Rocky Mountain Man (Historical)

by Jillian Hart

  She set the basket on the table next to the first one she’d brought in. Leaving Duncan to paw through the contents, she went straight to the shades, drew them up and sighed at the soft light shining through. Clouds were crowding together at the rugged faces of the mountains spearing up through the green forest, so close, Betsy had to tilt her head back to see, but their peaks were hidden.

  “What are you doing?” Duncan scowled at her as he opened a canning jar with his bare hand—one twist was all it took.

  And she had to beat them open. Hmm. She ignored how he dug a peach slice out of its syrup with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. It was tempting to comment on his manners, even to rummage around in the dishes she’d left to drain on the board after washing them for a fork for him to use.

  Tempting, but she was grateful to see Duncan’s appetite improved. He’d gotten some good rest, maybe even some deep sleep, and his face wasn’t as hollowed.

  How, she thought angrily, could Granny and Joshua have left him out here to fend for himself? She couldn’t get over that. She’d seen how helpless he’d been…and because of her.

  For her.

  Duncan sank into the closest chair, trying to hide how his knees were quaking. The soft daylight caressed the side of his face and she realized he’d shaved. The lean cut of his cheeks and the golden bronze of his skin combined with the way the hushed light shrouded him, she realized why he appeared noble, when he wasn’t scowling. His heritage. He had to have some native blood in him.

  He opened a wrapped loaf and made a choked sound. “Apple bread?”

  “And I put apple butter in there, too. My first batch of the summer. Oh, it’s sweet. That’s for later in the day… No, I put breakfast in there, keep digging.”

  “You brought all this for me?” He looked from the crock of raisin-oatmeal cookies to the wrapped fried slices of bacon, and the honey-cured ham and the boiled eggs and more of the biscuits. A ball of butter. A jar of fresh milk, still warm from a cow.

  There were slices of bread and he realized she’d made him sandwiches for lunch. Thick slabs of roast beef and juicy red slices of tomato—how long had it been since he’d had a tomato? And homemade pickles and relish and mustard. And for supper, a wrapped half chicken, coated, spiced and fried. A bowl of potato salad and another of baked beans.

  “There’s enough for days.”

  “That’s the notion. I can’t drive out here every day. That should see you through to midweek, don’t you think?”

  “I can’t believe this.” His head was pounding, he wasn’t thinking clearly. He wasn’t thinking at all. His stomach was growling and she was here, setting a clean plate before him, from the drainer full of the dishes she’d done yesterday.

  She set a knife and fork on the table and poured him a glass of milk. “I’ll have this heated up, if you want to wait.”

  “This is fine.”

  She set out a good portion of the bacon strips and the ham slices. Broke and peeled three eggs. He buttered a biscuit and ate it in two bites. He was ravenous. He drained the glass of milk and she filled it again and while he ate she set out half the remaining peaches in a small bowl and lit a fire in the stove. He smelled fresh coffee grounds.

  “A good appetite is a good sign.” Betsy measured out the dark grounds and pumped fresh water to boil it with. “I can only hope it’s a proportional thing. The hungrier you are, the better you must be getting.”

  “I have to get on with my work. Don’t tell me what day it is today. I don’t want to know how much time I’ve lost.”

  “Work time?”

  “Yeah. I had the winter’s fuel to get in, but I’m not gonna be able to do that. Look out the window.”

  The daylight was thinning, and from where he sat behind the shaded end window, he could see out the smaller one where she stood, outlined by the gentle haze as the storm clouds gathered, moving swiftly, merging to form one giant darkening mass. The mountains had disappeared, leaving wisps of clouds to devour the tops of the pines and firs marching up the mountain slopes and out of sight.

  “You’d best get going if you want to keep ahead of the storm. It’ll be a cold one.”

  “How do you know?”

  “See the low bottom clouds streaming through the trees?”

  She turned her attention to the window, where the world continued to darken in degrees of gray. The sky blackened. A sudden wind blasted the north side of the house, driving the trees to bow before it and rattling the glass in their frames.

