Her hatred, in all honesty. That he had been prepared for. But her apathy toward him...
Well...
It was... insufferable.
Anger over her rejection blistered his gut. How dare she dismiss him so. What did she think he was, some lost little puppy come to lick scraps off the floor?
Well, he wasn't a lost puppy. He was a man. A man sought by every woman who had ever laid her eyes upon him. Not that he was vain about it. Not overly so, anyway. It was merely a fact he'd long grown accustomed to. A fact everyone who knew him just plainly accepted.
Women had always been partial to him.
In Hollow Gulch where O'Connell had been working the last few months, the women had singled him out the moment he rode into town - baked him fresh pies, batted their lashes at him. Hell, one gutsy blonde had even snuck into his room and hidden herself naked in his bed while he'd been out drinking.
Not that he had been interested in the blonde or any of the others. Unlike any normal, sane man, he'd sent her home as soon as he tossed some clothes on her body. And all the while she'd whispered to him the torrid, lusty things she'd do to give him pleasure.
Her salacious comments had set fire to his loins, but even so, she hadn't appealed to him in the slightest. His heart belonged to Catherine. It always had.
And he refused to sully Catherine's memory by bedding down with any other woman. That was the one vow he'd never break.
Hell, he'd given up everything he valued to see Catherine safe.
And she had banished him from her thoughts?
He saw red.
In the last five years there hadn't been an instant when he hadn't been consumed by thoughts of her. Not a minute he hadn't wondered what she was doing. How she was doing.
And she felt nothing toward him.
Nothing.
He didn't even warrant her hatred.
"Fine," O'Connell muttered at the closed door as he shrugged his duster on, then settled his Stetson on his head. He grimaced at the front of the brim that had been partially burned away by the fire. "I don't need you to feel anything for me, woman. I don't need you at all. In fact, I can put you right out of my mind, too."
Spinning on his heel, he took a step for his horse. Pain exploded across his foot and he cursed out loud as he limped away.
The woman had damned near maimed him. And all the while she felt nothing toward him.
Nothing...
What do you mean, you got over me?"
Catherine turned around to see him standing in the doorway. His face awash with shadows, she could feel his angry glare more than see it.
Go ahead and seethe, Mr. O'Callahan. Stew in your rage until your entire body becomes pruney from it.
It was terrible to take such delight in a man's misery, but delight in it she did. Catherine kept her face from betraying her glee. She'd known he couldn't resist her words. That was why she'd left the door unlocked. The last thing she wanted was for him to break it down. And knowing him, he most certainly would have done it had she tried to bar him from her house.
Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. He wouldn't escape her clutches until she had exacted five years of rejection from his rotten hide.
"Did you need something?" she asked coolly.
O'Connell forced the emotions from his face as he swept his hat from his head. How could she stand there so all-fired calm and dismiss him like an old shoe?
Well, he wasn't some old shoe, to be cast aside and forgotten. They had been more than merely intimate. The woman had actually touched his unrepentant soul. And after all the years he had tortured himself with guilt over his actions, she had forgotten him?
Oh, he wasn't about to leave here until he made her remember what they'd shared. Stepping into her house, he closed the door behind him.
"What do you mean, you got over me?" he asked again as he closed the short distance between them.
She shrugged casually. "It's been five years, Mr. O'Callahan."
As if he needed her reminder. It had been five long, gut-wrenching years of missing everything about her. Of feeling her presence, smelling her scent. Of longing to hear her voice, feel her tender caresses on his flesh.
Like an arrogant fool, he had assumed she'd missed him as well. Obviously, he'd been wrong.
Well, he wasn't going to let her know how much it bothered him. If she wanted to play this with a cool hand, he was certainly one to give it right back to her. He could hide his emotions better than anyone else alive. Indeed, how many times had that trait made her loco?
"You're right, Mrs. O'Callahan," O'Connell said in a deceptively calm voice. "It has been five long years. For the sake of old times, could you at least tell me where I might find a doctor for my foot?"
A becoming pink stained her cheeks as she glanced down to his injured member. "I'm afraid Dr. Watson died a few months back and as yet we have no replacement. But since I'm the one who burned you, I'll tend it."
"Well it would definitely appreciate that since it is throbbing."
And now that he mentioned it, the other it was throbbing, too. Especially as his gaze dipped of its own volition to her succulent breasts. His body grew even hotter and stiffer as his palm itched to caress the firm round mounds, and his mouth watered to suckle the soft pink tips until they hardened into rippled buds under his tongue.
And she felt nothing for him.
Nothing.
Stifling his growl, he vowed that that would soon change. If it was the last thing he did, he would make her remember how good they were together.
How much pleasure he could give her.
And if any other man had dared enter her bed in the last five years, the law could add the crime of murder to his wanted poster.
"If you're through ogling me," she said, "I keep my medicinal basket in the back."
"I wasn't ogling you," O'Connell muttered, unwilling to admit to her what he'd been doing.
