by Jane Porter
Thank goodness he said he didn’t mind ham and cheese and summer fruit.
Chapter Eight
Thomas couldn’t sleep and he punched his pillow, twice, and when that didn’t help, he flipped it over and tossed back the covers trying to get cool.
But even then he couldn’t get comfortable.
It was late, well past midnight, and yet he couldn’t unwind, continuing to question everything that had happened this afternoon, and regretting the decisions he’d made.
Discovering Ellie crying in the bathtub had rattled him. He could handle her anger, he understood that she was stubborn, but when she quietly wept, he couldn’t walk away from her. Nor would he cut her hair. Under no circumstances would he cut her hair.
He’d taken the stool and tackled the task of working on the knots and tangles, never letting her know just how difficult it was unraveling the brush, strand by strand, when she was practically sitting in his lap. Having her naked and so close had tested his control.
Even with the knots and tangles, and eyes pink from crying, she was beautiful, her skin pale and smooth, her mouth full and soft.
He’d tried to distract himself by focusing on the tangles, and yet beneath the thick clumps of hair he could see the length of her back, her spine supple and strong, her porcelain skin flawless. He’d felt a jolt in him when his fingers brushed her warm shoulder. She felt as soft as she looked and when she sat up a little, stretching, arching, he’d hardened, and for the next hour he just ached, unable to ease the heavy erection he was trying desperately hard to hide.
He told her about his family not because he liked sharing, but because he needed to do something to take his mind off her naked body and the fullness of her breasts peeking from the side of her hand towel.
He shouldn’t want her like this.
He shouldn’t want to strip the towel away and reach for the sponge and wash her all over, beginning with her breasts and ending with the hidden “v” between her legs.
Groaning with frustration, and the heavy ache of yet another erection, Thomas climbed from bed.
His small window was already open and he leaned on the high sill, breathing in the fresh night air. He had to cool down. He had to calm down. He’d never sleep if he remained half erect all night.
And he really wished he’d kept his stories of Rathkeale to himself.
She didn’t need to know about his family. He’d never told anyone about his past, or how his family had died, and he regretted sharing with her. His past was personal and painful, and better left buried, like his four sisters, and Margaret’s baby, and Patrick, and Mam.
Forehead pressed to the glass, he stared out at the night with its half-moon. And even though he was seeing the moon over Montana, he was remembering how the moon looked from their flat in Rathkeale. They didn’t own their flat on the third floor, and there were more of them in their two bedroom flat than the owner liked, so they were always trying to be quiet, and keep from disturbing their neighbors, although the neighbors complained anyway. Hard not to complain when the family above you was dying, one by one.
There were only two bedrooms on their floor. The girls had one, the boys another, and at first their mother slept in a corner of the main room, but after his two oldest two brothers left, Mam moved into the room with Patrick and him. They hung a curtain down the middle to give her some privacy, but there was little privacy for a big family in a small flat, and there was almost no way to escape disease when they lived so closely together.
In all fairness, Mam and Eliza had tried to keep everything clean. They kept the house spotless, in fact. But the illness spread anyway.
Thinking of them made him feel slightly mad. Why had they been cursed? And why had he escaped? It wasn’t fair. If they were going to die, shouldn’t he have died, too?
Thomas arrived in America angry. He’d worked in New York for six months to save up money to move west, and then he was in Chicago for a year, before going to Nebraska, South Dakota, North Dakota before finally going in search of that uncle in Montana. His uncle was gone but Thomas liked Montana, and he’d found work in Bozeman before moving east over the hills to Livingston and then down to Marietta.
By the time he found a job in Marietta, he’d been in America for six years and no longer was he the brash, hotheaded Irishman looking for a fight, but a man ready to own a piece of the American dream, which for him was hard work and sacrifice.
The American dream wasn’t a wealthy wife.
The American dream didn’t include a wife at all.
Thomas drew a slow breath, trying to slow his thudding heart. He shouldn’t have stirred the memories. He was better with the door firmly closed on the past, better without emotions, and desire, and yet tonight he was full of both. Grief for his lost sisters, and an aching desire for a wife that shouldn’t be his.
He’d done nothing to earn Ellie, and he’d done nothing to deserve her, either.
This afternoon when he’d rubbed the egg and oil into her hair, massaging her scalp, she’d leaned back against the tub, head tilted, eyes closed with pleasure, dense lashes fanning her cheekbones.
She’d sighed softly as he worked the paste, and sighed again as he found sensitive spots on her skull—the temple, the crown, just above her nape. His thumbs massaged each of the sensitive spots, soothing nerves and easing tension.
It was the first time in this new marriage when he thought that it could maybe work, and that maybe they could be happy. Or learn to be happy. At least, in that moment, he was happier than he’d been since marrying her, because for once he wasn’t the man he despised, the rough, uneducated Irish immigrant who’d made an excellent marriage simply by being in the right place, at the right time.
No, yesterday he’d felt like a man with a beautiful young bride, and he delighted in her beauty, focusing on her soft sighs of pleasure, and how with each exhale, she relaxed a little more, shoulders dropping, elegant neck exposed, firm chin up, her full lips ripe, and so very appealing.
