Ben flushed and looked away. "As long as I don't have to depend on my own legs, I'm okay."
"Looks to me like you're okay, period," Hetta said.
"Sure he is," Owen said. "That's why I hired him. I'm a good judge of character."
Hetta looked from Myrl to Ben and back to Owen. "You picked this crew to hang out with and you call yourself a good judge?" She laughed. "What would your cousin say?"
"He'd say I'd jumped in above my head. Now stop trying to make me feel bad about myself and start talking supper with Ben. My stomach's starting to wonder if my throat's been cut."
The ride back to the ranch was more of the same, joking, poking fun at each other, enjoying the camaraderie that had developed during the day. Hetta had been friends with Ida all her life, but she'd never felt that she really belonged. She didn't know what lay ahead, but she was certain of one thing.
Any desire to marry William was a thing of the past.
The week passed in a blur of flashing cowhide and exhaustion, the reek of sweat and burning hair, the bawling of cows and the shouts of men as they worked the herd. Hetta was relieved to have the branding done. All she wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and sleep for at least two days.
"What are you going to do now?" she asked Ben when the work was finished.
"Owen's night patrols." He grinned suddenly. "The ranchers found out it wasn't a lot of fun to stay in the saddle all night, hiding in the brush. They'd rather pay me to do it."
"What about you?" she asked Myrl.
"I'm going with Ben. Somebody's got to keep the kid out of trouble."
Working with her and Owen had done wonders for their self-respect. Myrl hadn't been drunk in more than a week, and Ben had started to take pride in what he was able to accomplish.
"What about you?" Ben asked Owen.
"I'm staying here."
Ben's gaze narrowed. "There's not much to do until spring."
"I figured Hetta might need help rebuilding her house."
"It's too hot for building," Myrl said.
"You don't want Hetta sleeping outside in the winter, do you?"
"She could go back to Ida. She's been moaning all over town about how much she wants her to come back."
"I'm staying here," Hetta said, "with or without a rebuilt house."
"Well, you'd better rebuild soon," Ben said.
"Why?"
"If I'm not mistaken, that's a bathtub sitting in the middle of what used to be your porch. I'd think you'd want some walls around you before you use it."
Hetta whipped around to face Owen. It couldn't have come from anybody else.
"It's your housewarming gift," he said, grinning like the proverbial cat that caught the canary. "It came a little early."
Chapter Nineteen
Ben and Myrl had gone back to town, leaving Hetta and Owen to argue all through dinner.
"I'm not taking a bath in that tub," she said for the dozenth time, "so you can stop wasting your time heating and hauling water."
"Fine," Owen said, "but I'm sick of smelling worse than my horse. I intend to stay in that tub until I've soaked the whole week's grim and sweat off me. I was even considering asking Ida if she'd let me use her bathtub."
"She'd close the door in your face. She's the only woman I know who doesn't turn into a simpering idiot when you smile."
"You don't either."
"That's because I know what a terrible person you are."
"But you like me anyway."
She tried not to look at him. It was impossible to resist his smile. "I must--I let you do things I'd never let any other man do. I still can't figure out why."
"My charm."
She sighed. "I guess I'm as silly as those females who swoon every time you smile."
"I'd be happy if you looked faint just once."
"Stop pretending you want to make love to me. You'd run screaming into the night if I started acting lovey-dovey."
"It would be a surprise, but I'd do my best to hold up my end."
She was talking nonsense to keep from admitting she desperately wanted a bath. Owen had been heating water in every kind of container he could find. The tub was nearly full. The lure was practically impossible to resist, but she couldn't take a bath with nothing between her and the rest of the world.
More to the point, nothing between her and Owen.
He got up, dipped a finger into the water heating over the fire, then poured it into the tub. "This is your last chance," he said.
The temptation was too great. "It's so open. Anybody ..." She let the sentence die away.
"I'll make sure no one comes near the house."
She looked toward the bath. She could almost feel the magic of the warm water on her body, easing her tired muscles, cleansing her skin, soothing her nerves.
"You've got to promise you won't let anyone come close enough to even suspect I'm taking a bath."
"I promise."
"You, too."
"I've got to stay close in case something happens."
"I'll scream if they do."
"Might be too late. Make up your mind before I get tired of being a gentleman and strip in front of you."
The tantalizing thought of a hot bath was too much for Hetta. She retreated to the safety of the shadows to undress. "What about you?"
"I'll take my bath after you're finished."
* * *
The temptation to see Hetta in her bath was more than Owen could withstand. He didn't know what it was about her that continued to attract him. Okay, he'd been annoyed when she told him she didn't like men of his type. He didn't like being considered a type. He was an individual, unique, unlike anyone else on earth. He'd never intended to seduce her, but he had intended to change her mind about him.
And he had. But somewhere about the same time, he changed his mind about her. The problem was he couldn't figure out why.
He'd always judged women by one standard. If they weren't beautiful, they didn't interest him, but something about Hetta had caught and held his interest. She was too straightforward and blunt to have charm. She hadn't the vaguest idea how to flirt or respond to flattery. She preferred simple dresses and hairstyles. She wasn't afraid of getting dirty or sweaty.
