by MJ Fredrick
His lips curved. “You talk too much.”
She straightened. “No one’s ever accused me of that.”
He blinked droplets of water from his eyelashes. “I’m making you nervous.”
“Of course not.” As if by saying the words she could contradict her actions.
His hand shot out of the water and he caught her wrist. “Liar.”
She tugged free, hoping her glare would deter him from another intimate gesture like that, even as his absent touch burned her skin. “You do still want me to shave you.”
He reached for the soap and dropped the bar into her palm. “Please.”
Gingerly she dipped her soap into the water, careful to hold onto it, because if she dropped it into the water she’d have to fish it out, and she really didn’t want to do that. She lathered her hands, hesitated, then brushed the lather over his cheeks, chin and jaw. His beard was long enough to feel smooth beneath her fingers, not prickly. It had both scratched and tickled her face when he’d kissed her in his fevered state. Her gaze flicked to his lips as the memory warmed her and raised her curiosity. Would it be different when he knew he was kissing her?
It didn’t bear thinking about, even if her stomach trembled at the thought. He was married and she was a widow with more responsibilities than she could bear. She didn’t need to add the sin of longing to her already full plate. She smoothed his beard, wiped her hands on her apron again, and picked up the razor. His fingers tightened on the edges of the tub as she leaned close, scraped the razor up his cheek, leaving a clean patch of skin. Relief rushed through her. A good stroke, no hair, no blood in its wake. She repeated it, clearing his cheek and the dimple that had been hidden beneath the beard. She took a deep breath and nodded.
“Tilt your head back.”
He did, easing further down to rest the back of his head against the lip of the tub. She refused to allow her gaze to wander to see how much more of his body was exposed. She shifted her grip on the razor and carefully dragged it along his throat. That was too nerve-wracking, so she shortened her strokes, clearing away soap and hair in tiny swipes. He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed too close to the razor. She froze.
“You can’t do that,” she scolded.
He lifted his head a bit. “Do what?”
“Move.”
***
Trace bit back a comment; she was still holding the razor after all. If he could have turned into a rock, he would have. Not just particular parts of him. Did her skin have to glow like that, did she have to smell so good, like flowers and yeast and woman? She bent closer, her breath warm against his throat, her free hand cupping his cheek to hold his head steady, her fingertips stroking in rhythm to the movement of the razor. The simple caress made his groin tighten and his long-denied body urged him to pull her into the water with him, kiss her deep and long.
She’d probably cut his throat. And even if he wasn’t grieving, a gentleman didn’t abuse his hostess like that. She’d been nothing but good to him, taking time from her duties to care for him. Taking liberties with her person was not the way to repay her kindness.
The razor bit into his skin, just under his jaw, cutting into his thoughts. His eyes flew open to see the dismay in hers.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, pressing an edge of the cloth to the cut.
“Must not be too bad. I’m not light-headed yet.”
She pulled away the cloth, inspected it, and tucked it out of sight before he could do more than glimpse it out of the corner his eye. Huh. That was a lot more red than he usually got when he shaved. Now that the pressure was off, the cut stung.
“Here. Hold this.” She pressed his hand to the cloth at his throat, then rinsed off the razor in the water too near his belly and his rising problem. He went absolutely still.
Oblivious to his concern, she walked around behind him and went to work on his other cheek, this time her hand curving under his chin to hold his skin tight. He wanted to check the blood, but didn’t move as she scraped his cheek with more confidence. His skin felt cool in the path of the razor, as if it was refreshed, renewed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved.
And then she was done. She sat back with a sigh and dropped the folded razor on the table. He lifted the cloth to inspect it, but he’d already stopped bleeding.
“I don’t want to do that again,” she said on a shaky laugh.
He stroked his finger over his jaw, checking for stray bristles. Clean, smooth. Good. “I thank you. You did a commendable job.”
