“You’d better keep an eye on that fire, Cord,” she said, kneeling to better assess the damage to Sam’s skin. “I’ll take care of this.”
“We’ll help, Rae,” Jay piped in.
“I’ll get Sam a drink of water,” Henry said, fetching a cup from the pantry shelf.
Cord, satisfied that Rachel was in control, went out the door, pausing on the porch to look in his kitchen. No, he amended silently, Rachel’s kitchen. And as quick as he could make it happen, he’d have her there permanently, right where she belonged.
“Who’s making all the fuss out there?” Pulling the curtain aside, Jake peered toward the back of the house, his expression fierce, recognizing his inability to see past the corner of the side yard.
He rolled his chair through the center of the room, scarcely glancing at the woman who had just set about dismantling the kerosene lamps that provided light for the library.
Gently, she placed the slender glass chimney on the table and rose. “Everything was quiet out there a few minutes ago. I’ll go see what’s happening, Jake.”
His chair moving swiftly put him through the doorway and she followed him down the hall toward the kitchen. He came to a halt there, his gaze drawn to the side of his chair. Lorena Claypool stood inches from his shoulder, and his gaze was filled with the comely vision.
Her bosom was on a level with his eyes and he felt a stirring in his depths as he allowed himself a stolen glance. Her hair, scooped back into a soft swirl at the nape of her neck, was golden in the light from the kitchen window, and waving tendrils had fallen to rest against her temple.
Damn, the woman was more than he could cope with! She’d plowed her way into his life again, ignoring his protests, paying no mind to his settled way of doing things.
“Cord and Rachel are bringing Sam in from the burn pile,” Lorena said, her words rushed. “Oh, Jake! I think he’s been hurt bad!” She lifted her hands to cover her mouth as she peered past him.
He wheeled back from the doorway, affording her space to enter the kitchen. “Go find out what’s happened.”
Jay raced onto the porch and threw the screen door open. “Miss Rena, we need a couple of towels!” Halting before Jake’s chair, he watched as Lorena hurried to the linen closet, off the dining room.
Wide-eyed, the boy investigated the rolling chair, taking in the rubber-treaded wheels at each side, and the small one in back, barely looking at the man who rode on the caned seat.
Lorena hurried back, pressing two towels into the child’s grasp. “I’ll find bandages and the medical supplies,” she murmured, backing from the sight of the figures huddled around the water trough.
“Top shelf of the linen cabinet,” Jake said gruffly, maneuvering his chair to watch as the young woman raced through the dining room doorway. She left his range of sight as she turned sharply to the right, where a passageway led past the household linens and dishes.
He could envision her there, where he’d hidden during childish games of hide-and-seek, amid the shelves and in the corner where long-handled dusting tools, carpet beaters and brooms were stored. Almost, he could hear Cord’s voice calling him, the younger boy’s fear keeping him from the dark nooks and crannies of the long closet.
His memory went to another time, when the slender form of Lorena Claypool had been held in his embrace, his arms an eager cradle for her lissome charms. With painful clarity he recalled the soft, curving length of her pressed against him.
“No more, Jake old boy,” he muttered, his frown dark as he pushed the memory to the back of his mind. Having her here had brought to life a multitude of pictures, flashing through his head with the rapidity of a repeating rifle.
“I ain’t dead yet, McPherson!” From the kitchen, where Sam was being helped to a chair, the old man’s querulous voice reached Jake as he sat within the shadows of the hallway. He watched as Cord left with reluctant steps, noted the care taken as the older of Rachel’s brothers brought a cup of water to Sam. And then Lorena was there, at his side, a box of medical supplies in her hands.
Too bad nothing in that fully equipped kit would make a dent in the cage he lived in, he thought, his bitterness coming to the forefront as he rolled his chair with swift precision back to the library.
The door slid closed behind him and he faced the room that was his prison.
Watching the sunset took Rachel’s mind from the blistered skin on Sam’s arms, and she drank in the sight with hungry eyes. The horizon stretched beyond the fields and meadows, broken by a line of trees where a stream played within shallow banks.
