, other than the working arrangement we made."
Silence descended on the room in a deafening wave.
Will Tucker's mouth dropped open and back shut. He drew himself up and the muscles in his jaw tightened. "Of all the doggoned damned—" He slapped his hand against the doorjamb and she jumped. Running both hands through his hair, he drew it back and held his head as though it might fly off.
At his furious outburst, Linnea took several steps away. Toward the bed. The gun was tucked under the edge of the mattress, and she could reach it in a minute if she needed it.
As though righteously insulted, his face hardened into the mask of anger she knew so well. He stopped gripping his head and pointed a long finger at her. "You!"
She took another backward step.
"I gave you a chance. I let you talk me into keeping you when it was against my better judgment. I gave you full rein over the kitchen and the supplies. You tricked me by keeping your baby a secret. You hid this accident from me. And now—now you accuse me of planning to use you as part of your job?"
His eyes were as dark as thunderclouds. He was big and angry and maybe he had a right to be.
"What have I done to earn your mistrust?" he asked. "Have I lied? Have I kept anything from you? I may not be the best-tempered man you could run up against, but at least I'm honest about what I want. I'm a fair man, and I don't pretend to be anything else! And I am not an abuser of women!"
Linnea's entire body was trembling now. She tried to stop the quaking by stiffening her knees and pressing a hand to her breast. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't know."
He leaned his spine against the doorframe and laid his head back against the wood. Several leaden minutes past as he stood there. Collecting himself maybe. Thinking what to do with her.
"I'm truly sorry I offended you," she said, her voice too weak. "You did give me a chance and I did keep something important from you. Everything you say is true."
Several minutes passed that way, the hiss of the oil burning in the lamp the only sound save the thump of her heart.
Finally he raised his head. The anger was gone from his face and his voice when he spoke. "You let me kiss you, thinking that if you didn't, you might be sent away."
There was an edge of hurt in his tone now.
She hadn't thought that, however. She hadn't even questioned his motives until he'd walked back here with her and the insidious worry had invaded her mind. But she couldn't bring herself to admit that fear had nothing to do with letting him kiss her.
She'd never been kissed before. Not since her wedding day, anyway, when Pratt had sealed their marriage vows with a peck, according to the preacher's directions.
How could she voice thought
s or feelings as chaotic as those Will Tucker had raised? She didn't have words for them. But she had to say something—or he'd think he was right. And he wasn't.
"It just happened," she denied. "I didn't think anything at the moment."
He met her gaze, studied her expression "If it happened again…would you think it was something you had to do? Or would it be something you'd like to happen?''
She'd seen how offended he'd been at her insinuation. How hurt. It amazed her to think she had the power in just a few words to hurt a man as large and as strong as this one. And in her heart—heaven help her—she believed him when he said he had no unseemly intentions. "If it happened again…" she said slowly, choosing her words with care "…it would just happen. That's all."
His mouth quirked up at the corner, a half a smile she'd never seen before, and it set her at ease. She couldn't believe she'd had the crazy thought of using her gun against him. He had no intention of hurting her.
She wondered then if he'd cross the distance that separated them and make that kiss happen again. Her heart even fluttered in anticipation. But he simply studied her from his place in the doorway, then straightened and said, "Sleep well."
It couldn't have been disappointment that dropped a weight in her chest, because she hadn't been hoping for anything. She wished him a good-night and closed the door, then turned the wooden block that served as a lock. Though her rational mind told her she was safe from him, a lifetime of experience told her she was never safe, so she shoved the bureau in front of the door, a task that was growing more difficult with every week that passed.
Will paused at the end of the hallway near the kitchen and listened to the sound of Linnea moving the bureau. After turning down the wicks until the lamps were extinguished, he carried the last one to his room.
Midmorning the following day, Will Tucker carried boards and tools through the kitchen and down the hall. At the sound of hammering, Linnea and Aggie exchanged a look. Half an hour later, he stopped for a cup of coffee and a slice of warm applesauce cake, wished the women a good day and disappeared out-of-doors.
The Tenderfoot Bride Page 11
