by Heidi Betts
Standing there somewhat stunned, she let her arms fall to her sides. Why was it that the more time Wade spent with Matthew, the less she felt like an adequate mother? He had such a way with the baby; the right touch, the right speech patterns . . . the right blood, directly linking them together.
Her fingers drifted down along the strings of the reticule hanging from her wrist and let them tighten around the pouch that held the only thing that brought her even a fraction of security—the adoption certificate.
He'd taken fine care of Matthew, and even gotten him to drift off to sleep. Fine. She should be grateful. She should thank him for giving her this much needed time to herself. She could catch up on . . . things. Cleaning, laundry, correspondence. Perhaps she'd even lock herself away in her room and read a book, something she hadn't done in the three months since she'd brought Matthew home with her.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped back from father and son and made herself go about the mundane tasks of hanging up her hat and putting away her parasol.
Once that was accomplished, she turned to face Wade once again and smoothed the bodice of her dress. “Well, then, if you don't need me, I guess I'll go about my business."
The words came out just as angry and resentful as she felt, but she hated that her voice conveyed those feelings to Wade. He didn't need to know how threatened she felt by his presence, his ability to care for his son.
Looking like he wanted to say something, he glanced down at the baby sound asleep against his chest, glanced at her, then nodded.
As though she needed his permission, she thought waspishly, letting her heels click a staccato rhythm as she crossed the hardwood floor and headed for the second story of the house.
Once in her room, she changed out of her town gown and walking boots into a dress and shoes more suitable for working around the house. She had laundry to do, livestock to feed, and supper to start. Not to mention that tonight was Matthew's bath night.
She could let that pass, of course, but after leaving him in Wade's care all afternoon, Callie wanted to bathe the child, if only to establish that she really was Matthew's prime parental figure.
She fed him, changed him, bathed him, put him to bed each evening, and just because Wade had survived a single day of caring for the three-month-old did not mean he was going to make a decent father . . . or take her place as Matthew's mother.
With that thought to shore her resolve, she made her way back downstairs, through the sitting room where Matthew continued to nap in Wade's arms, and into the kitchen.
In one corner sat a basket of dirty clothes and linens that had been piling up for a week. Not to mention several soiled diapers that were in great need of a good scrubbing.
Starting a fire in the cookstove, she put on several pots of water to boil. With the basket clutched beneath one arm against her hip and a bar of strong lye soap, she headed outside. Setting up the tub and washboard, she began separating out the items that needed immediate attention. Just in case she didn't get around to washing all of the laundry, which was quite likely when it came to finishing chores and caring for Matthew at the same time.
Of course, she might not have to care for Matthew this evening, now might she? After all, he was sound asleep in his father's arms, showing no signs of needing her at all.
And she wasn't bitter, Callie insisted when she stopped to consider the direction of her thoughts. Merely . . . annoyed.
Returning to the kitchen, she carried one pot after another of boiling water out to the washtub and rolled up her sleeves.
An hour later, she had a dozen clean diapering cloths hanging on the line. When the back door opened and Wade appeared in the shadows, she was on her knees, sweat dripping from her face and dampening the front of her gown between her breasts.
The minute she spotted him standing there, just inside the doorway, carefully hidden from prying eyes, holding Matthew, who greedily sucked on a new bottle, the hands she had wrapped around a bedsheet slipped and her knuckles rapped all the way down the hard metal washboard.
She swore beneath her breath. Merciful heavens, but that hurt. And she hated the effect this man had on her, causing her lungs to hitch and every rational thought in her head to turn as murky as the used water in the tub before her.
"You should have told me you planned to wash,” he said, keeping his voice soft enough that it wouldn't travel farther than her own ears. “I'd have helped you carry water and such."
Callie wiped the back of one hand across her damp, heated forehead, wishing for probably the first time in her life that she looked more presentable.
All for a man who was wanted by the law and trying to steal her child away from her.
She looked at the chunk of soap in her palm and decided it must be the lye. The eye-watering pungency and earlier malodor of Matthew's dirty, day-old diapers had curdled her brain.
Her apparent loss of common sensibilities, added to the still smarting memory of Wade snuggling baby Matthew, easily combined to further darken her already dire mood.
"I'm certainly capable of washing dresses and linens by myself,” she snapped.
Her remark seemed to catch him off guard. “Of course you are,” he said carefully. “I just meant that I'd have been more than happy to help you once Matthew woke up.” He shifted the baby a bit but didn't let the nipple of the bottle slip even a fraction from Matthew's eagerly slurping mouth.
He sounded so amenable and sincere, Callie felt a twinge of guilt. More than a twinge, and she didn't like it.
"I'm fine,” she said, tempering her next response. “Thank you, though.” When he continued to stand there, watching her, she made herself turn back to the washing. “I won't be much longer."
A few drawn-out seconds ticked by; then he gave a silent nod, stepped back, and closed the door behind him.
Callie sat back on her heels and blew out a breath, which fanned the straggling pieces of hair about her face. She considered submerging her head in the bucket before her just to cool down. And considering the wash water was still hot enough to give off spirals of steam, that was really saying something.
