A wistful smile touched his lips even though his stomach spiraled into the black abyss of despair. "Then share that precious gift with someone more deserving."
"More deserving than you?" She clutched the blanket to her breast. "I-I can think of no one else."
"That will change once I introduce you to my family in Tennessee. You will have no shortage of suitors." Despite his assertion, the thought of any man touching her had him clenching his jaw.
"Marry me off? Is that truly your plan?"
Damnation he'd said the wrong thing. But didn't he always when fighting with a woman? He'd never, ever know how to deal with their shrill outbursts and nonsensical thoughts. "Yes. Safe, happy, loved and cared for. Isn't that what all women want?"
"Well then, what of Reg Crocker? Wouldn't he be more convenient?"
His gaze narrowed, his passions surging, his hatred for the man damn near overpowering. "If he is what you want, I can see to that as well. He wants you, it was written all over his despicable face."
"I know he wants me, every chance he could, he touched me, tried to ease my pain." She pressed him further, her words more irritating than any he'd heard in near five years. "I don't suppose he'd turn away from me as you do."
"No, of course you're right. He'd definitely take you without consideration for anyone but himself…if that's what you want, perhaps you should pack your things and stay with him after I take you to view your family!"
"You're right!" she shouted. "I can't believe how much I've misjudged you. You call Reg callous and selfish…you are no better."
He balled his fists at his sides. Damn her for her words. Damn her for comparing him to Crocker! "No. Miss Shallcross, the truth is I have given you everything I can and it's not enough. It is you who needs to rethink. You are greedy. You believe I should give you what you want and for the life of me I cannot fathom why you would want me."
Instead of offering an explanation, she just stared at him, her expression one of pained surprise.
"I want to know why you think me worthwhile. I drink, I smoke, until you insisted I bathe, I lived a slovenly life. The only reason I can think is pity or gratitude. I don't want you like that…and I can't want you at all."
She tilted her head, her gaze softening from anger to sweetness in the blink of his eye. "Don't you understand? I see a good man when I look at you. I see someone hurt by circumstances beyond his control and yet he finds it in his heart to take me in, to heal my wounds, to offer comfort."
No, she had to know the truth. That he was a bastard…an unworthy jack ass. "I am not a good man. I don't want to make love to you Bobbie. I want to fuck you."
She set her hand to her breast, her shock quite apparent by the way her mouth dropped open.
"I will never marry you, never tell you I love you, and never be able to give you more than my cock and possibly a bastard child. Is that what you want? Are you willing to take a gamble that I'll change my ways?"
He knew he had gone too far, but the words were out and he hoped they would push her just far enough away to keep her sweet scent from his nostrils, her glorious mouth from his, and the desire to lay her down at bay.
"Of course I don't want that," she said on a sob. "W-What woman would?"
"Not a woman of your caliber. Please both our sakes, don't let me any deeper into your heart. For if I kiss you again, I don't know if I can stop. I may very well take you without thought of anything but what I want. And make no mistake Bobbie, I want nothing more than to bury myself in your warmth."
He pulled open the door and stepping out slammed it behind him. The bright sun stung his eyes as it reflected the overpowering white of the snow. Swallowing his angst, he stumbled down the short path and into the stable, wondering the entire distance why he regretted his words and actions. Hell, he regretted everything that happened since Reg left. After all, didn't his honest admission prove to her what a foul creature he truly was?
Leaning against the stable wall, he dragged in a deep breath. The sweet summer scent of hay filled his senses, sending him back in time. A time of warmth and sunshine and love. Not this desolate cold world that offered no comfort save silver…icy, lifeless silver. All the bits and pieces he had gathered and sold made him a rich man. A rich man with nothing.
Ned stuck his head from over the stall door, a strand of hay dangling from his mottled lips. He blew out a foggy breath and nudged David.
"I know fella, you'll be glad to get out of here too. Tennessee will offer you enough grass to get fat." He rubbed the white star beneath Ned's forelock. "Now, where is that ugly dog?"
