Granite Man m-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “You see,” he said, his voice husky, “streams are a prospector’s best friend. They collect and concentrate gold. Without them a lot of the West’s most famous gold strikes would never have been made.”

  “Really?”

  The breathless quality of Mariah’s voice was a caress that shivered delicately over Cash.

  “They’re still looking for the mother lode that put Sutter’s Mill on the map,” he murmured, catching a lock of her hair and running it between his fingers.

  The soft sound Mariah made could have been a response to his words or to the fragile brush of Cash’s fingertips at her hairline. With a stifled curse at his inability to keep his hands off her, Cash opened his fingers, releasing Mariah from silken captivity.

  “Anyway,” he said, turning his attention back to the rugged countryside, “I’m betting Mad Jack was panning a granite-bottomed stream, because only a fool looks for gold in lava formations, and that old boy was nobody’s fool.”

  “You’re not a fool, either,” Mariah said huskily, grabbing desperately for a safe topic, because it was that or grab Cash’s hand and beg him to go on touching her. “So why were you prospecting the Devil’s Peak area before you saw Mad Jack’s map? Until we got to this stream, I didn’t see anything that looked like granite or quartzite or any of the ‘ites’ that are usually found with gold. Just all kinds of lava. Granted, I’m no expert on gold hunting, but…”

  “This area wasn’t my first choice,” Cash said dryly. “Almost two years ago I was having a soak in Black Springs when I realized that Devil’s Peak is basically a volcano rammed through and poured out over country rock that’s largely granite. Where the lava has eroded enough, the granite shows through. And where there’s granite, there could be gold.” He smiled, gave Mariah a sideways glance, and admitted, “I was glad to see that ratty old map, though. I’ve been panning up here for two years and haven’t gotten anything more to show for it than a tired back.”

  “No gold at all?”

  “A bit of color here and there. Hobbyist flakes, the kind you put in a magnifying vial and show to patient friends. Nothing to raise the blood pressure.”

  “Darn, I was hoping that-trout!” Mariah said excitedly, pointing toward the stream.

  “What?”

  “I just saw a trout! Look!”

  Smiling down at Mariah, barely resisting the urge to fold her against his body in a long hug, Cash didn’t even glance at the stream that had captured her interest.

  “Fish are silver,” he said in a deep voice. “We’re after gold. We’ll catch dinner on the way back.”

  “How can you be so sure? The fish could be hiding under rocks by then.”

  “They won’t be.”

  Mariah made an unconvinced sound.

  “I bet we’ll catch our fill of trout for dinner tonight,” Cash said.

  “What do you bet?”

  “Loser cleans the fish.”

  “What if there are no fish to clean?”

  “There will be.”

  “You’re on,” she retorted quickly, forgetting Nevada’s advice about never gambling with a man called Cash. “If we don’t get fish, you do dishes tonight.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re on, lady.” Cash laughed softly and tugged at a silky lock of Mariah’s hair once more. “Candy from a baby.”

  “Tell me that while you’re doing dishes.”

  Cash just laughed.

  “It’s not a bet until we shake on it,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “That’s not how it works between a man and a woman.”

  He took her hand and brought it to his mouth. She felt the mild rasp of his growing beard, the brush of his lips over her palm, and a single hot touch from the tip of his tongue. She thought Cash whispered candy when he straightened, but she was too shaken to be sure.

  “Now it’s a bet,” he said.

  8

  “How’s it going?” Cash asked.

  Mariah looked up from the last fish that remained to be cleaned. “Better for me than for the trout.”

  He laughed and watched as she prepared the fish for the frying pan with inexpert but nonetheless effective swipes of his filleting knife.

  Cash had expected Mariah to balk at paying off the bet, or at the very least to sulk over it. Instead, she had attacked the fish with the same lack of complaint she had shown for sleeping on the shack’s cold, drafty floor. Only her unconscious sigh of relief as she rinsed the last fish – and her hands – in the icy stream told Cash how little she had liked the chore.