And she'd made it absolutely clear she wasn't the slightest bit interested in him.
Yet he liked Hetta. He was worried about her. It was one thing to talk a woman out of marrying the wrong man. It was quite another to talk her into giving up what would have been a comfortable and secure future without being able to offer something in its place. But other than helping her get her ranch back on its feet, he didn't know what he could do. As soon as he hanged Laveau, he'd have to leave Texas.
"Do you want me to wash your back?" he called out, making plenty of noise as he approached the bathtub. "You can't do it yourself."
"I've been washing my own back for years, and I've survived quite nicely."
"You survived, but I'm about to show you one of the fun things you missed."
"Go away," Hetta said when he reached her side. She grabbed a cloth to cover her breasts.
"You don't mean that."
"Yes, I do."
"Where's your soap?"
She waited a moment before producing a bar of homemade soap.
"That's liable to take your skin off."
"It's all I have."
"You'll smell like wet leather." He disappeared inside the log room and appeared a moment later with a bar of soap. "This will make you smell very different."
"Where did you get that?"
"San Antonio. I bought it because I liked the smell. I didn't know that I had a use for it then, but I do now."
"I don't want you washing my back, especially not with some expensive soap that smells like perfume."
"Don't condemn it before you try it."
"I ought to scream."
"That would only attract the kind of men you don't want to see you in your bath. Now stop complaining and try to
enjoy it."
He dipped the soap in the water, got it wet, and worked up a lather.
"What is that fragrance?" she asked.
"Lavender. The saleswoman said it's the favorite scent of English ladies."
"Then it's too fancy for me."
He didn't know what had prompted him to offer to wash Hetta's back. He'd done it only once before, with a woman he wouldn't introduce to his friends, but he'd found it a very erotic experience. Yet the feel of his hands against Hetta's soft skin had a calming effect. It almost made him worry about himself. How could he be touching a woman's bare skin and be calm?
But everything about Hetta was different. He was different when he was around her. He'd spent too much of his life feeling on edge. It would be nice to feel that he had nothing to prove. He might even think of hanging around a woman who could make him feel like that.
Hetta had felt her muscles tense when Owen splashed water on her back. Just the knowledge that his hands were about to make contact with her skin was enough to keep her on edge. She didn't know what she expected his touch to be like, but it wasn't what she anticipated. At first it felt strange, but as Owen washed her back, then her shoulders, finally her neck, she started to relax, to enjoy the feel of his hands massaging her sore muscles. His hands moved slowly, gently, seductively over her skin. Odd she should feel so keyed up and so relaxed at the same time. She'd never felt this way around William. Of course, William had never washed her back. She wouldn't have let him.
He wouldn't have offered.
The feel of Owen's strong hands on her back, rubbing, rubbing, rubbing, induced a kind of lethargy. It wasn't as if she were sleepy. It was more as if she was so relaxed she didn't have the energy to care about anything. She could almost imagine they were the only two people in some universe pervaded by the exotic fragrance of lavender. The scent was like a cloud, enveloping her, lifting her, transforming everything around her into a world far from the harsh reality of south Texas.
She felt like a princess in a make-believe world where everything could be exactly as she wished. Where all women were beautiful and all men were handsome and charming. Where a man would do anything within his power to please the lady of his choice.
She opened her eyes and turned her head so she could watch Owen. She never tired of watching his body. The play of powerful muscles under his glistening skin fascinated and intrigued her. He was like the panthers she'd heard about, all sinewy muscled grace. He made a purring sound in his throat that caused something deep inside her body to twitch and stretch until she stirred restlessly.
"Do you want me to wash your hair?"
"I can do it."
"I can do it better."
She doubted that, but she didn't have the energy to argue.
"Okay."
She didn't ask herself why Owen had offered to wash her hair, though she'd never heard of a man doing such a thing. She didn't even ask herself where he'd learned to wash a woman's hair, though the answer might be intriguing. She simply gave herself up to Owen's control.
"Close your eyes and tip your head forward," he said.
He held the back of her head in one hand while he cupped water over her hair with the other.
"I shouldn't be washing my hair so late," she said. "It'll take all night to dry."
"Not if you dry it by the fire. Keep your head forward," he said as he worked the fragrant lather into her hair. "I don't want to get soap in your eyes."
She'd never used scented soap, but she liked the way it made her skin feel, the way it smelled, the feeling she got knowing she smelled so fragrant. It made her feel beautiful even though she knew she wasn't.
"Where did you learn to wash a woman's hair?" Hetta asked.
"I need some fresh water to rinse the soap out. Keep your hair out of the water until I get back."
She sat there, holding her hair atop her head, knowing she'd knocked on a closed door, wondering what secret was hidden behind it.
"This may be a little cool," he said. The water soaked into her hair and ran down her neck, poured over her shoulder in rivulets. After the warm bath, it felt cool and refreshing. And invigorating. It made her feel more alive, more energetic. She hoped it was the effect of the water. She didn't want to think it was the effect of Owen being so close, of his hands touching her body.