She’d walked there early one morning, while the biscuits baked. It was a brisk ten-minute walk, the last few hundred feet of her return done at a quicker pace, lest the oven be too quick, burning the big biscuits.
It was becoming home, she thought, this whole place, from the big ranch house to the far reaches of Cord’s property. Cattle were abundant in all directions, except for the western fields, land he had decided needed to lie fallow for a year. There, a meadow of wildflowers greeted her gaze, daisies and clover thick against the grass.
“Looks like you won’t have to water your garden tomorrow.” Cord’s voice broke her reverie as he sat on the step above her.
She scanned the sky. “Think it’s going to rain?”
“Yep, sure looks like it to me. Can’t you smell it in the air?” He leaned back, his elbows on the porch, and she glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze headon.
“Nope. Smells like sweet meadow grass to me.” She frowned at his grin. “What are you looking at?”
“You.”
She wiggled uncomfortably on the step. “What about me? Do I look different from the back?” Her voice took on a sharp edge, and he laughed in a teasing fashion.
“I guess I never paid much mind before to the way your hair looks when you let it down. I always see it braided up in that long tail you wear every day.”
She reached to brush back loose strands from her face, her cheeks warmed by his regard. “I washed it after supper and I’ve been brushing it dry.”
His voice lowered and he lifted one hand to tangle his fingers in the flyaway waves. “I’d like to see it…kind of spread all over your pillow, dark against the pillowcase.”
She jerked from his hold and he grasped her shoulders, holding her in place. “I want you, Rachel.” His breath was warm against the back of her head as he spoke, and she shivered. “Don’t pull away from me.”
His fingers lifted the weight of her hair and he allowed it to sift from his hands, murmuring words she could not decipher as he held her prisoner with the force of his will.
She was captivated, not by the masculine strength he was capable of, but by the lure of his gentle hands and caressing words.
Her eyes closed and she responded to the soft tugs he exerted as he turned her to face him. “Look at me, Rachel.”
She hesitated, knowing that obeying his command would place her in his power, that Cord McPherson had the ability to blind her to her surroundings.
His arms had held her, his mouth had possessed hers, his fingers had claimed the curves of her hips and the straight line of her spine. If she allowed it, he could break down the inhibitions her mother had set firmly in place through the years.
If she let him, he could talk her into most anything.
She wasn’t ready for that She had choices to make; even though her body leaned in the direction of Cord McPherson, she had two brothers to consider. She owed it to them to consider the suit Conrad Carson was more than likely to offer.
She owed it to the memory of her father to think about the future, to remember her vow. Come next spring…she’d made the promise. Would it be so simple now to forget the dream of moving west, of finding paradise over the horizon?
“Rachel?”
Never had her name been tinged with that tone of dark urgency.
“Rachel?” Again he spoke the syllables that called to her, like the first robin of spring or the cr
y of a hawk circling overhead. Setting free within her a yearning she could not describe, and asking from her a gift she was not yet willing to offer.
“What do you want from me, Cord?” It was a whispered plea, attended by an involuntary shiver as his hands turned her, then slid again into her hair to hold her head at an angle for his kiss.
“Just this.” His mouth was warm against hers, his lips brushing the soft surfaces without demand. His lips opened a bit, barely enough to give voice to his throaty growl of satisfaction.
“Your mouth tastes like strawberries in May,” he said, the whisper spoken against her throat.
“I ate jam on my bread…”
His chuckle was rich with amusement. “If I tell you your hair smells like the rain coming in from the west, will you tell me you rinsed it from the rain barrel?”
She nodded, just a bit, her tongue snaking a trail across her lips. She tasted the flavor of his mouth, the coffee he’d drunk and a stronger tinge, like the medicine bottle of whiskey Pa had kept in his trunk.
“You taste like whiskey.” She licked at her lips again, as if determining the flavor she found there.
“Call it Dutch courage,” he said, his grin lifting one corner of his mouth.