He heard the scrape of a chair over the floor and turned to see her gripping the arms. She lifted one hand to show him it was shaking. He whistled through his teeth as his groin relaxed and his skin chilled, and not because the water had cooled.
“You weren’t shaking like that when you were holding the razor?”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t let myself.”
She wouldn’t—? He’d never seen anyone with that level of control. What kind of reserves did she draw upon for that?
The water was cooling rapidly, so he dipped his cloth into the water, lathered it, and rubbed it over his chest, under his arms. Kit’s scent rose up from the cloth, from the lather. If he was going to smell like a woman, at least he’d smell like a beautiful woman.
Where had she gone, anyway? He twisted around to see her sitting behind him. She jolted, embarrassed at being caught looking at him, and pushed from her chair, crossing the room to busy herself by the stove.
“I’ll get more water,” she murmured, picking up the bucket and heading for the door.
He didn’t want her to go, didn’t want her that far from him. “Kit, would you scrub my back?”
She stopped still in the doorway, the sway of her skirts and the swing of the bucket the only motion. She closed the door and turned slowly, her expression serene, unreadable. She wasn’t even blushing. She set the bucket on the table and walked back to him, hand extended for the washcloth. He dropped it in her hand and leaned forward expectantly. Her fingers in his hair had been so nice. He wanted to feel her touch on his skin.
Instead, he heard the brisk rubbing of soap to cloth, and then the press of the cooled cloth on his back, making him flinch. With more force than he expected, she damn near rubbed off a layer of skin as she circled the cloth from shoulders to spine to lower back, stopping just under the water line. He barely had time to enjoy the pressure of her touch before she dipped the cloth in the water and wrung it out over his skin. She slapped the cloth over the edge of the tub, and without looking at him, strode out of the room, bucket swinging.
***
Kit had forgotten her wrap. The cold wind tore through her clothes and stung her bare wet hands as she crossed the yard to the well. She had wanted to linger on that broad back, wanted to trace her fingers over the ridges of muscle, down the indentation of his spine. She wanted to feel the warmth of him, the strength, the play of muscle beneath skin.
But she couldn’t allow herself. She’d already been more intimate with him than she should have been with any man other than her husband. Why did he have no more shame than to ask her to scrub his back? Perhaps because she had offered to shave him—had that been too brazen? She’d hoped she was being practical, but the truth was, she enjoyed touching him.
She shouldn’t enjoy touching him. She needed to do what Agnes said—get him healthy and get him gone.
The crank squeaked as she brought up the bucket and headed back to the room, bracing herself for their next encounter.
Nothing could have prepared her to see him standing in the tub, reaching for the towel, in all his naked glory. And he was glorious. Those broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist and hips. The light hair of his chest thickened and darkened across his belly to his…to the part that made him a man, which was not in a relaxed state. She’d only ever seen John’s manhood, and her blood had warmed in anticipation when his had been in this condition.
Mr. Watson wrapped the towel around
himself, in no particular hurry to preserve his modesty, or hers. In fact, when she could bring herself to look into his eyes, she saw a heat there, a need.
Cheeks flaming, she pivoted toward the stove, as if she hadn’t just been gawking at his private parts. She heard the swish of water that accompanied his exit from the tub, listened to the rub of cloth over his skin, and finally the rustle of fabric as he pulled on his clothes. Her belly tugged, deep and low and unfamiliar after so long. She didn’t dare glance back to check. Finally she heard the scrape of a chair and a sigh.
“That bath took a lot more out of me than I thought,” he said with a chuckle.
She turned to see him sitting at the table, handsome as sin with his hair clean and pushed back from his face, his beard gone, revealing dimples in each cheek and a slight dent in his chin. She caught a knowing look in his eyes, as if he was laughing at her for seeing him naked.
“Perhaps you need to go back to bed and rest then,” she retorted, turning back to the stove. Maybe she could think like a normal person when he wasn’t drawing all the air out of the room.
