Shotgun Grooms
Page 22
“I’m going home,” she said as soon as she was sure her voice would work. “Just like you wanted me to.”
He reached out one hand toward her, then fisted that hand on nothingness and let it drop back to his side. “Now,” he said, breath heaving from his lungs. “Now you’re going home?”
“Aye,” she said, telling herself to walk, and walk fast, before her body overrode her mind and sent her back to him. “I’ve supper to tend to, and you’re busy here.”
And leaving him staring after her, she turned before she could change her mind and quickstepped out of the cave.
Jackson watched her go, the pup chasing behind her, tail waving like a tiny flag. And he was alone.
Which was what he’d wanted.
Right?
Every muscle in his body ached.
Jackson groaned tightly as he walked into the clearing and approached the cabin. He’d worked himself near to death, trying to get rid of the tension rippling through his body. Frustration simmered just beneath the surface and he frankly didn’t know how much longer he was going to last, standing against the temptation that was Molly. And he wasn’t at all sure anymore that he wanted to resist her.
She’d changed so much in his life. What if she was the only one who could change the rest of it? In the past two weeks, he’d felt more alive than he had in ten long, miserable years.
He never would have believed that a stubborn, mean-tempered, soft-eyed woman could make such a difference in his world. Jackson’s gaze swept the tree line at the edge of the clearing, seeing the familiar through brand-new eyes. He’d thought himself content. Living here, apart from a world that held nothing for him, he’d made his own place. Here, in the shadows of the trees and in the dark, cold heart of a mine.
But Molly was one thing he hadn’t counted on. He’d thought himself dead to wants and needs beyond the easy comfort of a one-night-a-week woman. Yet now, he wasn’t so sure and, though that notion sent a ripple of pure, stark terror running through him, there was something else there, too. Anticipation. Desire. Not just for her body. But a desire to have her heart. Her soul.
“Damn it,” he muttered, “you’re too tired to be thinking straight.” He reached up to rake one hand through his hair.
As he approached the cabin, Jackson heard a long growl from somewhere off to his left. Turning his head, he spotted the dog, lying down among Molly’s flowers. Blue, red and yellow blossoms tumbled over the animal but didn’t quite hide its snarl or its small row of sharp teeth.
Apparently, she hadn’t been able to coax the blasted thing into the cabin yet. Which was good, he thought. At least he wouldn’t have to be worried about being attacked in his sleep. Scrawny, pitiful-looking excuse for a dog, he told himself. A man should have a big bear of an animal. Something to help guard his house—and his family—when he was away.
His family.
Molly was his family, he reminded himself. The little dog had already proved itself willing to defend her, and Jackson had the teeth marks on his ankle to prove it.
“Maybe you are a bear at that,” he said softly, chuckling to himself when the dog only deepened its growl.
He had a wife he couldn’t touch, a parrot he couldn’t stand and a dog who hated him. His body was hard as granite and his nerves strung as tight as a hangman’s noose. “Well,” he told himself, “at least things can’t get much worse.”
He should have known better.
Throwing open the door, he braced for the damn parrot’s call. But when it came, he hardly heard it.
Instead, all he heard was his own blood rushing to a part of his body that already held more than its fair share.
“Damn, Molly!” he roared, slamming the door behind him. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
She glanced at him over her shoulder and gave him that wide smile. “I’m taking a bath, though I thought you’d be able to figure that out for yourself, Jackson, you bein’ such a clever one an’ all.”
A long, copper hip bath sat smack in the middle of the room, directly in front of the fire, where yet another kettle of water sat heating. And Molly, every naked inch of her, sat in that tub, with frothy bubbles clinging to her bare shoulders, her hair, and floating into the still air every time she moved.
Jackson’s mouth went dry. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges, and he realized he was holding his breath. He emptied his lungs and dragged in another greedy gulp of Molly-scented air, drawing it deep inside him.
As he stood rooted to the floor, Molly shifted, half-turning in the tub toward him. He caught a glimpse of milky-white shoulders, bubbles sliding off her wet skin. The water lapped at the tops of her breasts and he fought to find his voice.
“For God’s sake, don’t move,” he ground out.
She laughed and it sounded as frothy as the bubbles sliding over the lip of the tub. Unbelievable. He was dying and she was laughing.
“What in the hell is so funny?” he demanded, his grip on the rifle in his hand tightening until he was surprised the weapon didn’t snap in two.
She shook her head and he noticed a lock of her hair clinging damply to her cheek. “If you could see your face, Jackson.”
His view was a lot better than hers, he told himself but didn’t think it appropriate to say so at the moment. One thing this wife of his didn’t need was encouragement. Damn it, how many more ways of driving him insane would she be able to come up with?
“I’ve left your supper there on the stove,” she said, lifting one arm to point, as if he couldn’t have found the stove without her assistance.
But he didn’t look toward the food she’d kept hot for him. Instead, his gaze locked on her arm, the graceful sweep of it as she moved, the bubbles sliding down the length of that arm, to her chest, her breasts, the water below.
