Wild Secret, Wild Longing: A Sweet Historical Western Romance Novella (The Front Range Series Book 3)

by Charlene Whitman

  She looked him over. He’d either dropped off to sleep or was out cold. But this gave her a chance to see the tracker up close.

  His face was smooth and his skin a gleaming bronze. The lamplight flickering revealed a strong nose and jaw, and now she saw the blend of Injun and white man. His raven-black hair curled a bit around his ears, and his lips were full and soft.

  Her heartbeat sped up as she toyed with the thought of touching his cheek. He looked so peaceful, gentle, lying there. But he was an Injun, even if only half, she reminded herself. A killer. It was in his blood. They were all killers and bloodthirsty.

  But he risked his life to save yours. Gennie grunted. No doubt he’d done it in a moment of foolishness. But it gave her pause.

  Her eyes traveled the length of his body, lingering on his broad, muscular shoulders and then on his trim waist. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and she laid a palm on it. His skin was warm and so wonderful to touch. She noticed she’d stopped breathing, then jerked her hand back.

  His eyes fluttered open. Gennie gulped and pulled back, dropping her head so her hat hid her face. He turned his head as he lay prone, squinting to make out his surroundings.

  “It’s dark in here.”

  She got to her feet and walked over to the stove. “Thought the light might hurt your eyes,” she said.

  “Smells good . . .” he muttered.

  Gennie came and stood over him, fretting. She’d never had anyone come inside the cabin since Old Bill died. Years, she reckoned. The room closed around her something fierce, and snow blew in on a whistling wind. Peluche circled around on the pile of threadbare blankets and huffed as she plopped down. Within seconds the animal was asleep. Yeah, easy for you to do, Gennie thought.

  She took a moment to examine the man’s wounds. Glad his eyes were closed, she fingered the makeshift bandages, peeking underneath at the pasty salve that gave off a pungent scent. She’d sure like the recipe for that. The blood had stopped leaking out, but how much had he lost?

  As she unknotted the blood-caked strips of cloth, LeRoy grimaced and groaned. The fabric clung to his skin, and she peeled it away with a gentle touch, then whistled under her breath. Two long swipes from that grizzly’s claw had raked deep.

  “Gonna have to stitch this,” she said, keeping her voice low, wondering how much she could turn the lantern down and still see to work. This close, he’d get a good look at her face. She fretted as she stood, thinking to put some water up to heat in the pot while she fetched the supplies she needed.

  LeRoy groaned and tried to sit up. A bark of pain blurted out of his mouth.

  “Whatcha doin’?” she asked with narrowed eyes, setting the pot on the hot stove.

  “I have to git that bear,” he said, looking out the window into the maw of darkness. “If’n I don’t stop him now, afore the snow piles up high, I won’t find trace of him.”

  “Don’t be so stubborn,” she said, pushing him back down. “Even if wasn’t snowin’ like the dickens, you wouldn’t make it a mile. You’re jus’ gonna have to wait till you’re healed enough to make the trip. And that’ll take as long as it takes.”

  LeRoy gave her a curious look through narrowed eyes, then laid his head back with a huff.

  Yeah, I don’t like you staying here anymore than you do.

  With quiet efficiency, she gathered the things she needed: towel; her box of thread, needles, and scissors; some rags, and the bowl of hot water. Old Bill’s half-drunk bottle of whiskey would serve to stave off infection. Gennie couldn’t abide the stuff, but Old Bill had drunk it like it was water. She brought the lantern closer, setting it on the floorboards, but turned her back on LeRoy so he couldn’t see her face as she stitched him up.

  “This is gonna hurt. You want a slug of this here whiskey?” she asked.

  LeRoy smirked, and Gennie caught a glint of mirth in his eyes as he shook his head, then she quickly turned away. She could feel those eyes boring into her, prying the lid off her secret. The sooner she got him mended and on his way, the better.

  Gennie grunted. “You’re pretty trustin’.”

  A hint of a smile lifted on LeRoy’s face as he lay quiet and closed his eyes. “I saw that neat row of stitches on your shirt. If you made those, I’m confident you’ll do just fine.”