  “I’ll do the dishes,” he said as she finished.

  “Not a chance. It’s the only way I’ll get the smell of fish off my hands.”

  Cash grabbed one of Mariah’s hands, held it under his nose and inhaled dramatically. “Smells fine to me.”

  “You must be hungry.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “You’re alive,” she said, laughing up at him.

  Smiling widely, Cash grabbed the tin plate of fish in one hand. The other still held Mariah’s water-chilled fingers. He pulled her to her feet with ease.

  “Lady, you have the coldest hands of any woman I’ve ever known.”

  “Try me after I’ve done the dishes,” she retorted.

  He smiled down at her. “Okay.”

  Mariah’s stomach gave a tiny little flip that became a definite flutter when Cash pulled her fingers up his body and tucked them against the warm curve of his neck. Whether it was his body heat or the increased beating of her own heart, Mariah’s fingers warmed up very quickly. She slanted brief, sideways glances at Cash as they walked toward the line shack, but he apparently felt that warming her cold hands on his body was in the same category as helping her over rough spots in the trail – no big deal. Certainly it wasn’t something for him to go all breathless over.

  But Mariah was. Breathless. Each time Cash touched her she felt strange, almost shaky, yet the sensations shimmering through her body were very sweet. Even as she wondered if Cash felt the same, she discarded the idea. He was so matter-of-fact about any physical contact that it made her response to it look foolish.

  “Listen,” Cash said, stopping suddenly.

  Mariah froze. From the direction of Devil’s Peak came a low, fluid, rushing sound, as though there were a river racing by just out of sight. Yet she knew there wasn’t.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Wind. See? It’s bending the evergreens on the slope like an invisible hand stroking fur. The rain is about a quarter mile behind.”

  Mariah followed the direction of his pointing finger and saw that Cash was right. Heralded by a fierce, transparent cataract of wind, a storm was sweeping rapidly toward them across the slope of Devil’s Peak.

  “Unless you want the coldest shower you ever took,” Cash said, “stretch those long legs.”

  A crack of thunder underlined Cash’s words. He grabbed the plate of fish from Mariah and pushed her in the direction of the cabin.

  “Run for it!”

  “What about you?”

  “Move, lady!”

  Mariah bolted for the cabin, still feeling the imprint of Cash’s hand on her bottom, where he had emphasized his command with a definite smack. She barely beat the speeding storm back to the line shack’s uncertain shelter.

  Cash, who had the plate of slippery fish to balance, couldn’t move as quickly as Mariah. The difference in reaching shelter was only a minute or two, but it was enough. He got soaked. Swearing at the icy rain, Cash bolted through the line shack’s open door and kicked it shut behind him. Water ran off his big body and puddled around his feet.

  “Put all the stuff that has to stay dry over there,” Cash said loudly, trying to be heard over the hammering of rain on the roof.

  Mariah grabbed bedding, clothes and dry food and started stacking them haphazardly in the corner Cash had indicated. He set aside the fish and disappeared outside again. Mom
ents later he returned, his arms piled high with firewood. The wood dripped as much as he did, adding to the puddles that were appearing magically on the floor in every area of the cabin but one – the corner where Mariah was frantically storing things. Cash dumped the firewood near the hearth and went back outside again. Almost instantly he reappeared, arms loaded with wood once more. With swift, efficient motions he began stacking the wood according to size.

  “Don’t forget the kindling,” he said without looking up.

  Quickly Mariah rescued a burlap sack of dry pine needles and kindling from the long tongue of water that was creeping across the floor. Before the puddle could reach the dry corner, gaps in the wooden planks of the floor drained the water away.

  “At least it leaks on the bottom, too,” Mariah said.

  “Damn good thing. Otherwise we’d drown.”

  Thunder cracked and rolled down from the peak in an avalanche of sound.

  “What about the horses?” Mariah asked.

  “They’ll get wet just like they would at the home corral.”