Why was it that one look, one smile, one nod from that man sent her into palpitations? She didn't even particularly like him, given his desire to steal Matthew away from her.
But her mind and her body were at odds over whether to kick him out of her house . . . or drag him into her bed.
And she was ever so afraid her body was winning.
Chapter Thirteen
As soon as the door closed behind him, Wade leaned back against the heavy wood and squeezed his eyes closed. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered, trying to get a handle on his labored breathing.
"Did you see that, kid? Your mother was washing your diapers. With water. A lot of water."
His eyes popped open as the image behind them grew too intense. Too erotic.
"A lot of water,” he said again. “And not all of it stayed in the basin."
He left off there, not wanting to get into a discussion with his three-month-old son about how water tended to soak through clothing and highlight—on women, especially—certain parts of the anatomy. Certain parts—on women—that beaded and became hard, poking against that wet fabric to drive men like Wade mad.
No, Matthew didn't need to hear any of that about the woman who wiped his bottom.
Damn, but this was hard. He was hard. And he didn't know how much longer he could take being in the same house with Callie Quinn without some sort of relief.
Which wasn't exactly the type of thought he should be having with an innocent babe in his arms.
"Come on, kid. Let's finish this bottle and get some dinner started so Callie doesn't have to do that, too, when she comes in."
The next couple of hours were filled with the banging and clanging of pots and the smells of cooking food as Wade gathered up what he could find to make a meal; a number of glances in Matthew's direction and frequent breaks to play with or settle him; and the occ
asional glimpse of Callie as she hung clothes on the line outside or made her way to and from the barn for what Wade assumed were her evening chores.
He wished he could help her more. At this point, he'd enjoy a bit of heavy, honest labor. Shoveling out a few horse stalls might be just the thing to burn off all this extra energy and pent-up sexual longing.
No, the only real thing that would put a damper on his growing needs was a few hours spent in blissful passion with the lovely Callie Quinn. But sweating off a few pounds performing back-breaking chores would be good, too.
Unfortunately, while there was plenty of work to be done inside—most of it centered around a certain baby—none of it was the hard manual labor he craved. And he couldn't go outside for fear someone, whether posse member or simple passerby, might see him.
He'd eagerly fixed breakfast and dinner over the last few days, sometimes even lunch, depending on whether or not Callie got to it first, not only to avoid Callie's cooking, but to keep himself occupied—and if he was honest with himself, to try to lighten Callie's work.
It shouldn't surprise him that Callie sometimes acted so defensive toward him. After all, he was the six-foot, two-hundred-pound reason for most—if not all—of her current troubles.
But he didn't want to be a problem for her. He didn't want to scare her or make her nervous by his presence. And he hadn't wanted her to go to town this afternoon, at all.
He'd been on edge every minute she'd been gone. The only thing that kept him sane—in a manner of speaking—was Matthew's squalling. If the baby's constant needs and upset hadn't kept him busy all those hours, Wade wasn't sure he wouldn't have gone after Callie, regardless of the danger to himself.
Her trip to town—which she had yet to speak two words about—was the only reason he'd opened the back door earlier. Otherwise, he'd have stayed far away from any windows or openings for fear of being spotted.
But he was dying to know how her conversation with Brady Young had gone. The very thought of her paying the man a social call set his teeth on edge, but since she'd gone ahead with the visit despite his protests, he longed to find out what had been said.
If it hadn't been for Matthew finally sleeping peacefully and Wade's fear of waking him, he'd have started questioning Callie the minute she walked in the door. Now, his skin prickled like fire with the need to know what had happened this afternoon while he'd been trapped inside, hiding like a wounded doe.
He was just stirring the meat-and-vegetable stew he'd thrown together with the ingredients he could find among the supplies stored in the cellar when the back door opened and a tired, dirt-streaked Callie walked in.
Her feet seemed to root in place when she took in the scene in the kitchen. Matthew in his special high chair, beating the edge of the table with a wilted-looking, more-brown-than-orange carrot Wade had given him to play with. Wade standing near the stove in one of her aprons, a long wooden spoon in his hand.
He did look rather ridiculous, he supposed. Nowhere near masculine enough that he'd ever want any of his male friends to see him this way. But the clothes he was wearing weren't his own, and Callie worked hard enough without having to scrub his dungarees, too. So he wore the bright yellow, neck-to-knee apron any woman might, and prepared a dinner that he hoped would make Callie's mouth water.
"What are you doing?” she asked, brushing a sweat-slick strand of chestnut hair away from her eyes.
"Fixing supper,” he said cheerily, refusing to let her dour expression intrude upon his fairly decent mood and his desire to question her—in the most friendly and civil manner—about her trip to the Triple Y. “It's almost ready. Why don't you have a seat, and I'll set the table?"
He moved to collect some bowls and spoons, then halted when he noticed Callie looking down at herself.
"I shouldn't . . . I'm a mess,” she began.
Before she could get any further, Wade set the dishes in his hands on the table as he passed, then moved to stand so close to Callie, she shied back a step. With the tip of his index finger, he reached out to gently stroke one cheek pinkened with heat, exertion, and exhaustion.
