by Shirl Henke
Olivia could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, feel the quivering tension in his body while she worked the stitch free, pulling on the pink tender flesh until she knew it must indeed hurt him far more than she had anticipated.
The pain was bearable. He had felt a lot worse on numerous occasions, but having her so close, hovering over him, touching him with her soft, cool hands, was sheer torture. He could smell the faint fragrance of wildflowers and feel the brushing of her hair as it fell against his back and shoulder, tickling his sensitized skin until he thought he would scream with frustration.
His erection was back, never mind her knife or the pain. Then he heard her voice, choked and low as she murmured, “I... I’m sorry. Really, I don’t mean to hurt you.”
Olivia worked as fast as she could, snipping and pulling until the last stitch, which would not budge. She chewed her lip in vexation. “I can’t get it loose.”
“Pull harder.”
“I might make it bleed again.”
No chance. All his blood had rushed somewhere else, but Samuel was not about to tell her that! “Just do it,” he said, he hoped calmly.
Olivia took a steadying breath and leaned over his side, squinting in concentration, then placed two splayed fingers carefully on either side of the healing flesh where the stitch stuck out defiantly. Using her other hand she gripped the tweezers firmly and pulled harder.
As she worked, she was unaware of repositioning her body closer to his. Samuel felt her squirming behind him and all but forgot the burning in his side. One long fiery lock of hair fell onto his chest and he took it in his hand, wrapping it around his fist and raising it to stroke the silk against his lips.
The stitch gave way and pulled free. Olivia would have lost her balance and tumbled from her kneeling position on the edge of the bed if not for the anchor of her hair in Samuel’s fist. She yelped when her scalp tingled in pain, and jumped forward in reflex at the same time he rolled onto his back, trying to let go of the tangled hair in his hand, but it was too late.
Suddenly she was above him, staring into his eyes, their gazes locked, inches apart, their mouths also inches apart. For a heartbeat neither moved. Then instead of releasing her hair he pulled gently on it, drawing her down until her upper body was sprawled across his, her breasts pressing against his chest. Time was suspended. They had no idea for how long as they continued to stare into each other’s eyes until at last the warmth of their breaths met and intermingled. What happened next was inevitable.
Chapter Fifteen
Micajah hallooed into the cabin. “We got us a real treat fer supper. Lookee whut my trot line done give us.” He held up a stringer of dark greenish catfish. When he stepped inside, he could see Olivia leaping from the bedside as if snakebit, her hair tangled and her face flushed. She had bathed and selected one of her best outfits, and she was breathless, unable to meet his eyes, as if guilty of some heinous crime. Shelby didn’t look too comfortable either, sitting huddled in the center of the bed, scowling fierce as a treed cougar. Micajah smiled to himself.
“I was just removing those stitches as you asked me to do,” she said, replacing the medical implements in their sack and unrolling a length of clean bandages. “I’ll get to work on frying those fish as soon as you gut them and give Devil his treat.”
“No need ta rush. Thet hound kin wait. Jest take care o’ yore patient first,” Micajah replied genially, tossing the wriggling catfish onto the table while the dog sat watching him from the doorway, ears at attention and head cocked expectantly. Micajah looked at Shelby and said, “Sparky fries th’ best catfish I ever et. Jest wait till yew sink a tooth inta one.”
“Right now I’m so starved I’d eat one raw—skin, guts and all,” Samuel replied.
“I don’t think your stomach is up to anything as greasy as fried fish yet,” Olivia said neutrally as she held out the bandage for his side.
Micajah whistled jovially, seeming to ignore them as he poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot ever steaming at the edge of the hearth. “I’ll let yew two settle up betwixt yoreselves,” he said with deliberate vagueness, then slung the fish across his shoulder and headed out the door with Dirt Devil at his heels.
Samuel raised his arm and looked down at the healing wound in his side, then flexed the muscles across his shoulder and back. “I’m feeling a lot stronger.” He waited for her to sit down beside him again and apply the wrapping, then added suggestively, “So’s my appetite.”
