She sniffed the contents. It looked lumpy, but it smelled good. “What is it?”
“Bread and milk. My mother used to make it when I was sick with the measles.”
She dipped in the spoon and put a tiny bite in her mouth. The milk was warm and comforting and the bread fragrant with butter and something sweet. “Sugar?”
“A bit. I like sugar.”
“Good,” she pronounced.
Wash grinned. “If you like this, wait till you try my rolled-up sugar sandwich.”
Rolled-up sugar… What a kind, thoughtful thing to do, bringing her something to eat. Suddenly she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him. But the bowl rested on her lap. She would kiss him later. If he would let her. She was beginning to see that her need for support warred with his need to stay uninvolved.
While she finished the last spoonful, Wash moved to the kerosene lamp on the bureau and turned the flame down. Jeanne had to smile. He must have noticed how tired she was.
She ran her gaze over Manette. The cool washcloth she’d been sponging her daughter’s face and neck with was drying out. She plunged it into the basin of cool water at the foot of the bed, wrung it out and rearranged it over her daughter’s mottled face.
Wash watched her every move. “I’ve got a clean shirt Manette could sleep in, if you’d like.”
“A shirt?”
“You know, use it as a nightgown. I’ll bring one for you, too.”
“Yes, thank you. That would be nice.”
He picked up the ceramic bowl, left the room and returned a few minutes later with not one but two plain blue muslin shirts.
He laid them at the foot of the bed.
Jeanne looked at him long and hard. He was not asking anything of her; he was simply taking care of her needs the best way he knew how. She had not felt taken care of since she’d left France; Henri had been too young, too irresponsible and there had never been anyone else.
But this man… He was doing something instinctively that would probably frighten him to death if he took a moment to think about it.
Wash’s face was drawn with fatigue. He smelled of sweat and leather. And the slight hitch in his gait was growing more pronounced with every step he took. Yet here he was, bringing her supper, bringing his shirt for a nightgown. He was a split man, was that how one said it? One part of him divided against the other part.
Her eyes stung. Vraiment, Rooney was indeed right: Wash Halliday was a good man. Un homme de bien, her mother would say.
He touched her shoulder, moved toward the door, then stopped abruptly with his hand on the knob. “I’m going out to the wash house to get cleaned up, check on my horse. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
Yes, a good man. She didn’t care one sou what he smelled like.
Rooney rolled over on the pallet he’d laid out on the floor beside Wash’s bed, spied his partner, and blinked at the third clean shirt he drew out of the bureau. “You already took two, how many shirts you need?”
Wash studied the man and gestured toward the unoccupied bed. “Use my bed, Rooney. I might not be back for a while.”
His partner sat bolt upright. “Huh?” He scratched his beard, and then a grin spread over his lined face. “Oh. I see.”
“No,” Wash said, his voice quiet. “You don’t see. I figured Jeanne might…might need me for something.” He shooed Rooney off the pallet and began to roll it up.
“She sure as hell does!” Rooney crawled under the covers on Wash’s empty bed.
“Yeah?” He was only half listening to his partner.
“Well, son, she does need you. Her daughter might be dyin’ and Jeanne needs a strong arm to lean on and maybe some comfort talk.”
Wash stood up and shoved the pallet under one arm. “I’m no good at that, Rooney. I won’t know what to say.”
Rooney barked out a huh. Then, “She sure don’t need a strong, silent man in a spiffed-up shirt.”
Wash hesitated. He hadn’t really thought about exactly what he was doing; he was driven by something inside him, something that whispered that he had to be there with her. Maybe he didn’t know what to say, or do, but he knew he couldn’t be away from her right now.
“’Night, Rooney.” He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.
“’Night, Wash. See you at breakfast.”
Wash paced up and down the hall outside Jeanne’s door for a good ten minutes before he worked up the courage to lay his hand on the knob.
He guessed it didn’t much matter how helpless he felt; right now all he wanted was for Manette to be okay and for Jeanne to hold steady.
