Only Love

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Prettyface growled at Whip from his preferred place in the coldest corner of the cabin. The dog’s thick fur kept him warmer than any stove. His teeth gleamed like ice beneath his raised upper lip.

  “Whatever made you decide to save that misbegotten cur?” Whip asked, irritated all over again.

  “Could you have ridden past him and done nothing about his pain?” Shannon asked.

  Whip looked at Prettyface through narrowed eyes. The scars the dog bore showed as pale patches against the brindle of his fur. There were a lot of marks.

  “No,” Whip admitted. “At the very least I’d have put him out of his misery.”

  “You’re a yondering man,” Shannon said. “I’m the settled type. There was room in my life for something else.”

  “Most women would have wanted a baby instead of a savage mongrel with the eyes of a wolf.”

  The oven door closed with a metallic clang.

  “Be careful, the pan is hot,” Shannon said as she put it down near Whip.

  “Didn’t you?”

  “Didn’t I what?”

  “Want a baby.”

  “Silent John was hard put just keeping two souls alive,” Shannon said evasively, sitting down again. “There was nothing left over for a baby.”

  Whip took several biscuits from the pan.

  “Babies have a way of coming whether you want them or not,” he said.

  “Do tell. How many do you have?”

  Whip choked on the biscuit he was trying to swallow. He took a gulp of searing coffee, swallowed hard, and looked at Shannon with disbelieving eyes.

  “What a question,” he said.

  “You brought it up.”

  “Did I?”

  “You did. How many, Whip?”

  “Not a damned one.”

  “That you know of,” Shannon added mildly, but her eyes were dark.

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It takes an instant to make a baby and about four months for it to show. Did you ever hang around that long?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t know, do you?”

  “I know,” Whip said flatly.

  “How?”

  “Same way Silent John knew how not to get you pregnant. Are you going to share that jam or just sit on it like a mother hen with only one egg?”

  The change of subject caught Shannon with her mouth still open, staring at Whip in disbelief. She was staggered that a man like Whip was celibate. But he had just said as much.

  Same way Silent John knew how not to get you pregnant.

  No wonder Whip had changed the subject. It couldn’t have been a comfortable topic for him, for Shannon knew that Whip certainly was capable of coupling with a woman. As often as not, when he was around her, she saw the unmistakable sign of his ability pressing hard against his trousers.

  Silent John had been too old for such discomfort. The marriage had been a way to keep men like the Culpeppers at bay; a wife was more respected than a grandniece.

  “Uh…jam,” Shannon said, trying to gather her scattered wits. “Yes. Of course. Here.”

  “Thank you,” Whip said, the courtesy automatic.

  He took the jam and began spreading it over biscuits. Though Whip never appeared to move quickly, food disappeared into his mouth with astonishing speed.

  Shannon had learned after the first breakfast that Whip could eat a lot of food and still look around for more. Now she routinely made a double batch of biscuits for breakfast and didn’t expect to have any left over for lunch.

  “I’d better see to that second batch of biscuits,” Shannon muttered. “Should be about done baking.”

  “I’ll get it,” Whip said.

  “Thank you, but it’s no trouble.”

  “Don’t bang the stove door, then. The hinge is nearly broken off. I’ll try my hand at hammering out a new one as soon as I finish with the firewood.”

  Shannon felt the last of her hurt slide away, leaving her vulnerable once more to her longings. She no longer doubted that Whip would move on, leaving her behind. But while he was with her, he watched out for her more tenderly than anyone ever had.

  If she was greedy for more, it was her own fault, not his. He had told her plainly that he was a wanderer with no intention of settling down.

  “Thank you,” Shannon said. “I tried to make a new hinge from an old horseshoe, but no matter how hard I hammered…”

  She shrugged and didn’t finish the sentence.

  “Have you ever seen a blacksmith’s arms?” Whip asked dryly.

  “No.”

  “They’re bigger than mine.”

  Shannon’s eyes widened.

