"He's the only stranger in these parts, Thea. He and the Injun."
"That doesn't make him a killer."
"It couldn't have been the major," Red Horse added.
"Red Horse," Booker said in a warning tone.
"Why not?" the marshal wanted to know.
"Because Mr. Coulson was wearing the major's rain slicker. Whoever shot him thought he was getting the major."
Hardy shifted his wet cigar between his lips and squinted at Thea. "That so?"
How could she not have noticed? Not put the facts together? She'd watched Red Horse cut Booker's slicker from her father, but she'd been too shocked to think anything of it. "Yes," she replied softly. "He was wearing Booker's slicker."
Hardy holstered his gun. "All right. You're off the hook for now, Hayes." He reined his horse around and the others followed. "But I'll be watchin' every move you make."
Jackson cast a hateful glance between Thea and her husband before turning his mount and prodding it into a run.
The retreating horses kicked dust into the air. Thea watched them go, relief washing through her body, grateful they'd left before the situation got really ugly.
"I had to tell him, Major," Red Horse said. "I don't want her to worry, either, but better you be spared from their vigilante tactics."
Booker nodded.
Red Horse walked toward the house, rifle loose in his grip.
Thea met Booker's gaze. Uncertain, she stared at his somber face, realizing for the first time that she knew very little about this stranger she'd married. He could have hidden any number of things in his past. And he obviously hadn't trusted her with the information that the shot was intended for him. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want you to worry."
"Is someone after you?"
"Not that I know of."
The news opened up a whole new perspective. If someone had followed Booker to Nebraska intending to kill him, everyone around him was in danger. Her father had already fallen under the unknown assailant's misdirected vengeance.
She'd never been protected in such a stifling manner before. Ironically, she had always been the strong one, used to being in control. She was the one who provided and protected. She should have known so that she could have taken her own safety measures.
She drew herself up, the thought of losing him terrifying her, and looked him in the eye. "Don't ever treat me like a child or a helpless woman again."
Pivoting on her heel, she marched back to the house.
* * *
Booker ate his breakfast in stony silence, the marshal's accusations casting a pall over an otherwise sunny day. The others talked of the winches and pulleys the men would use to help Skeeter set the burrstones in place now that the floors were laid. Booker had been an outsider his whole life, living on the edges of society, of family life, traveling from one post to another, never sending down roots, never making a place for himself.
Until now. This land, this house—he glanced across the table—this woman were what he'd dreamed of.
Thea sliced Zoe's ham and fed her a bite of syrupy flapjack, ignoring him. Zoe glanced at him and lowered her eyes to her plate.
What was it? What was it about him that kept everyone at a distance? Zoe adored Thea, clung to her, loved her. The child accepted Red Horse, as well. The kid already liked Skeeter better than she did him.
And Lucas. Booker watched the boy's Adam's apple bob as he polished off his second glass of milk. He understood the boy had been abused, understood his hesitation and mistrust. Booker had taken the same approach he'd use with a wary horse; he'd shown him he wasn't going to hurt him, building trust with actions and words and hoping to slowly win him over with a gentle taming. Thea could touch him. Lucas flinched every time Booker laid a casual hand on him, but Thea touched him, hugged him, ruffled his hair.
Booker dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter. Did he have the plague, or what? Some half-wit with a rifle was out there trying to kill him—had shot Jim instead—and the first person to be accused was himself! He stood and grabbed his hat.
"We won't be able to leave the site at noon today," he said, more gruffly than he'd intended.
"Fine. I'll bring your dinner," Thea said, her voice as sweet as the maple syrup on her lips.
"Lucas, you grab a stack of those four-by-fours in the barn and bring them after you finish your chores."
"Yes, sir," Lucas responded respectfully.
Booker turned and left the kitchen.
* * *
"My belly thinks my throat's been cut," Skeeter said, catching sight of Thea laying out the noon meal on a tablecloth she'd spread on the springboard's open tailgate.
"I fried you chicken," Thea said with a smile.