  Gennie blew out a breath. She sensed no trace of bluster in his words—just simple fact. Almost sounding encouraging, as if reassuring her instead of mistrusting. What a strange man he was. Not at all what she’d expect from an Injun. She worked to calm her shaky hands as she threaded the needle.

  LeRoy grimaced as she cleaned his wounds with the hot water laced with a splash of whiskey. The stench of the liquor made her gag, the way it always did, ushering in memories of the nights Old Bill drank like a fish after he came back from the trading posts, his mule packs filled with stores and dollar bills and a half-dozen bottles of whiskey. Those were the times she dreaded the most, for in his drunken stupors he turned mean and rough, and Gennie would often cry in the corner of the closet, hoping he’d forget she was in the cabin—those nights she was snowed in and couldn’t get out. Other times of year weren’t so bad. She could slip outside, find solace under the summer stars—although the vastness of the night sky made her feel even smaller and more alone in the world. There’d been no comfort found—only reprieve—for her miserable existence.

  She laid one hand on LeRoy’s smooth brown chest. Unlike hairy Bill, this man’s skin was as smooth as butter, and the knot of muscles across his stomach made her pulse quicken. She resisted the longing to run her fingers over his pronounced ribs and the muscles of his taut waist. She drew in a deep breath and shuddered. Just the touch of his warm skin erupted a longing in her something fierce. Every nerve in her body tingled.

  She steeled her resolve and shook away her wandering thoughts. She had a job to do. Quietly and efficiently, she pushed the needle through skin, making one knot after another, forming a nice straight row as she closed up the wide gash just above his navel. LeRoy flinched as she worked but said nothing. She noticed a few scars on his side, but nothing significant. It was a shame he’d now have two long scars marring his stomach. But maybe he’d consider them battle wounds he could brag about to the other Injuns.

  She swallowed as she studied the second wound that trekked below his trouser line. The grizzly had slashed the band that ran along LeRoy’s waist, and Gennie had no choice but to unbutton his britches and slide them down enough to work. She hesitated.

  “Somethin’ wrong?” LeRoy mumbled, lifting his head and making all those sculpted muscles ripple.

  “Nope,” Gennie said, noting her voice cracking. “Jus’ figurin’ out how to stitch the next row.”

  LeRoy grunted and lay his head back down. “Take your time,” he said. “You got all night.”

  Gennie couldn’t pull her eyes away from the soft tuft of dark curly hair trailing down below his navel that lay just inches from her fingers. A moan came from her chest, but she covered it with a cough. She sucked in a breath and ran another line of thick thread through the wide eye of the needle, flustered and confused by her feelings. Her need and longing for the warmth and touch of a man pained her heart with such severity, she could hardly bear it. Yet, how could she yearn for a man’s love? Men had treated her only with cruelty and disdain, hardly ever a word of kindness. The mountain men that had come around on occasion knew her as a boy—Old Bill’s nephew—and they’d mostly ignored her. And for that one thing, Gennie had been grateful to Old Bill, even though she knew it was merely selfishness on his part. She’d been his prisoner, of a sort, but he’d also been her only means of survival.

  But this man resting before her . . . He’d risked his life to save hers—a stranger. What man would do that? She thought back to her life in Ohio, to the preacher at their small church. He’d preached about such selflessness. Then she thought of her father, who read from the Bible before bedtime to her and her brother, by candlelight. “Greater love hath no man than this
, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” She hadn’t a copy of the Good Book, but that verse was one she often recalled. Her father had stood up to those Injuns when they attacked, thinking only to protect the ones he loved. He’d laid down his life, but wouldn’t most men do so, to save their wife and children?

  But who would willingly give his life to save someone he didn’t know or care about? Was this man merely short a few rocks, or did he really have that kind of love the Good Book spoke about? Gennie doubted few men would embrace such principles. Why would they? It hardly served them in this rugged wilderness.

  Perplexed by these thoughts, she inched the man’s britches down just enough to have room to work on the lower gash. She dabbed the wound with her cloth, breathing shallow, calming her racing heart. Her eyes kept drifting over the man’s exposed stomach and chest, and she had difficulty wrenching her eyes away. She was glad her back was turned to him, and her hat’s brim shaded her face. She was sure her cheeks were flushed and would give her away.

