by Shirl Henke
“Micajah, I think Colonel Shelby needs to rest,” Olivia interrupted, mortified to have him recount the way she had fussed over that arrogant ingrate.
Samuel’s curiosity was burning, but his mind began to grow fuzzy with weariness as he looked from the loquacious old man to the tense young woman. He moved his left shoulder experimentally and was rewarded with a tight stab of pain from his side.
At his hiss of agony, she quickly rushed back to the bedside before even thinking about it. “Don’t roll around so or you’ll break the dry stitches. They’ll need to come out in a few days, I think.” She fought the urge to run her hands over his body as she had done so often in the past days while bathing him and treating his hurts. Now she knew every inch of that splendidly male anatomy, knew it so well she had but to close her eyes to see it, to conjure the touch, smell and texture of him. Damn, what was wrong with her!
Micajah watched Olivia hovering over Shelby as the injured man’s eyelids flickered closed. She looked pale and had smudges of fatigue beneath her vivid green eyes from staying awake nights, ready to jump up and tend him if he made the slightest sound in his feverish sleep. Now his Sparky was a sweet loving girl who felt anyone’s pain—man or critter—he knew that, but what she felt for the handsome soldier went beyond the compassion of her woman’s soft heart. He was as sure of that as he was of sunrise.
Was Shelby worthy of her love? Judiciously he decided to take the man’s measure before passing judgment. After all, he had only heard her version of what passed between the two of them. She had a fierce temper and pride enough for an Osage war chief. And the soldier fellow had to be tough as a boiled owl to survive what he had. Micajah could imagine the two of them striking sparks off each other, he thought with an inner chuckle. Time would tell. He had the whole winter to study on the matter...
* * * *
Samuel awakened to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baking corn bread. His stomach growled and he was salivating as he blinked a few times and gingerly raised his head to look around the cabin.
While she was unaware of his perusal, he observed Olivia. She was dressed in a pair of old britches, probably one of the ones she had brought with her from St. Louis, along with a soft plaid shirt he had never seen before. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing her slim golden forearms.
The clothes, while old and much mended, appeared to fit her better than the ones she wore when she had been disguised as “Ollie.” Odd, but there was something peculiarly tempting about the way a woman filled out a shirt and britches, especially a tall, slim, curvaceous female with yards of fire-colored hair and slanted emerald gypsy’s eyes.
Damn, I sound moony as a lovesick schoolboy!
She had learned a thing or two from that old bear Johnstone. He watched the efficient way she checked the bubbling coffeepot, moving it away from the flames onto low coals. Then she shoved a big tined fork beneath the golden loaf of corn bread baking on a shallow cast iron pan to check the bottom side for doneness. Satisfied, she sat it on the side of the hearth and turned her attention to the smoked meat sizzling in the skillet. He watched her turn crispy strips of what he judged to be venison.
“Looks like Johnstone’s created a culinary miracle.”
Olivia turned around quickly, brandishing the big fork in one hand like a weapon. At once she felt a fool under his sardonically amused stare. “Micajah is different than you. I never wanted to poison him,” she replied tartly, mocking his raised eyebrow by lifting her own disdainfully.
She returned his penetrating stare, studying the gauntness of his face, what she could see of it beneath the thick stubble of black beard once more growing on the lower half. The night they returned to the cabin, she and Micajah had to ascertain the extent of his injuries, which meant they had to wash his hair and shave off his matted curly beard. Now it had all grown back. He was a heavily whiskered man. Remembering the feel of that beard stubble beneath her fingertips made her flush with a warmth that did not come from sitting so near the hearth. She looked away and returned to cooking breakfast.
“Poison or not, it smells more than good enough to eat.”
“You could use some meat on your bones. Your ribs stick out.” The minute she blurted out the retort, she could have bitten her tongue.
Samuel watched her blush to the roots of her hair. “So, what are you waiting for? Come over here and fatten me up,” he said in a low, suggestive voice, taunting her.
“The only critters we fatten up around here are the ones we butcher for our winter larder. Not a bad idea in your case, except that you appear to be too tough to kill.” As they exchanged double-edged banter, she dished up some venison, placed a thick slab of corn bread on the plate beside it and drizzled it with honey, then poured a mug of steamy black coffee.
“Dare I hope that’s for me?”
“It’s for Micajah. You get more broth and a bit of this cornpone soaked in milk.”
He made a face.
Just then the giant came walking through the cabin door, carrying a rolled-up buffalo hide. “Where do yew want ta work on this? I thought hit’d be cooler beneath th’ cottonwoods by th’ creek, but if’n yew want hit closer ter th’ cabin, I cud peg hit out front.” He held the heavy soft skin on one arm as if it weighed no more than a patchwork quilt, although even dressed and tanned out a full-sized buffalo robe easily went one hundred-fifty pounds.
“Why don’t we stretch it down by the creek. I could use some fresh air away from the cabin,” she replied with a scathing glance toward Shelby.
