“Mrs. Forrester?”
“Yes, Hank.” She put the lid on the skillet and went to the tent entrance.
Hank grinned at her. “Catfish.”
“Bless you, Hank!” Rebecca laughed, delighted. They were already cleaned, and he carried them in a bucket for once. “I didn’t expect you today.”
“Fishin’ ain’t huntin’,” he said. “Can we dance? I already washed.”
Rebecca hesitated. How long before Clark came home for dinner? The fish would fry quickly; surely there was time. And if he caught them dancing? Would he be jealous? The urge to find out overruled her common sense.
“Sure, Hank,” she said, smiling. “But I need to get my cornbread baking first.”
“I can help, ma’am,” the boy said.
He did more than help. In a surprisingly short time, he had the skillet resting on hot coals in an impression near the fire with a few more coals on top of the lid.
He stood up, brushing off his hands. “Do you know how to fry the fish?”
“I think I can manage,” Rebecca said.
Hank grinned. “Then let’s dance.”
He helped her move the table aside then shook out his arms as if limbering up for some test of strength. He took her hand and put his other hand gently on her waist—and stepped on her toe.
“I’m awful sorry, Mrs. Forrester,” he moaned.
“Hank, the reason you step on a girl’s toes is because she can’t guess where you’re going.”
“Well, how could she guess that when I don’t even know?”
“You need to know, Hank,” she said. “You need to decide on a reasonable pattern and stick to it. I wouldn’t try anything fancy.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He started again. Rebecca hummed a slow tune, designed as much to make Hank relax as to serve as rhythm for dancing. After a few minutes he seemed to get the hang of it. She could predict that he would take two steps forward then turn to the side and managed to keep her toes out from under his.
After several minutes she ended the tune and stepped away from him. “Very good, Hank.”
“It was good, wasn’t it? I was starting to think I wouldn’t never learn.”
Rebecca had been sure of it. “Of course, you’ll learn, Hank.”
“I really appreciate the dancin’ and all,” he said, backing toward the tent entrance. “I’ll see you tomorrow, ma’am.” He nodded to her and backed directly into Clark.
“Sorry, sir,” he said, spinning around. “Excuse me. Ah, night, ma’am. Sir.” He practically turned and fled.
Clark came into the tent, one eyebrow raised. “Let me guess. Your mighty hunter?”
“Major Raymond’s son, Hank.” Two minutes sooner and he could have seen his wife in the mighty hunter’s arms. Sort of. Would she have gotten more than a raised eyebrow then?
She dismissed the thought, disgusted with herself. What kind of wife tried to make her husband jealous? Still she couldn’t help thinking it would indicate some degree of interest, which he didn’t seem to display otherwise.
She realized she was still standing in the middle of the tent. Clark was eyeing the table that had been moved out of the way. Ask me why it’s there. But he didn’t.
“Here, let’s move that back,” she said, stepping to his side. He smelled of soap and reminded her suddenly of the evening after the burned homestead. He had been so sweet to her that evening. She remembered how he had touched her cheek—and how he hadn’t kissed her. She should have been paying more attention. He had been trying to tell her even then that he had no desire for her.
“Rebecca?”
She looked up sharply. Clark had lifted the table, and she was standing in his way. “Sorry,” she said, moving aside. “I’ll put the fish on.”
“Fish? From the Raymond boy?”
Rebecca busied herself with preparing the skillet. “He brought them by just now.”
There he had it. If there had been any uncertainty she had just eased his mind. There was nothing to be jealous about. In fact, he could apologize for harboring such thoughts. She glanced in his direction. He was positioning the chairs beside the table.
Without another word she took the skillet out to the fire. How hard did she have to be hit over the head? He wasn’t jealous. He hadn’t caught them dancing, but even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. Hank was, after all, just a boy. It wasn’t a good test of Clark’s feelings.
And she shouldn’t be testing them anyway. Though what she should be doing, she had no idea.
She heard Clark come up behind her. “Can I help?” he asked.
“If you’ll watch the fish, I’ll check the cornbread.” The sizzling fish gave her an excuse not to look at him.
“All right,” he said, crouching close beside her.
She inhaled his scent along with the wood smoke. The temptation to turn into his arms was too great, and she moved away.
The cornbread looked done on top but she worried about the center. She replaced the lid and hoped it would continue cooking a little even without the coals on top. With nothing else to do while the fish cooked, she sat back on her heels and watched Clark.
He had fried fish before. With a combination of shaking and prodding, he kept the fish from sticking to the pan. He watched them intently, keeping them in just the right amount of heat, oblivious to her presence.
His profile gave her a perfect view of his jaw. Her fingers itched to trace the long, lean line. He hadn’t shaved since his return, though she could guess he had shaved that morning. The firelight cast the dark hairs in relief, tempting her fingers even more.
“Did you bathe in the creek?” Rebecca bit her lip. How could thoughts slip out of her mouth without asking permission?
“Yes,” he said without turning. “I think I traded prairie dust for creek mud, but it was refreshing.”
