Only Love o-4

by Elizabeth Lowell

  She struck a match and bent over the open door of the wood stove. The flames caught and entwined with an ease that reminded her of Whip’s masculine grace. Heat filled the stove and radiated out into the room as wood and fire consumed one another.

  Is that what it would be like with Whip? Would we feed one another until everything was gone but the memory of heat?

  A shiver coursed through Shannon, touching her secret flesh like a match touched tinder; and like tinder, she burned.

  Is this what the wood feels like? Does it ache and tremble and cry to be burned to an ash so fine it can fly right up to the sun?

  «Lust, that’s all,» Shannon said beneath her breath. «Pure lust.»

  Prettyface scratched at the cabin door, distracting Shannon from her study of the fire.

  «Oh, all right. But if you snap and snarl at Whip when he comes up to wash, I swear I’m going to get a stick and beat you.»

  The dog grinned and waved its long brindle tail. Rows of white, sharp teeth gleamed at her.

  «Yeah, I don’t believe me either,» she admitted. «But I have to do something, Prettyface. You watch Whip like you can’t wait for an excuse to jump him. He’ll go soon enough. Much too soon. You don’t have to drive him away.»

  Shannon opened the cabin door. Prettyface bounded out and began casting around for scent. Though Whip had shot more deer, the dog still hunted for himself. Whatever venison wasn’t eaten fresh was cured into jerky. It was the same for the trout. Whip was determined that Shannon have plenty of food for the coming winter.

  As Shannon shut the door and headed for the dry goods cupboard, she noticed the fresh bouquet of wildflowers set on the small, scarred table. Very gently she ran her fingertips over the tender, scented petals. She was smiling when she reached into the cupboard and began to measure out flour into a battered tin bowl.

  Whip was always bringing something to her, little things to brighten up the cabin’s dark interior. Usually it was flowers. Sometimes it was a pebble that was all smooth and rounded from the creek. Once it was a butterfly freshly come from its cocoon. Watching the wings slowly unfurl and become rich with color had been like having a rainbow gather and dance softly in the palm of her hand.

  Shannon would never forget the look on Whip’s face as he watched the butterfly lift from her palm and spiral upward into the aching blue of the sky — pleasure, envy, understanding, satisfaction, yearning, all had been part of Whip’s smile.

  I know he’s going to leave someday. But please, God, not today.

  Not today.

  Shannon’s hands jerked. Flour spilled. Carefully she gathered it with the edge of her hand and coaxed the white powder back into the cup.

  Don’t think about Whip leaving, she told herself firmly. He will leave today or he won’t, and all I can do is watch him eat and blot lather from his chin and feel his smile like sunlight on my soul.

  Instead of worrying about tomorrow, I should thank God for sending me a gentle, generous, decent man to help me. There’s fresh meat in the larder and jerky curing and fish being smoked outside and firewood piled high along the east side of the cabin.

  Those are blessings enough for anyone, and a lot more than I had when I sold Mama’s wedding ring to keep from starving while I got better at stalking deer.

  Bending down, Shannon felt the air inside the oven. It wasn’t hot enough to make the skin around her nails draw up. She added more wood to the fire, cut several slabs of meat from the ham that hung in the corner, and put the meat in a pan to fry while the biscuits were cooking.

  The next time she tested the oven, it was ready. She went to the window and opened the shutters wide. Sunlight spilled in, bringing with it the scent and excitement of an untouched day.

  «Biscuits are going in,» Shannon called to Whip. «I’ll bring the water out in a moment.»

  The rhythmic chopping sounds ended. Whip stepped back from the tree. A single look told him that it would take him longer to fell the tree than it would take Shannon to cook the biscuits. With an easy, one-handed stroke, he sank the blade of the ax deeply into wood. There the cutting edge would stay safe and dry until he needed it again.

  Whip looked over his shoulder and saw Shannon hanging partway out the window, a smile on her face and a comb in her hand. She drew the comb through her hair with swift strokes, as though impatient to be through with the small chore.