  Whip smiled at the look on her face. He was used to his unusual height and physical power. Shannon wasn’t. At first the contrast between his strength and her own had made Shannon uneasy. Lately, though, Whip had seen appreciation rather than fear of his strength when she watched him working.

  When Shannon pushed back from the table to get the biscuits, Prettyface’s eyes followed his mistress the short distance to the stove. She pulled out the pan and turned toward the table. As she turned, the sole of her boot caught on an uneven floor-board.

  Shannon made a startled sound and tried to regain her balance, but it was too late. Whip’s big hands grabbed her and set her upright before she could fall.

  “Are you—” began Whip.

  The rest of his words were lost in a savage snarl as Prettyface came out of the corner in a lunge and went for Whip’s throat.

  7

  WHIP pushed Shannon out of danger even as he spun to face the attacking dog. Horrified, Shannon watched Whip yank the coiled lash off his shoulder. His left arm collided with Prettyface in mid-leap.

  Man and dog went down in a snarling, cursing tangle. Prettyface ended up on top. His teeth were sunk into Whip’s left hand and the coils of leather it held.

  “No, Prettyface! No!”

  Shouting and yanking frantically, Shannon tried to drag Prettyface off Whip. The dog ignored her.

  Whip didn’t.

  “Get the hell out of the way!” he ordered.

  “But—”

  Shannon never finished her objection. With a powerful movement of his body, Whip turned over, dragging Prettyface beneath him and sending Shannon staggering away from the fight.

  She caught her balance on the old trunk full of books and looked around wildly for something to use that would subdue Prettyface. But there was nothing at hand that would free Whip before Prettyface got his feet under him again and sank his teeth into Whip’s throat.

  “Prettyface! No!”

  Her shouts had no effect.

  Struggling, flailing, man and beast slammed into the legs of the old table. It skidded and crashed against the bed, sending blankets flying. An instant later the table careened into the front door, propelled by the thrashing bodies.

  Now all Shannon could see was the corded muscles of Whip’s back and Prettyface’s hind feet raking Whip’s legs.

  “Stop it!”

  Even as she screamed, Shannon knew it wouldn’t do any good. Prettyface had no intention of surrendering.

  Shannon’s wild glance fell on the bucket of steaming water on the stove. She reached for the bucket, but a single touch told her that the water was much too hot. It would scald Whip and yet was much too hot. It would scald Whip and yet barely penetrate Prettyface’s thick coat.

  Abruptly the sounds of the struggle diminished. Shannon looked around.

  Prettyface was on top. Whip wasn’t moving very much at all.

  “Oh, God,” Shannon cried. “Whip!”

  There was no answer.

  Shannon lunged across the room and yanked away the table that was blocking the door. She dragged the shotgun from its pegs over the top of the door frame. Tears running down her face, she cocked the shotgun and turned back to shoot the dog that believed he was defending her.

  But he wasn’t. He was killing Whip.

 
“Put that damned gun down,” Whip said grimly. “I’m not going to kill your mongrel wolf. But by God I’m going to teach him some manners.”

  Shannon was too shocked at hearing Whip’s voice to tell him that Prettyface had been her target. Impatiently she wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked again, thinking tears must have blurred her view of what was happening.

  She saw the same thing she had seen before. Whip was mostly on the bottom of the pile, and he wasn’t moving very much at all. Prettyface’s muzzle was still pressed against Whip’s neck.

  Abruptly Shannon realized that the dog’s teeth were set in the bullwhip rather than in Whip’s throat.

  Relief swept through Shannon, only to give way to dismay. Whip’s left hand was jammed into the dog’s mouth along with the bullwhip. Dismay became fear when she realized that Whip’s other hand was clamped around Prettyface’s windpipe.

  Whip was slowly choking air and life out of her dog.

  “You’re killing him!” Shannon cried.

  “The hell I am. The son of a bitch is still kicking like a steer.”

  “Let go! He’s barely moving!”

  “Barely is too damn much with a beast this size.”

  Whip bore down harder with his right hand. His mouth was set in a harsh, determined line.

