Alex considered Gabrielle's words and then spoke again. "I thought you two were friends."
She flipped the first flapjack over. "We are."
"Then why don't you know where he's gone, or even if he is gone?"
Gabrielle turned to the stranger in her bed, licking the batter from one of her fingers. "I'm no one's keeper."
"I didn't say you were. I just thought . . ." Alex ran his hand through his thick, red hair. "I thought he must have said good-bye or something."
"Nope." She flipped another flapjack, sending this one airborne before it hit the griddle again. "Jack just comes and goes. Doesn't bother with hellos and goodbyes."
He watched her drop two burnt flapjacks onto a cracked china platter. "And you don't think that's odd?"
"Why should I? He's done it all his life."
Alex gave up the subject with a heavy sigh and tried another. "How long have you lived here?"
"My whole life." Gabrielle slid the platter onto one of the wooden chairs that furnished the stark cabin. She would have put it on the table, but it was piled high with wooden crates and empty cloth sacks. She dropped some more batter onto the griddle. "Born and raised on the banks of the Tanana, Mr. Alexander. Except, of course, for a brief, unsuccessful stay at boarding school in Seattle a few years back."
"You left school?" Alex propped himself on her pillow.
"Kicked out. The sisters said my soul was beyond hope." She laughed. "Actually, I just think I was too smart for them. You could have put the three of them together, Sister Agatha, Sister Mary, and Sister Ruth, and combined they didn't have the sense of a moose."
"Why here? Why the Tanana?" Alex inquired softly.
"Because this is where I belong." She turned to him, the flapjack turner in her hand. "How about you? Where do you belong, Mr. Alexander?" Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and then she turned back to the stove.
"Touché, Mademoiselle LeBeau." Alex slid back in the bed.
Gabrielle lifted the griddle from the stove and set it on the floor. Then with her platter of flapjacks in hand, she grabbed a jug of maple syrup, a tin plate and a fork off the fireplace mantel and sat down on one of the chairs. Dropping two flapjacks on her plate, she rested the platter on the floor and poured a healthy portion of syrup over the fried cakes. Cutting a piece off, she stuffed it in her mouth, licking the syrup from her fork.
"You going to bring me some?" Alex asked, lifting an eyebrow.
"Nope." Gabrielle stuffed another piece into her mouth.
"You rescued me on that path to bring me back to your cabin so I could starve to death?" His voice was indignant.
"There's plenty here." She indicated the platter resting on the floor. "Help yourself."
Alex scowled. "You know I can't walk."
"You can't walk far." She finished the flapjacks on her plate and reached for more. "It's what, five or six feet from this platter to that bed?" She poured more syrup onto her plate. "I'm no one's servant. You'll come that far if you're hungry enough."
Alex swore beneath his breath. The first thing he was going to do when his broken arm healed was give that woman a good throttling! What was wrong with her that she couldn't bring him one lousy plate of food? He wasn't asking to bed her! All he wanted was something to eat!
After a few minutes passed and Gabrielle went on eating zealously, Alex realized that if he wanted something to eat, he'd better get moving before she ate every scrap. Slowly, painfully, he got to his feet and forced himself to cover the distance between the bed and the chair next to Gabrielle. It was the longest journey he'd ever made. Perspiration broke out in beads across his forehead, and his heart pounded painfully in his chest. But somehow he managed to reach his destination. Panting, he pointed to the mantel above the fireplace. "Might I have the plate and fork, dragon-lady?"
A smile twitched at the corners of Gabrielle's mouth. "Might you say please?"
"Please." Alex watched her get to her feet and retrieve the other plate and fork. "If I'd said please a few minutes ago, would you have brought me the flapjacks?"
"No." She dropped the plate onto his lap. "It's going to be weeks before you heal. You can't lay around forever. Your muscles'll grow so weak your legs will never carry you again." She picked up two flapjacks with the end of her fork and dropped them onto his plate. Then she gave herself two more.
Alex watched with amazement as she poured more syrup onto her plate, drowning the fresh flapjacks. He took the jug of syrup and began to pour. "Do you always use that much syrup?"
