Hetta wrapped the sheet firmly around herself. She didn't want to imagine what Owen meant by eatable.
"You've got long, slender legs," he said. "I like tall women."
Hetta hurried inside the log room. She meant to get into her nightgown as quickly as possible.
"Your neck is long and elegant. It holds your head up at a proud angle. A short neck would make you look dumpy even with your elegant figure."
She'd never heard of any man talking to a woman like this. She was certain William wouldn't. Couldn't.
"I don't know about your feet," he said. "People went barefoot half the year where I came from," he said. "You couldn't do that here. You'd step on a dozen thorns in less than an hour."
Normal men didn't pay attention to a woman's feet, did they?
"But it's your curves that catch and hold a man's attention. You're tall and slender, but you're not flat."
She was horrified to find her breasts starting to tingle as she dried them. This had never happened. Not like this.
"A man likes to see gently curving hips, high, firm breasts. It makes him--"
"Will you stop!" Every word seemed to attach itself to her body and stir up feelings she didn't know how to control.
"I thought all women liked compliments," he said.
"Not when she's being talked about like a side of beef." She finished drying her legs and reached for the nightgown.
"I never talked about a cow like this."
He sounded so shocked she couldn't help laughing. "I hope not. Your cousin would probably have locked you up in the crazy house."
She tied her nightgown over her breasts, put her feet into her slippers, and sighed with relief. She didn't feel so defenseless anymore. She looked out to see him bending over the fire. "What are you doing?"
"Heating more water."
"Why?"
"So I can take a bath."
"I promise I'll stay inside."
"You can't. I have to finish drying your hair."
Chapter Twenty
Hetta couldn't explain why her feet carried her to where Owen stood waiting for her. She'd had no intention of leaving her room in her bedclothes. She certainly had no intention of letting him dry her hair.
"Sit down close to the fire," he said.
And she did. Just as if she didn't have a mind of her own.
"Turn around and tip your head back."
Maybe her feet knew there was nothing dangerous about sitting with her back to Owen, her head lolling back. Her head would have said it was better to go to bed with wet hair.
"Do you have a brush or a comb?"
She held up a hand that contained both. She didn't even remember picking them up.
"I'll comb it first to get out any tangles."
He carefully worked his way though her hair until the comb ran smoothly from her scalp to the tip of her hair without pulling or catching.
"Where did you learn to do that?" she asked.
"I had a sister," he said. "My mother was gone by then. There was nobody else to take care of her."
"You never mentioned a sister."
He didn't respond, just continued to run the comb smoothly through her hair.
"Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"
"No."
He put down the comb and picked up the brush. She could feel him brushing her hair in such a way that he pulled the hair well away from her body, then let the brush bristles gradually release it so it would float through the air a few strands at a time and dry much more quickly.
"You've done this a lot, haven't you?"
"Enough."
"Why?"
"I told you, because there was nobody else."
He seemed to be talking more to himself than to her, remembering a past he didn't mean to share. She wondered what chain of events could have produced a man so riddled with contradictions. No one in Pinto Junction would believe that the man who'd beaten Newt Howren in a fistfight would be drying her hair with a gentleness one would have sworn could only belong to a woman.
"Turn around and drop your head down so I can dry the underside of your hair."
She did as he asked.
"You have beautiful hair."
"You told me."
"It's like heavy silk."
"You said it was like mink."
"It has the color and sheen of mink, but it feels like silk. Why do you keep it braided and coiled under your hat?"
"So it won't get caught in the brush or some tree when I'm chasing a cow. It could break my neck."
"Did I tell you that you have a beautiful neck?"
"Ummm. Long and elegant."
The heat from the fire was making her sleepy. The soothing sound of Owen's voice--he was murmuring now more than talking--was making it difficult to concentrate. She felt as if she wanted to ... The feel of Owen's lips on the back of her neck brought her out of her lethargy. "What are you doing?"
"Did anyone ever tell you that the nape of your neck was practically irresistible?"
"No."
No sane man extolled the nape of a woman's neck. She was certain William would have bitten his tongue before he would have let such a comment come out of his mouth. As for kissing it ... well, she couldn't think of any reprimand suitably stern.
"The men of Pinto Junction have a lot to learn if they're going to appreciate their women properly." His kisses didn't stop. His lips traveled from the base of her neck, up the center, to the hairline, down one side and up the other until they came to a stop at an ultra-sensitive spot about an inch above the base of her neck. Hetta wasn't sure what he was doing, but she was certain that if he didn't stop she would simply dissolve.
Summoning all her energy, she pulled away. "I think my hair is dry now."
"I'm not finished," Owen said.
She held out her hand for the brush. "I can do the rest."
"It'll be more fun if I do it."
The old Owen was back, smiling seductively, his eyes dancing with merriment. She had to pull herself together while she still could.
"I'm too tired for fun."
"Are you sure?" His look turned positively roguish.