He looked around the cramped barn, bags of grain, hay, his saddle and the dusty sledge all sat right where he left them. No sign of the mangy cur. "Wonderful. I break her heart and lose her dog."
Pulling up his hood he marched out in the early afternoon. Thankfully, clouds now covered the sun easing the blinding light on snow. Surely, the brindle beast would be easily spotted.
"Alfred!" he shouted, certain the dog would come bounding toward him, more than ready to come in for a beef jerky and Bobbie's warm embrace.
Frustration rose and pressed manically against his chest. He didn't need to be looking for the mutt. He needed to be drunk. "Damnation," he mumbled. There was a half a bottle of booze left. How was that minute amount supposed to quench his thirst?
Spotting the dog's tracks in the snow, he followed them into the wooded area just beyond the cabin. The wind whipped fiercely, freezing his nose. He pulled his scarf over his face, leaving nothing exposed but his eyes. Christ but they felt as though they could freeze in their sockets.
Warily, he looked heavenward. The once sunny sky was now being lambasted by ominous clouds. He should be rushing to the trading post rather than scouting around the countryside for Alfred…but the idea of more bad news for Bobbie had him momentarily forgetting the drink and thinking only of the hideous dog.
With the snow crunching beneath his boots, he followed the dog's zigzagged trail. Thankfully, the beast had large feet…stout legs and large feet. The creature was a walking anomaly. It was just like Roberta to pick the sorriest of animals to give her heart to.
He growled before again calling to the dog. Straining to hear for anything unusual, he cursed the wind for obliterating any sound beyond its own insidious whisper.
Despite the fur-lined hood and scarf, his ears ached with the cold. How long could he stand it out in this mess before giving up and returning home with more traumatic news?
Consciously avoiding eye contact with the small, fenced graveyard on the edge of the trees, he realized once again that Sarah had been right, this was no place to live. Of course she hadn't lived here, had she? No. She had died here.
Approaching the woods he scanned beneath the scraggly pine canopy hoping to catch a glimpse of Alfred. Instead of the awkward blacks and browns of the dog's fur coat, bright red blood marred the white snow that clung to half a dozen narrow tree trunks.
"Damnation," he mumbled. This was bad. It was very bad indeed.
Chapter 8
Lying in bed wasn't what Roberta wanted to do. But neither was sitting before the fire or pacing the length of the small cabin. Ten steps from wall to wall, ten steps that had her feeling as if she were a prisoner.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she grudgingly admitted that was just what she was. For hadn't the elements locked her in? Hadn't the loss of her parent's thrown away the key?
Wringing her hands she sailed toward the window. White snow and bruised skies for as far as the eye could see met her somber gaze. Even the mountains seemed to be hiding in the distance, encircled by gray mist.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass. Where in the name of the Lord was David? How long did it take the man to fetch a dog and bring in a bucket of water to thaw?
She stifled a curse. The man was no doubt hiding from her. I don't want to make love to you. I want to fuck you.
His admission had been ugly. His promise of nothing but
the physical crushed her and had her wishing she had never seen the light from his solitary window. She would be in peaceful repose with her parents and brother and none of this would matter. Nothing would matter. Everything would be so much easier had she just not gotten up that day by the creek.
Turning from the window, she made her way back to her discarded winter clothes, determined to see what was keeping her miserable host. He needed to come in before he caught his death. Before she lost someone else who meant something to her. For despite her upset, she did care about him, irregardless of how he felt for her.
Fresh tears gathered in her already sore, burning eyes and she let them fall as the reality of her situation sank in and rooted deep in her roiling stomach. If what Reg Crocker said, what David said, what the locket proved to be true, she was the only living Shallcross left in her line. Certainly there were others, but none that carried her father's blood mixed with her mothers.
"Oh, Lord, this is so bad," she wailed and although tempted by the bed, tempted by the desire to curl up and die, she grabbed her coat, needing to set her eyes on the man that had saved, needing to bury her face in the scruff of her dog's neck.