“Mornin’, son. Glad ta see yew waked up agin. Reckon yore stomach done thought some Injun’d slit yore throat. Sparky here’s a real fine cook.” He tossed the half-cured robe across one sturdy chair, then took the plate she handed him and walked over to Shelby with it.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to give him solid food so soon,” she countered.
“Wal, mebbee not th’ meat, but pone’s th’ staff o’ life,” he averred. “So’s coffee. We got fresh milk ta go with hit?”
“Yes. Sukey was balky again. I had to hobble her and she tried to horn me,” Olivia replied.
“You have a cow?” Samuel asked, incredulous at the idea of Olivia as a milkmaid.
“Nope,” Micajah answered. “A she-goat. Bought her off n a Spaniard whut wandered through these parts a couply years ago. She gives good rich milk but she’s a mite tetchy ‘bout hit. All depends on how yew handle her,” he added, looking Shelby directly in the eye.
“Aren’t all females,” Samuel muttered as he struggled to sit up.
“Here, better let me help yew,” Micajah said affably. He walked over to Shelby and literally scooped him up with surprising ease and gentleness, sitting him against the back of the log bed frame. “Sparky, git some o’ them extry pillers ta put behind his back.”
Although sweat beaded his face from the searing pain in his side, Samuel gritted his teeth and said nothing.
Olivia hurried over and began to fluff several large corn husk filled pillows which she stuffed behind him. She could see the muscles and tendons standing out on his neck and along his jaw as he suppressed groans of pain. “Stitches burn?” she asked conversationally.
“Yes, a little,” he replied through clenched teeth.
“Then you’d better eat to build up your strength. It’s time for them to be pulled out today.”
She was enjoying his misery, damn her. He could tell it by the smirk in her voice and the dancing light in those green eyes. “And you, I suppose will extract them?” His look was killing.
She smiled. “Who better? I sewed them in the first place.”
“An’ a right steady hand she’s got, too. Yew never fear,” Micajah interjected, grinning.
Olivia brought over a slab of corn bread torn into small pieces, soaked with a mixture of honey and milk. Taking a spoon, she sat down beside him and offered him a bite. “Go slowly. I don’t want you throwing up all over the clean bedding.”
&n
bsp; In spite of the pain in his side, he felt amazingly rested and stronger than before. He almost offered to feed himself—until he noticed her nervousness as she gingerly positioned herself on the very edge of the bed, careful not to make bodily contact with him. Now it was his turn to grin...wolfishly. He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I’m waiting. And I’m very hungry.”
Olivia forced her hand to remain steady and aimed for his mouth, watching as those elegantly sculpted lips closed over the spoon. Those lips had scorched her skin, brushing across her throat, temples, her cheeks, pressing against her mouth, demanding entrance so his tongue could plunder and taste of her. She watched him chew slowly, savoring the honey soaked bread, rolling it around on his tongue, then swallowing. Her eyes followed the sinewy bronzed column of his throat muscles as the food went down. How could the simple act of eating be so sexually charged?
She felt his eyes on her and broke the hypnotic trance that seemed to suspend time. “Here. You seem strong enough to feed yourself this morning,” she said, jabbing the bowl at his bare hairy chest until he took it with one hand and secured the spoon with the other. As she stood up and quickly moved away from the bed she thought she heard him murmur very low, “Coward.”
The sun was at its apex in the autumn sky as Olivia squatted over the heavy buffalo hide. It had been stretched tightly on a frame Micajah had made especially for the purpose of working a buffalo skin after it had been scraped clean. She smeared the greasy grayish mixture of brains and lye ash across the absorbent hide, then began to work it in to cold cure and soften. After it soaked long enough, she would scrape it completely clean again and let it dry out, then build a very low fire with green wood and let it burn down to smoldering coals. The hide would then be carefully suspended over the dense smoke. Ever after, it would remain soft even if soaked in the rain.
Micajah watched her labor, rubbing fiercely with both small fists, elbows stiff, throwing her whole back into the hard task. “Yew ‘pear ta me ta have a wasp in yore britches, Sparky. Hit got anythin’ ta do with thet pretty soldier boy?” There was a twinkle in his eyes as he looked down at her.
She straightened up and shoved a loose lock of red hair away from her forehead with the back of her arm. “Samuel Shelby is no boy.”
Johnstone seemed to be considering this revelation thoughtfully. “Come ta think on hit, I reckon yore plum right ‘bout thet. He’s got his full growth.” The big man clawed at his chin through the tangle of beard and then added softly, as if thinking aloud. “Shore ‘nough, parts o’ him got full growth.”
The blood surged so quickly to Olivia’s face that she thought her skin was being boiled from the inside. “Micajah Johnstone!” she almost shouted. “Colonel Shelby’s ‘parts’ are no concern of mine—at least now that I’ve escaped his immoral snares.” That declaration had not sounded exactly as she had intended, and the blood in her cheeks “boiled” even more fiercely.