He bowed his head. Was this too much to ask from a man who hadn’t prayed in years?
He rapped against the wood and didn’t wait.
Soft golden lantern light bathed the room. Jeanne was curled up in a ball, asleep at the head of the bed, one hand extended to rest on her daughter’s arm. She had slipped one of his shirts over Manette’s head; the sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. Her left arm looked red and puffy, but her breathing had quieted some.
He draped his clean shirt over the back of a chair and slid onto the bed beside Jeanne. She didn’t move. He touched her shoulder, and she jolted awake.
“Oh, it is you,” she said in a sleep-fuzzed voice. “I am glad it is you.”
A curious warmth burrowed into his chest and he couldn’t get enough air.
“Take off your dress, Jeanne. By morning it’ll be a mess of wrinkles.” He began to unbutton her gingham shirtwaist. She wasn’t really awake, he realized. Probably wouldn’t remember a thing come morning. He worked the dress down off her shoulders.
The instant her hand was free, she reached out to touch Manette, then, without opening her eyes, let her head droop down onto her extended arm.
Wash slid his fingers along the waistband of her skirt, found the button closure at the back and gently slipped it free. He tugged it over her hips, unknotted her petticoat tie and pulled it off, as well.
Her work boots sat on the floor beside the bed. Wash looked at them a long time, then shucked his own and set them next to hers. His blue muslin shirt settled easily over her head and shoulders; he half wished it had buttons down the front instead of the neck placket. Then he could…
Oh, no, he couldn’t! He stood up quickly, draped her garments over the chair and blew out the lamp. The sky outside the single window was black as coal dust. When his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he carefully eased onto the bed next to where Jeanne lay, gently lifted her hand away from Manette’s swollen arm and straightened Jeanne’s pantalette-covered legs. Then he rolled her body toward him so her back snugged up against his chest. With one hand he searched for the wire pins holding her hair in its bun at the back of her neck, drew them out and stuffed them into his trouser pocket. Her dark, silk-soft waves spilled over his hands and he clenched his teeth.
He pressed his lips against the crown of her head and breathed in the spicy-sweet scent he knew he would never forget. Her soft, even breathing told him she was asleep, but his heart began to hammer so hard he was afraid she might feel it against her spine.
For a long, long time Wash stared up at the ceiling, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing, and at the same time knowing deep in his gut that, whatever it was, it was the right thing.
Long past midnight, Jeanne woke with a small jerk and immediately reached out to touch Manette in the adjoining bed. Her skin was still hot, but the snake-bitten arm Jeanne felt under her palm seemed less swollen.
She rose up partway to dip the cloth in the basin of cool water and smoothed it over Manette’s hot face and neck. It was then that her sleep-fogged brain began to register that she was not alone in the bed.
Most definitely she was not alone! Wash lay next to her, asleep, his bare chest rhythmically rising and falling, one arm flung out across the quilt toward her. Had she lain next to him all these hours? She emitted a tiny gasp. Incroyable. And how had she come to be wearing his
shirt? She did not remember.
Or did she? She recalled his voice speaking low in her ear, but Mon Dieu! Her skirt and petticoat were gone. Underneath Wash’s blue shirt she wore nothing but a lacy wisp of a camisole and her ruffled drawers.
Her face heated. He had undressed her? Surely not. But it was clear that he had done exactly that. With trembling fingers she lifted the cooling cloth from Manette’s forehead and ran it over her own burning cheeks.
And then she had to smile. This man was unlike any she had known before. He was skittish about a relationship with her, yet when there was need, he was here beside her, caring for her the best way he knew.
She remembered that night after the Jensens’ dance, those wondrous hours in his arms. And she understood.
Or thought she did. He wanted her, but he was not sure how far he dared to step into her life.
She leaned over the side of the bed, dipped the cloth in the cool water and wrung it out before replacing it on Manette’s sweat-sticky forehead.