  Sunlight made her hair an autumn glory, like dark fire shot through with streaks of gold and red.

  Someday soon you’re going to let me comb all that beautiful hair for you, Whip promised silently. Soon. Real soon.

  Your hair will be as soft and hot as fire running through my fingers, but nothing will be as soft or as hot as the dark woman-flower concealed between your thighs.

  You’ll bloom for me, honey girl. I’m as sure of it as I’ve ever been of anything.

  But first I’ve got to get past that hellhound of yours without scaring you to death.

  «I’m on my way,» Whip called.

  His voice was curt. Prettyface was a whole row of thorns in Whip’s side. Though only partly wolf in his body, the dog was mostly wolf in his temperament. Despite Whip’s best efforts, the animal refused to treat Whip as anything but a dangerous intruder. Several times Whip had found himself on the edge of reaching for the snarling dog to teach it the only kind of lesson it seemed capable of learning from a man.

  Fear, pure and simple.

  Whip knew it was the wolf’s nature to give way only to superior strength. After Whip’s strength was established, respect would come, and then, finally, he could begin teaching Prettyface that not all men took pleasure in abusing a mongrel with the eyes of a wild wolf.

  Given time, Prettyface would not only accept Whip, the dog would give Whip the same trust and loyalty he gave to the girl who had found him beaten nearly to death on the trail from Holler Creek.

  All Whip needed was time.

  How much time do I have before that sunrise calls my name?

  There was no answer to Whip’s silent question. There never had been. When the wanderlust took him, he packed up and left. Nor did he ever come back to the same place again.

  Sunrise called to him only once from each new land.

  Before he left Echo Basin, Whip planned to see that Shannon’s cabin was in good repair, the larder was overflowing, and the firewood was stacked to the eaves on three sides of the cabin. It was what he had always done for the openhearted widows whose paths he crossed, even if the women did no more than cook his meals and mend his shirts and share the warmth of their kitchens with a yondering man.

  The world was a difficult place for a woman alone, a fact that Whip understood better than most men. That was why he was haunted by the vision of Shannon lying beneath a fallen tree…Shannon injured and alone, no one to help her, no one even to know that she needed help.

  She’s a widow whether she admits it or not. She’s got to be. Hell, she doesn’t even act married. She keeps watching me like she’s never seen a man before.

  And I watch her like she’s the first woman I’ve ever seen.

  Frowning, Whip pulled off his leather work gloves, stuffed them into his back pocket, and picked up the bullwhip that always lay within easy reach. As he walked toward the house, Prettyface appeared from the surrounding forest and snarled viciously at him.

  «Good morning to you, too, you evil-tempered son of a bitch,» Whip said pleasantly.

  «Prettyface, stop that!» Shannon called from inside.

  The dog’s snarling increased.

  Shannon rushed to the cabin door. Half-braided hair spilled out of her hands and fanned over the faded blue flannel of her shirt. The contrast between the worn fabric and the lustrous silk of her hair tempted Whip almost beyond endurance.

  «Stop that!» Shannon commanded, staring right at the dog’s yellow eyes.

  Prettyface gave Whip a predatory look. Then, reluctantly, the dog obeyed his mistress.

  Whip gave the look back with in
terest before he turned to the basin of steaming water Shannon had put out for him. His folding razor lay by the basin, along with soap and the faded, flower-printed rag. As he bent over the water, the familiar scent of mint floated up to him.

  Without warning, desire raked Whip, tightening every muscle in his body. He drew a deep, careful breath, then another, until his body slowly began to relax. The ease and intensity of his arousal around Shannon was a warning to him.

  And an incredible lure. Whip had never wanted a woman the way he wanted Shannon Conner Smith.

  The sensible part of Whip’s mind told him that his growing obsession with Shannon was the best reason in the world for him to pack up and ride on. Only heartbreak could come of an affair between a yondering man and a young widow who watched him with dreams in her eyes.

  But Whip wasn’t listening to caution or conscience anymore. He sensed too clearly the unspeakable ecstasy that awaited him within Shannon’s body. Until he drank the dark wine of her sensuality to the last, lush drop, he wouldn’t leave.