“Might.”
The scrape of his chair echoed in the small room, as did the pad of bare feet, and then he rested a hand against the small of her back, his hand so big that it spanned her. She stiffened at his touch, pulse thundering, and he bent his head to murmur in her ear, his breath stirring her hair.
His “thank you” was drowned out by the sound of a hammer cocking. Both of them whirled to see Agnes standing in the door, a rifle braced to her shoulder.
“You, sir, get away from my daughter.”
Chapter Four
Trace raised his hands and turned to face the older woman, putting himself between Kit and the gun. How had he been caught unawares? He should have realized someone else was here—he thought he’d heard a giggle when he got out of the tub. He glanced past the older woman and saw a girl peeking over her shoulder, eyes huge as she stared at him.
“I’m no threat here, ma’am. Put the gun down.”
“We’re respectable women here.”
“Yes, ma’am, I can see that.”
“We don’t need your kind pawing all over us.”
His kind? Before he could open his mouth to say another word, Kit slipped in front of him, her hand out to the older woman, placating.
“He’s not doing any harm, Mother,” she said wearily. “He was just thanking me for my help.”
The other woman jerked the rifle toward him. His heart jerked right with it, waiting for the ball to fire and penetrate his skin. Wasn’t it just a few days ago he didn’t care if he lived or died?
“And flaunting his nakedness in front of you,” the older woman snapped.
That giggle again. Trace flicked his gaze to the girl, who stared at the front of his pants with some interest.
“There’s no harm done.” Kit took a step forward. “Give me the rifle and I’ll put it back.”
Trace watched as Kit took the gun and pointed the barrel at the floor as she disengaged the hammer. She hesitated a moment, as if not sure she could trust him, then handed it to him and motioned him to hang it on the empty rack above the fire. Something else he’d missed. He must be more ill than he thought.
The woman and the girl entered the room now, still wary. Trace glanced at Kit. Her shoulders dragged in resignation as she made the introductions.
“Mr. Watson, this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Barclay, and my sister-in-law, Miss Mary Barclay. Mother, Mary, this is Mr. Watson.”
Three women alone in this fort. How long? Since John Barclay died? How had they managed? He turned to look at Kit, certain she was the will behind their survival. She didn’t meet his gaze, instead facing the stove.
“Since you’ve met everyone, you may as well stay here for dinner,” she said over her shoulder.
He opened his mouth to say he was ready to crawl back into bed, but the thought of the extra work he’d caused her today stopped him. Carrying a separate meal to him every morning and evening just added to the workload. He couldn’t ask her to carry his meal over when he was right here.
“That’d be nice.” He didn’t mean it. The look the older Mrs. Barclay was giving him would sour his food. But he had to think of Kit and how he could make her life easier.
Still not looking at him, she turned her attention to the tub, and circled around to grab it.
He cut her off, his hand on her upper arm. Strong, thin. Too thin. The other women too. How much had these women done without so he could eat his fill? Because Kit hadn’t let him go hungry since he got here.
“I’ll get this,” he said, though his arms shook in anticipation of lifting the heavy tub. “And after dinner, I want to see your stores.”
That whipped her around to face him. “Why? It’s not your concern.”
Could a woman be more stubborn? He saw it in the flash of her eyes and the set of her jaw, and he countered it. “It is while I’m eating your food.” He drew her away from the tub, keeping his touch gentle but firm, aware of the anxiety of the two women behind him. “Kit. Let me get this.”
She stepped back and nodded, not meeting his gaze. He turned his energy to lifting the tub.
The thing was damned heavy. He’d known it would be, but hadn’t expected to feel so weak. Now he couldn’t look at Kit, knowing she’d see the strain in his face as he heaved the tub. Mary hurried toward the door to open it. He gave her a brief nod of thanks and stepped into the yard. He saw an indented area of the yard to the right of the door. Probably where she’d dumped it before. How had she managed to carry it so far?
