by Heidi Betts
Wade was about to yell for Callie to come rescue him when she miraculously appeared, bottle in hand. She took the baby, fixed him in the crook of one arm, and tipped the bottle to his lips. Matthew's mouth closed greedily on the nipple and began a steady sucking motion, both chubby baby hands coming up to close around the glass.
"I told you it wouldn't be long before he made his wishes known."
Wade blinked, both hands settled on his knees as he watched the pair. “I'll say one thing: that kid has got a world-class set of lungs. And he ain't shy about using them."
He got to his feet and stood back. “Would you like to sit down to do that?"
"Thank you.” Callie took his seat and they both watched as the level of milk in the bottle went down with each hard pull of Matthew's mouth.
Then she looked at Wade, and he could feel her studying his beard. He lifted a hand to his chin and found it damp, covered with baby spittle. His grimace must have conveyed his feelings, because Callie chuckled.
"Unless you enjoy having your hair pulled and sucked on, you may want to think about shaving and cutting your hair.” She flicked her own long tresses back over her shoulders. “I usually wind mine up to keep him from yanking it clean out of my head."
Wade scratched the itchy facial hair. “I think I'd like to shave, anyway. Growing a beard and mustache wasn't my idea to begin with. You wouldn't happen to have a straight razor around here, would you?"
"There might be an extra one in my brother's room. Upstairs, second door on the right."
"Thanks.” Cautious of the bandages around his ankles rubbing against the bottom cuffs of his trousers, Wade started up the stairs toward Callie's brother's bedroom.
He remembered Nathan from before he'd been sent to prison. Nice man. Young and full of dreams, as Wade recalled, but a decent sort.
Stepping into the young man's room, he never would have known it went unoccupied. Not a speck of dust covered the numerous dark mahogany surfaces, the bed was made, and a few personal articles littered the dresser top. Callie, it seemed, kept the place spotless whether her brother was home or not.
On top of caring for a three-month-old and running the small farm single-handedly, he didn't know how she did it.
Guilt began to niggle at his conscience for adding even more to her workload just by being here. And it wasn't like he could be a huge help to her, because the law was already breathing down his neck. He couldn't go outside during the day in case someone spotted him, and that meant he couldn't do any of the outside chores as he would have liked.
Checking shelves and drawers, Wade finally found the straight razor he'd been looking for, and a strop to sharpen the blade, hanging inside the closet door. It would do. And he'd be grateful to finally be rid of this damn straggly beard.
Returning to the pantry, he found Matthew contentedly full and Callie struggling to arrange a quilt on the floor one-handed.
"Here, let me help you,” he said, taking the blanket from her and spreading it out on a free section of the floor.
"Thank you.” Callie crouched down to settle Matthew on his back in the center of the blanket, and his son immediately set to cooing and trying to catch his toes.
Wade chuckled. “Doesn't take much to keep him occupied, does it?"
"Not when his belly's full. I have some toys laid out for him in the other room, but he'll be fine there for a while. Did you find the razor?"
Wade held it up for her to see. “I couldn't find a brush or soap, though."
"I'm sure I can find something that will do. Sit down."
He watched her sashay into the kitchen before complying with her soft demand.
"You sure are bossy,” he observed, loud enough for her to hear. “Do you tell your brother what to do, too?"
Small kitchen towel draped over her arm, she came back into view. “My brother wouldn't listen to me even if I tried. If he did, he wouldn't be off in California right now, wasting his time and leaving me at the mercy of an escaped convict."
Wade felt properly castigated. He lowered his eyes and tried to keep the heat he felt climbing his neck from settling in his cheeks. “I'm sorry about this,” he said with all sincerity. “I told you I won't hurt you or the boy."
None too gently, she tucked the towel around his neck and into the collar of his shirt. “That and a handshake will get me exactly nothing.” With the same pair of scissors they'd used earlier to cut away his prison garb, she began paring the longer hairs of his beard and mustache.
"You don't believe me?” he asked, a little affronted but careful not to move his lips into the path of the clacking blades. Sure, he'd escaped from Huntsville and come straight to her, but not to scare her, and not to cause her any harm. He just wanted his son. And now that she'd made him realize he couldn't take Matthew with him as long as he was still deemed a criminal, he just wanted to spend a little time with the boy before he had to go on the run again.
Setting the scissors aside, Callie took the razor from him and opened it, causing the sharp silver blade to glint in the pale lamplight, “You haven't tried to hurt either one of us yet, which I count as a blessing, so it's possible you mean what you say. But how am I to know you won't change your mind if the posse tracks you here? Or if I say or do the wrong thing?"
Gritting his teeth, he said, “I would never harm my son. And I've got no cause to hurt you, either."
"For now. I guess it's just lucky I'm the one holding the straight razor."
Wade huffed. He didn't like this at all. Before he'd been falsely convicted of a crime and sent away to prison, no one had ever had the gall to doubt his word. A man's word was his bond. Only a lily-livered bounder like Brady Young went back on a promise.
But then, Callie didn't know that. She didn't know him at all, except for what she'd seen so far, and he had to admit breaking into her house probably hadn't been the wisest way to gain her trust.