Just as she slid her arm into the sleeve of Sarah's coat, she frowned. She sniffled, and tried to focus her attention on something, anything else. Yes, the coat. She ran her fingers over the crimson wool. It was a lovely, stylish garment, nothing like she owned. It spoke of quality and high living and did not match the poverty of the lowly cabin. The gown too was fine and warm and sewn by an expert hand.
She gazed down upon the gray wool of her skirt, the hem adorned with black lace. Fine clothes in the wilderness made no sense to her practical mind. But who was she to question Sarah? The woman must have been a model wife, perfect in everyway to keep David pining for her.
Bobbie focused on her own clothes that now lay in a neatly folded pile atop Sarah's traveling chest. They were nothing to compare to the simplest of Sarah's gowns. Tatty, old, sewn by her mother's loving hands. She recalled how her sweet mother had fashioned the gingham dress from a pattern. The woman was so proud of her work, so happy to present her daughter with a gown of new fabric. The recollection sent her mind spinning. How was she supposed to cope with this overwhelming blow? How?
She stumbled toward the traveling chest and stared down at the gown. Three years she had worn happily worn that dress and her heart broke at the realization that it was no longer beautiful, but rustic and poor…"Ma," she whimpered. "It's no wonder David doesn't want me. He's had a true lady. To him I am little more than a prairie rat." She ran her fingers over the gingham and lifting it from the pile held it close to her cheek. "But Ma, I come from the most loving of parents. No things are more important than you, Pa and Robert."
Setting the gown back atop the chest, she walked toward the door while she buttoned her coat and adjusted her cap. Just as she reached for the handle, the door swung open and snow laced wind had her retreating back into the cabin.
Alfred trotted in, his saggy jowls very near a manic smile. His black jagged lips pulled back over his teeth, his tongue curled as if he had just come in from the heat. "Where have you been?" she asked, leaning in and taking the sides of his face in her hands. "You had me worried to death."
David followed, snow clinging to his boots and trousers. "I thought he was dead," he said slamming the door and bolting it. "Bloody mess in the woods, didn't know the fat fellow had it in him catch a hare."
"Probably raided someone's trap," she said and unwilling to share her tears, she turned away.
He brushed past and moved toward the fireplace. Bending over he fed it the last of the wood. "I'll need to go back out for more logs and damnation I wish I had gone to the trading post before today."
She glanced out the window and inwardly shivered, the desolation hitting her hard as Alfred nuzzled her skirts. Thank goodness he was all right. She couldn't handle anymore loss. "We've enough supplies. Come spring I'll plant some vegetables for you."
He snorted. "You won't be here long enough to see a garden planted."
She bit back her retort. It did no good and he was right. She didn't know where to go but she'd surely not stay where she wasn't wanted. And he'd made it abundantly clear that he didn't want her.
"Besides what you see in the pantry, the root cellar out back has some potatoes, carrots, onions and maybe even an apple or two."
She unbuttoned her coat, but left it on. "With all these supplies why do you want to go to the trading post?" But even as she said the words, the realization dawned on her with sickening clarity. "You're running low on the drink, aren't you?"
The smile he offered did little to ease the queasiness that nestled deep in her stomach. "Yep."
"Oh, David." She sighed and took a seat on the edge of the bed. Staring at the fire, she watched the flames lick and slowly devour the bits of bark that tried in vain to protect the wood beneath. Soon the logs would glow orange and black and disintegrate leaving only ashes and soot behind.
The wood popped and sparks flew like orange snowflakes. It was mesmerizing and her weary eyelids grew heavier and heavier. Swollen from crying, her eyes burned and despite the momentary quiet her mind flared to life with recollection. She could almost see her ma washing clothes at the creek, her hands fiery red from the friction of the fabric against the washboard.
"Bobbie, bring me that soap and go tell your pa that the dinner will be a little late tonight."
"Oh, do I have to?"