"I've got to finish drying my hair and get to bed."
"What's your hurry?" He took two pots of hot water off the fire and poured them into the bath.
"I'm tired. Besides, I have to be in bed before you start your bath."
"Why?"
"Decent women don't go around peeping at men while they're taking a bath."
Owen grinned. "You're welcome to look all you want."
"Why do you like to tease me so much? We both know you're not interested in me."
"That's two questions. Which answer do you want first?"
"Neither. I'm going to bed."
"I'll talk really loud."
She stood up. "I already know the answers."
"I like to tease you because you're such a prude," Owen said to her back as she walked to her log room. "You act as if anything physical between a man and a woman is unnatural."
"I don't think it's unnatural," she answered without turning around. "But I do think it's an improper subject of conversation for two people who hardly know each other."
"The first day we met you told me you knew everything about men like me."
She turned and was shocked to see he'd already taken off his shirt. She spun back around. "You're nothing like what I thought you would be," she said, louder than necessary, hoping the sound of her voice would help drive out the image of his broad chest, the muscles in his arms.
"I hope that's good."
"It is."
But was it good for her? The more admirable he became, the harder it was for her to pretend she didn't like him, to pretend she didn't wish he liked her. She was absolutely certain they couldn't successfully live together for the rest of the summer, not to mention a lifetime.
"Don't you want to hear my answer to your other question?"
The thought of spending a lifet
ime with Owen had rattled her so badly, she couldn't even remember the other question.
"Tell me tomorrow."
"I'd rather tell you tonight."
"Okay, but don't blame me if I'm asleep before you finish."
"I'll blame myself," Owen said. "You're a mass of contradictions. You say you're an independent woman, yet you let what other people expect of you determine what you do. You say you love this ranch more than anything, but as soon as it fell on hard times you turned your back on it and moved into town."
Hetta charged back through the doorway. "I did not desert my ranch. In case you haven't noticed, it burned down. Rustlers stole most of my cows. I had to find a job and support myself until I could figure out how to start over."
"I would have expected you to stay and fight."
"How? With what?"
"You're a smart woman. You'd have figured it out."
"That's easy for you to say. You weren't here."
"No. I was helping the Confederacy lose the war about then."
She didn't know which was harder, facing the superior numbers and firepower of the Union army or facing the superior numbers of the rustlers and the firepower of lightning. Maybe it didn't matter. They'd both lost.
"It must have been devastating to lose your father, mother, and the ranch in such a short period of time." He had sat down to remove his boots. "You must have felt very lonely."
Patrick Gwynne hadn't been a good father, a faithful husband, or an honorable man, but he was her father and she had grieved for him. It was worse when her mother died less than a year later and lightning destroyed her home. She'd felt too helpless and hopeless to attempt to stand on her own, too mentally and emotionally exhausted to figure a way out, but she'd always intended to move back.
"Okay. You retreated, but you've come back. That shows you're strong, with just enough vulnerability to be intriguing."
"Intriguing?"
"A woman without vulnerability is a frightening thing to a man. What could he possibly have to offer her?"
Clad only in his pants, Owen got to his feet. When his fingers moved to the buttons at his waist, Hetta ducked into the log room. There were some things she wasn't strong enough to face.
"But that's only part of what I like about you," Owen continued. "I never know what you're going to do. You're a continual surprise."
Hetta didn't mind being an enigma to Owen, but she didn't like discovering she didn't know herself any better than he did.
"You're smart, too, interested in something besides yourself, your clothes, and your looks."
That wasn't hard since she had no looks, no money, and no life.
"You're not the most beautiful woman in Pinto Junction, but in other ways you've got it over every woman within a hundred miles."
He had to be the only man who thought that.
"You've got the most perfect feminine form I've ever seen."
She wasn't quite sure what he meant by feminine form. Nobody in Pinto Junction used words like that.
"But I've already told you that."
"When did you tell me?" She shouldn't have asked, but she wanted to know.
"When I told you I couldn't resist kissing the nape of your neck. If you weren't so standoffish, you'd have a dozen young cowboys hanging around your door."
"I'm not standoffish."
"You drive men away before they can get to know you."
"I do not."
"You look at them like they're up to no good."
Most of them were.
"Then you tell them you know all about men like them."
"I never knew anybody who could make up fantastic stories as fast as you can."
"I'm not making stuff up. You glare at people so they don't dare look you in the eye."
"I've known these people all my life. I don't--"
"Ben and Myrl say the same thing. If any man so much as smiled at you, you froze him out or turned your back on him so often he gave up."
Her father had told her no man could be interested in her except for the momentary pleasure he could get from her body.
"Maybe I had a reason," she said in an unsteady voice that was.
"Maybe you thought you had a reason. It's about time you realized you don't."
"Supposing you're right, what was I supposed to do?"
"Wash my back and I'll tell you."