Heidi Betts
"You look beautiful, as always, but if you want to take a few minutes to freshen up, Matthew and I will wait."
She held his gaze for what seemed like an eternity. Not for the first time, he wished he could tell what she was thinking. More, he wished he could be confident that she wouldn't pull away if he leaned forward and kissed her.
With a quick intake of breath and a swipe of her tongue over dry lips, she inclined her head and darted past him.
Wade let his head fall forward and waited for his pulse to stop pounding. It never did, of course, but after a few seconds, his heart seemed to slow enough for him to function.
He turned to look at Matthew, who simply smiled his toothless grin and returned to banging his disintegrating carrot on anything he could reach.
"I'm not going to make it, kid. If your mother and I don't get down to some serious business soon, I'm going to go up in flames."
Matthew giggled, a trickle of drool dribbling off the end of his chin, and smacked his carrot—bang, bang, bang.
Wade scowled. “Just you wait, little man. Wait until you grow up and find a woman who sets your insides on fire . . . not to mention other body parts,” he grumbled. “You won't be laughing then."
With the sounds of Callie bustling about on the floor above them, Wade returned to the cookstove and filled two bowls with the bubbling mixture. Then he moved the pot of stew away from the heat and sat down to await Callie.
When she walked back into the room, the tipped-back feet of Wade's chair hit the floor with a sharp thunk. His eyes widened and his breathing all but stopped.
She had to be the prettiest thing he'd ever seen. If not, then his mind was playing tricks on his eyes, ‘cause he sure as hell couldn't remember a more attractive woman ever crossing his path.
She'd washed her face and hands, combed her hair and twisted it into an artful coil at the nape of her neck. The dress she wore was new and clean, too, a deep lavender that reminded him of wildflowers, and the lilac water she used in her baths, and ripe, kissable lips.
Callie's lips. Which always looked infinitely kissable and drove him a fraction closer to the edge of the precipice on which he'd been teetering half the day.
His gaze sliced to Matthew before settling back on the vision before him.
Grabbing her up and making love to her in the middle of the kitchen floor probably wasn't such a smart thing to do in from of a child. But after Matthew went to bed . . . well, they would have plenty of privacy then.
Wade began to wish he hadn't worked so hard at getting the baby to sleep earlier. If he'd just put up with the crying, Matthew would even now be drifting off, and Wade would be that much closer to seducing Callie.
Step two. That hadn't been far from his mind since he'd added it to his list.
He saw her breasts rise as she inhaled deeply, and felt a clutch in his groin.
"It smells wonderful,” she said, and didn't seem nearly as testy as she had earlier. Which wasn't surprising, considering how weary and hot she must have been after working so hard most of the day. Getting a chance to clean up and cool off had undoubtedly made her feel much better.
"Sit down,” he offered, waving her to the chair opposite his.
She did, giving Matthew a loving pat on the head as she passed. Spreading a linen napkin on her lap, she lifted her spoon . . . and halted, meeting his gaze across the table.
"Aren't you going to eat, too?” she asked, studying him.
Dumbly, he nodded, wondering when his tongue had turned to a block of wood in his mouth.
He grabbed his spoon and dug it into his bowl of stew. They each took a mouthful and chewed,
Matthew's nonsensical chatter the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.
"This is very good,” Callie said finally, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “You told me you cooked for yourself
quite often, but I didn't realize you were so . . . versatile."
One side of his mouth quirked up with amusement. “By that you mean you thought I only knew how to make two things: bacon and steak."
"And eggs,” she added.
Wade threw back his head and laughed. “And eggs, right. Three things, then."
"But I underestimated you, I see."
She took another prim bite of stew and savored it while Wade watched the slow, sensual motions of her mouth. When she moaned in pleasure at the rich taste, he almost shot through the ceiling.
"You're much more talented than you let on,” she added.
A great roar started in his head, like a riverbed full to overflowing or a barn roof threatening to cave in on his head. And all he could think was, You have no idea. You may very soon find out, but you have no idea.
Aloud, he couldn't help but say, in a low, seductive tone, “At more than just cooking."
When she raised a startled gaze to his own, he met her stare straight on. It was time Callie realized this was a game of cat and mouse. He was the cat, she the mouse, and before this night was through, he fully intended to catch his prey.
His hot-as-coals scrutiny must have made her uncomfortable because she squirmed in her seat and seemed to discover something terribly interesting in her stew all of a sudden.
He let her go, deciding not to press either his suit or his luck. Soon enough, he would be given an opening. A moment when he could kiss her, when they were alone and he could do even more than that.
The promise of soft lips, supple skin, and feminine moans of pleasure sent a jolt of desire to the tips of his extremities. All of his extremities.
Wade figured it was a good thing he was sitting down. Otherwise she might see his blatant arousal and get skittish. And the last thing he wanted tonight was for Callie to shy away from him.
No. He intended to do everything in his power to lure her straight into his arms.
Matthew, ever the diligent chaperone, squealed loudly and launched his carrot drumstick across the room. The thing missed Wade's head by an inch, hitting the wall behind him and plopping to the floor.
