by Debra Cowan
The nights were the worst. Her infernal imagination continually replayed the moment she’d nearly kissed him. Why hadn’t she just done it?
Even though it had been for the best, she had regretted her inaction every day for the past week. Especially when she caught him several times looking at her with undisguised hunger blazing in his eyes. It was obvious Gideon wasn’t going to do anything until or unless she decided it was what she wanted.
The problem was that she did want it. She couldn’t stop wondering how it would feel to be with him.
Their current arrangement was straightforward, simple. Becoming intimate with him would complicate that to no end. Still, that didn’t ease the ache that seemed to bore deeper each time they were together.
Between her anxiety over whether Gideon would press her about the night she’d cursed her late husband and her sharpening awareness of her current husband, Ivy felt as if the walls were closing in on her.
Frustrated and confused, she kept reminding herself that she didn’t know him. Not the real him. That their marriage was temporary.
None of it seemed to matter. She wanted him in a way she had never wanted any other man, but she wasn’t going to do anything about it. She’d meant it when she said she didn’t want another husband. The only reason she had one now was because it had been the sole way to get a loan for the farm.
On Thursday evening, a week after their near kiss, Ivy stood on the back porch looking for Gideon. They had eaten supper, then he had disappeared. Tomorrow was laundry day. When she had gone to the barn to gather his clothes for washing, she’d thought she’d find him there, but no. The sun set in a burst of gold as her gaze scanned the yard then the pasture beyond where the cows grazed.
Hearing a bark, she shaded her eyes and saw the pup leaping and pouncing in the alfalfa a healthy distance from the cattle. She let out a series of short yips.
“Thunder!” Ivy warned sharply.
The whelp carried on, darting away when a cow stepped toward her. The black-and-white-spotted animal lowered her big head and eyed the little noisemaker.
Though the cow regarded Thunder as a minor annoyance and not a threat, Ivy stepped off the porch and picked up her skirts, hurrying toward the back fence. Opening the gate, she called again for the dog. The pup ran toward her, slowed by the thick grass.
Ivy bent toward the animal. “Leave the cows alone.”
Giving a playful bark, Thunder attacked her skirt hem then scampered away.
“Come here.” She tried again to pick up the dog, but the pup escaped her reach and raced toward a flat, well-grazed area of the pasture.
Grabbing up her skirts, Ivy chased Thunder across the short and tall grass and through the line of trees bordering the river. By the time the dog plopped down in front of a stretch of trees and undergrowth, she was breathing hard and so was Ivy.
She approached slowly, hoping the animal was give out. The nearby water rushed and gurgled over the rocks. She drew in the scent of pine and wildflowers. A splash alerted her to what was probably a deer or some other creature. The pup leaped up, but before she could bolt again, Ivy grabbed her.
“Gotcha.” Smiling, she straightened.
From the corner of her eye, she caught a movement and searched through the trees. Her gaze skimmed the water that glinted gold in the setting sunlight. Thunder squirmed, and Ivy tightened her hold as she finally caught a glimpse of something. No, she corrected. Someone.
Dark wet hair. Strong nape. And a bare masculine shoulder. Gideon.
Her breath caught. Sleek and wet, he faced away from her and plucked a towel from a tree branch. Thanks to the underbrush, she caught only a flash of a naked hip and tight buttocks, the line where his sun-burnished back gave way to the lighter golden color of flesh that rarely saw the sun. But it was enough to scramble her pulse.
Oh, mercy.
He lifted a hand and dried his hair with the towel then swiped the cloth across his chest, muscles flexing in his arm as he moved. Ivy inched closer, absorbed by the glimpse of lean flanks, powerful thighs, the well-hewn plane of his stomach. He was beautiful. Masculine and sculpted and strong. Desire tugged low in her belly, and she went soft inside.
Dimly, she registered the pup squirming in her hold, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the big man half-hidden by the trees. Her husband.
She’d assumed his frequently damp hair the past several evenings had been the result of him washing up at the house pump. Had he been coming here instead?
As Gideon pulled on his trousers, her gaze moved over him again—the arch of his spine, the strength in his massive shoulders. Sunlight speared through the trees and washed over him in a haze of gold, revealing a crisscross of puckered skin across the entire expanse of his back.
Ivy frowned. What was that? Horror stole her breath as she registered what she was seeing. Scars.
Extensive scars. Everywhere in view. His back, his waist and sides. On the back side of his upper arm.
Tears filled her eyes. Had someone done that to him, or were those cruel marks the result of some kind of injury?
She or the dog must’ve made a noise because suddenly Gideon spun in her direction. A hammer clicked on a gun as his gaze probed the trees. “Who’s there?”
She felt as if she’d been spying on him, the same way someone had spied on her. It was pure reflex that had her turning and rushing back to the house.
This was why he never worked without a shirt. Once in the house, she tucked Thunder into her crate and flipped the small door bar into place. Only then did she realize she was crying.