"Yup." She stuffed in another large piece, and a long string of syrup ran down the corner of her mouth. Her tongue darted out to catch the thick, sweet liquid.
Shaking his head, Alex put the jug on the floor at his feet and cut off a piece of flapjack. Pushing it into his mouth, he grimaced. "God-sakes, woman! This has got to be the worst pancake I ever put in my mouth!"
Gabrielle devoured another mouthful. "Now you know why I use so much syrup." Her laughter filled the cabin as Alex reached for the jug at his feet.
Later, after the meal was finished and Alex had made his way back to the bed, Gabrielle stepped outside and filled two huge kettles with snow, placing them on the stove. She dug some rope from beneath the bed and strung it from one wall peg to another. Taking an old quilt, she draped it over the rope, screening off the corner the stove occupied. Emptying an old tub of flour sacks assorted junk, she dragged it behind the blanket. With interest, Alex watched her carry three buckets of snow in from outside. Then she disappeared behind the blanket.
Alex began to chuckle as Gabrielle's clothes appeared. First her wool pants were thrown over the rope, then socks, cotton underdrawers and her shirt. He could hear her pouring the hot water from the stove. Closing his eyes, he imagined the snow in the tub melting as the hot water hit it. When he heard her slide into the tub, his mind filled with images of her slender body. He imagined her full breasts, her small waist, her rounded hips. Groaning, Alex pulled the pillow over his face.
"You all right?" Gabrielle called from behind the curtain.
"Quite," Alex responded cooly. After a moment of silence, he spoke again. Anything to keep his mind off her. . . . "You said this was your father's cabin. Is he coming back?" He glanced at the man's red-plaid shirt hanging on a peg and the razor strap on a nail near the mantel.
"I doubt it." Water splashed, and Alex heard the distinct plop of a bar of soap. "He's been dead a couple of months."
Alex's brow furrowed. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
"So am I" came the feminine voice from behind the curtain. After another moment of silence, Gabrielle spoke again. "I don't mean to be flippant. I loved my father very much, drinker or not."
"How did he die?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
Respecting Gabrielle's privacy, Alex didn't press the issue. "Don't you have anyone else?"
"What, a guardian? A protector? A knight in shining armor?" She laughed. "I'm afraid, Mr. Alexander, that we've long passed the age of chivalry." The air was beginning to smell of some wild flower unknown to Alex's sensitive nose. "I'm of legal age," Gabrielle continued. "I have no one but myself . . . and my dogs and Jack. A few other friends I see on and off."
"Aren't you lonely, Gabrielle?" Her name rolled off his tongue, easily, sweetly. Alex's eyes drifted shut as he listened to her move in the tub of bath water.
"I miss my papa. But lonely? No. I have the birds, the animals, the trees, the ice and snow. They'll speak to you if you've got the time to listen."
"And what do they say, Gabrielle?" Her voice was an anesthetic, drawing the pain from his aching arm and legs.
"They tell me about beauty, about honesty, about hard work."
"Would they tell me the same?"
"They might. If you listened."
Alex heard Gabrielle move in the tub, and the sound of splashing water filled his ears. He imagined her running the bar of sweet-smelling soap over her long limbs. He could almost see her cupping
the water with her hands to rinse her legs, her back, her breasts. He glanced up at the blanket that separated them. His fingers ached to give the old quilt a tug, to remove the barrier that hung between them. Slowly, he reached with his good hand until it brushed the soft fabric of the curtain.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Gabrielle's voice warned as she went on, splashing, rinsing.
"And if I do?"
Alex heard her move, and then the old quilt lifted and the barrel of a rifle appeared. His laughter echoed in the small cabin as he released the blanket and watched it fall.
Chapter Five
The following morning Gabrielle was awake before dawn making coffee. She hadn't slept well on the quilt on the floor in front of the fireplace, and she was feeling irritable. It wasn't that she wasn't comfortable enough; Rouge had always said she could sleep anywhere . . . standing on her head if she had to. No, it was the stranger. It was thoughts of Alex that had kept her awake most of the night. No matter how tightly she squeezed her eyes shut, no matter what she tried to think about, sleep eluded her. All she could think of was Alex, his laughter, his questions, his clear blue eyes. And this morning she was mad as hell with him.
