Proving Herself

by Yvonne Jocks

  Had she really feared he would say something different? "It's not idiotic."

  "It is when you so clearly need help." He carefully wiped her cheeks with a handkerchief. "Do you wish to blow your nose?"

  She shook her head. "It hurts too much."

  With an indulgent smile, he put the handkerchief on the crate that served as a bed table. "Then I'll make soup."

  She considered repeating that she wasn't being idiotic. But the more she thought about what he'd said, the more truth she saw in it. She was laid-up, plain and simple. If it weren't for Collier, she would be dead. If he weren't here to feed her, and stoke the stove, she could still die ... even if she was the daughter of a rancher, and he was a remittance man.

  "Thank you," she said, although it came out grudgingly. Could be he heard that, too, because his full lips pulled up­ward, slightly lopsided.

  "Do not thank me," he said, "until you taste the soup."

  "I did everything right," she insisted, wondering. "I was dressed right. I broke the ice so carefully. I wasn't too near the edge. It wasn't my fault I fell in."

  "Did you think other people who have frozen to death, or drowned, or been attacked by bears, were merely half­witted?"

  "Not half-witted, just not... competent."

  From the stove, he gave her an odd look. "Like me?"

  "No! Just..." But she wasn't sure what else to say, so she lay quietly and rested. Perhaps Collier had a point, damn it.

  He'd already been very smart. Now that she had to He still and listen to him, why did he have to go and get even smarter?

  Over the next week, Laurel couldn't do much but lie quietly and listen to Collier. He hadn't lied about embarrassment, either. Her hands swelled so badly, they reduced her to in­fantile helplessness. She couldn't feed or clothe herself. She needed his help for such privacies as getting to the chamber pot and washing herself. And he did help—no complaints and with good spirits. That was how he did the wood chop­ping, too; and the horse tending, the cleaning, the cooking. Laurel knew she looked horrible—a swollen, blistered wretch of a girl—-but he smiled as if she were beautiful and spoke as if she were precious. Never once did he avert his eyes from the horror she had become.

  It felt bad to admit it, but she hadn't thought Collier had it in him. Yet every night he climbed back into bed with her, drew her gently against him, and she knew he did. After only a week, his arms felt harder than they'd ever been—and he'd been athletic all along! His lengthening hair glowed even more golden. He became more beautiful than ever... be­cause he was more than beautiful. He was competent.

  Against that competence, Laurel's affection for her pretend husband deepened into something stronger, something that felt less like pretend and more like something else.

  Was it love? Really?

  Now?

  Now that she was helpless and ugly. Now that she'd en­tered a false marriage, with the agreement that they would part in a few short years! Now she realized her weakness. She might just love this man!

  Collier had strengths she'd never guessed, strengths she'd been unwilling to see past his fine clothes and British accent.

  No wonder she'd felt safe with him. She was. Only her heart was in danger.

  Collier had not believed he had it in him. Had anybody told him a year previous that he should be laboring at such menial tasks, he might have shot himself.

  But now that he found himself doing it, he had neither the time nor the stomach for suicide. The horses needed water, and Laurel needed a warm cabin, and everyone needed food. The chamber pots must be emptied, and the wood must be carried. So Collier called upon his British fortitude to en­dure until that bright, distant day when their situation would improve.

  And in the meantime, something quite unexpected hap­pened.

  He began to enjoy it.

  Clearly he did not enjoy standing in manure or sloshing slop onto his glove. He disliked spiders crawling onto his hand when he picked up a stick of wood for the stove, and the backache and blisters that came with wood chopping, and how his clothes smelled after a long day of such labors. He resented the ridiculous effort it took to clean their clothes in a snowbound cabin. He had no intention of doing any of it one day—one hour—one minute longer than he must. As soon as spring came, he would pack every scrap of clothing down to Lee's laundry himself, to avoid such a nuisance. And yet...