She scraped away the tears, wondering what she should do. If she should do anything.
After scratching around a bit, the pup curled up on the rags Ivy had used to line the makeshift bed. Ivy was torn. She wanted to go to Gideon, but should she? She burned to know what had happened to him.
Hands shaking, it took her two attempts to light the lamp on the corner of the dry sink.
“What were you doing down there?” His quiet voice behind her nearly made her jump out of her skin.
She didn’t turn around, tried not to move at all. The door closed, and his boots scraped against the floor as he came up the short hallway.
He moved up to her back. “Answer me.”
“I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t spying on you.” She was afraid to turn around, not because of his scars, but because she didn’t want to do anything that might make him uncomfortable. “Thunder. She was bothering the cows and wouldn’t come when I called her. I chased her to the river.”
“How much did you see?” His voice was grim.
“Enough to know you were in the altogether.” Oops.
A sudden silence descended then he said flatly, “You saw ’em.”
“Yes.” Hands tangling in her skirts, she stared down at the floor. She had no idea what to do or say.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said gruffly. “I know they’re...ugly.”
He thought she was disgusted. He couldn’t be more wrong. She turned then, noticing how his damp shirt clung to his deep chest. Now only the scar encircling his neck and the one on his jaw were visible.
From this angle, the lamplight cast half of him in shadow. She wanted to touch him, but didn’t know if she should. “I didn’t even notice your scars at first.”
“You don’t have to spare my feelings,” he snapped.
“I’m not! I didn’t see them because I couldn’t take my eyes off your— Oh.” She’d almost told him exactly where she’d been staring. Intense heat flushed her body.
He arched a brow, waiting. Tense.
“Your scars weren’t what I noticed first,” she repeated primly. “But I did notice. There are so many. What happened?”
He turned to go. She snagged his hand, his work-rough
ened skin slightly cool from the water. “Please, don’t walk away.”
She was fully aware that she was asking him to talk about something painful, something he might never want to discuss, but she had to know.
He stood there, his wet shirt skimming over trousers that were now buttoned. He was naked under there, she knew.
She shouldn’t be thinking about him naked, not right now. She took a step closer, halting when he drew back. Her heart twisted. “Won’t you tell me?”
His face went carefully blank, and Ivy felt a tug of regret at asking him. Suddenly, she didn’t want to know. Not if it would cause him to relive painful memories.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” She started to release his hand.
His grip tightened. Not bruising, but too strong for her to break easily. “I was whipped,” he said brusquely. “The first ranch I worked was run by a mean bastard, and if you didn’t do what he wanted or work as fast as he ordered, you got a whippin’.”
Hadn’t he told her he had struck out on his own when he was twelve? He’d been a child when he’d received those lashes.
Recalling the expanse of mutilated flesh, she winced. “Do they ever hurt?”
“No.” He released her then.
She found herself in front of him, close enough to feel his body heat, to draw in the heady scent of male and soap and a dark musk. “How long did you work at that awful place?”
“Three months. I took off after that flogging.”
She wanted—needed—to touch him. Carefully, slowly, she laid a hand on his chest.
He grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you or bring up bad memories, but when I saw you—”
“You couldn’t stand the sight.” The matter-of-fact way he said it had her chest tightening.
“Only because it was horribly obvious how much pain you suffered.”
Still holding her wrist, he searched her eyes as if trying to decide whether she told the truth.
She reached up to cup his cheek. He looked startled, but didn’t pull back.
“I hate that you went through so much. That anyone could do such a thing.” Her fingers gently touched the thin jagged line on his left jaw. “Is that how your face and neck were scarred, too? From a whipping?”
“That was in prison.” His voice was emotionless, but Ivy saw plenty of emotion in his eyes. How much had he endured?
“Did you go to prison because you killed the monster who did that to you?”
“No.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. There was a wealth of pain in that one word. And an unyielding tone that made it clear he wasn’t going to explain why he’d been sent to Leavenworth.
It seemed natural to go up on tiptoe and brush a kiss against his stubbled jaw. How strong he was to have survived such brutality, especially so early in his life.
“What do you want, Ivy?” His grip grew a little tighter. “For me to tell you about the whippings so you can feel sorry for me? It’s over and done.”
He was right. She shouldn’t pry. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything if you’d rather not.”
His nostrils flared, and dull red color rode his cheeks. Anger? Arousal? She wasn’t sure.
Before she knew what he was about, he hauled her close. “Say I answer your questions?”
“All right,” she answered breathlessly. His body cradled hers, and a sharp ache unfurled inside her.
“What if I want you to talk?”
Her spine went rigid. She knew what he was going to say.
“Tell me what the other night was about. Why you were cursing Powell.”
She’d walked right into that. How could she refuse when he’d just shared something that brought up horrific memories for him?
“Ivy.”