  Cash stood up and shook his head, spraying cold drops everywhere.

  “We had a dog that used to do that,” Mariah said. “We kept him outside when it rained. In Seattle, that was most of the time.”

  She started to say something else, then forgot what it was. Cash was peeling off his flannel shirt and arranging it on a series of nails over the hearth. The naked reality of his strength fascinated her. Every twist of his body, every motion, every breath, shifted the masculine pattern of bone and muscle, sinew and tendon, making new arrangements of light and shadow, strength and grace.

  “Is something wrong?” Cash said, both amused and aroused by the admiration in Mariah’s golden eyes.

  “Er… you’re steaming.”

  “What?”

  “You’re steaming.”

  Cash held out his arms and laughed as he saw that Mariah was right. Heat curled visibly up from his body in the line shack’s chilly air.

  “I’ll get you a shirt before you freeze,” Mariah said, turning back to the haphazard mound she had piled in the corner. She rummaged about until she came up with a midnight-blue shirt that was the color of Cash’s eyes in the stormy light. “I knew it was here.”

  “Thanks. Can you find some jeans, too?”

  The voice came from so close to Mariah that she was startled. She glanced around and saw bare feet not eight inches away. Bare calves, too. And knees. And thighs. And – hastily she looked back at the pile of dry goods, hoping Cash couldn’t see the sudden color burning on her cheeks or the clumsiness of her hands.

  But Cash saw both the heat in Mariah’s cheeks and the trembling of her fingers as she handed him dry jeans without looking around.

  “Sorry,” he said, taking the jeans from her and stepping into them. “In these days of co-ed dorms, I didn’t think the sight of a man in underwear would embarrass you.”

  “There’s rather a lot of you,” Mariah said in an elaborately casual voice, then put her face in her hands. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just that you’re bigger than most men and… and…”

  “Taller, too,” Cash said blandly.

  Mariah made a muffled sound behind her hands, and then another.

  “You’re laughing at me,” he said.

  “No, I’m strangling on my feet.”

  “Try putting them in your mouth only one at a time. It always works for me.”

  Mariah gave up and laughed out loud. Smiling, Cash listened to her laughter glittering through the drumroll of rain on the roof. He was still smiling when he went down on one knee in front of the fire and stirred it into life..”

  “What do you say to an early dinner and a game of cards?” Cash asked.

  “Sure.” What kind of game?”

  “Poker.” Is there any other kind?”

  “Zillions. Canasta and gin and Fish and Old Maid and-”

  “Kid games,” Cash interrupted, scoffing. He looked over his shoulder and saw Mariah watching him. “We’re too old for that.”

  The gleaming intensity of Cash’s eyes made Mariah feel weak.

  “I just remembered something,” she said faintly.

  “What?”

  “Never play cards with a man called Cash.”

  “It doesn’t apply. My name is Alexander.”

  “I’m reassured.”

  “Thought you would be.”

  “I’m also broke.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll play for things we have lots of.”

  “Like what?”

  “Pine needles, smiles, puddles, kisses, raindrops, that sort of thing.” Without waiting for an answer, Cash turned back to the fire. “How hot do you need it for trout? Or do you want to cook them over the camp stove?”

  Blinking, Mariah tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Cash couldn’t have mentioned kisses, could he? She must have been letting her own longing guide her hearing down false trails.

  “Trout,” she said tentatively.

  “Yeah. You remember. Those slippery little devils you cleaned.” He smiled. “The look on your face… Never bet anything you mind losing, honey.”

  Abruptly Mariah was certain she had heard his list of betting items very clearly, and kisses had definitely been one of them.

  And he had nearly gotten away with it.

  “Cash McQueen, you could teach slippery to a fish.”

  He laughed out loud, enjoying Mariah’s quick tongue. Then he thought of some other ways he would like to enjoy that tongue. The fit of his jeans changed abruptly. So did his laughter. He stood in a barely controlled rush of power and turned his back on Mariah.

  “You’ll need light to cook,” he muttered.