This subject overstimulated her imagination. And it was purely imagination, though she had seen him without his shirt a couple of times. She should ask something else, change the subject. The trouble was, her imagination wouldn’t allow her to think about anything else.
“Would you like to?”
Lord, yes! “Like to what?” she croaked.
“Like to go for a swim. I’d guard your privacy.”
Her mind went racing over the possibilities. Alone. At twilight. And she would be naked.
“Yes,” she said.
Chapter Twelve
Clark regretted his offer almost immediately. The innocent girl was trusting him to protect her, and he was having lustful thoughts before she even removed a stitch of clothing. How was he going to stand by and watch her bathe? By not watching, he decided.
She brought the plates for the fish, and he followed her into the tent with the skillet of cornbread. Maybe if he stalled long enough, it would get dark. It wouldn’t be safe to swim in the dark. Surely her father had a washtub or something she could borrow. She could take her bath tomorrow while he was gone. And too busy to think about it.
No. He would never be that busy.
He glanced at Rebecca as he took his seat at the table. She smiled, pleased with the prospect of a bath. He hated to disappoint her.
Perhaps a discussion on the current Indian troubles would put her in the mood to stay home. “Governor Crawford’s been authorized to enlist a volunteer cavalry,” he said.
She cut out a chunk of the cornbread and passed it to him. “I thought General Sherman was against it for fear of another Sand Creek.”
Clark nodded. “They won’t be allowed to campaign on their own. They’ll be under the command of the regular army.”
“Does the situation warrant more troops?”
“I’m afraid so,” he said. “I understand Fort Wallace was virtually under siege last week. They got reinforcements from Custer’s troops, which leaves him fewer men. Pond Creek Station has been struck twice now. Captain Barnitz took a company out after them this last time, and the Indians turned and charged squadron styl
e. Seven soldiers were killed.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“Extremely. The same Indians attacked a supply train headed for Custer’s camp on the Republican.”
“The volunteers will at least put more men in the field.”
Clark nodded his agreement. It seemed a shame to ruin a nice meal with such grim reports. Somehow he had expected her to be less interested and more frightened. He should have known better.
“Will you be going out again?” she asked.
“That depends on your father. He wants the barracks up by winter, and every soldier on patrol means one less carpenter for the fort.”
She lapsed into silence. He watched her while he ate. She was thoughtful. Had he discouraged her?
“Did you ever find out about the family we found?” she asked after a few minutes.
“Yes.” If she had laid her hand on the table he would have settled his on top of it. “They only had the one child.”
She nodded solemnly. He could guess what she was thinking. There was no little child suffering captivity. There was no hope of a child to return to grandparents who had lost so much.
They had made short work of the meal, and Clark thought Rebecca’s mood was sufficiently melancholy. “Do you still want to go to the creek?” he asked gently.
She looked up, her face slowly brightening. “Yes. You knew just what would cheer me up.”
Clark thought he should be disappointed, but her smile made it impossible. “Get your things together. We’ll want to be back before dark.” When she hesitated, he added, “I’ll clean up here.”
She jumped up and ran to her trunk. He tried not to notice the frilly white garments she was sorting through. He went in search of a cloth to cover the remaining cornbread as a way of turning his back.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said. “Among all this camp gear, why do you have your mother’s china?”
“I brought it back on the train,” he said, scraping the fish bones together. “When my mother died, her sister took the china. Now my aunt’s husband is gone, and she’s moving in with her youngest daughter.”
“And the family wanted you to have your mother’s china?”
Clark paused a moment before answering. “My aunt wanted me to have it, more from loyalty to my mother’s memory than any love for me.”
She turned to look at him, and he wondered if he had said more than he should have. “But you also got your uncle’s chess set”
“Yes. But I understand that had been among his last requests. And even then it wasn’t without opposition.” It was amazing to him how his cousins drew up battle lines where he was concerned.
“Families,” Rebecca said, with a touch of the south on the vowels. “Aren’t they just wonderful?”
Clark laughed. She went back to gathering her clothes, and he took the bones out and scraped them into the dying fire. He was grateful to Rebecca for making him laugh. He had few reasons to smile without her in his life.
He carried the plate back to the table to stack it with the others and found Rebecca waiting, a large bundle in her arms. “I can wash the dishes by lamplight when we come back,” she said. “Let’s go.”
He took a minute to slide everything off his utility belt except the gun holster and strapped it on. “Can I help you carry anything?”
“I can’t share this load without dropping something,” she said. “Just lead me to the creek.”
With one arm hovering near her back ready to steady her if she stumbled on the uneven ground, he walked slowly toward Big Creek. In the heat of the day the trees along the bank had been inviting. Now, with this woman at his side, he thought of snakes and concealed predators of the four- and two-legged varieties. Bringing Rebecca here seemed like a bad idea.
He reminded himself of how good the cool water had felt on his parched skin, but picturing Rebecca having the same pleasure made his body hotter than it had been in the heat of the day.
At the creek he led her through the trees to the spot he had found. The bottom of the stream was a slab of rock, making it possible to wash without standing ankle-deep in mud. Rebecca placed her bundle far enough from the water to stay dry and sat down on a log. She hiked her skirts up to her knees and bent to remove her shoes.