He was the one holding her hand now, keeping her near when she was torn between moving closer or running. It wasn’t right to take so much from him without giving something of herself. But this felt like she was giving everything, completely baring herself emotionally.
And if she told him the truth, then what? It would likely squelch whatever was growing between them.
She swallowed hard. Emotions churning, she tugged her hand from his and turned away.
Behind her, he cursed, moving back.
He’d taken two steps when she finally said in a low voice, “I was glad when he was gone.”
“You feel guilty for that?”
She heard the scuff of his boots, felt him return. So close she could lean back into him if she wanted. “That’s not how a wife is supposed to feel.”
“Did you have a fight before he was thrown from the wagon? Did you have words?”
“Not exactly.”
Gideon’s big hand settled on her shoulder, his thumb making small circles on her upper arm. Despite his soothing touch, she couldn’t look at him.
“You were crying the other night. If you weren’t angry, you were hurt in some way. What did he do?”
She wanted to turn into the wide shelter of Gideon’s chest, but she didn’t deserve comfort. Not after what she’d done.
“Did he cheat on you?”
“No.” If he had, she wouldn’t feel so bad about what had happened.
Gideon went still, his voice rough with leashed fury. “Did he hit you?”
Something tight inside her cracked open. “He tried.”
“Damn.” The word was clipped, vicious.
“When Tom drank, he was mean.”
Despite the ferocity in his tone, Gideon gently smoothed both hands down her arms, embracing her from behind. “Josh said Tom started drinking after the war.”
She nodded. “One night when he was drunk, he became angry about something and took it out on me.”
Her husband had swung at her with his fist, which she’d managed to duck, but then he’d grabbed her arm, hard enough to leave a bruise. “Tug attacked him and he kicked the dog. Repeatedly.”
“That’s how Tug’s leg was broken,” Gideon said softly.
“Yes. Tom lunged at me, pulling my hair and trying to get his hands around my neck. I...”
The word stuck in her throat. She’d never confessed to anyone the whole truth of that night. She wasn’t sure she could do it now.
Gideon turned her to him. “Tom attacked you, then what?”
She didn’t think she could bear it if he looked at her with contempt, but she knew she had to tell him.
“I killed him.”
Chapter Ten
Gideon’s eyes widened slightly. “You killed him.”
“Yes. I shoved him off the porch.” The words choked out of her. Her legs almost buckled from the sheer relief of finally saying it aloud. Tears filled her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands.
“Hey,” he said softly, pulling her into his chest. His big arms went around her, and she held on for dear life.
Her throat was tight with a combination of dread and uncertainty. What was he thinking? Had she done the right thing in telling him?
As the moment dragged out, her anxiety grew. She drew back a fraction, forced herself to examine his eyes for scorn, revulsion. There was only steadiness, acceptance in his blue eyes. “I’ve never told anyone before.”
“Not even Smith?”
“No. My family thinks Tom was killed because he was thrown from a wagon.” A breath shuddered out of her. “I let them think that.”
He held her to him with one arm; his other hand rubbed her back in soothing circles. He hadn’t withdrawn from her. Instead, he’d wrapped her up in his strength, his unshakable calm.
“It sounds like you acted in self-defense.”
“I could’ve run. Or held him at gunpoint until I
could get away.”
“Did you have time to think?” The words rumbled deep in his chest.
“I just reacted.”
“Because you were threatened.” He tilted her chin up. “You have nothing to feel guilty about.”
“I wasn’t sorry after it happened. I felt as if I’d been rewarded!” She brushed away the tears on her cheeks. “That’s not how a wife is supposed to feel.”
“It is if she’s been in danger from someone who’s supposed to protect her. Love her.” Gideon took her shoulders in his hands, holding her gaze. “Tom breaking his neck when you shoved him was an accident. It wasn’t premeditated. If you’d really wanted him dead, you would’ve shot him. You don’t miss with your gun.”
She’d never thought about it that way. It didn’t absolve her, but it did ease the guilt slightly.
She wiped at her damp eyes. “It feels good to tell someone. To tell you.”
There had been any number of times in the past several years that she could’ve confided in Meg or Smith or their parents. Yet she hadn’t.
For some reason, she’d shared her secret with Gideon. Telling him the truth made her feel as if she’d escaped a trap every bit as vicious as the one someone had set for her.
Here in his arms, she felt stronger. Her fingers slid gently down the side of his face. The hand at her waist tightened.
“Thank you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked gruffly.
“For not condemning me. For not bolting. For not dismissing it.”
“No one would find fault with what you had to do.”
“Some would.”
“Not someone who’s been threatened. Not me.” He looked so fierce, so protective that she almost smiled.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she lightly grazed his lower lip with one finger. His eyes darkened.
She’d thought about that missed kiss for a week. And every day she had regretted not doing it when she’d had the chance. She wasn’t going to miss this one.
Rolling up on tiptoe, she rested a hand on his chest. His heart thumped steady and reassuring beneath her touch.