Releasing an unsteady breath, she gazed down at the man who slept beside her. Now what? She knew things about Wash, things that Rooney had confided and more that she had deduced on her own. Wash Halliday had been badly burned by a woman, and he would not willingly wade into that fire again. On top of that, he had been injured in the War.
What, she wondered for the thousandth time in the past two days, did he really want? Yes, he desired her. But would he want more outside of satisfying a perfectly understandable male hunger?
And what did she want? She swallowed a soft laugh. At this moment she knew exactly what she wanted. And tomorrow?
Tomorrow she would see. Tomorrow she would want Manette to be well. Tomorrow she would want to somehow make a new home for her daughter.
And tomorrow she would want…him, still. Oh, Lord, help me, my body is at war with my mind.
She gave Manette a final look and slid her body down close to Wash. He did not move, did not even twitch an eyelid. Sound asleep. She smiled to herself. She would wake him up in a way he would not forget.
She pulled the makeshift nightgown over her head and untied the ribbon at the neck of her camisole. When it crumpled off her shoulders, she lifted Wash’s hand and laid it over her breast. The warmth of his fingers stirred her flesh; her nipples hardened and a flood of delicious heat flowed from her cheeks all the way down to her toes.
Careful not to wake him—at least not completely—she wriggled out of the long-legged ruffled drawers and worked the pantalettes down over her hips. With abandon she tossed away both garments.
Naked, she stretched out beside him, close enough to feel his hard, warm body against hers. He still wore his denims, but for now it did not matter.
Wash murmured in his sleep. She brushed her lips across his cheek, blew gently in his ear and repositioned his hand on her breast. He gave a low moan, but his eyelids remained closed.
She let her hand drift to his crotch and laid it slowly and deliberately over the swelling. Still he did not awaken. Even when she began drawing her fingers along the length of his manhood.
Then with no warning a hand of steel clamped around her wrist. “Jeanne,” he murmured. “Careful.”
Her eyelids flew open. “You are awake?” she whispered.
“Very much awake.” The laughter in his voice made her entire body flush with heat.
“Oh, but I thought—”
“Don’t think,” he breathed near her ear. “And for Heaven’s sake, don’t stop.”
An irrational, blinding sense of joy swept through her. Her skin felt as if it were brushed with melted chocolate, and the place between her legs began to ache. It was glorious to be near him, to feel such exquisite sensations, so sweet and hot. Tears stung into her eyes.
Wash released her wrist and ran his hand up her bare arm. She reached again for his crotch, but he rolled away from her and then she heard the pop of buttons being released. He shucked off his jeans and underdrawers in one motion, then lay down next to her and pulled her close.
“Wash…” she murmured.
“Manette asleep?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“Yes.”
“Thank Heavens.”
“She seems better. Cooler.”
He did not answer. Instead he covered her mouth with his and she tried to stifle a cry of delight. His lips explored and aroused, told her of his hunger and asked for what he wanted.
“Oh, yes,” she whispered against his mouth. “Yes.”
While his lips moved over hers he began to touch her all over, slowly moving his hands on her skin as if dawn were hours and hours away and these precious stolen moments would last forever. Up her belly, across her breasts, into the shell of her ear. Her breathing grew heavy and uneven.
He lifted his mouth from hers and nibbled his way with quick, hot kisses down to her breast. “Jeanne,” he whispered, his voice unsteady. “Jeanne.”
She stretched luxuriously, lifting her arms over her head and raising one knee. Slowly Wash pressed her leg down flat on the bed and reached one hand to cup her buttocks. Then he rose over her and positioned himself at her entrance.
“Wash…”
“Shhhh. We have to do this quietly.”
He entered her with one slow, deep thrust and she could not help smiling. “Next time,” she murmured, “I wish to make all the noise I want.” She arched her back, taking him even deeper, and when he sucked in his breath she pressed her fingers against his lips.