  He rather liked who he became while doing those things. Chopping wood hurt, but carrying in an armload of freshly split logs seemed a minor triumph. Water buckets were heavy, but the pleasure with which the horses met his arrival, snorting a greeting and nuzzling at his coat in search of their hay, pleased him. He might not enjoy chores. But he took deep satisfaction in knowing that he could, indeed, perform them.

  And he took satisfaction in caring for Laurel.

  She was in clear pain. Her hands and feet swelled badly the day of her accident. By the next day her hands and nose had erupted into a rash of small, angry blisters. Were he in England, Collier would have called a physician and retreated to the den with some brandy while someone else treated her. As it was, he had to rub the salve gently onto her, then follow her instructions to make what she called willow-bark tea for the pain, and attempt to keep her clean and dry. At least her injuries were no worse. A throbbing pain sometimes woke her, and she seemed more sensitive to the cold, even from a simple opened door. But she'd survived.

  Nothing turned black, which she explained would mean lost fingers or a scarred, stumped nose. The blisters faded, and she soon could stand, even to use her chapped hands, if carefully.

  Collier felt gratitude for every day that she could sit longer at the table, or pace another round about the inside of their cramped cabin, or help with small tasks as he cooked dinner. He thanked the Lord for things as important as her life and as trivial as her unblemished, healing face. But unlike the gratitude he would feel had he hired a physician and merely waited for the results, he felt more... satisfaction.

  He could keep a fire going. He could keep horses. He could rewarm a half-frozen woman, and see her survive. Crude skills to have, perhaps, but important. Human. And he owed them to Laurel and her idiotic insistence on spending the winter in this shack.

  The wind turned warm for two days in early January— Laurel called it a "Chinook." So he wrapped her up and took her out. She protested being carried even more than she did going outside, though he knew cold hurt her, but he insisted. He carried her through the slushing snow to the corral, where she could greet the horses from his arms. And when Laurel turned her face to the trees and the sun, her blue eyes half-mast against the strangely warm wind, Collier watched her face and felt more grateful than ever, because he beheld beauty.

  And because she had allowed him to share it more fully than he ever would have had she not fallen into that damned creek.

  Of course, the snow did not melt completely. Barely had the Chinook begun its thaw than another snowstorm hit, tuck­ing them back into their cabin, and they went to sleep to a lullaby of howling wind and sleet rattling against the win­dows.

  They still slept together. He doubted Laurel needed his warmth anymore, but he was neither so crass nor so foolish as to suggest they separate any sooner than she wished!

  It was during the storm that the inevitable embarrassment of such an arrangement struck.

  Collier awoke with Laurel draped atop him, nuzzling his neck over the collar of his union suit, and he felt so hard against her, under his long Johns, that it hurt.

  At first he simply gasped. Lord, but she felt good against him, so soft and curved, so eager.

  He even whispered her name, in case she wasn't asleep.

  But of course she was. At his voice she stilled her slow writhing atop him. Her sigh heated his ear and made him shiver as violently as she had, back in the grips of freezing. With nothing but a little flannel and cotton separating them, he could feel the pillow of her breasts against his chest, the curve of her thigh against his erection,
and he wanted her, needed her, more than he'd needed any woman in his life.

  And she was asleep.

  We have an agreement, we have an agreement, we have an agreement. If he could shovel manure, surely he could resist ravaging a sleeping woman still recovering from frost­bite. Especially an innocent woman, his wife in name only.

  Carefully Collier found her shoulders and tried to push her gently off him—and she caught her breath.

  He could tell the moment she woke. She stiffened against him, so to speak, then rocked tentatively atop his own stiff­ness. "Collier?" she whispered.

  "You," he said, lest she blame him again, "are on top."

  "I guess I am." Her admission steamed past his ear and, if anything, he got harder. We have an agreement.

  "Perhaps you should ... get off now."

  "Am I hurting you?" More words. More warmth across his ear.

  "Not exactly." In fact, this was the most pleasurable torture he'd experienced in months, if not years. But much more of it and he would forget his upbringing and hers.