“I wouldn’t think you were the kind to look for bravery in a bottle.”
“Maybe you scare the bejabbers out of me, Rachel.” His grin was gone and his eyes were dark and shadowed in the twilight. He leaned forward the few inches it took to touch her mouth with his, and she closed her eyes.
He was circumspect, brushing a series of kisses across her face, holding her with an easy touch. “Will you go to the dance with me tomorrow night, Rachel?”
She leaned away, opening her eyes, drinking in the masculine beauty of his face, the dark intensity of his gaze. “I think I told Lorena I’d ride into town with her and her folks.”
He nodded. “All right. I don’t do much dancing, but will you save me a couple of dances?”
“Yes…but I’ll warn you, I’m not very good at square dancing.”
His smile was back. “I’m a good teacher.”
Chapter Eight
Conrad’s shirt collar was making ridges against the flesh of his throat. His cheeks were rosy, his breathing rapid and he held Rachel with a possessive air, dipping and turning, forging a trail around the perimeter of the dance floor. Against her back his hand was damp, causing her dress and undergarments to stick to her skin between her shoulder blades.
She’d worn her fanciest chemise, her only good corset cover and the dress her mother had stitched up for the Autumn Jamboree last year. It was blue, the sweetheart neckline edged with a wide ruffle of imported lace.
She’d tugged at the snug fit of the bodice, bending to the mirror, blushing as she noted the faint rise of her bosom above the fine lace ruche. It had fit better last year, she thought, but there was nothing to be done. It was the best she owned, the only dress fit for such an occasion.
Conrad had gulped visibly as he approached her for the opening dance. To her relief it was a waltz, at which she was adept. When it was over he’d led her back to her place with Lorena and her mother, bowing deferentially over her hand.
“May we walk outdoors, later?” he’d asked quietly, his suddenly somber gaze making him look older, more mature.
With a nod, Rachel dismissed him, turning to the women, who watched her expectantly.
“You dance beautifully, Rachel,” Lorena said, her eyes sparkling with delight. “You’re going to be the belle of the ball, so to speak. The menfolk can’t seem to take their eyes from you.” Her face beamed as if she were personally responsible for the newcomer’s popularity.
The single men of the community had swarmed about Rachel as if she were queen bee and they the workers who were only existing for her benefit. Young and old, they paired her for the dances, frequently cutting in on each other with possessive glances. The younger men were somewhat awkward, their eyes staying circumspectly above her throat, the clean-shaven cowhands from the area more bold in their surveillance of her charms.
Cord watched from the edge of the room, after just twice spinning a partner across the floor. And even then, he could concentrate only on the young woman whose feet seemed to barely skim the wooden boards, whose face was flushed with pleasure, whose eyes gleamed with a victorious light.
He stood it as long as he could. Then, with a boldness of purpose that brought attention his way, he strode onto the dance floor and claimed Rachel from the red-faced cowhand she was endeavoring to keep up with.
Giving a sigh that might have been relief, she relaxed into his arms and Cord nudged her a bit closer, his hand widespread against her waist. “You’re gonna have sore feet tomorrow, Miss Rachel,” he murmured against her ear, turning her deftly as he evaded Buck Austin, who was squiring Lorena Claypool in a lively fashion.
The sight of Lorena sobered him for a moment, remembering other dances in this place, when Jake had escorted Lorena in and out the door, spending most of the evening in her company.
Never again. It was a daunting thought, and he gripped the woman in his arms a bit tighter, spinning her until she gasped, laughing with delight.
“I’m dizzy, Cord! You dance like a whirlwind.”
He’d waited for this waltz, unwilling to partner her in a square dance, much as he’d wanted to be the one to teach her the steps. It meant relinquishing her to another man’s arms throughout the dance, and he was feeling selfish tonight. It was enough that he had to watch her go from one to another.