He couldn't really think she would wash his back. Just the thought of touching him made her feel weak. She made up her mind to get in bed and go to sleep, but her feet didn't move. Her slippers might just as well have been nailed to the floor.
"Are you coming?" he called.
She opened her mouth to refuse, but no sound came out.
"You're afraid, aren't you?"
"No." The choked sound that came out of her mouth made her seem petrified.
"I'm in water up to my chest. There's nothing to embarrass you."
"I don't know what kind of woman you're used to, but I'm not in the habit of bathing men."
"I didn't think you were. I thought I'd show you how much fun you're missing."
"Decent women don't indulge in that kind of fun."
"How do you know? Have you asked?"
She felt like an idiot, standing in a dark bedroom, arguing with a man in a bathtub. "Of course I haven't. They'd think I was crazy."
"I wouldn't."
"But you do all kinds of things normal people don't do."
"If you let other people make the rules in your life, you'll be miserable."
"There are some things that people just don't do."
"Because they're afraid."
"I'm not."
"You're afraid that being close to me will cause you to do something you'll regret."
"I am not."
"Prove it."
"I don't have to prove anything to you."
"Prove it to yourself."
Was she afraid she'd lose control? Yes, but not in the way he thought. She was afraid she'd admit she liked Owen so much, she would wish he liked her in return. She realized now she'd been avoiding him from the very beginning because she was afraid of her reaction to him.
At the same time, something else inside her had recognized a kindred spirit and had refused to be caged any longer. She didn't know why Owen should be the man to make her forget all the promises she'd made to herself, all the warnings she'd repeated until she believed them. If she didn't want to feel like a coward for the rest of her life, she had to face him.
The scene that met her eyes outside seemed unreal: a man sitting in a bathtub in the moonlight. For a moment he was so still he looked as if he'd been carved from marble. Even his blond hair appeared colorless in the pale moonlight. He looked up, saw her, and smiled.
"I thought you weren't coming."
"All of us have to face trials," she said. "It looks like facing you in the bathtub is mine. After this, you'll know I'm not afraid, and maybe leave me alone."
"I'm not sure I want to."
She didn't understand the look he gave her. It wasn't his trademark brilliant smile. There was something almost wistful about it, as though there were something he might like but knew he couldn't have. His eyes seemed to burn with intensity rather than sparkle with merriment. It was a look so unlike him, she could almost believe he was serious. Her unruly heart leapt with excitement. She didn't understand how any part of her could be so stupid as to believe that Owen Wheeler looked on her as a woman and found her to his liking.
True, he'd said some nice things about her, helped her to believe in herself and not be afraid of the future, but he'd done that as a friend. He had this great well of self-confidence, and he didn't understand why others didn't have it, too. He had so much that came to him naturally--looks, charm, ability--he couldn't understand what it was like to be unable to think of oneself as equal to everybody else.
"I've never washed a man's back before," she said as she came toward him. "You'll have to tell me what to do."
"Just w
ork up a lather and scrub."
Her feet slowed as she reached the tub. Once she realized the water that reached almost to Owen's nipples was opaque, her body relaxed, and she took her first deep breath.
"Do you want me to use the same soap?" she asked.
"I see no reason why women should be the only ones to smell nice. I like my horse, but I don't want to smell like him."
She wondered what William would have said. He never smelled like a horse, but she was certain he wouldn't have used perfumed soap. The more she learned about Owen, the less she understood.
He handed her the soap and a scrap of material to use as a washcloth. "I've been looking forward to this all day."
That surprised her. "Do your women always bathe you?"
"No."
"What made you think I'd be different?"
He looked up at her with his old, by now familiar, devilish smile. "I didn't know, but I was hoping."
"Why?" She concentrated on working lather into the washcloth. Looking into Owen's eyes wasn't a good idea. Even in the half dark, they seemed to pull her in, as if she were drowning in something so soft, so wonderful, so necessary, she didn't want to resist.
"It's not much fun to do anything alone. Wasn't it more fun to have me wash your back?"
"It was different." She had been too intensely nervous to call it fun.
"Is that all you can say? I'll have to see if I can do better next time."
"There won't be a next time."
"Are you planning to remain dirty until spring?"
She placed the washcloth on his back and began to scrub. If she imagined it was the kitchen floor, maybe she could get through this. "No. I'll bathe myself from now on."
"If you scrub your back the way you're scrubbing mine, I'm surprised you'd want to."
She stopped immediately. "What's wrong?"
"I'm dirty and sweaty, not a stubborn stain that won't come out."
She stepped back. "If I'm not doing it right--"
He looked up at her, the smile gone, his eyes intense. "What are you so afraid of? Don't tell me you aren't, because I can see you are."
She forced herself to resume washing his back, more gently this time. He turned in the bathtub until he could grip her by the wrist. "I promised I wouldn't let anything happen to you. Don't you believe that?"
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