  After agonizingly long minutes, she tied the knot in the last stitch and snipped the thread with her scissors. She sat back on her knees and admired her handiwork.

  “Well,” LeRoy said, startling her. “Will I live?”

  Gennie wiped perspiration from her forehead with the back of her hand. She was overly hot in her coat even though the cabin wasn’t all that warm. She gathered her supplies and stood to her feet.

  “I s’pose,” she said in a gruff, perfunctory manner. She hoped it covered the quavering in her throat. “You think you c’n eat somethin’?” she asked, heading toward the small kitchen area, her limbs achy and stiff from kneeling.

  “I reckon,” he said. “I feel I could eat a bear.”

  A chuckle escaped out of her as she ladled warm venison stew into two bowls and ripped off two chunks of bread from the loaf she’d baked.

  “I s’pose I could too,” she said. “Though, not that bear. It’d take a year to eat one o’ his size.”

  All that exertion had given her an appetite. One look out the small kitchen window told her the snow was coming down heavier and had no intention of letting up anytime soon. She grumbled under her breath. At least her animals were warm, fed, and safe. No doubt she’d have some shoveling to do in the morning. Maybe by then the sky would clear and she could send this man on his way. The sooner she got him out of her cabin and her life, the better. His presence was a discomfort and a complication. No one knew her secret, and she intended to keep it that way.

  When she came back over to him, LeRoy was sitting up and touching his head. He gave her a cocky smile, and the way he looked at her made her uneasy. That smile made her stomach jittery. Despite his Injun blood, there was no denying he was awfully handsome. She hadn’t seen too many men in her life since Old Bill brought her up here. And they’d all been filthy, crude, and mostly old with rotted teeth and rancid breath. But this man . . . He wasn’t at all old, and his eyes sparked with fire. She thought she could get lost in those eyes.

  She realized she was staring and quickly turned away. “Here,” she said, giving her voice a hard edge. She set the plate on the rug with the bowl of stew and the chunk of bread. “You’ll feel better if you eat. I’ll make some coffee.”

  “I’m much obliged,” he said. “For everythin’.”

  After fixing the coffeepot to boil on the stove, she took her tin plate over to where Peluche was sleeping and sat beside her on the hard wood floor. She fumbled with a reply, but couldn’t come up with any words that sounded right.

  As they ate in silence, she peeked at him from under the brim of her hat. He didn’t eat like a savage but respectably, even though it was clear he was hungry. He’d been taught some table manners, she noticed. Maybe because he wasn’t all Injun. His family had a horse ranch, he’d said. Probably raised white, among white men. Still, she told herself, he couldn’t be trusted. Don’t forget that. Don’t let down your guard for a second.

  When he’d scooped the very last drop out of his bowl, she asked, “You want more?”

  He shook his head and grimaced. “I’d like to get this bunch of rags off me, though.” He looked around, his eyes searching. “My pack?”

  “It’s outside.” She went out and found it buried under a mound of snow on the front stoop next to his rifle. Snow dumped from the black night sky, and she breathed deeply, feeling her heart beating in her chest. Loneliness welled up inside her, and her thoughts drifted to the man inside her cabin. Would she ever have a man in her life, someone who would love her—who could love her? Could she hide her past, who she really was? What had happened to her all those years ago?

  No, she chided herself. All this longing was a recipe for pain and disaster. Any man who found her out would despise her. Sooner or later.

  She let loose a trembling breath and steeled her despair. Now was not the time to wallow in self-pity. She had a task at hand to complete. And then there was the bear. He was still out there, plenty hurt and plenty mad. He couldn’t have gone far, and it was likely he’d come around if he didn’t up and die. First light of morning, she’d need to go back on the hunt.

  But what to do with that man lying on her floor? Well, she’d just have to wait to see what the morning would bring.

