by Jill Gregory
“Brave girl,” he said softly, touching her cheek with a tentative finger. She was soft and smooth as silk, and his loins suddenly ached as he gazed at her.
Not since Clarissa had any woman stirred such powerful feelings in him. Damn it, I don’t want this, something in him shouted. But part of him couldn’t stop looking at her there in that candlelit room, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere as the night crawled by and a bullfrog croaked outside the window, and Rebeccah Rawlings reached out in her sleep to needily clasp his hand.
15
Morning sun sparkled through the window and splashed honeyed light across the floor, the rug, and the bed. The air was fragrant with pine. Fresh and invigorating, it pranced in, blowing through the window on a boisterous autumn breeze, while a magpie chattered noisily in the spruce tree, and from the yard came the sounds of someone chopping wood.
Rebeccah pushed herself from the murk of sleep and groaned. Her head hurt. Her temples throbbed. And her mouth felt as if she’d been chewing wet sand. What’s happened? What’s wrong with me? And who’s outside, chopping wood?
She tried to sit up, grunted, and fell back. Gritting her teeth, Rebeccah tried again and this time managed to swing her legs to the floor. She stayed there a moment, getting her bearings, and trying to sort through the layers of gauze clogging her brain.
The dance. The schoolhouse. The wine. A man named Chance. And Wolf Bodine.
The last thing she remembered was dancing the waltz with Wolf Bodine.
Oh, God, what did I do? Did I get drunk?
Somehow she tottered across the room to the window, stumbling over the rag rug along the way and stubbing her toe on the floor.
Moaning as the sunlight assaulted her eyes, she squinted out at the large figure chopping wood behind the cabin.
It was him.
He was bare-chested, wearing only boots, the tight-fitting trousers he’d worn to the dance last night, and his gunbelt. A faint sheen of sweat glistened across his wide, dark-bronzed chest and midriff as he hefted the ax over the logs again and again. Muscles rippled in that magnificently honed body. Oh, Lord. Rebeccah gripped the window ledge and swallowed hard. He was as beautiful as pure sculpted rock.
He had already accumulated a hefty stack of wood, enough to last a fair portion of the winter, Rebeccah guessed dazedly, but her racing thoughts immediately shifted from the wood to a more pressing question: Why was he here? And why couldn’t she remember anything past the moment when he was twirling her around the schoolhouse floor?
Rebeccah had an uneasy feeling about all this. She stiffened when Wolf glanced over, saw her at the window, and set down the ax. To her consternation he began strolling toward her.
“You look like hell,” he remarked, pausing outside the window to regard her through narrowed eyes.
She fought not to stare at that sturdy chest lightly matted with crisp, coppery hair. “What are you doing on my property, Sheriff Bodine?”
She thought she detected a glint of rich amusement in his eyes, but all he said was, “You invited me. Matter of fact you insisted I stay on your property last night—all night.”
“I ... did?”
“Yep.”
Dismay filled her lovely face. Wolf couldn’t help the grin that twitched at the stern lines of his mouth.
“I figure that after playing nursemaid, guard, and wood chopper, you at least owe me breakfast,” he informed her casually.
Now, why the hell did I say that? Get the hell out of here. Ride away while you still can. But he couldn’t. Looking at her, talking with her, was destroying all his good intentions.
Even with a hangover she looked like an angel. Her hair tumbled softly around her face and drifted anyhow across her shoulders, giving her a sexily mussed-up look that made him itch to run his hands over her. Her eyes looked larger than ever in the paleness of her face, and her lips trembled ever so slightly with the aftereffects of the wine. But she was now drawing herself up straight and tall, fastening her dignity around her like an iron corset, and her words bit out at him like springing vipers.
“You have a number of things to answer for, Sheriff Bodine, and I expect you to explain yourself fully at breakfast. But you’ll have to clean yourself up and dress decently if you’re going to sit down to a meal at my table.” And she yanked the window shut and then the curtains with a vicious tug, leaving him to stare at nothing but crisp blue lace.