  He crossed the shack in a few long strides, ignoring the puddles, and yanked a pressurized gas lantern from its wall hook. He pumped up the lantern with short, savage strokes, ripped a wooden match into life on his jeans and lit the lantern. Light pulsed wildly, erratically, until he adjusted the gas feed. The lantern settled into a hard, bright light whose pulses were so subtle they were almost undetectable. He brought the lantern across the room and hung it on one of the many nails that cowhands had driven into the line shack’s walls over the years.

  “Thank you,” Mariah said uncertainly, wondering if Cash had somehow been insulted by being called slippery. But his laughter had been genuine. Then he had stopped laughing and that, too, had been genuine.

  With a muffled sigh Mariah concentrated on preparing dinner. While she worked, Cash prowled the six-foot-by-nine-foot shack, putting pans and cups and other containers under the worst leaks. Rain hammered down with the single-minded ferocity of a high-country storm. Although it was hours from sunset, the light level dropped dramatically. Except for occasional violent flashes of lightning, the hearth and lantern became isolated islands of illumination in the gloom.

  Both Cash and Mariah ate quickly, for the metal camp plates drained heat from the food. Cash stripped the sweet flesh from the fish bones with a deftness that spoke of long practice. Cornbread steamed and breathed fragrance into the chilly air. When there was nothing left but crumbs and memories, Mariah reached for the dishes.

  “I’ll do them,” Cash said. “You’ve had a hard day.”

  “No worse than yours.”

  Cash didn’t argue, he simply shaved soap into a pot with his lethally sharp pocketknife, added water that had been warming in the bucket by the hearth and began washing dishes. Mariah rinsed and stacked the dishes to one side to drain, watching him from the corner of her eyes. He had rolled up his sleeves to deal with the dishes. Each movement he made revealed the muscular power of his forearms and the blunt strength in his hands.

  When the dishes were over and Cash sat cross-legged opposite Mariah on the only dry patch of floor in the cabin, lantern light poured over him, highlighting the planes of his face, the sensual lines of his mouth, and the sheer power of his body. As Cash quickly dealt the cards, Mariah watched him with a fascina
tion she slowly stopped trying to hide.

  The cards she picked up time after time received very little of her attention. As a result, the pile of dried pine needles in front of her vanished as though in an invisible fire. She didn’t mind. She was too busy enjoying sitting with Cash in a cabin surrounded on the outside by storm and filled on the inside by the hushed silence of pent breath.

  “Are puddles worth more than pine needles?” Mariah asked, looking at the three needles left to her.

  “Only if you’re thirsty.”

  “Are you?”

  “I’ve got all the water I can stand right now.”

  Mariah smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Well, that lets out raindrops, too. I guess I have to fold. I’m busted.”

  Cash nudged a palm-size pile of needles from his pile over to her side of the “table.”

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “Your smile.”

  “Really? All these needles? If that’s what a smile is worth, how much for a kiss?”

  Abruptly Cash looked up from his cards. His glance moved almost tangibly over Mariah’s face, lingering with frank intensity on the curving line of her lips. Then he looked back at his cards, his expression bleak.

  “More than either of us has,” he said flatly.

  Several hands were played in silence but for the hissing of the lantern and the slowly diminishing rush of rain. Cash kept winning, which meant that he kept dealing cards. As he did, the lantern picked out various small scars on his hands.

  “How did you get these?” Mariah asked, touching the back of Cash’s right hand with her fingertips.

  He froze for an instant, then let out his breath so softly she didn’t hear. Her fingers were cool, but they burned on his skin, making him burn, as well.

  “You pan gold for more than a few minutes in these streams and your hands get numb,” Cash said. His voice was unusually deep, almost hoarse, reflecting the quickening of his body. “I’ve cut myself and never even known it. Same for using the rock hammer during cold weather. Easiest thing in the world to zing yourself. What my own clumsiness doesn’t cause, flying chips of rock take care of.”