"Morning," Alex called from her bed. He smiled at the sight of her in her red union suit. Though she was covered from head to toe, he had no need to use his imagination this morning. The heavy cotton, one-piece suit revealed every curve of her lithe body.
"Morning," Gabrielle grunted in return. She had her back to him, pouring herself a cup of coffee. The blanket screen had been pulled down, but she had left the rope. Alex presumed she intended to use it again. "Want coffee?" she asked gruffly.
"Please." Alex sat up, running his hand through his hair. He felt filthy this morning. What he needed was a bath and a shave. When Gabrielle brought him a steaming cup of coffee, he nodded in the direction of the tub she'd used the night before. "I think I could use that this morning."
She gave a nod, sipping her coffee. "I think you're right."
Alex shook his head, inhaling the heavenly scent of the rich, hot brew. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"How long's it been since you had a bath, Mr. Alexander?" A bare glimpse of a smile was visible over the rim of her cup.
Alex reddened. "Too long."
She turned away chuckling, relieved to know that if she was going to be stuck with this man all winter, at least he wouldn't stink like a bear. Though it was common for most folk this far north to dispense with bathing through the winter, Gabrielle's father had insisted on personal cleanliness. It was he who had brought the old copper wash tub from Seattle on one of his supply trips more than ten years ago. "I'll fill the tub for you, but from there you're on your own," she said. "I'm going to take my dogs down the river, so I'll be gone most of the day. Think you can manage it?"
Alex eyed the tub, seriously doubtful. He looked back at Gabrielle pulling her wool breeches over her union suit. "If I can't, you'll help, right?"
"Like hell!" She whipped around to face him, a faded green flannel shirt in her hand. "But I'm warning you." She shook a finger at him. "You start stinking up this place, and you're out with the dogs."
Her voice was light, but Alex knew she meant every word. "You don't see me getting out of here any time soon, do you?" He watched distractedly as she pulled the bulky pants over her shapely buttocks.
"Not unless you intend to sprout wings." She gave a smirk, putting an abrupt end to the conversation. "I'll get your water, and then I'm off." Pulling on a heavy sweater and her wide-brimmed hat, she grabbed her parka and disappeared out the door.
Gabrielle returned late in the afternoon to find Alex sitting where she'd left him, propped on pillows in her bed. His hair had been washed and combed into soft waves, and he was sporting a clean shirt and pants.
"I hope you don't mind my borrowing your father's clothes." Alex ran a hand over the soft flannel of the worn, red plaid shirt. "Mine were filthy—what was left of them."
Gabrielle stood in the doorway of the cabin for a moment staring at Alex. That familiar tightening in her throat made her turn away. Oh, Papa, her heart cried silently. I miss you, Papa. I miss you so bad. "No, not at all," she managed, pulling off her parka to hang it on a peg. "If Papa had been here, he'd have given 'em to you."
The strain in Gabrielle's voice tugged at Alex's heart. Where was his sense, to put on the girl's dead father's clothing? He should have put his own things back on, stinking or not. It was just that he wanted to be presentable. Something about this sultry young harridan made him want to look his best.
Gabrielle moved to the table and sat down to remove her heavy leather boots, glancing up at Alex. "I left the razor out for you. Couldn't you find it?" She suddenly felt tired, worse than tired. She felt weary. She was just beginning to realize how hard it was going to be to fill the void her father's death had left in her life. She took off her hat and ran her fingers slowly through her hair.
Entranced by the sight of her slim fingers tousling the bright chestnut hair, Alex didn't answer at once. Was her hair as soft as it appeared? Would those curls feel like silk against his cheek? "No, well . . . yes, I found it, but . . ." His fair skin colored as he tapped his splinted arm. "My right arm, it's my shaving arm. I was afraid I'd slit my throat."
Gabrielle dared a slight smile. He was actually quite handsome, this stranger of hers. He was an honest man; she could see that in his smokey blue eyes. And he was a caring man; she could see that, too. "I could do it for you," she heard herself say.