Shirtless and perspiring in the noonday sun, Red Horse and Lucas appeared next. She opened jars and uncovered dishes, helped them fill their plates, and dipped cool water from a crock into jars. They turned to sit in the shade provided by the wagon, and Thea caught sight of Lucas's back.
She was obviously the only one who'd never seen the scars crisscrossing his upper body from his shoulders to the waistband of his denims, because the others went about their meal eagerly. His skin had taken on a healthy glow from the sun, not nearly as dark as Red Horse's, of course, or even tanned as deeply as Booker's, but the lines that crossed his knobby back were sunburned a bright, painful-looking pink.
Tears smarted behind her eyes, and Thea turned back to the food. Anger welled up in her, anger so strong and overpowering that she wanted to pound her fists helplessly on the wagon and scream out her frustration. What kind of person would do that to a child? She glanced at Zoe happily gathering a bouquet of clover from the grass beside the wagon.
What if she hadn't been the one to take Zoe? She might’ve been placed elsewhere and Booker wouldn’t have been able to find her. The possibilities were unthinkable.
"What's wrong?" Booker asked, coming up beside her.
Rapidly, she swiped the tears from her cheeks and handed him a plate. "Nothing."
He shifted the plate to his left hand and took her upper arm. "Don't tell me nothing. What's wrong?"
Her throat choked with tears. She met his midnight black eyes. "I'd never seen Lucas's back before."
Booker's expression flattened and his grip on her arm gentled. He nodded. "Oh."
"Did Bard do that to him?" she whispered.
"Bard and a lot of others before him, I'd say."
Inconceivable. No wonder the boy had been so wary. She shook her head. "He's had no woman in his life to mother him... only men beating him." She blinked back more tears and glanced at Zoe again. "They'll never have to be afraid with us. They will always know we love them."
He squeezed her arm gently and released it. His wife was some kind of woman. He'd watched her stifle her porcelain coloring in drab hues, recognized her ineffective efforts to diminish her splendid body with dull clothing, hide her glossy red-gold hair with simple hairstyles. In downplaying herself, she'd only painted herself more lovely and desirable. All her fire and color and passion lay within. And he wanted to be the man to unleash them.
Her strong, supple body exhilarated him beyond reason. When she'd offered it to him last night, he couldn't have denied her—or himself. She was a respectable, sensitive person. She hadn't presented herself out of self-pity, but with a down-to-earth common sense he'd come to respect.
And she'd said she loved him. He wanted to ask her if she meant it, but if it had been merely a careless utterance in her passion, he didn't want to know. She loved everybody.
That morning she'd come to his defense before the marshal and his cronies. But perhaps that was simply part of her sense of loyalty toward her entire flock.
Booker accepted the pieces of chicken she placed on his plate and helped himself to the freshly grated coleslaw. Thea wiped her hands on her apron, and his attention skittered over the crisp white fabric tied at her narrow waist, hiding her generous breasts. His th
oughts jumped ahead to the night to come, and heat beyond that of the blistering sun radiated through his body.
Her vivid blue-green gaze met his, dropped to his perspiring bare chest, and back to his face, a tinge of additional color in her cheeks.
No. He would never deny either of them again.
bookmark:Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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She'd really put her foot in it now. Thea tucked a needle in the sunny yellow dress she was making for Zoe and glanced around the room she still had trouble calling a parlor. Skeeter and Booker had been deliberating over a checker game for the better part of an hour.
Skeeter stomped his foot and cackled. "Hah! Beatin' you's 'bout as easy as pickin' fly dung outta black pepper, but I done it!"
Booker grinned and arranged his checkers on the board. "Two out of three. It's still early."
"I see why you married this lughead now, missy. He could sell you a anvil if you was treadin' water."
Thea smiled and nodded.
Booker regarded her and she glanced away. All afternoon and evening, she'd regretted losing her temper that morning. She'd raised her voice, practically given him an order and stomped away. She'd behaved like a child after accusing him of treating her like one. But she wasn't sorry for what she'd told him; she didn't want to be kept in the dark over things concerning all of them. She had as much right to be informed as anyone else. However, she did regret the way she'd said it.