“Fair enough, Miss Rawlings,” Wolf muttered to himself as he headed toward the stream. “But don’t expect me to answer any more of your questions than you did of mine.”
By the time Rebeccah had performed a hasty toilette, tugged on a denim skirt and scoop-necked Mexican blouse, and brushed the tangles from her hair, the sun was riding well up in the sky and Wolf Bodine had disappeared. As she threw bacon and eggs in a pan and cut thick slices of bread, she wondered if he had gone home.
“I hope so,” she said out loud, but knew that she was lying to herself. She wanted to confront Wolf Bodine face-to-face and to question him about what had happened last night. But that’s all she wanted. Just the answers to some questions. Then he could leave and, as far as she was concerned, never come back.
Rebeccah had a queasy feeling she had disgraced herself at the dance. Now the townsfolk would really talk about Bear Rawlings’s daughter—they’d probably call her a no-good drunk.
And Wolf? Heaven only knew what cause she had given him, as well as the others, to scorn her.
Why had she ever gone to that stupid dance? Why had she ever come to this lonesome, run-down cabin in Powder Creek?
Just in case Wolf was still there lurking around the premises somewhere, she set two places at the table. She brewed coffee, set out a bowl of wild strawberries, and snatched the pan of sizzling eggs and bacon from the stove just as the kitchen door opened and Wolf looked in at her.
“Am I presentable enough, ma’am?” he drawled, with a quick grin that made his dimples deepen.
“You’ll do, I suppose.”
In truth he would more than do, but she could barely risk a peek at him. His skin glowed from the cold waters of the stream, his burnished hair was slicked back off his face, and he was wearing the snug-fitting shirt he’d worn to the dance last night. If she’d thought he was handsome in her memories, based on that one fleeting incident in the hideout in Arizona, the reality of Wolf Bodine’s appeal was far more devastating. An electric magnetism seemed to draw her gaze to him anytime they were within a hundred yards of each other, and now to have him here in her kitchen, sitting down to breakfast with his hard, gray gaze studying her, his long legs stretched out beneath her table, took its toll on her composure.
She bustled around the kitchen, serving the food, pouring the coffee, delaying the moment when she sat down next to him. Her knee bumped his as she slipped into her chair. She jerked away as if scalded by hot coffee.
“Take it easy.” Wolf nonchalantly picked up his fork. “There’s no need to be jumpy.”
“Who says I’m jumpy? I’m just curious. How ... did you happen to spend the night ... here?”
“I told you. You invited me, Rebeccah.”
“Why would I do a thing like that? It doesn’t make sense. Where did you sleep?”
He shook his head mockingly. “Don’t you remember?”
“If I remembered, I wouldn’t be asking!”
To her fury, he calmly forked some eggs and bacon into his mouth, swallowed, and reached for his coffee.
“Well?” she demanded at last, and nervously gulped down half a cup of black coffee, forgetting to add sugar.
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened last night? I want to know everything, from the moment we were waltzing until I woke up this morning. Everything.”
“Too bad, sweet Rebeccah.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I have questions too. Questions you’ve refused all along to answer. Maybe it’s about time we worked out a deal.”
She gaped at him. A deal. “Why, you low-down, conniving, snake-in-the-grass—”
His hand shot out across the table to grip her wrist, silencing her. Outside the window birds twittered loudly, but inside there was only the sound of their breathing.
“Rebeccah, tell me about the silver mine.”
She drew in her breath. “It sounds like you already know about it.”
“Not enough. Look, the time for you and me playing games about this is past. Fess Jones showing up here trying to cut you up like a butchered steer was no game. And this hombre Neely Stoner”—he paused as pain flitted across her face—“It sounds like he’s planning to come after you too. I want to help you, Rebeccah. But I can’t, not unless you give me the lowdown on these hombres and that mine they’re after.”