He'd meant what he said about not harming her or Matthew, though. He'd cut off his own arm before he hurt a hair on his child's head.
But maybe she didn't need to know that. Maybe having her be a bit wary of him wasn't such a bad idea. He didn't know what the next few days—let alone the next few hours—would bring, and he might just need her fear as leverage. Be it against the posse from Huntsville, or even just to keep her safe when she didn't want to take his warnings to heart.
As she picked up the bar of soap he'd used to scrub earlier and dipped it into the now cold water of the bath to lather it into suds, he decided not to pursue the conversation. He could work at convincing her of his integrity later. For now, he'd let her believe what she liked.
Heedless of the chill temperature of the soap in her hands, she slapped one palm on either side of his face and began lathering what was left of his beard. Cripes, he thought. This woman could be one step down from a saint—like when she'd brought him those chunks of pork and cheese to fill his ravenously empty stomach—or a hairbreadth from being a harridan—like now, when she was shaving him with ice-cold water. And he didn't even want to think about what she might do with that blade, if she were so inclined.
She tilted his head back and to the side, so that he could see the razor slowly approaching his temple, and he swallowed hard.
"You don't have to do this, you know. All I need is a mirror and I can shave myself."
"Hold still,” she commanded in that soft, devil-or-angel voice. “I've shaved Nathan plenty of times; I don't mind. Besides, if you try anything funny, at least I'll be the one armed with a weapon."
His teeth snapped together as he fought the urge to tell her again that he wasn't going to hurt her, dammit.
If it made her feel more secure to be the one holding the razor, then he'd let her shave him. As long as she didn't cut him. One tiny slip and he'd wrestle the blade away from her.
Unaware of the track his thoughts were taking, she scraped the blade down his left cheek, then his right, then over the shelf of his lip and up over his neck and chin. The
time she spent near his jugular unnerved him the most, but her strokes never faltered as she shaved away a strip of stubble, wiped the blade clean on the towel at his shoulder, then took another sweep.
Tipping up one corner of the towel, she wiped his face clean of soap, then stood back.
He ran a hand over his jaw, surprised to find it almost baby-bottom smooth. He hadn't thought she'd be so skilled. “Good job,” he said.
"Thank you."
She closed the razor and set it across the room, he noticed, then picked up the scissors and moved around his back.
"Would you like me to cut your hair next?” she asked pleasantly.
Although he hadn't looked in a mirror yet, it felt like she'd done a good enough job on his face. He might as well let her have a go at his hair. It would be nice to have it short again, not full of grub and vermin and brushing his shoulders all the damn time.
"Why not?” he said, and sat back to enjoy the feel of her slim fingers feathering across his scalp.
Dear God! What was she thinking of, shaving the man while he sat in the middle of her pantry? Wasn't it bad enough that she'd thought him attractive with his long hair and matted beard and mustache? How could she not have realized he would be a hundred times more handsome without his face covered in bristles?
What was wrong with her? Was she losing her mind? Had too many days of working around the farm and too many nights of staying up with Matthew pickled her brain? Had she lost every single shred of common sense she'd ever possessed?
The man was a felon, for God's sake. A criminal convicted and sent to prison. Escaped from prison, she corrected. Which only made it that much worse.
And not only had she not run screaming, not hit him over the head with the nearest heavy object or retrieved her pistol while she'd had the chance, but she'd fed him. Let him scrub in her bath filled with lilac water. Given him a fresh change of clothes and let him hold his son. And now she was grooming him.
For the love of all things holy, she might as well turn the house and property over to him and forget about ever retaining so much as a semblance of her independence or dignity.
She wished Nathan was here, due home at any minute to discover this man's presence and rescue her . . . from herself, if nothing else.
She wished Lily hadn't told him who was keeping his son. When had Lily done that? Callie wondered. Hadn't she been too sick after Matthew's birth to do or say much of anything?
Most of all, she wished Wade was ugly. Fat, deformed, possibly even cruel or threatening. Then she would have no qualms about slicing his throat with the razor blade. Or fetching the revolver from her sewing basket and blowing him to kingdom come.
But he wasn't ugly or cruel, and she'd already done everything but make up a bed for him to spend the night. Which reminded her that she did, indeed, need to decide where he would sleep.
Because he was staying. Until he cleared his name, he said, or the posse caught up with him. If what he'd said about Brady Young framing him for Neville Young's murder was true, she couldn't quite bring herself to wish the law would arrive. But she wasn't sure she wanted him living under her roof for much longer, either.
Despite his promises not to hurt her or Matthew, she wasn't entirely sure they were safe in his presence.
And she was most vulnerable of all, for she couldn't help wondering how those full lips, now devoid of scratchy hair, would feel pressed tight against her own.
Chapter Five
Wade awoke the next morning in Nathan's bed, with a face not covered in itchy, wiry, dirty hair. He much preferred Callie's close shave over the beard he'd sported these past eighteen months.
With his feet hanging over the edge of the bed, his naked torso barely covered by the corner of the coverlet, he inhaled deeply. His first breath of morning air away from the penitentiary in longer than he cared to remember. It smelled delicious. Like freedom and choices and . . . burning bacon?