Olivia could see the challenge in his eyes. Taunt her, would he? She would show him she was no fainting miss. If only her heart would cease its trip-hammer beat and her skin lose the heated flush that tingled everywhere from her face to her most intimate parts. She could still feel the warmth of his breath mingling with hers, the pressure and command of his mouth in that interrupted kiss...a kiss she had ached for. It was madness to desire him. He would only hurt her again.
Forcing herself to remember the cold betrayal of his ugly bargain with Emory Wescott, she sat on the edge of the bed and reached out to wrap the bandage around his waist. There was no way to do it without coming far too close to the muscled hardness of his black-furred chest. She unconsciously chewed her lip as she held one end of the cloth strip pressed against the wound and began to reach around him with the bandage.
Samuel could feel his heartbeat accelerate, keeping a pulsing rhythm with the lower part of his mutinous anatomy. He shifted uncomfortably beneath the covers, cursing himself for seven kinds of a fool for taunting her, then drew in his breath sharply when her hair softly brushed his chest as she leaned forward.
“Hold still so I can fasten this” she commanded crossly, struggling to keep her hands steady as she tied the bandages, then scooted quickly off the bed.
He could sense the unease beneath her cool veneer but was uncertain of exactly what motivated her to be warm and pliant in his arms one moment, then skittish as a schoolgirl the next. Probably having Johnstone around made her feel guilty, rather like being chaperoned by her father, but then when he imagined the sort of father she had described to him, a profligate French aristocrat who lived from hand to mouth, he could not help but feel the irony in it. Micajah was no doubt a far better protector of her dubious virtue than St. Etienne had ever been.
That thought gave him pause. As long as he was under the old woodsman’s sights, he had better tread very lightly around “his Sparky.” No more sexual teasing. In fact, the sooner he was strong enough to leave them both behind, the better. After all, he still had an assignment to complete.
Channeling his thoughts along that line he said, “Tell me about the camp gossip regarding the Englishman. I know the Osage women must have discussed him.”
She shrugged. “I didn’t spend much time with the women. All I know is what Micajah told me and I’ve already told you that.” She scrutinized him from the corner of her eye as she prepared to fry the fish Micajah would shortly bring in. “Is that the only reason you came with Lisa? To search for this English agent?” Not to search for me?
“He needs to be stopped,” he replied evenly, as his thoughts returned again to Emory Wescott. Could she possibly be in league with a whole damn cadre of English spies? He settled back in the bed and feigned sleep. Yes, the sooner he escaped from here the better it would be for more reasons than one.
Against Olivia’s better judgment, Samuel ate solid food that evening as he and Micajah discussed unrest among the Osage. The old man knew more about the English traders who were wooing the malcontent young bucks away from more peaceful tribal leadership, but he volunteered little to Shelby, not wishing to violate Pawhuska’s trust and endanger the Osage. He explained that Pawhuska was concerned that the Americans not blame the whole tribe for the hostility of a few renegades in the matter of Shelby’s attack. Like Santiago Quinn, Micajah Johnstone was more sympathetic to the Indians than to the United States.
Over the following days Samuel’s strength began to build with increasi
ng rapidity. So did his reaction to Olivia. Living in such close proximity was even more hellish now than it had been back with the rivermen. Then he had seen her as merely a spoiled useless belle, bedraggled and ill-tempered. Now she had become a woman like no other he had ever known, competent and comfortable under the most primitive wilderness conditions, a beguiling temptress in beaded doeskins who warily kept her distance from him. Perversely, the more she did so, the more he desired her.
Although Olivia kept herself busy as possible trying not to think of Samuel or acknowledge his presence, living in close quarters with him was increasingly difficult for her, too. She watched his recovery with mixed emotions, telling herself she would be overjoyed to have him leave her in peace; yet she knew that when he departed her heart would be hollow.
One morning after breakfast Samuel stood up and stretched, flexing his left arm. The wound had not required bandaging for several days, much to his relief, and seemingly, Olivia’s. “God, but I itch like a hibernating bear in the spring.”