  Duncan loved a good storm and he was not one to miss the first of the season. But he couldn’t look beyond her. Beyond Betsy like a summer garden with her calico dress of sky-blue sprinkled with a thousand tiny flowers. Pink rosebuds. Yellow marigolds. Tiny green leaves.

  She’s so beautiful. Her hair was down, tumbling like magic over her shoulders and breasts. The tangled thickness was drawn back to her nape and secured with a broad pearl pin.

  He wanted to unsnap the barrette and watch her thick locks bounce and shimmer. He wanted to dig his fingers into her silken hair and hold her hard to his kiss. To a kiss that would make the proper Miss Hunter burn the way he was burning. From the inside out, half-blind with a want that he didn’t understand.

  He understood lust. He understood want. This, it was more.

  It was something he could never have.

  So it was right to want to send her away. “That’s snow.”

  “Is it? It’s beautiful the way it falls at such a distance. Like magic.”

  He’d seen it hundreds of times, but he was a man to appreciate beauty. If it was his to appreciate. And Betsy with her sensuous hair and her lovely spirit and the way she made him want… No, the best thing to do was to send her on her way.

  “The snow is coming. Do you see it?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widened. “You mean it’s going to be here pretty soon?”

  “Yeah.” He regretted the change.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The winds are blowing down the mountain. This way.” He pushed onto his feet. Then he pushed until he was standing straight. “The low bellies of the clouds are slipping lower. See the foggy stuff? That’s snow. It’s moving fast. C’mon. I’m not moving very quick yet, but I can help you get on your way.”

  “I’ll do it. You shouldn’t be lifting anything heavy like a shoulder harness.” Betsy had never seen anything so beautiful as the view from the window in this dark little house. It was like glimpsing a paradise that was serene and majestic.

  The solemn evergreens marched up the steep mountainside, their tops bent with their effort. The haze of snow and cloud mixing shades of white against the bruised sky. “How can you look at this every day and not be in a better mood?”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” He couldn’t fool her with his Mr. Curmudgeon routine. Not anymore. Not ever again.

  Not that she was going to argue with him about it. He needed to conserve his strength and anyone who wished to argue with her had to be ready for a long, hard row. She needed to get out of the mountains before the wall of snow decided to trap her here.

  She unhooked her coat from the wall hook in the living room, poking her head around the corner where he sat. His hands dwarfed the coffee cup he cradled as he stared out the window at the wall of white that was moving so fast, it looked as if it were coming straight for the cabin—

  The storm hit the kitchen wall with the force of a hungry tornado and the speed of a runaway train. The windows rattled. The house rocked. The floor beneath her rumbled. The daylight faded as utterly as if it had been a lamp’s flame to extinguish. Darkness made brooding shadows of the furniture and stove and the man seated at the table.

  Ice pellets scoured the thick logs and struck like bullets against the windows. What kind of blizzard was this? She’d lived on the high Montana plains her entire life. She knew what a blizzard was—what other kind of snowstorm was there on the desolate prairie where winds swept down fr
om the northern mountains with enough force to blow over shanties?

  But this. This was like an apocalypse. Like the storms at the end of the world. No horse could outrun it. No human or animal stood a chance exposed to it. The crack of ancient trees breaking echoed like cannon fire above the howling rage of the killing winds. How was she going to get home now?

  The acrid scent of sulfur scorched the air and the single candle flame danced and struggled against the encroaching darkness. The timid light caressed the planes and lines of Duncan’s hard-set features. There was no missing the harsh frown drawing deep lines around his mouth.

  He wasn’t pleased with the turn of events? He was, at least, home. She had dinner at her mother’s, as was the custom every Sunday afternoon, and she was to bring the baked beans and strawberry cobbler.

  Which were sitting wrapped and waiting on her kitchen counter. What was Mama going to say about this? “You could have told me when you said I’d better start heading home while I could, that you meant racing as fast as Morris could go. And still being caught in it.”