His mouth turned down as he sniffed again, then began to wonder how long it would take for the grease of that burning bacon to catch the house on fire.
Wasting no time, he shrugged into his dungarees and started downstairs before his shirt was completely buttoned or tucked in. The kitchen was empty when he arrived, a skillet of snapping, sizzling, charring bacon on one side of the blazing stove, a pan of blackened eggs on the other.
Grabbing a nearby towel, he wrapped it around the hot handle and carried the pan to the cast-iron sink. Then he repeated the action with the eggs and stood back to consider how salvageable any of it was for breakfast.
He was shaking his head, thinking they might have to start over, when his hostage—or maybe at this point hostess was the better term—came in through a back door that led directly outside. Matthew was hitched high on one hip, while Callie brushed her damp brow with the back of one arm.
"Oh,” she exclaimed, and stopped in her tracks as soon as she saw him. “I didn't know you were awake yet."
"I just got up. Thought I'd better rescue breakfast before it was burned beyond recognition."
"Oh, no, not again.” She hurried to the sink and stared down at the ruined food. With a sigh, she stepped back, her shoulders seeming to slump. “I always do that,” she groused. “I think it will save so much time if I start breakfast before going out to work on morning chores, but by the time I get back, everything is burnt to a crisp."
She lifted her gaze and gave him an almost accusatory glare. “Why do you think I eat warm bread or porridge for breakfast most days, instead of fixing a big meal like I did when Nathan was here? I only put on eggs and bacon for you."
"And I appreciate it, but you don't have to do anything extra for me. I'm capable of fixing my own meals, and I don't want to make more work than you've already got to handle. Besides. . .” He used his index finger and thumb to lift a strip of blackened bacon from the cooling pan. “This still looks pretty good. It's only a little black around the edges."
And straight through, on both sides. But he'd be damned if he'd cause her to start breakfast over from scratch when she'd already been outside milking cows and feeding chickens, or whatever else she had to do in the barn.
To show her how edible her meal really was, he took a large bite off one end of the bacon strip and smiled, chomping away until she seemed reassured enough to turn aside. He made a face then and all but spit the bits of cinder into the washbasin, but forced himself to swallow what was in his mouth before returning the rest of the slice to the pan. For later. If he ever got hungry enough to finish it off. Which he doubted. Even after eighteen months of prison slop, he didn't think he'd ever be hungry enough to finish off Callie's good-hearted attempt at cooking.
He wondered if he should be worried about his son's stomach. Matthew was on a bottle now, but how soon before he started eating real food? Babies’ constitutions weren't strong enough to digest coal and ash, were they?
"Do you need any help out at the barn?” he asked, thinking that would be a good way of getting her mind off the disaster of breakfast.
She shook her head. “No, everything is done. There's a pail of fresh milk on the back step for Matthew that needs to be put into jars and stored in the icebox down cellar. At any rate, you probably shouldn't risk going outside any more than you have to."
Wade nodded in agreement, her words backing up his earlier thoughts. “You're right. You may be a good ways from town, but you never know who might be passing by. If the posse is in town already, they may even be running patrols all through the area, looking for anything out of the ordinary."
He cocked his head and glanced at Matthew, then at the sprig of straw dangling from his diapered bottom. “How do you handle Matthew while you're doing barn chores?” He couldn't picture her mucking out stalls or milking a cow with a baby attached to her side.
"He plays in the straw while I work. Don't you, sweetheart?” She turned a beatific smile on Matthew. “We have a blanket out there that we spread on the loose pile of straw and he wiggles and coo
s while I take care of Marmalade. That's the milk cow,” she explained. “And gather eggs, and rake out a few stalls. He's a very good boy."
"I'll bet he is.” Wade stepped forward and held his hands out toward Matthew. “May I?"
Callie hesitated for only a moment. Maybe because yesterday when she'd let him hold his son, she had been the one making the offer. This time, Wade was asking. But she lifted Matthew slightly and saw that he was properly tucked into the crook of his father's arm.
This would free her up to take care of a few other things, she thought. It was just that she was so used to managing everything one-handed, with Matthew firmly settled on her hip and reaching up for her hair, that it would feel somewhat odd to move around unhindered.
"Would you like me to put on another pan of bacon and eggs?” she asked. “I don't mind, truly, and it's my own fault the first batch burned."
Wade shook his head. And was it her imagination, or did he look slightly panicked that she might have to make another attempt at cooking?
"That's all right. I'm not very hungry, anyway."
"I'm not that bad a cook,” she defended herself, hands on hips. “I admit I burn the occasional pot or pan of something. I have a tendency to walk away and forget what I'm doing. But if I'm right there, keeping an eye on the stove, I can fry an egg without too many problems."
"Only if you're sure,” he finally acquiesced. “Otherwise, I'd be just as happy with a bowl of porridge or a slice of bread, like you were talking about. Better yet"—he came forward and dumped Matthew back in her arms—"maybe I ought to cook for you. It seems only fair, considering the trouble I've put you to already."
He moved toward the small table against the far wall and pulled out one of the two chairs. “You have a seat and relax. All you need to do is point me in the direction of what I'll need."