She headed down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house. "Then please forgive me," Catherine said over her shoulder. "I guess after five years, I've forgotten what an ogle looks like."
Biting back his response, O'Connell limped his way down the narrow hallway, past the stairs. He looked around at the burgundy walls and the paintings lining the hallway. She had a beautiful home. He just wished he'd been the one to give it to her.
Even worse, a homey feel enveloped her boardinghouse.
There had been a time once, long ago, when he had dreamed of having such a place to call home. And the thought of sharing such a place with Catherine had been his idea of paradise.
But fate had turned her back on him and he had long given up that delusion. He could never have a life with her. He knew that.
"Nice place you have here," he said.
"Thank you. I made the down payment on it with the money you left behind."
"See?" he said defensively as he limped. "I wasn't all bad."
"Which is why I don't hate you."
O'Connell cursed under his breath. Back to square one. That hadn't helped his case the least little bit.
He wanted her anger, her hatred. He wanted... no, he corrected, he needed her to feel something for him. Something other than apathy.
There had to be some way to stir her up.
He paused in the doorway of the kitchen as she crossed the floor to put the apron and glass in a wooden trash receptacle. "If you'll sit at the table and remove your boot, I'll be right back with the burn salve."
She disappeared into a room off the kitchen.
O'Connell crossed the floor to the table. He set his hat down on the table, shrugged off his duster, then straddled the wooden bench seat and did as she ordered.
Grimacing in pain, he removed his scorched sock. He had to admit his foot had looked better. And it had most definitely felt better.
He blew air at his throbbing toes, noting the reddish skin that was already showing signs of blistering.
Damn, but it hurt. Even more s
Being around Catherine could be quite dangerous to one's health. Though, to be fair to her, he'd never seen her clumsy around anyone but him.
Then again, he'd never really minded her clumsiness, since she had such wonderful ways of making amends for it.
His breath caught in his throat at the memory of how she had made amends for his nose. Closing his eyes, he could still see her lowering herself down on him, feel her mouth teasing his flesh. Her teeth nibbling him all over.
And his body grew harder, hotter, until he could barely stand it.
Lord above, but she had such a sweet little mouth that tasted like honey and felt like hot silk as it slid over his flesh.
It really was true a body couldn't feel pain and pleasure simultaneously. Because when she teased his flesh with her tongue and teeth, all his pain evaporated like dew on a hot July morning.
Catherine returned to the kitchen, carrying a small wicker basket in her hand. She placed it on the table beside his hat, then leaned over to examine his foot. A stern frown drew her brows together. "Did I do all that?"
"Yes, you did," he said petulantly.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'd best get some butter for it." As she reached for the porcelain butter jar on the table, she accidentally brushed the wicker basket off the side.
It landed straight on his injured foot.
O'Connell sucked his breath in between his teeth as pain exploded up his leg.
"I'm sorry," she repeated as she bent over to retrieve the basket.
His gaze feasted hungrily on the site of her round bottom as she fished for the basket under the table. Oh, but she had such a nice, round bottom. One that felt incredible under his hands, or against his loins.
He forgot all about his foot until she straightened, teetered ever so slightly, then grabbed his injured foot to steady herself.
This time he cursed out loud.
Color exploded across her face. "I'm - "
"Don't," he snapped, cutting her off. "I know you didn't mean to, just please give my foot time enough to recuperate before you do anything else to it."
Her cheeks darkened even more as she set the basket back on the table. "It's your own fault, you know."
"How is that?"
"You make me nervous," she confessed.
"I make you nervous?" he asked in disbelief. If anyone had a right to be nervous, it should be him, since he never knew what injury she might inflict on him next.
"Yes, you do. The way you sit there and stare at me like I'm some prime roast and you haven't eaten anything in a week. It's quite disconcerting, Mr. O'Callahan. If you must know."
He stopped fanning his foot and looked up at her. "Why did you never tell me that before?"
"I used to not mind the way you looked at me."
"And now?"
"I mind it and I wish you'd stop."
O'Connell locked his jaw at her words. There had to be some way to chisel away the ice around her.
Of course, he'd never in his life had to practice chiseling ice away from a woman. Women had always melted in his presence. They had only shown a token resistance before lifting their skirts to him.
Catherine had been the only one he'd ever courted. But then, she'd always been different in his book. Her shy innocence had been what captivated him. The way her smile carried all the warmth of the sun in it.
Pete had mocked him for his love of her. "The woman's as plain as yesterday's bread."
But to him, she'd always been beautiful.
Catherine leaned over him and gently spread the butter on his foot. Her light touch shook him to his core, and a thousand needles of pleasure tore through him.
In spite of himself, he smiled. Her ministrations on his foot reminded him of how they first met.
He'd just turned nineteen and had only been working for her father a few weeks. The main gate to her house had been damaged by a storm and he'd been trying to patch it when all of a sudden she had come riding up over the hill like the Devil himself was chasing her. He had barely ducked out of the way before her horse leapt over him.