  “I haven’t seen one move in that fast in a long while.” He lit a battered tin lamp and the reflector cast the steady light into a bright glow that only better illuminated the cruel slash of his mouth. “What are we going to do now?”

  “I obviously can’t drive home.”

  “Yep.” Smoke puffed out the seam in the stove door, driven down by the wind. The damper must be wide open, and that was a problem. Pain wedged through his ribs as he leaned forward.

  But she was already there, Miss Spring Garden, as she knelt and pushed in the knob. Whispering to herself, “It’s hot. O-oh, good one, Bets,” she sprang up to plunge her fingertips into the bucket beneath the hand pump.

  Why can’t I stop wanting her? Duncan wanted to curse the fates that had brought the storm down the mountain. The interfering Great Spirits that seemed to have offered him the chance to an untold dream.

  And that dream dabbed her dainty fingers on her flowery skirt and went about pulling open drawers in search of what, he didn’t know. He only knew that he seemed entranced by the soft curves of her breasts. They were full and ripe enough to fill his hands with plenty to spare. The soft curves jostled ever so slightly as she withdrew a dish towel, saw how it wasn’t clean and pulled out more until one met her exacting standards.

  “Do you want some?”

  Her question made his jaw drop before he realized she was unaware of where his gaze seemed to be glued. Embarrassment seared his face as he looked hard at the edge of the table where the pool of the lamplight could not touch. He traced his forefinger along the carved edging he’d etched.

  She was still waiting with an empty cup in one hand and the steaming ironstone pot in the other. “Well?”

  He didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded. All he knew was that he hungered to lay his head between the valley of her breasts, to breathe in their woman’s fragrance of salty skin and sweet, scented lotion and heat.

  He longed to know the feel of her fingers cradling his head, and wondered if she would hold him to her plump rosy nipple and let him suckle until she moaned and arched against him. Or was her passion the quiet kind, of big glowing eyes and soft sighs and laying back to surrender her body to her man’s lustful will.

  No, he couldn’t imagine Betsy surrendering, quiet or otherwise. She poured his cup with a flourish. She apparently never did anything the way any normal person would. She withdrew a small covered bowl from the second basket and nudged it toward him.

  “Sugar,” was her explanation before she went in search of a second clean cup.

  He was loath to lift the lid because he knew he’d find the fancy white sugar, expensive as could be. Had she dipped into her special sugar kept for company and special occasions? Or was this the way she lived, used to white sugar for her coffee? Fringe on the roof of her buggy. Tassels on her fine leather shoes.

  Beneath her pretty flowery dress, he’d wager his year’s consignment income that she wore fancy lace undergarments. And her skin would feel like warmed satin when he touched her. When he laid her out on his bed and stripped off her lace and silk and kissed his way from lips to her generous breasts spilling into his hands, to her softly curved stomach. He bet that she would moan for him and enjoy the sensation just as she made a low hmm in her throat, as she tasted her cup of sweetened coffee.

  Yep. He had just as much of a chance making love to Miss Betsy as he did being named honorary son to her family.

  She took the chair across the table from him and wrapped her hands around the cup’s warmth. “How long do you think the snow is going to be like this?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “Okay, then give me a good guess. It blew in fast, so it should blow out fast, right?”

  “Who knows? I’ve seen storms like this last two hours.”

  “Oh, what a relief.” Her lush mouth parted as she sipped.

  Duncan envied the cup. What would it be like to have her agile, sensual mouth softly opening around his bottom lip? Would she let her eyelids drift shut and savor him? Could he make her sigh deep in her throat, the way she did after she swallowed the rich, sweet coffee?

  Shameful desire roared through him like the blizzard through the mountainside. Obliterating everything until there was only the wild need of a man so lonely, so in need of human touch and physical and emotional bonding, that he would throw away his life and risk more, just to hold Betsy in his arms. To take her to his bed for one night.

  Just one.

  But he’d learned his past lessons well. He knew exactly how Betsy’s family would respond to his seduction of their precious girl. He had no interest in bedding a virgin. Worse, a woman from town with her tassels and satin ribbons and lace. Those women were nothing but trouble. Nothing.