Stumbling short of his goal, he dumped the dirty water halfway between the door and the dip. His arms trembled, weak as blades of grass. He leaned against the wall a moment, regaining his strength, until his ears and the back of his neck chilled from his still-wet hair. He pushed away and walked back into the warm room, where conversation immediately stopped. Kit cast a worried glance in his direction before schooling her expression into that same emotionless one she’d displayed before. Who was that for? Him, or her family?
“What can I do?” He approached the stove, giving her family a wide berth. He glanced at the pots on the stove, one with porridge, again, and another with weak broth. A soup bone sat in the bottom of the pot. How many times had she used that bone? “Haul more water? Wood for the fire?”
She shook her head. “You’ll catch a chill all over again. You have no business going out with wet hair. Sit by the fire until dinner.”
He checked the woodpile. It would hold till after dinner. Maybe she was right. He’d be more use to her after he’d rested and eaten. Right now he was as weak as a kitten. He sat in a chair across from Mrs. Barclay, who had taken up a needle, thread and grey woolen cloth for mending. The girl sat idle. Why didn’t they help Kit? Why did they let her do it all herself? Resentment bubbled before the first pointed question was asked.
“What brings you to Texas, Mr. Watson?” Mrs. Barclay asked sharply.
“Nothing left for me in Louisiana.” Nothing but a big empty house and people who looked at him with sorrow-filled eyes. He hadn’t been able to endure their pity anymore, their cloying need to help, so he’d set off. He wanted to tell Kit he understood loss, but he didn’t want to have that conversation in front of her family.
“Are you one of Mr. Austin’s people?”
“Ma’am, I’m not, but my best friend is. Almanzo Tarleton.”
“He’ll be expecting you, then?” Her voice was sharp, as if she’d be glad to see him go.
“No, ma’am. He has no reason to.” He hadn’t told anyone where he was going, not certain he’d get there. Not caring if he did or not.
Not until he met Kit, who gave of herself to help him.
“So you’re a drifter.” Mrs. Barclay’s disdain was palpable.
“Mother, leave him be.” Kit set two bowls firmly on the table, one in front of Mary and the other in front of him.
Trace pushed his bowl in front of th
e older woman, who drew back as if he’d insulted her.
“You’re a guest in our house.”
“And where I come from, a man doesn’t eat until the women have been served.”
Kit, returning to the table with two more bowls, smiled. “You say you come from Louisiana?”
He sat back and allowed himself the freedom to look at her. She was so pretty when she smiled, when her eyes lit up like that. “Yes, ma’am, I do. We’re raised right in Louisiana.”
“We’re from Louisiana too.” She took the seat across from him. “Just north of New Orleans.”
They bowed their heads for a blessing, and afterwards Trace gestured to their surroundings with his spoon.
“How long have you been here?”
The smile disappeared, the light in her eyes faded. “Seven months before my husband was killed, three months since.”
Had her husband been gone all that time? What kind of man would leave three women alone for more than a month in this wilderness? She wasn’t helpless, Trace knew that, but she was hungry. “What about the soldiers?”
“The two that remained with us died shortly before—shortly after the others left.”
“And the last time a supply wagon came through?”
She tapped her spoon against her nearly empty bowl. “Longer than I care to remember.”
“And livestock?”
“The soldiers butchered the cattle when they were here. We ate the last chicken last month. She’d stopped laying. We have one milk cow, but she hasn’t given much lately.” Kit dragged her spoon through the porridge. “I can’t bring myself to butcher her. She’s just hungry.”
“And you don’t leave the fort, even to get her grass?”
The girl, Mary, shuddered on the bench beside him. He glanced at her, then back at Kit. She no longer focused on the bowl, but on him, something like hope shining in her eyes.
“It’s too risky being out.”
“Risky how?”
“The Indians come around every couple of weeks or so, probably waiting to see if we’ve died, or left.”