  Chapter 8

  LeRoy groaned and sat up. His head throbbed but not as painfully as his gut. He rubbed a hand across his eyes and squinted out the window. Bright white glittered sunlight back at him like a million diamonds. The world outside the cabin was buried in snow, halfway up the window. Nature was calling him, and the cabin was quiet. He figured Dan was asleep in that little room in the back, with his wolf. He could hear soft snores drifting out from under the door, but he didn’t know if they were a man’s or a wolf’s.

  He threw off the blanket Dan had given him, and couldn’t recollect when he’d drifted off to sleep on the floor. LeRoy pulled up his shirt and studied his stomach. One look at the man’s handiwork told LeRoy he’d done a right proper job. He’d have two thin scars across his stomach, but just like those stitches in the shirt, these were small and neat. Well done. Dan must’ve had plenty of experience over the years.

  Walking made his breath hitch, but after a few careful steps, LeRoy managed to even his breathing and work through the pain. He couldn’t quite straighten up, and, to his dismay, he knew it would be a few days before he’d be able to take off after that bear again. He clenched his lips together and wondered when it would stop snowing. The thought of being stuck in this cabin with a surly young mountain man was not his idea of fun. But he’d have to make do. He wished he’d killed that bear, and now the snow will have buried all trace of the beast.

  Stepping quietly, he found his pack and boots. His coat hung on a peg by the stone hearth. The cabin felt chilly, now that he was up. As he stuffed kindling and bits of wood into the cast-iron stove, he took a longer look around him. The cabin was orderly and clean. The furnishings were sparse and old, and the floorboards warped and splintery from years of weather and wear. It didn’t feel much like he’d expect a mountain man’s dwelling to be like. But if he hisself lived all alone up in the mountains, his place would probably look a whole lot like this. You’d need to make smart use of your limited space, and have everything in its place and functional.

  After slipping into his boots and coat, he unlatched the front door and carefully tugged. Upon opening it, he was met with a wall of white. He whistled and looked around for a shovel or something he could use to dig out, but saw nothing inside the cabin. The blast of cold made him need to piss something fierce.

  He turned as a door creaked open behind him. Dan, fully dressed in his coat, hat, and boots, tromped into the room, followed by his wolf. The animal looked even larger in the confines of the small space, and LeRoy marveled at it.

  “How are them stitches?” Dan asked, cocking his head and studying him from under the brim of his hat.

  “I’ll live,” LeRoy said, then gestured to the snow out the door. “You got a shov
el?”

  Dan’s mouth dropped just a bit at the sight, then he shut it. He humphed. “Can’t be all that deep, seein’ as the porch isn’t so big.” He fetched an old broom and poked at the snow with the bristles. The powder gave way, and some of it tumbled into the cabin. Presently, he had a hole drilled through, a foot wide and deep, and whirls of snow flurries danced around him. LeRoy leaned against the wall, bent over.

  “Why don’t you go sit, seein’ how you can barely stand—?” Dan said, poking harder at the snow until he’d cleared enough away for a body to get through.

  “I need to take a leak.”

  “Oh,” Dan said, a befuddled look on his face. “All right. Uh . . . you think you c’n manage by yourself?”

  LeRoy snorted. What did this fella think—was he offering to hold his hand?

  The wolf trotted ahead of him and pushed a swath through the soft powder. LeRoy hobbled behind, wincing with each step. His gut felt as tight as a drum with those stitches. A glance at the cabin and surrounding woods told him at least three feet of snow had dumped on them last night. He just hoped those ranch hands had had the good sense to get back to Whitcomb’s before they froze to death.

  The cabin door closed. While the animal sniffed around, snow fell steadily on them both. The air smelled cold and fresh, with a hint of pine. LeRoy breathed deep and felt his spirit invigorated as he unbuttoned his pants and did his business. The wolf squatted and peed, like a dog.

  Huh, a female. He never would’ve guessed by her size. LeRoy couldn’t resist.

  “C’mere, girl,” he said, holding out his hand. “Peluche,” he added, wondering what the word meant. Wasn’t no Indian word he knew of.

  The wolf trotted to him, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, a doggish grin on her face. Well, fancy that—she must trust me since I spent the night in her home.

  LeRoy slowly reached out his hand, expecting a snarl or her fur to bristle, but she stood facing him, her head at the level of his chest, and let him stroke her neck.