  He couldn’t.

  I need her.

  Come heaven, come hell, I have to have her.

  The intensity of his own thoughts shocked Whip. Some time in the past ten days he had gone from straightforward masculine desire to a more complex passion — darker, more intense, a fierce hunger that had no beginning and no possible end other than shimmering oblivion deep inside Shannon’s body.

  Whip’s thoughts had an inevitable reaction on his body, increasing the ache of flesh that was already pulsing with need. Cursing silently, he rubbed soap into lather between his big palms and applied it to his face. He began shaving, using an exquisite sense of touch as well as his small shaving mirror.

  Shannon watched, fascinated.

  «You act like you’ve never seen a man shave,» Whip said, flattered and irritated at the same time. The feminine approval in her dark blue glance aroused him all over again.

  «Silent John just wore a beard,» Shannon said.

  Whip grunted, stroked, and flicked lather off the blade.

  «You always speak of him in the past tense,» Whip said after a few more strokes.

  «Who?»

  «Your husband.»

  Shannon opened her mouth, closed it, and hugged herself as though suddenly cold.

  «I’ll be more careful,» she promised. «Those Culpeppers are brazen enough as it is.»

  «You think Silent John is dead.»

  Although it wasn’t quite a question, Shannon sensed Whip’s intense interest in her answer.

  «I don’t think I’ll see Silent John again,» she admitted in a low voice. Then, anxiously, «But please don’t say anything about it in Holler Creek. Murphy isn’t much more polite to me than the Culpeppers. If they thought Silent John wasn’t ever coming back…»

  Shannon’s voice died.

  But she didn’t have to finish the sentence. Whip knew exactly what she meant.

  «Maybe you better plan on leaving Echo Basin,» he said flatly.

  For an instant hope flared in Shannon that Whip was asking her to go with him when he left.

  «Where would I go?» she asked softly.

  «I don’t know, but I do know that at least one of those Culpeppers is always camped about two miles down the road.»

  «Why?»

  «Waiting for me to leave. When —»

  «But —» she interrupted.

  Whip talked over Shannon. «When I leave, they’ll start bothering you again.»

  Quickly Shannon looked away, not wanting Whip to see the hurt in her eyes.

  When I leave.

  Not if.

  When.

  Until that moment Shannon hadn’t known how much part of her had counted on having Whip stay. Each day he watched her more intently, wanted her more obviously. Yet despite his urgent male hunger, he cared enough for her not to speak crudely to her of his need or to back her up against a wall and buck against her the way she once had seen a man do with Clementine.

  «I’ll manage,» Shannon said in a low voice. «I always have.»

  «Not without Silent John.»

  «Prettyface protects me now.»

  «That’s not good enough and you know it.»

  «It isn’t your concern,» she said tightly. «It’s mine. Breakfast is ready.»

  With a muttered word, Whip bent and splashed more water on his face, rinsing it. Then he held his hand out for the rag.

  His hand remained empty.

  Whip looked up, ignoring the water running down his face. Through narrowed eyes he saw that Shannon had gone back into the cabin.

  There would be no mint-scented cloth given to him by her hands. There would be no careful dabbing at his face by minty fingers. Worst of all, there would be no sapphire eyes going over his face like loving hands, transparently admiring him, blushing when he caught her watching him.

  Whip said something harsh beneath his breath, groped for the rag, and wiped himself with more irritation than care. He hadn’t realized how much the morning shaving ritual pleased him until the moment when he found himself with empty hands and water running down his neck.

  You’re a damn fool to be arguing with that girl instead of petting her like a Christmas puppy, Whip told himself sardonically.

  So I’m a damn fool. But not a total damn fool. It isn’t safe for Shannon here. Not when I’m gone.

  When you’re gone, it will be just like she said — not your concern.

  That answer didn’t appeal to Whip, but he didn’t have any other one to put in its place.

