“Don’t do that,” she said, swatting at his efforts, tossing her head, only to feel the stinging pain of hair being pulled as he refused to relax his grip.
“You’re hurting yourself,” he told her. “Stand still.” His hands dropped to her shoulders and he shook her, a strong, harsh movement that stunned her into silence. And then he continued with the untangling of her hair until it submitted to him. It hung around her shoulders and down her back finally, a dark cascade that made her scalp ache. She felt disheveled and breathless, fully aware that he’d set in motion some sort of ritual that would not be brought to a halt until he decreed it to be so.
“Get undressed,” he told her. “You need a bath.”
Words flooded her mouth, but she swallowed them, knowing he would not be swayed from his purpose. Her hands rose to touch the buttons on her shirt, and he watched, impatience dancing in dark eyes as she slid them from the holes. His hands were rough, jerking the shirt from her, and then he looked down at the belt she wore, and he grunted, his eyes flashing a message to hers as he shoved her trousers down her legs without loosening the restricting leather.
“You’re nothing but skin and bones,” he muttered, baring her to his sight.
“Well then, I won’t hold much appeal, will I?” she said smartly, her heart racing as she taunted him.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to spread your legs,” he told her with total lack of feeling. “I only said you needed a bath. You haven’t combed your hair in two days. And you smell like a horse.”
“So do you.” She felt snippy as she spoke the lie, for he was clean, and his scent rose to surround her, musky male flesh, with a fecund aroma that filled her nostrils. Her face burned as she considered his accusation, his scornful words. It was true. She’d neglected herself, bathing haphazardly, washing in bits and pieces, as if it mattered little. For indeed it hadn’t.
Now it looked as if she would be given the full treatment, and she waited, defiance and a dark sense of anticipation alive in her as he reached for her bare flesh, his fingers firm, but not painful as he lifted her and carried her in his arms. He stepped in at the edge of the pool and lowered her into the water, dropping her the last several inches, her rump sinking to the sandy bottom, her hair floating over her head.
She sputtered and rose, an awkward movement that angered her. “Are you trying to drown me?” And looked into eyes that pierced her soul.
“What do you think?” He turned from her and reached for a rag and a bar of soap he’d left on the bank, then turned back, his hands busy with forming suds on the dingy piece of cloth. It touched her shoulder and she flinched. It scrubbed over her back and she stiffened.
He brought it across the soft curve of her breast and she ceased breathing.
The fabric was rough, but his touch gentled, and she stood in water lapping at her hips and allowed him his way. The soap was rinsed, then replaced by more suds and he moved on. Across her other breast, across her belly and along the sides of her hips, his eyes intent on what he did, his hand moving slowly, the pressure of fingers bringing life to flesh she’d thought dead to his touch.
The breeze whispered across her, and flesh peaked as she shivered, bringing her breasts alive with a taut, uplifting movement she could not halt. His eyes strayed there, and, as she watched, his body stirred. Below the surface, his arousal throbbed, nudging at her hip, reminding her of his masculine beauty and the swelling of his manhood.
He slid the cloth beneath the water, washing her bottom, the suds floating away as they disintegrated. And still he laved the cloth over her skin, as if the movement of his hand against her flesh mesmerized him, and the pressure of his fingers gave him pleasure. His growl was against her ear as he bent closer, a wordless sound she recognized, and she jerked away, looking up into the intensely primitive message she could not mistake.
“I won’t,” she told him sharply, even as she recognized defeat in the yearning of her own body.
“You will,” he countered, and lifted her, one hand on each side of her waist, tucking her neatly against himself, until her legs bound her to him, wrapping around his thighs as she fought to keep her balance.
“Open for me,” he said, and it was an order, a demand she’d thought never to hear from him. Tenderness vanished, only passion remained, and the desire that lit his gaze fueled a fire deep inside her body, one she’d thought was extinguished forever.
She widened her legs and enclosed him, feeling the depth of his single stroke as if a sword pierced her very soul. There was no pain, for she was softened and ready, her anger and apprehension blending with an excitement she could not contain. He withdrew, a slight movement, and pressed farther within, and she grasped him with strong interior muscles that seemed to have a mind of their own.
Her cry rose and he captured it in his mouth, his tongue sweeping past her teeth to plunge the depths of her throat. It should have repelled her, but she savored the thrust. It should have disgusted her to be so used, but she groaned and fought for a better grip on his shoulders.
It should have left her cold, this blazing force of his desire, shed with ruthless impact upon her newly slender form, but it brought her instead, in mere moments, to a climax that forced sobs from her lips, and took the breath from her body.
He pumped harshly against her, as if his own release was too powerful to be vented in silence, and his voice rose in a roar of defiance, piercing the air like an animal in a fight for supremacy, sounding his triumph aloud for all the world to hear.
And then he held her, his arms around her trembling form as he climbed from the water and stood, legs widespread on the grass beneath the canopy of green that sheltered them.
She could not move, could barely breathe. Limp, she slid from his grasp and shivered, her mind swimming, only aware of the bonds that held her to this man. Not the strength of muscled arms, although they clasped her upright. Not the sturdy frame that she leaned against, though it provided a resting place for her.