  So why did his blood remain hot and pulsing through his veins? Why, when he was injured and in a weakened condition, did his groin ache with need and his trousers grow tighter?

  “I may as well get busy while I’m here.” She set her half-empty cup on the table and glanced around with purpose. “I think I can get quite a bit done.”

  “You’re going to do my laundry here?”

  “Oh, no.” She could have been an Irish fairy for the way her sapphire gaze shimmered with mischief. “You saved my life, Duncan Hennessey, and for that you will have my eternal gratitude.”

  “Hell, give me anything but that. Gratitude.” As if he hated her, he grimaced harshly and stared into the gray mass of the cruel storm. “You’re here for the duration of the storm. We both know it. There’s no way to change it.”

  “My, you sound pleased.”

  “Just stating the facts. I don’t like ’em. If I had my way, you’d be home where you belong. Bothering some other undeserving man.” He snarled out the words so there would be no mistake. She couldn’t think it was fine to just drive up and invite herself in as if they were friends.

  He didn’t want her friendship. He didn’t want anything to do with her. He had to hate her, because if he didn’t, then the consequences would be too grave to endure.

  He’d had enough devastation in his life. Lost too many people he’d loved. Seen too much ugliness and evil in the hearts of both women and men to begin to trust another human being. Another woman. Another chance for happiness.

  No, all he had to do was to look at Betsy Hunter. She wasn’t a spinster yet, she may be unmarried but she was heart-stoppingly beautiful. And charming. And funny. And alluring. And everything.

  Everything he could not have. Everything he could not trust.

  He would hate her, and he would invent reasons if he had to, until the sight of her stopped the heat in his blood. Until the thought of her had him snarling so fierce and mean that she’d run out of his cabin the instant the blizzard stopped.

  He would hate her. Even if it destroyed what remained of his soul.

  Chapter Eleven

  He’s been horribly hurt, Betsy reminded herself as she tapped the e
xcess soapy water from the bucket. But even her sympathy was wearing thin. He wanted to push her away. He wanted to hurt her.

  And now he appeared even more miserable staring at the fire writhing in the stone-crafted fireplace. A frown pulled his hard mouth into an unforgiving line that said, Don’t tempt me.

  His words carved at her like a whittler’s knife while she scrubbed the brush along the beautiful polish of the wooden floors. She’d never seen puncheon flooring, although she’d heard of it, and how Duncan had managed to perfectly split an ancient pine in two and sand it to perfection was a mystery.

  The trees must have been enormous, judging by the widths of the halves that each stretched a good eight to twelve feet, and had been laid in such a way to emphasize the marbled beauty of the grain. The tough varnish protected the soft wood and gave it a honeyed gleam.

  “You don’t have to scrub the floor just because you’re unhappy about being trapped here with me.”

  “I didn’t say I was unhappy.”

  “What else could you be?”

  That was a very good question. Anyone could see he was expending a lot of effort to make her miserable. Betsy’s chest tightened with too many emotions to name. Sympathy, yes. Concern, yes. Affection? She sighed, returning her attention to the floor. Scrubbing hard, she felt the blaze of his attention. Did that kind of emotional power come naturally?

  Or did he have to work at it? His fury felt larger than the winds battering the cabin. He might fool everyone else into thinking he was a fierce bear of a man by this concentrated effort of disagreeable behavior.

  But she wasn’t fooled. “I’m very grateful to be here.”

  “You’re not impressing me by scrubbing my floor.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t want to do that.” She couldn’t imagine what it would take to wipe that grimace off his face.

  He must not have liked her answer because he kept staring at her, like a cougar watching its prey. And she had the distinct impression that he was trying to figure out the next step in his attack.

  That was probably what he was going to try to do. When Mariah had told her about what happened to Duncan’s family, it only proved her assumptions about him had been right all along. He’d survived a terrible tragedy, the kind of heartbreak that cut a man to the soul.