Clark looked away. “I’ll scout around a little and make sure nobody else is nearby.”
He congratulated himself on his quick thinking. He could probably make this last a good ten minutes. Within five minutes, he found himself hurrying back to Rebecca. There was no sign of anyone else in the area, but he felt uncomfortable leaving her alone.
He found her standing in water up to her thighs. She had taken off every stitch of clothing. Somehow he had expected her to leave something on. That was foolish, he realized, if she planned to wash. Still, he thought she’d be more inhibited.
And she probably would be if she turned and caught him staring at her. But he couldn’t help it. The pants she had worn had given away the sweet curve of her hips but hadn’t completely prepared him for how her soft bottom looked clad only in creamy skin and soap bubbles. It made him long to know what her breasts looked like.
One careful step to his right revealed a hint of curve when she raised her arm. He tried to control his breathing which was getting dangerously close to panting, but his racing heart made it difficult. It was a wonder she didn’t hear him.
She bent over and lifted handfuls of water to rinse the soap from her legs, and he saw her breast in perfect profile. Water dripped from the puckered nipple. The tension in his gut tightened another notch.
She splashed water over the rest of her body, and he realized he was getting a better view of her round breasts and flat stomach. Had he been moving without knowing it? He tore his eyes away from the vision that was his wife and studied the rest of his surroundings. No. He was sure he was standing where the sight of her had stopped him. Except for that one calculated step, of course.
She had turned. Was still turning. He could glimpse the dark nest between her legs. Was she turning to avoid some breeze that chilled her wet skin? He would welcome a hint of the same breeze! When she turned one step too far and saw him staring at her, would she scream?
He should step back. He should turn away. And he would. In just a second.
“Clark?”
Her voice brought his head up. At least she hadn’t screamed. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. He didn’t even try to speak.
“Could you bring me the towel?”
He watched her walk to the edge of the stream and stop, her tiny feet balancing on a rock on the bank. He must have stared at her for a full minute. The towel. He could bring it to her. His body seemed unable to respond except in lust.
He willed himself to move. He wasn’t an animal. He didn’t need to give in to every urge. He was, or used to be, a gentleman.
However, he was not, as she seemed to think, made of stone. He brought her the towel, nearly tossed it to her, and turned away. Or tried to.
“Clark?”
He turned back, trying desperately to keep his eyes on her face. Why didn’t she use the towel to cover herself? All she seemed interested in drying was her hair.
“Could you carry me up the bank? I’m afraid I’ll slip in the mud and be dirtier than when I started.”
It made a kind of sense. If you discounted the lustful thoughts brewing in his head.
He took a step closer, mindful of his own footing. He started to reach around her and changed his mind. He pulled the towel out of her hands. She gave it up with some surprise. He wrapped the small piece of cloth around her, then scooped her into his arms.
The towel hadn’t been as helpful as he had hoped. Both hands managed to encounter bare skin, and the towel dropped to the ground when he set her on her feet. It took her forever to pick it up. But it took him even longer to turn away.
With his back to her the fog in his brain started to lift, even though the ache remained. He tried to thin
k of sobering events, his uncle’s funeral, his aunt’s scorn, the burned-out homestead, older memories of carnage. His brain dismissed them as unimportant. Instead it pictured Rebecca, rubbing the towel over her pink skin, drying the dark nipples. She seemed intent on encouraging his imagination. She hummed as she dressed.
He didn’t trust his guess of how much time had passed when she stepped up beside him. She touched his arm. “Thanks,” she said.
He couldn’t bring himself to answer beyond a grunt of acknowledgement. He started toward the fort, unwilling to risk touching her. He shouldn’t blame her. Though he had trouble believing she was so innocent she didn’t know better than to undress in front of a man.
Or perhaps she had stood naked in front of so many men it didn’t even bother her. She hadn’t seemed the least self-conscious. And her behavior since he’d met her had bordered on brazen.
“Clark, you’re making me run.”
With a steadying sigh, he slowed his steps. But he didn’t dare look at her. He would be too tempted to shake some sense into her. Or better yet, kiss her senseless.
What kind of game was she playing? Was she testing him? He’d love to believe she was deliberately tempting him, but he had seen her flirtatious smiles, knew she wouldn’t hesitate to make the first move if she wanted a kiss.
No, this had been something different. Extreme innocence. Or deliberate torture. Knowing what he did about Rebecca, he would put his money on torture. Though if that was the case, she had made quite a gamble. Unless she didn’t realize how hard it was for a man to resist such accessible temptation.
“Clark!” This time she grabbed his arm and he stopped. “Why are you in such a hurry?”
“It’s been a long day,” he said, barely looking at her. They were on the edge of the camp, and he considered going on without her. Instead, he took her arm and urged her forward, trying to keep his own pace reasonably slow. At the tent entrance he dropped her arm.
“I have a few things I need to check on.” He left her before she had a chance to respond. He would walk it off. Or take another dunk in the creek. And make sure he didn’t come back until she was sound asleep.
The Unlikely Wife Page 17