She could not resist saying, “You smell like one, too.”
Micajah, sitting across the table from them, slapped his thigh and laughed. “If’n yew wuz still under th’ weather, all feverish like, Sparky here’d still be givin yew baths from head ta—”
“I think the colonel can manage his own bathing from now on,” she interrupted hastily, sliding back her chair and walking over to one of the parfleches hanging on the wall. Extracting a bar of homemade lye soap she tossed it to him. “Here, go wash in the creek. The day’s warm enough and Micajah can help you walk that far.”
Samuel caught the soap with his left hand easily, then grinned. “I can make it to the creek by myself.” He turned to Micajah and asked, “Could I trouble you for that razor? I’d love to hack these boar bristles off my face while I’m at it. They’ve grown back pretty fast.”
“Durn fool nuisance, shavin’. ‘Course, if’n my mug wuz as purty ‘neath these whiskers as yores, mebbee I’d take th’ time.” He fetched the razor and gave it to Shelby.
Stubborn man, Olivia thought. Samuel had refused Micajah’ s offer of help and sent the older man on his way to check his rabbit snares. He had slipped on a pair of moccasins that Johnstone had obtained at the Osage village and strolled casually out the door. She stood staring after him as he walked slowly across the meadow toward the small, swift-running tributary that fed into the larger Gasconade River. “It’d serve him right if he fell in and drowned,” she muttered to herself, holding at bay images of his body, naked in the water, gleaming with every fluid movement.
She had seen him naked, of course, but that was when he was ill and unconscious. Then she had been so terrified that he was going to die of his feverish wounds that she had little time to consider the prurient pleasures of simply looking at his magnificent male body. Now she remembered, wickedly. As his recovery became more complete, she distanced herself from him more and more, spending time away from the cabin, helping Micajah with simple chores, unwilling to watch him regain his strength so he could leave.
“I have to get away and do something or I’ll go crazy,” she muttered to herself, picking up a woven reed basket. There were still a few apples left on the trees. A fresh apple pie would taste good with supper. She headed toward the woods along the banks of the Gasconade, downstream from the creek where Samuel would be bathing. Soon she had enough to fill her container. Just as she was about to turn back toward the cabin she heard the sound of splashing water and a male voice humming.
Samuel’s voice. What was he doing down here on the big river? Setting down the fruit basket, she made her way quietly through the undergrowth to the clearing. There was a broad sandbar at the river’s edge where Micajah beached his canoe. Samuel was standing waist-deep in the swift-running current, singing lustily now as he sudsed his body from his scalp down. She swallowed convulsively as her eyes riveted on the soap bubbles gliding across that muscular chest with its fascinating black hair. Then he ducked beneath the water.
For an insane instant she thought he was drowning and almost raced out to dive in after him, but he quickly resurfaced, shaking droplets of water from his head and shoulders like a great wet shaggy dog as he waded toward the shore. Olivia stood riveted behind the trunk of a cottonwood, peeking out at his emerging body. He had been so thin only a few weeks ago. How had he regained all that muscle so swiftly?
Samuel looked sleek and splendid in spite of his newly healing scars. Her eyes traveled from his chest, sweeping over his long powerful thighs and legs, then returned to that vital male center of him, always mysterious and magnetic, as if all the patterns of his body hair led to that same inevitable destination. Heat infused her body and it had nothing to do with the warm sunlight filtering through the trees. She stood frozen to the ground as he walked casually up to the overturned canoe, upon which he had laid a towel, a change of clothing and shaving gear. Briskly he rubbed himself down, then slipped on a pair of Micajah’s buckskins. Like all the clothes he had borrowed from his host, they were too large but he solved the problem by rolling up the pant legs and cinching a belt at his narrow waist.