He growled from the back of his throat and she chuckled again, sliding back down into the water.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.
His chest tightened. Oh, he was hungry all right, but not for the chicken and biscuits she’d prepared. And she well knew it.
She lifted one leg high into the air and slowly, gently rubbed a bar of pale yellow soap along her thigh, her calf and then down again. Her hands made long, sweeping strokes across her skin. She caressed her own body for his benefit and Jackson forgot to breathe again. She dipped that leg back into the water and lifted her other leg and he stared, mesmerized by the soap bubbles sliding along her leg to pool on the water’s surface, just above her…Jackson’s back teeth ground together as he turned his back to her.
He busied himself with hanging his rifle on the rack, shrugging out of his coat and raking both hands through his hair with enough strength to snatch himself bald. But none of it helped. He’d already seen too much. And his mind was taking care of the rest.
Water sloshed and he closed his eyes, imagining her shifting, moving in the water, bare flesh, soap covered, slick, smooth. His hands fisted as tight as his groin.
Damn, he wanted her more than his next breath.
“Hiding, Jackson?” she asked.
That went against the grain. The fact that it was true only added insult to injury. “I’m not hiding,” he lied. “Just tryin’ to be polite.”
“Polite?” She laughed again. “For pity’s sake Jackson, we’re married.”
“I know that,” he said, swallowing hard.
“Do you now?” she asked, and stood up.
He knew she was standing up even though he was still looking eyeball-to-eyeball with Stew Pot. He heard the water spill onto the floor and he heard her step out of the tub, noticing the slap of her bare feet against the hardwood floor. In his mind’s eye, he saw her lush figure, full, high breasts, narrow waist and rounded hips. He saw the cluster of red curls at the apex of her thighs and knew he’d go on seeing her this way for the rest of his life.
A man’s mind was his own worst enemy.
“You can turn around now, husband,” she said.
It took everything in him to keep from crossing to her, and yanking the damned sheet off the body he wanted to lose himself in. But in that way lay madness. He knew it, felt it in every inch of his body. Lying with her wouldn’t be enough. He’d need to give her his heart as well, and once he had, he’d never be safe again.
“What game are you playing, Molly?” he asked, hearing the rough scrape of his own voice.
She shook her head and took a step closer. “It’s not my game, Jackson,” she said. “’Tis yours.”
That wouldn’t wash. If this was his game, there’d be different rules. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, that as you said, we’re married. And from here on, I’ll be doing all I can to see to it that this marriage is a real one.”
“I can’t let it be.” Despite what he wanted—no, maybe because he wanted what she offered so badly, he wouldn’t let it happen.
She blew out a breath that sent a red curl lying across her forehead flying to the back of her head. “Why are you fightin’ me so on this?”
“I have my reasons,” he snapped, biting off each word as if it came with a bitter taste. Those reasons filled his memory and, though the images were blurred now with time, the pain lingered.
“Well, what are they, man?” she said, stamping her foot and only wincing slightly. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t concern you, Molly.” He looked into her deep green eyes and saw the hurt there. The wounded pride, the shimmer of defeat, but it couldn’t be helped.
“Aye, it does. If whatever it is that’s inside your head, your heart, keeps us from finding a way to each other, then it does.”
“You can’t fix this,” he said. “I can’t fix this. Leave it be.”
“How can you ask me to do that?”
“I’m not asking you this time, Molly,” he said as ice slid across his heart, chilling him to the bone. “I’m telling you.”
“But that’s the problem, isn’t it, Jackson?” she asked. “You’re not tellin’ me anything.” She came closer still.
Close enough that he could see the beads of water still clinging to her shoulders. He wanted to dip his head and drink her in. “But you want me, Jackson. You proved that today at the mine.”
“Wanting and loving are two different things.” Or so he kept telling himself.
“But what is one without the other?” she asked, and lifted one hand to trail her fingers down his chest. He felt her touch down to the core of him. “’Tis emptiness,” she said, answering her own question.
His eyes closed and he struggled for air that wouldn’t come. She filled his vision, his mind, his heart, his soul. She was everything and he knew he didn’t deserve her. And God knows she’d done nothing to deserve him.
Jackson grabbed her hand, closing his fingers over hers and holding on, keeping her from touching him—and at the same time, he thought, keeping her from leaving him.
“Be careful, Molly.”
“Careful of what?”
He squeezed her hand briefly before releasing her.
“Getting what you want isn’t always such a wonderful thing.”
Chapter Ten
Two weeks flew past and Molly was no closer to solving the mystery that was the man she married. She had, however, discovered something else. One night in Jackson’s bed had sealed their marriage—and created a child.
When her courses hadn’t arrived on time, she’d put it down to nervousness. But a day passed, then two, then a week and now it was two weeks late and she’d begun to notice other small changes in her body. Like the swirl of nausea early in the morning and the fact that her breasts ached.
Her hand dropped to her still flat abdomen and she wondered about the child within. Would he grow up with two parents who loved each other…or would he instead live in a silent battleground where neither parent would give an inch?