If they weren’t still strangers, he would have taken her mouth, kissing it until she opened for him, giving him access to the inside of her mouth, and then eventually her body—
Thomas stopped himself there.
He’d never be able to sleep if he kept thinking about her, or thinking of how she must look now, in her bed, long red hair spilling across her pillow, slender curves covered by a crisp cotton sheet.
No, he wouldn’t ever sleep if he thought of her. It had been months since he’d been with a woman, since before Christmas actually. The last time he’d been with a woman was the night before the big mine explosion and fire.
The night before he first met Ellie. After glimpsing Ellie from the fire wagon, he’d lost all desire for other women.
He didn’t even know who she was that night, only that she was the most vivid, vibrant woman he’d ever seen and, when her bright gaze met his, he wanted her like he’d never wanted anyone. But what could he offer a woman like her? Sex? Companionship? How would that ever be enough when breathtaking Ellie Burnett wanted the world, with all its pleasures, including forever love?
Something had changed during the night. Ellie could feel it the moment she entered the kitchen the next morning and spotted Thomas at the table, in his favorite spot.
He seemed different, and she didn’t know why, and wondered if it was really him that was different, or if she was possibly viewing him in a new light.
But no, it was him, she realized, as he glanced up, looking at her in a way he hadn’t yesterday, or the day before.
This morning he looked at her as if she was a woman, a woman he found attractive, and the frank curiosity and interest sent a shiver racing through her.
“Good morning,” she said breathlessly, grateful he didn’t know her thoughts otherwise he’d know she’d had the most restless night, her sleep punctuated by dreams of him, dreams that were uncomfortably sensual.
“How did you sleep?” he asked.
She blush
ed, remembering her dreams. “Well,” she lied. “And you?”
“Good.”
And then she glanced away because she was suddenly nervous and shy and she wondered if she’d even thanked him the night before for helping her. She wasn’t sure because last night had ended in a strange rush of good nights. He’d seemed anxious to leave her, and she’d felt confused by the abruptness of the goodbye. “If I didn’t thank you properly last night—”
“You did,” he said.
“I am grateful.”
“No more thanks are needed.”
“Yes, but it took hours.”
“If you’re uncomfortable with the time I spent detangling, stop. I did it for myself. I like your hair long and didn’t want to see it chopped off just to free a brush.”
She couldn’t help reaching up to touch her hair, the heavy mass twisted and pinned into a simple but elegant chignon. It was a relatively uncomplicated style, but not easy to execute with her hair so clean as the silken strands kept tumbling out, requiring twice as many pins as usual. “Did your sisters have long hair?”
He shifted in his chair. “Yes, but I’d rather we didn’t discuss them anymore.” His voice was pitched deep. “If you don’t mind.”
“You don’t like speaking of them?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His broad shoulder shifted. “I’m not good with the past. I don’t like the memories.”
“But surely there must be good memories as well—”
“I should get to work,” he said abruptly, rising and pushing back from the table.
She’d just crossed to the stove to check the coffeepot and paused to glance out the window over the sink. The sky was still pitch dark. There wasn’t even a hint of light on the horizon. “What time is it?”
“I imagine it’s close to five.”
“Why begin working now? It’s still very early.”
“I always do. I like to get a head start on my day.”
She filled the empty cup waiting for her on the counter and then carried the cup to the table. “But not even Mr. Harrison, or the hands, begin work until after seven,” she said sitting down.
“Exactly. This way I am always the first one there. I like to settle in before the others arrive.”
“And Mr. Harrison never said anything to you?” she asked, wishing he’d sit down again. He was far too tall when standing.
Thomas’s shoulders shifted. “Why should he say anything? It’s not his ranch.”
“But he’s worked here for over twenty years,” she said, brow creasing, uneasy with his tone. It was almost as if he wanted to pick a fight with her now. What had she said that upset him? “I just thought that maybe you would have consulted him—”
“And I have, if I’ve a legitimate question, but when I work, and what time I show up, doesn’t require his input. I appreciate his loyalty to your father, but he works for me, not I for him.”
She nearly dropped her cup. “Have you said that to him?”
“It’s not necessary to spell it out. He knows, and I know.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to comment that he’d made himself quite comfortable, but she didn’t want to say that, knowing it would result in a fight, and they were finally getting along better so the last thing she wanted was to quarrel with him.
And yet, he was still new here, and he’d never managed a cattle ranch of this size before.
“You disapprove,” Thomas said.
She hesitated. “I’m just... surprised.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not true, you do.”
She drew a breath, wishing they hadn’t started on this topic because it wasn’t going to end well. He wouldn’t like that she had opinions, and more so, that her opinions didn’t align with his. “I just hadn’t thought it necessary to change the way things are done here, and I’m sensing that you’ve made some changes on the ranch.”
“If I’ve made changes, they were for the better.”
“But when you’re still so new here, how do you know the changes are for the better? Wouldn’t it have been wise to settle in and observe how Mr. Harrison manages first, or maybe consult me, and ask what I think?”