She lazily looked down at her bare feet immersed in the ankle deep water. A comforting summer breeze blew through the trees sending a handful of leaves drifting toward the fast moving creek. Like little schooners they raced away, spinning out of control as the water took them toward the Mississippi.
" Yes ma'am you have to.
"But you know he'll be mean about it and start grumbling."
"Can't be helped." Her mother's sigh had her looking at her, her heart aching for missing her. "Mrs. Larsen came by to gossip and she brought your brother a bar of soap. Told him to wash behind his ears." Ma's mouth dipped into a frown. "Never liked that woman much. As if I don't tell the boy to wash."
"I image Robert didn't think much of the comment."
The sweet sound of Ma's laughter tickled her memory and had her smiling despite her pain. "Oh, he didn't like it at all. Told her if she wanted to exercise her jaw she might ought to chew gum."
"Bobbie?"
At the sound of David's voice she disappointedly left the memory behind. Oh, if she could only go back in time. If she could have just one more moment to hug her mother, kiss her father and pinch her brother. Her lower lip quaked as she met his gaze.
"Yes?"
"You were smiling."
Tears refilled her eyes. "I was thinking of my ma, that's all. Do you still have your parents?"
"Last I heard," he said. "Suppose I'll know when I take you home."
She shook her head. "No, David, I won't be going to Tennessee."
His brows shot up in surprise and he set his hands on his narrow hips. "Really? Just where will you be going?"
Shrugging her shoulders she stood and sidled past him. "I don't know, but I do know that you're right."
He chuckled. "Well, God Almighty, when was that?"
She ignored his sarcasm and grabbing up the poker, poked the logs into a fiery frenzy. "I think it'll be best for me to go to the trading post. Does Henry have a wife?"
When he didn't answer, she slowly turned to face him. He stood by the bed, staring down at the glass of spilled whiskey that dampened the floor.
How she loathed his love of drink. "I said, does Henry have a wife?" she asked, hoping for female companionship and knowing she needed a place nearby. She couldn't leave her parents. Wouldn't until she knew they rested in peace.
He raised his gaze toward her and shook his head. "No. He did but she left him for a fellow on his way to Oregon. Said she'd had enough of him and his lousy trading post."
Finall
y, she shrugged out of her coat and hat and hung them on a nail by the pantry. "Seems to me we're quite the damaged lot. What is the story with Reg Crocker?" she asked, smoothing her hair.
"That man? He's a deserter. Not sure which side he deserted from either. Talks like a Yank but I can't be sure."
The light was dim as she felt around for the broom and dustpan. She'd sweep up the floor. That would help get her mind off things. When her grandma passed away, Ma cleaned the house from top to bottom. When Uncle Tobias died, Pa managed to have half a field plowed before sunset. Keeping busy, Ma always told her, was healthier than stewing in your own misery. Of course, this particular kettle bubbled with not only her sorrow but everyone who seemed to enter the place.
"You don't like him much, that's obvious."
With short, purposeful strokes she began to sweep. Dust particles rose into the air as months, if not years, of debris came together into small piles.
"What's to like? He used to stop by here when I wasn't home. He brought Sarah candy and flowers as if she were available for courting."
"I'm sure your wife set him straight. No point in leading a man down a dead end path." She bent over, filled the dustpan and standing looked around. Where the devil would she empty it?
David shrugged. "I reckon she did. We had a row or two about it and then he didn't come anymore. I told her if I caught him sniffing around one more time I'd bloody his nose for him." He ducked into the pantry and came out with a wooden bucket. "Here, use this."
Reaching for the pail's handle, her fingertips grazed his hand and a wanton tingle shot through her limbs. She looked to his face for some indication that they shared the connection. How could he not feel the power of their attraction? His expression offered nothing. Disappointed, she realized her reaction had simply been her need for human contact. Just as he boasted, he felt nothing.
"I-I imagine the threat was enough incentive to keep him away," she said pulling the bucket free and setting it down in the corner. "You are quite imposing, especially in comparison to him."
Harris Channing Page 7