Zoe, chin propped on her fists, lay on the floor beside Lucas, watching him sketch on his tablet. She pointed to something in the drawing.
"Recognize your cat?" Lucas asked. "What's his name, anyhow?"
Zoe shrugged as if names and words were unimportant, and rested her head on the floor.
Thea stood. "Come on, sweetheart. You're ready to fall asleep on the floor."
Zoe's bottom lip curled out.
"My, my." Thea stood over her.
"I'll carry her," Lucas offered, and scrambled to his feet.
Thea watched him kneel and lift the child into his arms, and she imagined the big strong man he'd be someday. Thoughtful. Sensitive. Not soured by the dirty hand his young life had dealt him thus far. And someday he would trust, she decided.
Lucas went on to his room, and Thea helped Zoe change and tucked her into bed. She lit the lamp in her own room and removed her dress. Enjoying cooling off in only her chemise and drawers, she washed her face and neck and brushed out her hair.
In the dark, she stood before the open window and allowed the night air to seep through her thin underclothes. Her fingers trembled on the curtain. What was she supposed to do now? Last night, she'd gone to Booker, made it perfectly clear that she needed him, wanted him. Reality had been a thousandfold better than her wishful dreams. Thea crossed her arms over her breasts and hugged herself. He thought she was beautiful. And with him, she was. A beautiful, desirable woman.
How was a wife supposed to behave? She'd done it all just as she'd planned. Seduced him. Now what? Did it change anything? Footsteps sounded on the stairs and her heart hammered girlishly. The sound traveled on past her room. A door closed. Another door closed.
Knees trembling with uncertainty, Thea sank to the edge of the bed. She considered going to him... or waiting. Every night couldn’t be like this. Life was too short to waste with silly self-denial and hesitation. But she wouldn't make a fool of herself. So she waited.
* * *
Booker stood barefoot in his enormous empty room, and unbuttoned his shirt. Where was she? Hadn't he proved to her last night that he wanted her? Hadn't he shown her he could be gentle and patient?
Oh, come on, he told himself. Did he think he'd swept her off her feet and that she wouldn't be able to resist him in the future? He'd encouraged her to go after what she wanted, to take a slice of life and savor it.
He'd let her down by not telling her that the bullet was intended for him. He'd meant to spare her, instead he'd insulted her. He was sorry for that, but he'd made the decision he felt was best at the time. He'd know better in the future.
The future. He closed his eyes and released a heavy sigh. He'd had such big plans for the future. The mill was coming along as intended. But everything else was in a mess. Zoe resented him for trying to take her away from Thea in the first place. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to make that up to her or how he’d win her over.
Lucas shied away from him like he was a dangerous animal. He couldn't blame the boy, though. The only treatment he'd ever received from men had been abuse. Booker would just have to be more patient. More tolerant.
And Thea. He'd left the decision up to her. He'd sacrificed and waited, and even when she'd finally come to his room, he'd given her another chance to change her mind. She hadn't. He didn't think she'd been disappointed.
No. She'd told him she loved him. Then what was she doing down the hall in her own room, right now? Making him pay penitence for his mistake?
Booker jerked the door open and strode silently down the hall. He resisted banging on the door and rousing the entire household. Instead, he tried the unlocked door, threw it open and stepped into the room.
Seated on the edge of the bed in her underclothes, Thea stared at him.
Booker closed the door behind him. "What are you doing in here?"
He thought her lip trembled when she answered, "I don't know."
Her marvelous hair spilled over her shoulders and across the milky skin of her arms. Moonlight caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes. She was frightened.
Her lost expression sucked the wind from his sails. She was as confused as he was. Booker plucked her wrapper from the hook and tossed it to her. "Get some clothes for tomorrow."