"There," Owen said. "The soap's out of your hair. Let me dry it for you."
She didn't want him to dry her hair. She felt terribly vulnerable, anxious now to put an end to this. But she couldn't get out of the tub with Owen hovering around.
He found a cloth from somewhere and began to squeeze the water out of her hair.
"You know you have beautiful hair, don't you?"
"It's brown. What's beautiful about that?" Ida had black hair. Another friend had hair the color of corn silk in late summer.
"It's a rich brown, like the fur I saw on a very wealthy woman once. She said it was mink."
Hetta had never heard of a mink. She hoped it wasn't some kind of rodent.
"Thick and rich," Owen said. "It looks wonderful against your skin."
Every nerve ending in Hetta's arms, back, and shoulders came instantly alive, waiting fearfully--or anxiously--for Owen's touch. She knew his hands were only inches from her skin. She found herself growing tense, waiting for the moment when his fingers would brush against her.
She told herself not to be stupid. He'd touched her before, even kissed her, and she'd survived. But somehow this wasn't like before. She wasn't sure how, but she was absolutely certain his touch wouldn't be the same. As for his kiss ... if he kissed her now, she was certain she'd faint.
"That's all I can do with this cloth," Owen said. He was sitting on the side of the tub, leaning over her. She could almost feel his breath against her skin. "You need to get dressed and come sit by the fire."
Then he touched her--just a brushing of his fingers as he released her hair and let it fall down her back. The caress felt wonderful; it felt terrible. She didn't know what to make of the conflict.
"You'll have to leave so I can get out of the tub," she said.
"I won't look. Where's your towel?"
He'd broken his promise to stay away. She couldn't trust him.
He'd washed her back and her hair. Something maybe a brother might have done for a sister. Not that she knew any brothers who'd do such things. Then she realized why she was so afraid. She was certain she was so plain, so ordinary, so unattractive he didn't want to take advantage of her.
"I promise I'll close my eyes."
"Like you promised you'd stay away?"
"I knew you couldn't wash your own back. Since you'd never ask me yourself, I volunteered. Now where is your towel?"
She was certain that even if she sat there until the water went cold, he wouldn't go away. "It's with my nightgown."
"That looks like a bed sheet."
"It is. I don't have any towels."
"Then I really will have to keep my eyes shut."
"You weren't planning to?" She turned around to look into his eyes before she remembered she was still clutching a cloth to her breasts. She turned back quickly, but she'd seen the humor in his eyes.
"Maybe I was planning to take a little peek, but not until after you'd wrapped yourself up. You do have a spectacular body. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy looking at you."
An interesting personality. Pretty eyes. Beautiful hair. Spectacular figure. Why couldn't she have been given the one thing that really mattered, a pretty face? She was a fool to be worried about modesty. She had nothing to tempt Owen to be anything but a perfect gentleman.
"Promise to keep your eyes closed until I get inside the log room."
"Okay."
"If you break this promise, I'll never believe you again." Why hadn't she said she'd never forgive him?
"I promise." He picked up the sheet. "You can't dry yourself with this."
"It's all I have."
He shook the sheet and it unfolde
d. "It's big enough for the two of us."
That was exactly the kind of remark she wished he wouldn't make.
"Just close your eyes."
"I bet you'd act just like this if you'd married William."
She couldn't imagine that William would ever enter any room where she was taking a bath.
"If I were your husband, I'd insist upon drying every bit of you myself."
"Just hold up that sheet and close your eyes."
"What would William do?"
"He wouldn't force me to remain in my bath because he wouldn't close his eyes."
"The man has no imagination. Can you imagine the dull children he'd have given you?"
"Owen!"
"Boys who wouldn't have the gumption to steal a kiss, girls who'd think they ought to run away from boys who wanted to kiss them."
"Not everybody is as free-thinking as you. Though I do know several who'd keep me in the bath by refusing to do as they promised."
"I never break important promises."
She wondered if she'd accidentally stumbled on something. She'd found that the only way to tell when something was significant to Owen was to watch his eyes. They turned a lighter shade of blue, as if the truth were being squeezed out of him, but she didn't dare turn around to look at him.
"You and I never agree on what's important."
"Keeping your trust is important to me."
"But I don't trust you."
"If you didn't, you'd never have spent the last week sleeping with me just a few feet away."
"You didn't give me any choice."
But she did trust him. She had almost from the first.
"Okay, I've closed my eyes."
She turned and looked up. He'd closed his eyes, but his shameless grin mocked her modesty.
"I can imagine what you look like," he said. "Do you want me to describe you?"
"No." She stood and reached for the sheet. For two seconds she thought he wouldn't let go. Then he chuckled, released the sheet, and stepped back.
"Then I'll describe you for myself," he said.
It made her feel positively hot all over to think he might ever--even once--have imagined what she looked like at that moment.
"Your skin has a faint almond tint to it. I'm glad it's not pasty white. It makes you look more alive, more eatable."
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