“Why do you want to help me?” she countered, aware that his fingers were scorching her wrist. She couldn’t tear her gaze from those long-lashed eyes that were fixed on her with such determination.
“Because I care about you.” Damn, why had he said that? Her face lit with something—hope, happiness, warmth—and a ruby blush of color stained her cheeks. Wolf could have kicked himself. “You’re a part of this community,” he went on quickly, keeping his tone cool. “You’re my mother’s friend, my son’s teacher, and it’s my duty to protect every citizen in Powder Creek.”
Duty? His mother’s friend? His son’s teacher?
Something died in her, something she hadn’t even realized had been alive. But it had—for one brief, glorious moment a wildly joyous hope had quivered to life. But it was dead now. As it should be. She felt deflated, empty, flat and colorless as the plains of Kansas.
“I see,” she said.
“Then tell me about the silver mine,” he urged relentlessly, and she could no more read the expression in his eyes than she could touch the moon.
But she told him. She pulled free of his grip, leaned back in her chair, and as the eggs and bacon grew cold on her plate, she related the tale of how Neely Stoner’s hired ruffian had accosted her in Boston, demanding the deed and the map to the silver mine. It was the first she had ever heard of such a thing, but the man had made it clear that Bear Rawlings was reputed to have acquired, through fair means or foul, a vast silver mine with deposits as rich as the Comstock Lode in Virginia City. No one knew where it was located or where the deed was, but Bear Rawlings had possession of both, had been keeping them secret for years, and was rumored to be saving the mine as a gift for his daughter.
“That true?” Wolf asked.
Rebeccah pushed back her chair. She rose and paced back and forth across the sunlit kitchen. “Bear never mentioned anything about a silver mine to me. His solicitor made no mention of it either. I’ve already disposed of everything he left me, except this ranch—and you can see how much that’s worth. But if Bear had a rich silver mine tucked away somewhere, he didn’t leave a bit of it to me.”
“What do you mean, you’ve disposed of everything but the ranch?”
She stopped in her tracks, then turned slowly to face him. Maybe it was time to be honest. Maybe if she told him the truth, he would tell her the truth about last night, about everything that had happened at the dance—and after. She had to know. “I donated the proceeds from Bear’s bank accounts and stock holdings to charitable institutions,” she said quietly. “I kept only the ranch—which he won fair and square at poker. I didn’t want any ill-gotten riches or anything tainted by bloodshed,” she rushed on, suddenly eager to explain. “This ranch is my chance to make a clean start, to live a decent, independent life. I loved my father, you see, but I didn’t love his thieving and shooting and running away. I made up my mind while I was at school that I wouldn’t profit by it. Whatever I make of this ranch will be mine—the product of good, solid, honest labor. And no one can take it away from me or say a word against it. Now,” she finished, meeting his gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin, “I’ve said all I intend to say about Bear, about the silver mine, and about this ranch. I know nothing, I have no deed, no map, and no reason at all to believe that any of them exist. They cannot exist! Bear would have told me or left them for me. He was good at planning things out, and he would have planned for me to inherit that mine. But the problem is”—and here she took a deep breath and stared out at the purple haze crowning the distant mountains—“how do I convince Neely Stoner and the others of that? They’re not inclined to believe me.”
Wolf was out of his chair and at her side in two long strides. He turned her to face him. “Maybe I can convince them.”
“How?”
“Let me worry about that, Rebeccah.”
“This is my problem, not yours, and I will not allow myself to be beholden—”
“Stop, Rebeccah,” he said impatiently, pulling her to him before he even realized what he was doing.
As he tilted her chin up, she was forced to meet his eyes. He could feel her trembling within the circle of his arms, but she didn’t try to break away.
“I need to know something, Wolf,” she said desperately. She moistened her lips, obviously distressed, and distracted by the magnetic power of his gaze. “What happened last night?”
“You talked a lot.”
She swallowed. “About the mine? And what else?”