  Maybe I’ll just have to sidle up to those Culpepper boys and read to them from the Good Book — chapter, verse, and line — until they see the error of their ways.

  That thought appealed to Whip. A lot.

  Smiling like a wolf, Whip resettled his bullwhip over his shoulder and went into the cabin. He was looking forward to a hot breakfast and Shannon sitting catty-corner from him at the small table, close enough to rub against his leg with every small shift of her body.

  Prettyface growled at Whip from his preferred place in the coldest corner of the cabin. The dog’s thick fur kept him warmer than any stove. His teeth gleamed like ice beneath his raised upper lip.

  «Whatever made you decide to save that misbegotten cur?» Whip asked, irritated all over again.

  «Could you have ridden past him and done nothing about his pain?» Shannon asked.

  Whip looked at Prettyface through narrowed eyes. The scars the dog bore showed as pale patches against the brindle of his fur. There were a lot of marks.

  «No,» Whip admitted. «At the very least I’d have put him out of his misery.»

  «You’re a yondering man,» Shannon said. «I’m the settled type. There was room in my life for something else.»

  «Most women would have wanted a baby instead of a savage mongrel with the eyes of a wolf.»

  The oven door closed with a metallic clang.

  «Be careful, the pan is hot,» Shannon said as she put it down near Whip.

  «Didn’t you?»

  «Didn’t I what?»

  «Want a baby.»

  «Silent John was hard put just keeping two souls alive,» Shannon said evasively, sitting down again. «There was nothing left over for a baby.»

  Whip took several biscuits from the pan.

  «Babies have a way of coming whether you want them or not,» he said.

  «Do tell. How many do you have?»

  Whip choked on the biscuit he was trying to swallow. He took a gulp of searing coffee, swallowed hard, and looked at Shannon with disbelieving eyes.

  «What a question,» he said.

  «You brought it up.»

  «Did I?»

  «You did. How many, Whip?»

  «Not a damned one.»

  «That you know of,» Shannon added mildly, but her eyes were dark.

  «What is that supposed to mean?»

  «It takes an instant to make a baby and about four months for it to show. Did you ev
er hang around that long?»

  «No.»

  «Then you don’t know, do you?»

  «I know,» Whip said flatly.

  «How?»

  «Same way Silent John knew how not to get you pregnant. Are you going to share that jam or just sit on it like a mother hen with only one egg?»

  The change of subject caught Shannon with her mouth still open, staring at Whip in disbelief. She was staggered that a man like Whip was celibate. But he had just said as much.

  Same way Silent John knew how not to get you pregnant.

  No wonder Whip had changed the subject. It couldn’t have been a comfortable topic for him, for Shannon knew that Whip certainly was capable of coupling with a woman. As often as not, when he was around her, she saw the unmistakable sign of his ability pressing hard against his trousers.

  Silent John had been too old for such discomfort. The marriage had been a way to keep men like the Culpeppers at bay; a wife was more respected than a grandniece.

  «Uh…jam,» Shannon said, trying to gather her scattered wits. «Yes. Of course. Here.»

  «Thank you,» Whip said, the courtesy automatic.

  He took the jam and began spreading it over biscuits. Though Whip never appeared to move quickly, food disappeared into his mouth with astonishing speed.

  Shannon had learned after the first breakfast that Whip could eat a lot of food and still look around for more. Now she routinely made a double batch of biscuits for breakfast and didn’t expect to have any left over for lunch.

  «I’d better see to that second batch of biscuits,» Shannon muttered. «Should be about done baking.»

  «I’ll get it,» Whip said.

  «Thank you, but it’s no trouble.»

  «Don’t bang the stove door, then. The hinge is nearly broken off. I’ll try my hand at hammering out a new one as soon as I finish with the firewood.»

  Shannon felt the last of her hurt slide away, leaving her vulnerable once more to her longings. She no longer doubted that Whip would move on, leaving her behind. But while he was with her, he watched out for her more tenderly than anyone ever had.

  If she was greedy for more, it was her own fault, not his. He had told her plainly that he was a wanderer with no intention of settling down.