The post he'd been hammering into the ground slipped sideways and as he tried to grab it, the hammer had fallen from his hand and crashed down on his toes, breaking the little one. If that hadn't been painful enough, the entire post had also fallen on him.
She had instantly turned around and come back to check on him. Even now he could see her in the dark green riding habit that had no doubt cost more than a year's worth of his pay as she helped him push the post off his legs. Without any thought to her dress, she had knelt down on the muddy ground, carefully removed his boot, and checked on his toe even while he told her not to.
She had insisted that since she broke it, she should tend it.
That had been the first time in his life anyone had ever truly been kind to him without expecting something back in return.
Later that night when she brought out a tray of steak, potatoes, and biscuits to the bunkhouse he shared with the rest of the ranch hands, he'd known he was in love.
She had looked like an angel coming through the door with that large silver tray in her hands.
And that stupid daisy she'd put on it... The other men had mocked him for weeks after that. But he hadn't cared.
Nothing had mattered to him, except her smile.
"You're doing it again," Catherine snapped, drawing his attention back to the present as she reached for her burn ointment. Her touch even more gentle, she spread it over his burned toes.
"Doing what?" he asked.
"Ogling me."
O'Connell smiled at her. "Do you know why I'm ogling you?"
"I can't imagine."
"Because you're still the most beautiful woman on earth."
Disbelief was etched onto her face as she straightened and looked at him. "Is that why you left me?"
"No."
"Then tell me why."
3
O'Connell barely caught himself before he spilled the truth out. Now as then, he couldn't stand the thought of her knowing what he'd been.
What he'd become.
He'd never been proud of what desperation and family obligation had led him to. He knew he should have walked away from Pete and his crazy schemes years ago. But every time he thought about hurting Pete, he remembered his childhood, when Pete had been the only thing that stood between him and starvation.
The world was a harsh, cold place for two orphans alone, and filled with unscrupulous people who would quickly take advantage of them. But Pete, who was seven years older than him, had always kept him safe.
If only Pete could let him go. Unfortunately, his big brother saw them as inseparable twins joined at the hip.
And no matter what he did to escape, his brother managed to track him down like some possessed bloodhound.
No, there was no way he could ever have her while Pete trailed him. Sooner or later, his brother would show up and use her as leverage against him - just as he'd done five years ago in Nevada.
O'Connell could only stand strong against Pete when just the two of them were involved.
Catherine made him weak. Vulnerable.
Besides, she was a good woman, with a good heart and he would rather she think him a sorry good-for-nothing lowlife, than ever learn she'd married an outlaw. No good could come of her knowing the truth.
So he answered her question with the first stupid answer that occurred to him. "I don't know."
She arched one dark brown brow at him as she lifted her gaze from his foot to his face. "You don't know?"
"It just seemed like the right thing to do," he offered as a consolation.
By the irate look on her face, he realized too late he should have just kept his mouth shut.
Catherine narrowed her eyes on him. "Why don't you just go and..." her voice trailed off.
He waited for her to finish.
She didn't. Instead, she stared strangely at his right arm.
"And?" he prompted.
She stepped around the bench until she rested by his side. She grabbed at the sleeve of his black shirt, and bent down to look closer at it. The contact brought her head right up under his nose. His gut wrenched. She still smelled like springtime. Her hair held that same delectable scent of fresh flowers and warmth.
And right then, all he wanted to do was lay her down on the kitchen table, lift her skirt up, and bury himself deep inside her warm body.
It took all of his willpower not to yield to that desire as the scent of her circled him, making him dizzy. Hungry. Inciting him beyond thought or reason.
A full minute passed before he realized she was staring at his blood on her hand.
"You're bleeding?" she asked.
Unwilling to explain to her that Pete had shot him as he ran off with the stolen money, he rose to his feet. "I probably should be going now."
"Sit!" The sharp tone coming from her was so unexpected and out of character that he actually obeyed.
"Take your shirt off and let me see what you've done now."
"Yes, ma'am," he murmured sarcastically as he unbuttoned his shirt and obliged her.
Catherine opened her basket, then made the mistake of glancing back to him.
His slow, languid movements captured her gaze as those long, strong fingers of his worked the buttons through the black cambric. She had always loved those hands. The way they felt laced in hers, the pleasure and comfort they had always managed to give her.
Her throat dried at the memory.
He opened his shirt, then set to work on the buttons of his white union suit. And with every white button that opened, she saw more and more of his perfect, tawny flesh.
She had forgotten just how nerve-wracking the sight of his bare skin could be. The years had done nothing but make his muscles leaner, more defined. And all too well she remembered what it felt like to slide her hand over those taut ripples. The way his hard stomach felt sliding against her own as he held himself above her and drove her into paradise with long, luscious strokes.
Her body growing hot, it took all her concentration to force herself to reach for the makeshift bandage on his right biceps. His arm flexed seductively as her fingers brushed his skin, and a jolt of molten lust tore through her. There were few things on earth that felt better than those hard, strong biceps flexing beneath her hands.
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