"Could you?" Alex straightened. "I'd appreciate it, Gabrielle." He liked the sound of her name ringing in his ears.
Peeling off her wool sweater, Gabrielle stoked the fire, then moved to the mantel to find her father's razor and strap. The metal felt good in her hands, cold and hard, but familiar. How many times had her father sent her to fetch his razor? How many summer mornings had she sat on the step of their cabin . . . watching him shave in front of the mirror that hung on a tree branch just outside the door? Memories . . . sweet memories.
Fetching a basin of hot water from the stove, a bar of soap and an old cotton towel, she sat down on the side of the bed. "I have to warn you, Mr. Alexander, I'm not very good at this."
"I thought you were going to call me Alex, us being cabin mates and all." He knew he was pressing his luck. He knew she wasn't any more pleased about this situation than he was, but he wanted to see her smile. He wanted to hear his name on her lips. His eyes rested on them. They were full and pink, her upper lip slightly heavier than the lower. His pulse quickened as he watched the tip of her tongue unconsciously trace the shapely line. He had a sudden impulse to kiss those lips.
Gabrielle caught Alex's odd stare, and she squirmed uncomfortably. Other men had stared at her—on the streets of Seattle, on the steamers—but no man had ever looked at her like this before. She'd never seen such a strange light in anyone's eyes. She lifted her gaze until it met his. It was Alex that broke the spell this time.
"I'm ready. Do what you will to me."
"Huh?" Her cheeks colored. "Oh, all right." Gabrielle dipped the corner of the towel in the hot water and applied it to one cheek.
"Ouch! Damn! That's hot, Gabrielle!"
Startled, she pulled back the towel. Her wide eyes met his, and they both laughed breaking the tension. "I'm sorry," she murmured.
"Remind me not to ask you to ever do this again," he chided good-heartedly.
Gabrielle gave a nod, pressing the air-cooled cloth against his cheek again. She looked away, waiting for the damp heat to soften his red whiskers. It felt good to laugh. It was nice to have someone to talk to. This was how she and her father had been—at least when he wasn't drinking. They laughed and teased. They played practical jokes on each other and told long bald-faced lies.
Alex caught Gabrielle's wrist, and she flinched. Slowly he moved her hand to the other cheek. He was watching her now, studying her dark brown eyes.
"You're very pretty you know."
&
nbsp; Despite herself, Gabrielle blushed again. "Am I? No one's ever told me that before." She took the bar of rose-colored soap and began to lather his cheek.
"I can hardly believe that."
She shrugged. "Who would there be? My hounds are not much for compliments."
"You're serious." Alex's jaw dropped. His brows knitted as he caught her hand and took the soap. "Hey, what is this? I'm going to smell like a bouquet of flowers!"
Gabrielle was lathering both cheeks now, her hands running the length of his fine jaw, caressing his high cheek bones. "Sorry, but it's all I've got. Jack's wife makes it for me. Smells good, doesn't it?"
"On you maybe, but certainly not on me!" Alex relaxed against the pillow, enjoying the feel of her hands on his whiskered face.
Gabrielle laughed, running the razor over the sharpening strap. This was oddly comforting somehow—sitting on the edge of the bed, shaving Alex. It made her wonder if this was what it would be like to be married. The laughter . . . the closeness? She had once asked her father about married life and what it was like. "Pure hell," he'd replied. "Pure hell, daughter. An entanglement I never intend to get myself into again, and I recommend the same to you."
Gabrielle pushed her father's words from her mind, leaning to run the razor over Alex's left cheek. She comforted herself with the fact that her father's advice was rarely worthy and more often than not, completely erroneous.
"Boy, does that feel good," Alex remarked, letting his eyes drift until they were almost shut. "If you ever get tired of living alone here, you could always open your own little shop in Seattle."
Gabrielle made a face, and he laughed again. She dipped the razor into the pan of water and moved to his other cheek. Alex raised his good hand to touch a lock of her chestnut hair.
"Why do you wear it so short?" He fingered a silken curl. It was softer than he'd imagined. He yearned to press it to his lips.
Gabrielle pushed his hand away with her elbow. "I dunno. Just always have."
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