But the compelling knowledge that they were man and woman, husband and wife, that she was his mate, and he had bound them today with a primitive blending of their bodies, branding her as his own.
Chapter Thirteen
She dressed, silent and filled with a peace she could not comprehend. She had allowed J.T. to spend his pent-up frustration on her body, and that was knowledge she shrank from. Yet, in her heart of hearts, she recognized her own participation in the act that had taken place. She could not, would not, blame him unduly, for she had not cried for mercy, not begged for him to cease his aggressive behavior.
Indeed, she had been pushed beyond her own capability to respond, and had more than allowed him his way. She flushed deeply as she pulled her trousers up and tied an awkward knot in the leather belt. And heard his smothered chuckle as he watched.
“I said you were skin and bones,” he reminded her. And then he bent to her, his fingers undoing the tangle of leather. “I’ll put in another hole for you,” he offered, drawing his knife from his pocket and pressing her to sit on the ground before him.
Kneeling beside her, he placed the length of her belt on a piece of rock and held his knife tip against the leather. With a sharp movement, he impaled the strip and turned the knife to widen the tiny slit. In seconds he’d completed the small task, and he stood, pushing the knife back in his pocket, and offering his hand.
She glanced up, unsure of what would meet her gaze, but his face was impassive as he offered the choice. Either accept his help or rise on her own. She placed trembling fingers against his and felt his warmth enclose her hand, drawing her upward until she stood inches from him.
“Don’t look at me like that, Clo,” he said harshly, emotion coating each syllable.
“How do you want me to look at you?” she asked, reaching for her shirt, loath to pull the sweaty material over her damp skin, yet even more unwilling to stand before him naked.
“I have a clean shirt if you want to use it,” he offered, as if he cou
ld read her mind, sense her distaste for the soiled fabric.
She held the plaid cotton before her breasts and cut a cautious glance upward, then nodded quickly. “Tilly will wonder at me, leaving with one shirt, returning with another. She was pretty put out with me this morning,” she offered.
“Do you blame her?” he asked, turning aside to reach for his saddlebag, there beside the tree where his own shed clothing lay in a crumpled pile. He bent, oblivious to his nudity and searched briefly within the leather bag, bringing forth a well-worn, but clean shirt, and handed it to her.
“No.” She slid her arms into the sleeves and sorted out the buttons, aware that the length hung almost to her knees. She thought of Tilly’s frown and the gesture of reconciliation she’d offered. “But she saved me breakfast.”
“She’s saved you a plate every day for weeks,” he told her. “You’ve hurt her, Clo, and I don’t know if you did anything to make it up this morning, but you owe her a debt you’ll probably spend the rest of your life working at.”
“You think I don’t know that?” She felt a pout curl her lip as she tucked the shirt beneath her trousers, pushing the abundance of material as far as she could. “I suppose I owe you one, too,” she said stiffly, latching the belt, sliding the metal into the newly formed hole.
“Not in my book, you don’t,” he said quietly. “You don’t owe me anything.” He stalked to where his clothing lay and snatched up his trousers, balancing lightly as he stepped into them. And then he turned back to her, catching her unaware as she fed her eyes on the pale flesh he covered with casual movements.
His words held a harsh tone she had not expected. “I’ll lay odds you’re waiting for an apology from me, aren’t you?”
She shook her head, dragging her gaze from him as she rolled drooping sleeves higher. “You didn’t force me,” she said after a moment, glancing back at him, concentrating on his hands, fisted against his hips.
“I was harsh with you.”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“I probably left bruises.”
Her gaze shot up to meet tired eyes and she only nodded. “You didn’t ask permission, that’s for sure, but then…”
“Then, what?” he asked. “Did you hate it so much, Clo? Have I lost you entirely? Did I push you too far?”
She shook her head. “I’m your wife, Jay. You had every right. I’ve turned my back on you for weeks, and I knew when I found you here today that you were up against the wall, and you wouldn’t put up with much more.” She sighed and sat on the ground to find her stockings and pull them on, then looked up with a half smile.
“Maybe I needed to know I’m still alive.” She shifted and grimaced. “At least there’s that to think about. My pa used to say…” She thought of the words that had flooded her mind earlier and repeated them now.
“Life is for the living.” She rose and stood before him. “Pete’s dead, but I’m alive, and there’s a ranch to run and horses to tend and my aunt waiting back at the house.”
“And I’m here, Clo.”
She looked up at him, searching his features, seeking some sign of the anger he’d spent on her. But there was none to behold, only a strange lassitude that puzzled her. “I know you are. I’m aware that you probably didn’t fire the shot that killed Pete, but there’s a big circle of blame surrounding you, and I can’t seem to get over it. Tilly said I’m taking my anger at Pete out on you. Maybe she’s right.”
“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself,” he told her. “I won’t fight with you over it. If I caused you pain today, and you’re wearing bruises because of me, I guess I’ll apologize for that, but I’m not sorry for what happened between us, and if that makes me less than a man in your eyes…” He lifted his hands in a gesture of helplessness, then dropped them to his sides.