He slid a finger along the curve of her delicate jaw, watching the violet of her eyes darken. She was like a sparking electric wire beneath his touch. He debated telling her what she’d revealed about her dreams of kissing him and all her girlhood yearnings. He wanted to see that adorable blush tint her cheeks and her eyes widen with horror, but somehow he couldn’t do that to her.
“Nothing too important,” he replied casually with a wicked grin that made her wrench free of him with a shriek.
“You said you’d tell me everything!”
“I might—in time.”
“Oh!”
She lifted a hand to slap him, but Wolf caught her wrist, holding it just tight enough to restrain her killer instincts, not tight enough to cause any pain. “Simmer down.” He grinned. “I’m just trying to get a rise out of you. And you always seem to oblige. But if you’re so set on knowing everything you said last night, here goes,” he added, suddenly conscience-stricken by the real anxiety in her face. “Aside from mentioning the mine, you said you were afraid of your father’s old pards.”
“Oh,” she murmured faintly.
“And you told me about Neely Stoner.”
“I ... told you?”
His voice softened as she took in several deep breaths. “Not in so many words, but I figured it out. He raped you, didn’t he, Rebeccah?”
She gasped, tried to jerk back, was held taut where she was, and at last her head drooped forward in a defeated nod. “Yes,” she whispered.
He’d known it was true, but somehow her confirmation of it was like a fist in his gut. “How old were you?” Somehow he managed to keep his voice calm.
“Tw-twelve. It was ... not long after that day you found me in the shack. Bear ... nearly killed him. I wished he had.”
Twelve. Twelve. He released her abruptly, his hands coiling into taut fists that he forced down to his sides. Wolf feared that the whipcord fury flowing through every fiber of bone and muscle in his body would somehow bolt out to hurt her. And the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.
“I’m sorry, Rebeccah.” The words were woefully inadequate, particularly in view of the pain shadowing her eyes. But he said them anyway, needing to say them, his tone low and hard. “I promise you, if he ever comes near you, I’ll kill him.”
“I don’t n-need your protection. I’m a crack shot, and I’m not afraid to use a g-gun. I’m not a defenseless child anymore.”
“I know that. But ...”
“Don’t feel sorry for me!” she cried, unable to bear the sympathy in his eyes. “I don’t want your pity or your help or ... anything!”
She shoved at his chest as hard as she could, but she didn’t budge him an inch.
<
br /> “Rebeccah—”
“Leave me alone,” she shouted, and in frustration she spun toward the door. She needed to run, to flee from the furious emotions he aroused in her, from the memories he was forcing her to confront. She flung open the kitchen door and raced outside, her feet pounding across the yard and tears burning at her eyes as her heart ached with the desperate need to escape.
He caught her near the spruce tree. He swung her around and into his arms. “Come on, Rebeccah. Running away won’t solve anything.”
He was right. But she’d rather die than admit it. “What else did I say last night?” she demanded, needing to change the subject, needing to divert both of their thoughts from what had happened to her long ago. Wildly she cast about for something to distract him, for something to put them back on familiar, fighting ground. “You said you’d tell me everything,” she accused suddenly, her eyes lighting. “But I don’t think you have. I ... vaguely remember saying something about you ... us. I mean, me ...”
“You mean about how you used to dream about me kissing you?” Wolf retorted.
“I never said that!”
“You sure did.”
“Liar!” Pure mortification surged through her, making her strike out at him with feverish desperation. “For a lawman you’re damned close to dishonest!” she cried. “You make up ridiculous tales just because it suits you, so that you can embarrass me, or confuse me. And,” she added, struggling futilely against him, “that’s twice now you’ve broken your word—you were supposed to tell me what happened, not what you wish had happened,” she finished triumphantly, hit by a stroke of genius. “And another thing, Sheriff Bodine—I wish you’d stop chasing me—and kissing me. Why you keep doing that when it’s clear we detest each other, I simply don’t understand!”