He made it slow and languorous, and he made it last and last until Jeanne thought she could not stifle the cries that rose within her. When she started to come to her release Wash caught her mouth under his and rode with her until her spasms subsided and his own release began.
Chapter Nineteen
Wash glanced sideways at Rooney when he entered the dining room, gestured at the coffeepot on the cherrywood sideboard, and then sat in the empty seat beside his friend. Rooney filled a coffee cup for him, then refilled his own. Wash inhaled the fragrant steam. Hot and black, just the way he liked it.
He sniffed the air appreciatively. Bacon…and scrambled eggs! He felt like he hadn’t eaten in a week. He spooned a double helping of eggs from the china platter onto his plate and lifted his fork.
Rooney eyed the mound of food on his plate. “Get a good night’s sleep, didja?”
Wash chuckled. “You sly old fox, you want me to lie to you?”
“Okay by me, as long as it’s imaginative.”
Wash chuckled. “Shut up and let me eat my breakfast.”
“Sure thing, Wash.” Rooney ducked his head over his coffee cup. “Musta’ been some night,” he muttered.
Wash munched up a crisp slice of bacon and swallowed it. “Why do you say that?” he asked as blandly as he could manage.
“Cuz you just poured maple syrup all over yer eggs.”
Wash stared at the gooey mess he’d made. “Tastes great, Rooney. Ought to try it sometime.”
Rooney choked on a mouthful of coffee and spent the next ten minutes in silence, watching Wash eat. “Sure are hungry,” he said when his partner loaded up his plate again. He waited expectantly for a reply.
“Thought you’d never notice,” Wash quipped. He liked sparring with Rooney; it kept him on his toes.
“Huh! Thought you’d never get yer appetite back. Jeanne told me about yer picnic yesterday. Said you ate two itty-bitty cheese pancakes and went right back to work.”
Wash downed the last forkful of scrambled eggs. “Rooney?”
“Yeah, Wash?”
“Mind your own business.” He tossed his napkin onto the table and strode out onto the front porch.
“Well, hell,” Rooney said under his breath. “You are my business. You and Jeanne. And Manette.” He heard the screen door slam and knew Wash was off to the stable.
“I’ll be out at the site all day,” Wash called over his shoulder. “Take care of Jeanne.”
On the ride out to Green Valley Wash let his gaze roam.
The cloudless, robin’s-egg-blue sky overhead hinted at another scorching day. Finches twittered among the maple trees, which were just beginning to turn gold. Lord, he loved this country!
He’d left Jeanne at the first flush of peach light through the bedroom window, but he was still going to be late. By the time he got to the site, Sam would have most of the valley covered in railroad ties. He half wished the quick, industrious little men would slow down a little; the minute they got the track up the incline at the far end of the valley…
He couldn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t let himself think about that now; there was too much to be accomplished, and then…
Then it would be time to move on.
Couldn’t think about that, either. He dismounted, turned General over to the eager Chinese boy who scampered out of the bunkhouse and clenched his jaw. Rooney said he was burying himself in his work for the Oregon Central, and might be that was true. Sometimes he wondered if he was letting this railroad job eat up his life.
What life? He had no life outside of the railroad; he’d wanted it that way for years.
Jeanne woke to sunshine streaming in the window. Wash was gone—the side of the bed where he had lain was cold. He must have left her hours ago.
Tentatively she stretched her legs, then raised her knees and winced at the tenderness between her thighs. Did men get sore from…? Probably not. Most men had more of such athletic practice than women.
On the other hand, Wash was not like “most men.” Wash was Wash. He had loved her thoroughly last night and then absented himself before she woke. She would not complain about it. She would not even question him about their on-again, off-again relationship.
Except for the occasional delicious night of sensuous indulgence, chances were she would never know how things really stood between them. Wash was afraid of commitment.
Would you want him to change? She thought that over while she dragged her body off the bed and drew on her clothes. No, she did not want him to change. She wanted him as he was. He was like a wounded animal who needed to run free until he realized he didn’t need to run any longer.
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