  "Oh." Leaving a hand on his chest, she slid carefully, slowly off of him, as if memorizing every plane, swell, and ridge of him as she did. The last time this happened, they'd both been fully dressed, but this time ...

  Collier clenched his teeth so as not to whimper. Well, he had said they would both suffer embarrassment before spring. This would be his turn. He meant to apologize.

  But before he could even draw the breath to attempt it, she slid her hand off his chest and down his abdomen to cup him.

  He drew breath—all in one great gulp. "Laurel!"

  She drew her hand back, not releasing him so much as lightening her touch, and whispered, "I'm sorry. I was just curious. I've never... Does it hurt?"

  If he said it did, she would probably remove her hand. "Not precisely."

  "Oh?" She drew her fingers to the tip of him while he shud­dered beside her. "Then why are you whimpering?"

  He wasn’t whimpering. Was he? "I..." Then she brushed her fingers across him again, and he lost the ability to talk.

  "May I?"

  He had no idea what she was asking, knew damned well he'd likely regret it, but heard himself pant the word "Yes."

  She slipped her hand in through the flap of his underwear to feel the hot length of him directly with her palm, and now he did whimper. Good Lord, but this was unfair. He should stop her. Any moment now.

  But it felt so good. Ladies never did such things, only paid women—and paid extra—to have someone ...

  Collier felt guilty for thinking of his wife and such women at the same time, but he felt so guilty about every delicious bit else, it barely signified.

  "It's like a horse's," she marveled, continuing her explora­tion. Before he could take too much flattery from that, though, she added, "But not as big. Horses'... things... are huge. I wouldn't want anything that big coming near me."

  Faced with either weeping or laughing, Collier choked out a voiceless laugh. That need was nothing against his urge to push Laurel back onto the bed, pull up her nightgown, and show her just how large he was.

  Were it possible, he was getting larger.

  "What do you call it?" she asked, sliding her fingers down to the base of him, but not quite all the way.

  "Mine in particular?" he said in a gasp, eyes burning.

  "What?"

  He decided not to explain that particular tendency of some men. "Lorelei," he managed. "Dearest. You are not hurting me, but you are... teasing. Unless you've—ah—rethought our agreement, I should prefer to continue this c-conversation outside of bed."

  Perhaps not at the moment would he prefer it, but soon and perhaps for days.

  When she slid her hand from him, he almost wept, both from relief and disappointment. At least he could breathe again. Perhaps he should move to her little straw bed.

  He heard Laurel fumbling on the crate that made their bed stand. Then her hand splayed gently onto his chest again, and again he moaned. "Laurel," he tried to warn... or re­joice.

  It wasn't over after all.

  This time she slid her hand to his shoulder, down the arm that lay opposite her, to his hand currently digging its fingers into the mattress. This meant her lying slightly atop him again. The gentle, pendulous weight of her breasts brushed across his chest as she reached his hand.

  "Collier," she said unevenly. "I've rethought our agree­ment."

  And he realized, as her fingers entwined with his, that she'd just put her wedding ring back on.

  Chapter Twenty

  Collier went very still. "You've what?"

  "I've rethought our agreement. I want to... have marital relations. With you."

  And she slid more fully on top of him, as if to insist. She even found his hardness with her thigh again, and sighed the sweetest, shyest little sigh.

  Oh, Lord!

  Of course, Collier knew better than simply to accept that. Likely she was speaking from some misplaced sense of grat­itude, or she'd been shaken by her brush with death, or she simply felt so much better, compared to how she'd felt a week ago…

  Perhaps she'd forgotten their very good reasons for keeping this marriage celibate. Or possibly she was simply curious— as she should be, the way she'd questioned him, fondled him. The way her thigh was moving against him even now.

  Well! Point of the matter being, any real gentleman would roll out of bed, light the lamp, make tea, and discuss the matter.