  “Whip!”

  He ignored Shannon, even when she grabbed his hand and tried to drag it away from Prettyface’s throat. When she set her feet and started to pry at his thumb with both hands, he gave her a glittering, narrow-eyed look.

  “Get out of the way before you get hurt,” Whip said through his teeth.

  Shannon kept clawing at his hand.

  Prettyface kicked feebly and went limp.

  Abruptly Whip released the pressure on the dog’s windpipe. Slowly the animal slid off Whip’s chest onto the floor and lay without moving, as slack as a pile of wet laundry.

  “You killed him!” Shannon cried. “Damn you, Whip! You killed him!”

  “Hell,” Whip said in disgust. “If I’d wanted to kill him, I would have broken his neck when he jumped me.”

  Wordlessly Shannon shook her head, denying Whip’s words. Sobbing quietly, she tried to go to Prettyface, only to find her way barred by Whip’s hard arm.

  “He’s not dead,” Whip said roughly. “Look at his flank. He’s breathing just fine now that my fingers are off his windpipe.”

  Hurriedly Shannon wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked at Prettyface. The dog’s flank was indeed rising and falling slowly, dragging air back into his lungs.

  “Thank God,” she whispered.

  Shannon tried to go forward again, and again found her way barred by Whip.

  “Go stand by the stove,” he said.

  “But I want to—”

  “Right now what you want doesn’t matter a whole lot,” Whip interrupted, his voice harsh. “You had your turn at controlling this beast and you couldn’t do it. It’s my turn now.”

  “But—”

  Whip looked up at Shannon.

  “Move,” he said softly.

  Too softly.

  “Don’t hurt him any more,” Shannon pleaded. But she was backing toward the stove while she spoke. Like Whip’s voice, his eyes were calm, clear, and cold as a dagger made of ice.

  Prettyface whimpered and tried to raise his head. Instantly Whip was there, holding the dog’s head against the floor, making it impossible for Prettyface to regain his feet.

  “Easy,” Whip said in a gentle tone. “Before you get up and start feeling feisty again, focus those damned throwback eyes on me and know who’s head wolf around here.”

  Prettyface whined softly. He blinked his yellow wolf’s eyes and looked around to see what was holding him down.

  The dog met Whip’s eyes, recognized him, held the man’s glance for the space of a breath…and then Prettyface looked away, silently acknowledging that Whip was the master.

  Nor did the dog attempt to get up again.

  “That’s it, Prettyface,” Whip said, stroking the dog’s head gently. “I knew you were a damn sight smarter than you looked. All you needed was proof that you weren’t the master.”

  Prettyface whined and tentatively midged Whip’s hand.

  “Hello, boy,” Whip murmured, rubbing the dog’s head, reassuring him. “We’re going to get along a lot better from now on, aren’t we?”

  A long, rough tongue swept over Whip’s bloody hand.

  “Like that, do you?” Whip laughed. “You’re a hell of a fighter, Prettyface. Now you need to learn how to be a partner, too.”

  When Whip’s fingers ran over every inch of Prettyface’s body, the dog stiffened, but he didn’t object in any other way to the man’s touch. Even when Whip probed between the sensitive pads on the dog’s feet, Prettyface didn’t so much as growl.

  Shannon was shocked.

  “All right, Prettyface,” Whip said, rubbing the dog’s ears affectionately. “I think you got the point. You take orders around here. You don’t give them.”

  Whip came off the floor with a catlike grace that was startling in such a big man. The bullwhip was still in his left hand, still coiled.

  “Up you go, boy,” Whip said.

  Prettyface came to his feet, shook himself thoroughly, and looked at Whip.

  Whip opened the cabin door.

  “Go out and rustle your breakfast instead of trying to eat me,” Whip suggested dryly.

  Prettyface looked once at Shannon, then trotted outside. Whip shut the door.

  “You broke his spirit,” she said hoarsely.

  “No, I just—”

  “You’re like the Culpeppers,” Shannon interrupted wildly.