Samuel picked up the razor and soap and strolled casually over to the nearest tree. He had positioned a small polished steel mirror in a convenient fork. Working up a lather with his hands, he covered the prickly beard with thick suds, then picked up the razor and set to work, wondering idly if it had been Micajah or Olivia who had shaved him when he had been unconscious. She’d probably have used the razor to slit my throat. He smiled grimly and continued tugging the blade over his dense beard, glancing into the depth of the mirror as he worked.
Olivia’s mouth had gone dry, the moisture fled to a lower part of her anatomy as she watched him. The low rasping scrape of cool steel against warm skin was incredibly erotic, quite different from the last time when he had lain so pale and still while Micajah shaved him. She could feel every pull of the blade right down to her toes, which curled unconsciously inside her soft moccasins.
I have to get out of here, leave... But she did not move, could not move. Then his voice, low and amused, cut through the chaotic jumble of her thoughts.
“Do you approve of what you’ve seen, Livy?” he asked conversationally as he wiped the last of the suds from his face with the towel, then slung it casually across one shoulder. He leaned against the tree trunk with his arms crossed negligently over his chest, staring directly into the thicket where she hid—or thought she hid.
“How did you know I was here?” The question asked itself before she could stop the flow of words.
Samuel grinned and looked back at the mirror. “Even with the poor reflection, that fiery color stood out. You’ll never make a real woodsman as long as you go with that hair unbound. It showed through the dry brush like a flaming torch.”
Olivia felt like a coward hiding behind the tree trunk but was loathe to face the cheeky devil who stood so arrogantly across the clearing. Brazen it out, don’t let him gloat. She stepped into the open and walked closer...but not too close. “As to your first question. Yes, I do approve of what I’ve seen. You’re recovering thanks to my medical skill. When we brought you home you were nothing but a rack of bones covered with a pretty beat up hide.”
“So, you enjoyed what you saw,” he said smugly.
She shrugged as negligently as she could, willing herself not to let her fair skin betray her with any more schoolgirl blushes. “I don’t have much to compare you against. I never saw a naked man before.” The cynical glint in his blue eyes at once gave away his disbelief. Her anger flared white-hot without warning. “You don’t believe me, do you?” she added contemptuously, knowing full well the answer to her question. “What a fool you are to swallow Emory Wescott’s lies.”
As Olivia spun around to leave, his words echoed mockingly across the space between them. “Why did you follow me to the river if you’re such an innocent?”
“I didn’t. I was picking apples from my own trees when I heard your splashi
ng. You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near here. You were supposed to be in the creek. When you went underwater, I thought you were about to drown,” she said, never breaking stride as she retraced her path through the trees and scooped up her basket of apples. Holding them on one hip she glared at him with narrowed eyes, hard as bottle glass. “Now I wish you had drowned.”
Samuel almost ran after her, then thought better of it. The chit was nothing but trouble. Every time he was near her he lost control and did something completely, irrationally stupid. But she had saved his life, according to Micajah, who recounted the hours of ministrations she had performed while he lay in feverish helplessness. His behavior had been inexcusable. He vowed to apologize after she had cooled down.
The day passed before Olivia returned to the cabin. She was not avoiding Samuel, she was acting in Christian charity. If he spoke another word to her, she knew she’d take that English screw barrel pistol Micajah had given her and kill him. Besides, there was always plenty of work to do around the place. She walked to the bee tree down by the creek and garnered a small pot of honey, then checked the snares and found two fat rabbits that she killed and dressed for dinner. Finally when she knew she could procrastinate no longer, Olivia headed home laden down with the bounty of nature.
The ring of an ax echoed from behind the cabin. Micajah must be chopping more firewood. She went indoors and deposited the honey and meat on the table, then stepped over to the window to call out a greeting to her friend. But it was not Micajah who wielded the ax. Samuel raised the heavy handle and swung it in a downward arc with rhythmic ease, setting up and splitting the pile of logs at his feet one by one. He wore no shirt and his back gleamed with sweat as his muscles bunched and flexed with every blow. In the late afternoon sunlight his skin looked as dark as an Osage’s and his long shaggy hair gleamed like a raven’s wing.