Perhaps she’d danced her last with the men of the community for this night. Maybe…
The fiddle and piano ended their offering with a shivering crescendo and the room broke out in applause. Rachel looked up at him and her smile was trembling. “You’re quite a dancer, Mr. McPherson.” Her head tilted to one side and he thought he detected a flirtatious gleam in her eyes. “I thought you were going to teach me to square dance.”
“Thought maybe I’d teach you something else, Rachel,” he said, putting her from him, lest her nearness leave him with an embarrassing problem. Later on, he could allow his desire to overcome his good sense. Not here. Certainly not now.
Her brow furrowed as she considered his words. “A different dance?”
His smile twitched a bit and he swallowed the chuckle that bubbled in his throat. “You might say that.” Over her shoulder Cord could see Conrad approaching, his step firm, his head held high. Looked like a man coming courting, Cord thought, all starched and buttoned up to the brim.
“Miss Rachel. Have you forgotten your promise?” The storekeeper bowed a bit, offering his hand, and Rachel looked up at him, her brow still showing signs of puzzlement.
Then the fair skin smoothed, her smile came readily and her hair bounced as she shook her head vigorously. “No, of course not, Mr. Carson. The next dance will be yours.” Turning from Cord, she took the proffered hand and walked away, her hips twitching just a bit, as if she knew his gaze would be focused on her every move.
And it was. A glass of lemonade was probably going to do little to cool his ardor, but Cord headed for the refreshment table anyway.
Let Carson have his say. Let him court her all the way around the dance floor. When time came to leave, it would be square on the seat of Cord McPherson’s buggy that Rachel’s little bottom would be planted.
“Can we walk outside, Miss Rachel?” Conrad waltzed her past the door and then drew her to a halt, his arm still around her back, his other hand holding her fingers in a damp grip.
She nodded. Carson seemed determined to spend a few minutes in the moonlight, and she was not averse to hearing what he had to say.
They walked past the line of buggies and wagons, under the shade of tall maple trees to where the road turned both to the east and west. To their right lights flickered in the windows of the buildings in town. The barber shop and emporium were dark, the bank building an imposing structure against the night sky, with its facade rising hig
h.
The hotel was ablaze with light, a golden glow spilling through its double doors, open wide to catch the night breeze. Rachel tilted her head back, dizzy as she scanned the starlit sky.
Conrad’s arm rested across her shoulder as she swayed. “It’s enough to boggle the mind, isn’t it, Miss Rachel? To see the universe spread over the sky, making you wonder what’s beyond the edge of forever.”
“Why Mr. Carson, I believe you have the soul of a poet,” she exclaimed, truly pleased by his words.
“I have the soul of a man who has found the woman he wants to spend his life with, Miss Rachel.” He turned her to face him, his touch respectful, his hands at her waist.
“I can offer you a good life, and I’m willing to support your brothers, too. They can work in the store to earn their keep, and I’ll be fair with them.”
Her tongue hesitated, as if unwilling to squelch his enthusiasm, her tender heart touched by the words he spoke. So like the practical man he was, to already have put Jay and Henry to work in the store. A vision of her brothers, with suspenders and starched-collars, entered her mind and she smiled.
Perhaps the lure of Rachel’s curving lips gave him hope. Perhaps the softening of her eyes as they gazed into his led him to believe she was accepting his suit Whatever he saw in the woman before him, it was enough to push him into a rash action.
His hands slid to encompass her waist and he tugged her forward, taking her off balance so that she fell against his chest. Without hesitation his head dipped, his mouth taking possession of hers. His lips were cool, dry and sterile against her own, his kiss less of an offense than a disappointment.
Rachel drew back, gaining her balance. Using the full force of muscles honed by hard work, she pushed him from her. “I think you are overstepping, Mr. Carson.”
Even in the moonlight, his flush of embarrassment was obvious and she softened her tone. “I appreciate the offer. I really do. I just don’t think my brothers would do well in town. They’re too full of life and energy. Besides, I can’t consider such a move right now. I’m bound to work for Cord McPherson until next spring. Beyond that time, my future is unsure.”
The Wedding Promise (Harlequin Historical) Page 10