  Her voice was cold. Her body shook with rage and fear and the aftermath of too much adrenaline.

  “The hell I—” began Whip.

  “You’re cruel and you’re brutal. You force anything weaker than you to grovel at your feet!”

  Whip took one gliding step toward Shannon, then another. His eyes were like hammered silver. Blood dripped from cuts on his left hand.

  He looked as dangerous as he was.

  Shannon’s heartbeat doubled, but she didn’t back up one step. She couldn’t. She didn’t trust her legs to hold her.

  “Prettyface,” Whip said softly, coldly, “is a spoiled, savage mongrel that weighs more than most men. He has too much wolf in him to understand anything from a man but force. So I beat him at his own game. Force. Now he’ll accept me.”

  Shannon’s chin came up defiantly, but she was smart enough not to say a word. Whip was right and both of them knew it. She just didn’t like hearing it put so bluntly.

  “As for the rest of your tirade,” Whip said, “when you give yourself to me—and you will—it won’t be because I choked you into submission. If that was all I wanted, I would have killed Prettyface the first time I walked into the cabin. Then I would have thrown you down on the floor and raped you.”

  A small sound came from the back of Shannon’s throat as she understood the raw truth of Whip’s statement. Deep inside, she had always assumed it was Prettyface’s snarling presence that had kept Whip from touching her in any way at all.

  Now Shannon knew how badly she had misread the situation. Whip was as smart and quick as he was strong.

  And he was frighteningly strong.

  “But that isn’t what I want from you,” Whip said, his voice lethally calm.

  “Wh—” Shannon’s voice broke.

  She licked her dry lips, took a quick breath, and tried again.

  “What d-do you want from me?” she asked.

  At first Shannon didn’t think Whip would answer. Then he took one last, gliding stride toward her. When he stopped, he was so close to Shannon that she couldn’t take a breath without her breasts touching his hard chest.

  Slowly, giving Shannon every chance to flinch away, Whip lifted his hands to her face.

  She didn’t move. She simply watched him with eyes that were both wary and defiant.
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br />   The bullwhip he still carried in his left hand caressed Shannon’s cheek so lightly it felt more like a breath than a touch. The supple leather coils traced her eyebrows, the straight line of her nose, her high cheekbones.

  It was the last thing Shannon had expected from Whip. The touches were so gentle she barely felt them. They shouted of Whip’s restraint.

  And they teased her even as they reassured her.

  She closed her eyes, wanting to concentrate on the elusive, shimmering sensations that shivered through her body. She took in a quick breath and smelled the wood smoke and evergreen on Whip, as well as the primal, disturbing scent of blood.

  “Whip?” Shannon whispered through trembling lips.

  His wrist flicked and the leather coils vanished. A vague thump told Shannon that the bullwhip had landed on the floor.

  Whip took the shotgun from her hands and uncocked it with a few swift, easy motions. When he replaced the weapon on its pegs over the door, Shannon numbly noted that there was blood on both of his hands.

  Whip saw the look on her face when he turned back to her.

  “It’s all right, honey girl,” he said. “You don’t need the shotgun. I won’t hurt you. I’m just trying to answer your question about what I want from you. But I don’t have any words to tell you…”

  Callused fingertips lightly traced Shannon’s hairline, the rims of her ears, the dense mahogany eyelashes quivering against her cheek, the trembling line of her lips, the pulse beating frantically in her throat.

  “Are you truly afraid of me?” Whip asked huskily.

  Shannon shook her head. “N-no.”

  “You ought to be.”

  “Why?”

  “I want what I first saw in your walk,” he said simply.

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I. I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you, all at once, no thought, no caution, no right or wrong, nothing but a hard need riding me all day, every day. And the nights…Jesus. The nights are pure, undiluted hell.”

  Shannon tried to speak. No words came out of her dry throat.

  Whip’s thumbs traced her mouth, caressing it as intimately as a kiss. Her softness lured him, and her heat, and the ragged sigh she finally gave, a sigh that was also his name.