Stepping to her dresser, he gathered her brush and comb and hairpins. "Tomorrow you can move the rest of your things to our room, all right?" He stepped in front of her and reached a hand down. "We should have done it today."
Thea clasped his hand and pulled herself to her feet, using his grip as a support. She buried her face against his neck, and her fragrant hair caressed the bare strip of skin at his open shirtfront.
He hugged her, enjoying the arousing press of her strong body, the softness of her breasts and hair. This woman set his blood on fire. She was as strong and determined as she was sensitive and gentle. Her strength of character matched her supple body. She could handle problems and fears as easily as she could match his physical desires. He'd never known another woman like her.
"Come on," he said roughly. She gathered clothing and her toiletries, and he led her from the room and down the hall. "Look."
Booker opened a drawer and revealed the space waiting for her clothing. She placed her few items in the drawer, closed it and turned to him. He'd laid her brush and comb on the nightstand and turned back the coverlet. She met him beside the bed, and he sank his fingers deep into her hair, held her head and pressed his lips against her forehead, drinking her in—her scent, her softness, her incredible beauty.
Her hands spanned his ribs and climbed his back, drawing him closer, setting his heartbeat at an eager, staccato rhythm.
"I wanted to be here," she whispered, and her breath fanned his throat.
He pushed her back gently and looked into her flawless face.
"Are you angry with the way I spoke to you this morning?" she asked.
He thought a second. "Because you told me not to treat you like a child or a helpless female?"
"Yes."
"No. You were absolutely right."
Her red-gold brows raised in surprise.
"I won't keep anything from you again," he vowed. "And I have another promise to keep." He released her.
"What's that?"
"I have to shave."
She smiled shyly.
He trailed a finger down her warm, satiny throat and caught the front of her chemise. "Why don't you undress and wait for me?"
Her eyes flickered to the bed and back, and her cheeks pinkened perce
ptibly. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Booker turned away to afford her privacy and lathered his face and neck. In the corner of the mirror, he caught a provocative glimpse of her pale skin as she slid between the sheets. His mouth went dry and he swallowed, barely missing slitting his throat with the razor. He forced himself to take his time, finish shaving and rinse his face well. Turning, he discovered her watching him, tears glistening in her eyes.
"What's wrong?" he asked. He removed his shirt and sat on the bed's edge.
She wiped the corners of her eyes with the sheet. "I'm just happy. I never watched anyone shave before."
"Do you cry about everything?"
She shrugged one bare shoulder, and the sheet slid enticingly lower. "I don't know. Do you mind?"
He leaned close, realizing he hadn't kissed her since early that morning. An eternity. "No."
She met his lips eagerly, hers soft and warm, drawing him to her like a thirsting man to a sparkling stream, like the moon draws the tides. He drank at her lips, savoring the pleasure of her pliant mouth, the exotic taste uniquely hers. He pulled back and beheld her loveliness, touched her hair and ran his fingers over her collarbone. Of all the places he could have gone and all the women he might have met in this barren frontier land, he'd found her.
Beautiful and vital and full of life and love, and she'd chosen to marry him. Him. He hadn't been looking for a wife, but fate had stepped in and carried him right to her doorstep. He'd be eternally grateful.
Booker ran a finger across her jaw, her pretty lower lip. He'd treasure her, hold her close at night, hopefully plant children within her, and—he kissed her eyelids—grow old with her.
She turned her face up, obviously unsatisfied with his leisurely perusal of her face and hair, and caught his lower lip with her teeth. She released it and kissed his clean-shaven chin, his jaw. “Nice.”
He responded to her unspoken demand, covering her mouth with his, running his tongue across her closed lips, making his own request. She parted her lips, pulling him down to lie beside her on the bed, reminding him of the more intimate joining to come.
Her scent enveloped him, and her skin enticed him with the age-old promise of pleasure. Her responses set him on the edge of sanity. He pressed himself along her length and cupped her bottom in his palms, determined to go slow. She nudged his knees and inserted one thigh between his. Thunder rumbled again, closer this time.
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