“You haven’t been available, Mrs. Sheenan,” he said curtly, downing the rest of his coffee and carrying his cup to the sink.
From the back he looked immense, his shoulders broad, his spine rigid. He was angry.
“Although I suppose after the wedding I could have taken to my bed, too,” he added. “Maybe that would have suited you better.”
She said nothing, her jaw clenched, as annoyed with him as she was with herself. She’d known she shouldn’t be honest with him. Her father might have welcomed her opinions but Thomas Sheenan didn’t.
Her silence seemed to gall him because he turned around, his arms crossed over the thick planes of his chest, fabric taut over his bunched biceps. “Would you have been happier with a wastrel for a husband? Would that please you, my lady?”
“You’re trying to pick a fight with me,” she protested, “and I don’t want to quarrel—”
“No, you just like making little jabs, humiliating jabs to keep me in my place.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true and, to be fair, I’m the first to recognize that I do not belong here. Every day here I’m conscious that I’m an outsider, and only in your house because you ran out of time and couldn’t find a more suitable husband.”
“That can’t be a comfortable thought,” she said after several moments of silence.
“No, it’s not.”
“But you know I’ve thanked you. The day we married I expressed my gratitude.”
“And I suppose I’m to be grateful for that?”
She frowned, her patience wearing thing. “What do you want from me?”
“Something else than this,” he muttered, grabbing a biscuit from the sideboard and then the thick slices of bacon and heading for the mudroom.
She rose, trembling with anger. “And to think I almost started to like you.”
He turned in the doorway. “Oh, don’t do that, Ellie Sheenan, because then we might actually have a real relationship, one requiring respect and give and take—”
“But that’s what I want!”
“No, you don’t. You want to be the mistress, in control, with me as your boy trotting at your heels.”
Her hands balled at her sides. “You didn’t have to marry me! Nobody put a gun to your head so don’t blame me if you’re unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy with the ranch. I have no problems with Harrison.”
“I see. Your issue is with me.”
“I appreciate you’ve been busy these past few months staring at the ceiling, but while you’ve locked yourself in your room, I’ve been working my ass—”
“There is no need to swear!”
“Trying to succeed here, and I don’t need you criticizing my decisions when I’m giving everything I have to make this work.”
She couldn’t take a breath without feeling the horrendous lump in her throat. He was so rude, so completely despicable. “Take your bacon and biscuit and go. Your chores are calling you!”
His lips curved and his dark eyes narrowed, a dangerous gleam in the brown depths. “Oh, I think my morning chores are right here.”
He hadn’t moved and yet she suddenly felt the need to back up, but when she took a step, her hip banged the edge of the table, and her knee collided with the chair. There was nowhere to go, not without a dramatic shove of her chair, and the last thing she wanted to do was let him know she was uncomfortable. Animals could sense fear. And right now, Thomas Sheenan reminded her of an unpredictable animal.
“I’m sorry if you found my words offensive,” she said quietly, proud of her calm voice, as well as the fact that she was the one trying to make amends.
But he wasn’t soothed. “How could I not find them offensive?”
&
nbsp; “I’m trying to make things better,” she snapped.
“How?”
“I never called you a wastrel, or useless. Those were your words, not mine.”
“No, you didn’t. That was true. But it wouldn’t cross your mind to thank me for taking on the responsibilities of the ranch, or to feel gratitude that for the past three months I’ve woken before dawn to be sure I’m the first one in the barn, that it’s deliberate I’m there before the others so they can see by my actions that I’m not just here to freeload, but I’m committed to the property, and most of all, you.”
She felt his tension from across the room. “Of course I’m grateful.”
“But of course you don’t sound it. It would kill you to show me courtesy.” He moved from the sink and stalked toward her, his dark gaze fixed on her face, his long steps deliberate.
The room seemed to shrink as he advanced. The air bottled in her lungs. She squeezed her hands, palms damp. “Are you trying to frighten me?”
“Are you frightened?”
“No.” But she took a step back, bumping the table again.
He didn’t stop until he was directly in front of her, so close that she had to tip her head back to meet his gaze, and then when she did, she wished she hadn’t. His expression wasn’t friendly. There was nothing conciliatory in his eyes or the set of his hard jaw.
She dropped her gaze to his chin, still every bit as rugged as the rest of him, but it was safer somehow, less intense than his burning eyes and grimly twisted lips. “I don’t know why you’re quarreling with me,” she choked.
“Funny enough, I believe that.”
She risked a glance up, and then wished she hadn’t. His dark eyes smoldered with heat, and something else, something disconcertingly fierce and primal, as if one of those huge Yellowstone wolves was patrolling the valley.
But Thomas wasn’t a wolf, and she wasn’t part of his pack. There was no reason to fear him. And just because he had a predatory gleam in his eye, didn’t mean he actually wanted her. He wasn’t hungry. He wouldn’t hurt her. If anything, he was testing her, trying to intimidate her, but she wouldn’t be cowed.