The way things were going, she would wager on the latter. Her plan to win Jackson over wasn’t working. Well, it wasn’t working the way she’d planned.
Every night, she lay in bed beside him, and every night, he inched away from her. She dressed and undressed in front of him, felt his gaze on her and ended up torturing herself more than him. He escaped her every chance he got, racing to the mine where he could pretend for a few hours that he was still alone. As he so clearly wanted to be.
“I don’t know, Captain Blood,” she mused aloud, “but I think perhaps I’ve overstepped myself this time.”
“Abandon ship!”
The familiar screech brought a smile to her face even as a glimmer of tears rose up and filled her eyes, blurring the comfortable cabin around her. “Oh,” she said, “I’m not quite ready to do that yet.”
In fact, she didn’t know if she could ever abandon a man who so clearly needed her to love him. She saw the need in him. She saw what it cost him to keep away from her. Why couldn’t he admit to it? Why did he have to stay so stalwartly alone? Why couldn’t he let her into his heart?
It was all she’d ever wanted. A place to call home. A man to love and be loved by. To know that she’d finally found the one place in the world where she mattered. Where she was important.
Snatching up a rag, she walked around the small main room, swiping at dust as though she was smacking some sense into her husband’s hard head. Before too long, the small cabin was shining clean. She straightened the quilt she’d brought from home atop the mattress, running one hand along the fragile threads and patchwork fabrics. So many dreams had been sewn into this quilt, she thought, remembering all the nights she’d sat up, stitching by lamplight. During those lonesome months when Uncle Michael’s ship was at sea, she’d worked on pieces for her hope chest, planning all the while what her married life would be like.
“And not one of those dreams included a husband who won’t touch me,” she muttered, and walked back into the main room. Snatching up her knitting, she plopped down into a chair and took up the task of finishing the pair of socks she was making for Jackson.
He was gone again, of course. He’d left early that morning, saying he’d be at the ranch all day and didn’t know when he’d be home. Her fingers curled around the knitting needles as her hands dropped into her lap.
“What am I to do?” she whispered to the empty room. She couldn’t tell him about the baby. Not with the way things were between them, because Molly couldn’t bear to see anything less than joy in his eyes. She didn’t want their child to be one more “responsibility” he shouldered. There was cold comfort in being the burden so reluctantly borne.
But whether she told him about the child or not, even Jackson was bound to notice in a few months. So she had only that much time to earn his trust. His love. His heart.
And she knew she’d need every moment of it.
Outside, the little dog, which for some reason Jackson had named Bear, barked and growled.
Her heart lifted as she jumped to her feet and tossed her knitting to one side. The little terror only greeted one person that way. Jackson. Hurrying to the window, she looked out and a spurt of disappointment shot through her. Not her husband.
She watched two men—prospectors by the look of them—approach the house. As they neared, Molly recognized one of them. Hardy Phillips, who’d been at the cabin a couple of weeks ago. With him was a big man, nearly as big as Jackson, with a tobacco-stained beard that stretched to the middle of his dirty shirt.
Bear snarled and circled them, displaying a fine set of teeth, but his size made his threat laughable and the bigger of the men kicked out at the dog, spurring Molly into action.
Marching to the front door, she yanked it open and stepped out onto the porch. “Here now,” she said, hands at her hips, “don’t you be kicking
my dog.”
“I didn’t kick him,” the man muttered, then threw the little animal a glare that clearly said he was sorry he’d missed.
“Not for lack of tryin’,” she said, then snapped her gaze to Hardy. A welcoming smile died unborn as she looked at him. He seemed…different today than before. He refused to meet her eyes, shifting his gaze instead in a rapid search of the property. As if looking for something. Or someone.
She’d been only a breath from telling him that her husband would be gone all day, but now for some reason, she didn’t want him to know that she was alone here. And would be for hours. Inching backward, into the cabin, she heard herself say, “You’ve come at a good time for a visit, Hardy. Jackson just walked to the creek. He’ll be back in a moment or two.”
The man finally looked at her and she didn’t like what she saw in his eyes. He didn’t believe her. She kept talking.
“As I recall, you had a fondness for my beef stew the last time you were here.” There. She’d wanted to remind him that he’d been welcomed into this house as a friend. He hadn’t struck her then as a bad man, but he did strike her now as a desperate one.
“Don’t be scared,” he said, instantly bringing fear into her system.
For the first time since moving into this cabin, Molly truly felt—alone. There was no one to hear her cry for help. No one to ride to her rescue. No one at all save a parrot, a dog too small to defend her and a husband determined to stay far away from her. So whatever would be done, would be done by herself. The question was, she thought frantically, what?
“Let’s get this over with,” the other man grumbled, flicking a glance at the still-growling Bear.
“Step aside, Molly,” Hardy told her, and walked into the cabin, forcing her backward. Their steps sounded overly loud in the tiny room and, for one stunned moment, she simply watched them as they ransacked her home. Tossing furniture out of their way, they rummaged through drawers and cabinets, tapped on the walls and stomped on the floor. The big man moved into the bedroom, lifted the mattress off the bed and looked beneath it.