“I wanted you angry, Clo. I wanted your fury to burn away the barriers you put between us. I guess I succeeded, a little, maybe.” He turned her, his hand on her shoulder, to where her mare waited, reins touching the ground. “Go on home. I’ll go back up and lend a hand for another hour or so and then I’ll see you at supper.”
“When will you take the steers to auction?” Hesitating, reins in hand, she turned back to him.
“In a week or so. We’ll be gone a week or ten days maybe.”
She nodded. “I figured as much. It’s a long haul to Cheyenne, and then back again.”
“Have you ever gone with them?” he asked, and she searched for a hidden message in his query. Her nod was short, and she jammed her hat in place as she mounted the mare.
“I have. But I won’t this time.” And with that quick reply, she’d shut the door once more, she realized, and wept bitter tears as her mare found the way home.
For all the words spoken, the lines of communication opened, it might as well have never been, J.T. decided after supper was behind them. He sat on the porch, watching as Chloe shut the chickens in the coop for the night, his gaze following her slender form as she held her shirtfront from her body, and recognized that she had picked up eggs, passing through the nesting hens.
Now, she approached in the twilight and climbed the steps to the porch, taking three paces to the back door. “I’ve got a few fresh eggs,” she told Tilly, who sat by the table with a catalogue in front of her.
“Put them in the crock,” Tilly said, nodding toward the pantry, and Chloe moved obediently to do as she was asked. Tilly looked through the window and J.T. moved a bit, letting her see his presence there. She nodded and gathered up her periodical. “I’m going to the parlor.”
“All right,” Chloe said from the depths of the pantry. “Do you need anything from the smokehouse for breakfast?”
Tilly glanced again at the porch and mumbled a reply. “A piece of ham would come in handy. Have J.T. take down one of those shoulder pieces hanging out there.”
Chloe walked across the floor and out the door. “I can do that,” she said. “I’ll bring it in.”
J.T. walked behind her to the smokehouse, held the door open as she stepped inside and then followed her in. It was dark, an eerie place with meat hanging from the rafters. Strange shadows formed as his eyes adjusted to the pale glimmer of moonlight through the roof venting. Chloe grumbled words beneath her breath and sighed.
“I can’t reach quite high enough. Lift this piece from the hook, will you?”
He obliged, recognizing the aggravation she felt when her height prevented her from accomplishing her aim. “You don’t like being small, do you?” he asked, pushing the door open, inhaling deeply of the night air.
“Most of the time I hate it,” she said, her voice a liquid pout, and then she looked upward, and he heard her indrawn breath. “A shooting star,” she whispered, and he saw her in a new light, as for a moment vulnerability touched her features.
“Did you wish on it?” he asked, aching to grant whatever it was she yearned for.
She glanced up at him and shook her head. “Foolishness,” she muttered. “The things I wished for all my life seem silly now.”
“Like what?” he asked, leaning against the door to hold it shut as she shot the bolt. Her look in his direction held a touch of scorn.
“Happy ever after, mostly,” she said sharply. “I know better than that now. I thought my father would live forever, that my brother would buckle down and we’d be a team.”
“Didn’t you wish for something just for you?” he asked.
“All that was for me.”
“How about pretty dresses, and men to court you, and a family of your own?”
“I’m not like other women. I don’t need fancy things to please me, or pretty words to flatter me.”
“Well, I’ll grant you there’s a difference between you and the women I’ve come up against over the years. You’re tougher and stronger and more capable than any four of them put together. But you’re still female enough to need a little…” He hesitated, searching for the single word she could accept as a genuine balm to h
er lonely heart.
“I think you need to be cherished, Clo.”
“Like today?” she asked bluntly.
“No, not like today. That was all about anger and pain and need, honey. I didn’t do any cherishing, I’m afraid.” He spoke hesitantly as she turned aside and looked toward the house where the light from the kitchen window beckoned. “Childhood dreams come true sometimes, Clo. Mine did.”
“Yours?”
“Yeah,” he said, walking beside her toward the house, his hand on her shoulder. “I was just an ordinary kid, with the usual ideas. I wanted horses of my own and a place where I could be in charge, instead of answering to someone else. My father ran a tight ship, and crops were the most important thing.”
Her footsteps lagged as they neared the house and she listened, tilting her head a bit. Encouraged, he went on, remembering the days of his youth. “Pa used mules for the most part, had a mare to pull the buggy, but making money hand over fist was his aim in life. He said playing with horses was foolishness. Told me I needed to tend to the business of growing cotton and making money.”
“Did you live in the South? Well, of course you did,” she said, answering her own query. “I should have known.”
“Does it show?” he asked, shooting her a lazy grin.
Her arms crossed over her breasts as she looked up at him, scanning his features, a smile twitching. “Once in a while, I hear a trace of…something.”
“Must be when I forget myself,” he said quietly. “Anyway, in the course of events, the home place burned to the ground, with my folks inside when it happened. My mother—” He thought of the woman who had given him life.
“They both died there that day. By the time I heard about it, it was too late to do more than sift through the ashes. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t care enough to stick around and claim my inheritance, what there was left of it. I just lit out and worked my way north and west, looking for a spot to hang my hat.”
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