  But drunk wasn't the only situation in which Collier tended to behave in a less-than-gentlemanly manner. He found Lau­rel's free hand and used his body to roll her onto her back, then kissed her until she writhed happily beneath him. "Lovely."

  "Oh, good." Laurel sighed and wrapped her arms behind his neck and kissed him in return.

  And Collier set about consummating their marriage.

  Laurel could not remember feeling so excited. Not when Snapper was born. Not when she filed for this claim. Never.

  "When do we take our clothes off?" she asked when Col­lier's lips detoured to her throat.

  He levered himself off her just a little, as if he could see her. "Impatient, are we?"

  He sounded so amused that she drew a hand from where she'd made a ponytail of his thick hair to feet across his whis­kered cheek and find a half-hidden dimple. "Yes," she whis­pered.

  Then he kissed her again, and she enjoyed that too. "You do know," he warned, "that the faster we go, the sooner we finish."

  "Oh." She hadn't known that. And it didn't make sense. Why couldn't they just keep doing it for as long as they wanted to, or until they tuckered out, one or the other? "Why?"

  "Trust me," he said teasingly into her ear. His whiskers tick­led, and his breath made her stretch, arching her back under him.

  "Yes, Collier," she whispered. "Yes. I trust you."

  He stilled on top of her. "You do?"

  "Mmm-hm." She stroked her palms down his back, pleased at how much of him she could feel through his underwear. He had a lovely, muscled back, but such narrow hips. And a firm little butt. When she felt that, he began to press against her with his... thing... even though he was the one who protested.

  "Stop it." He caught her wrist and moved her hand off of his behind. "Dearest, I want you to concentrate for just an­other moment. Will you do that for me? Please?"

  He kissed her, hard and deep, as if to make the offer more tempting. She could barely remember what he was asking when his lips lifted from hers, but she knew she'd do anything he asked.

  "Yes. Why? Why can't we just—"

  "Because you had to go and trust me."

  "Well, of course I trust you. I married you."

  "Yes. But are you quite certain you want to do this?"

  Would she have said so otherwise? "Yes!"

  "As you wish." And he kissed her again, rocking against her with his hardness, caressing a dexterous hand down her shoulder, onto her breast. Oh, she liked that! The only thing she didn't like was not being ab
le to explore him as much as she had.

  Except his back. She did love feeling along his flank.

  "When do we take our clothes off?" she asked again, and he laughed on top of her.

  "Whenever we wish," he assured her. "May I?"

  Perhaps he felt her nod, because he reached down, caught the hem of her nightgown, and pulled it clear up over her head, lifting her up with one hand when he had to. He also had to swing his leg off of her, so as soon as her hands slipped free of the flannel sleeves, she sat up and said, "Now you."

  He sat up too, wrapping them in a quilt, their knees framing each other's. Together they undid all the buttons down the front of his union suit. He was faster, because he knew them better in the dark. The most difficult part of pushing the un­derwear off his arms was how his hands kept returning to her breasts.

  Oh, his hands felt good on her breasts.

  Once she'd stripped him, Laurel wished they'd lit the lamp. Instead she had to use her hands to explore the wonders of the male form, which had Collier moaning again.

  She liked exploring all of him—his smoothness in some places, his light dusting of hair in others, his hard muscles, his soft touch. But his maleness fascinated her most of all.

  He seemed drawn to her breasts. When he ducked his head to kiss one, suckling and laving its tip with his tongue, she moaned, so deeply did that sensation shudder through her.

  He sat back immediately. "You shivered. Are you all right?"

  In answer, she kissed him. The shiver had been nothing like the ones racking her for days. This shiver had been hot.

  Reassured, he turned his attentions to her other breast, which caused more shudders, and freed her hands to explore other parts of him, too. "What do you call it?" she asked again, filling her hand with him. He might not be as huge as a horse, but certainly he seemed larger than necessary for the job at hand. "You didn't answer me."

  He laughed, which she didn't understand, and kissed her again, leaning her back into the bed, over the brace of his arms.