Micajah ignored her discomfort and pressed on. “Hit don’t look thet away from where I’m a squattin’. Th’ two o’ yew ‘er circlin’ each other like a couple o’ bobcats fixin’ ta den up in th’ same cave.”
“He’s arrogant and insufferable and I may be stuck with him in our cabin all winter. He mistrusts all women because of his dead wife who was—so he says—quite blatantly wicked.” Since she had gleaned that piece of information from his rather explicit feverish ravings, she did not truly doubt its veracity, but his low opinion of women in general and her in particular angered her with its unfairness. And it hurt her, too, but she would never consciously admit it.
Micajah scratched his head consideringly. “Then mebbe hit’s up ta yew ta change his mind.”
“I don’t give a fig what he thinks of any woman.”
Micajah didn’t reply but knelt down beside her and dipped his hand into the pot of brains and ash, withdrawing a big blob of goo. “Let me work on this fer a spell. You cud use a coolin’ down in th’ creek. This here warm sun ain’t a gonna last much longer so late in th’ year. Might’s well enjoy hit whilst yew kin.”
The idea of a bath did appeal. She could wash her hair with that small piece of scented soap she’d gotten from the last trader who happened by. Obviously she did not want to primp for Samuel Shelby. She only wanted to be clean. She desired a little luxury. Thus rationalizing, she smiled at Micajah and said, “A good wash sounds wonderful.”
Olivia wiped off her hands and stood up but just as she started to walk toward the cabin in search of soap and towel and clean clothes, Micajah casually mentioned, “When yew take a mind, them stitches got ta come outta Shelby’s side.” He watched her stiffen, then nod.
“If he’s up to it, so am I.”
As she stalked up the hill, Micajah grinned to himself and set to work, whistling.
* * * *
When she reached the cabin, Samuel was asleep. Grateful that she did not have to face those mocking blue eyes, she slipped quietly inside and gathered her necessaries, then headed to the bliss of cool, clear water. As the sun dropped lower toward the beckoning trees, she climbed out, smugly recalling Samuel’s mocking of the fact she had not learned to swim. Now she was as fast and graceful as an otter in the water, thanks to Micajah.
Olivia dried her hair by brushing it until it crackled and gleamed like polished copper. Then she slipped into her fresh clothes, the newest doeskin leggings and tunic she had sewn. The knee-length tunic tip was embroidered with beads and quills, a skill old White Hair’s wife had taught her. Although she was a novice, she thought the simple pattern had turned out pretty well.
“I love to wear things that I’ve created for myself,” she murmured, smoothing the butter soft skin over the curve of her hip. She certainly had not put it on for Samuel Shelby’s gratification!
Now there was the matter of taking out those blasted stitches. With a grim smile she gathered up her things and headed back to the cabin.
When she walked through the door, the sun was at her back, gilding the masses of her hair until it glowed like molten red-gold flame, spilling across her shoulders. She looked flushed, pink from a bath and the soft pale cream-colored skins of her tunic clung lovingly to the sweet curves of her body. Samuel felt his throat close up and his heartbeat accelerate, not to mention a sudden throbbing in the lower regions of his anatomy, which leaped all too eagerly to attention. Thank heavens he was half covered by a heavy quilt!
“You look like that Osage princess from my fever dreams again,” he said, trying for a light tone to cover up the effect she was having on him.
“This outfit isn’t half so fancy. I can’t sew like the women who made that dress,” she said dismissively.
“Implying that you did sew this one?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. And it’s damn comfortable, too.”
“I’m impressed.”
She opened the medicine possibles sack and pulled out a small, wickedly sharp penknife and ran her fingertip along the side of the blade, then said with a falsely sweet grin, “I couldn’t care less. All I came in to do was cut out those stitches. Micajah said you were bellyaching about them hurting.”
That quickly took the steel out of his erection! She advanced on him smiling coolly with the knife gleaming evilly in her small hand. “Why do I think you’re going to enjoy this even more than you did sewing me up?”
“Because this time you’ll be awake to feel it?’’ she answered his rhetorical question with one of her own.
He leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest. “After surviving a dozen bloodthirsty Osage bucks, don’t think you can frighten me.” He patted a spot close to him on the big bed. “Come on. I’m ready...if you are.”
Dare her, would he? Clutching her little knife and a small tweezers, she walked over and sat down, although not as close as he indicated. “Pull down the blanket. You haven’t got anything under it I haven’t already seen,” she said boldly, hoping to make him feel as flustered and embarrassed as he made her feel.
“Then you won’t mind seeing it again.” Calmly he flung the quilt away, baring his body to the top of his thighs.
“Not that far down!” she said much too quickly, her voice much too high as she angrily yanked the blanket back up to his waist, trying not to notice the washboard hard ridges of his chest and belly and the seductive patterns in that black body hair. “Roll on your good side,” she commanded. “Before I decide to snip something more than stitches!”
He did as ordered, facing away from her. She noted that he moved his body with considerable care. That healing slash was still quite tender.
“Hold still. This is going to hurt,” she said with false relish. Samuel muttered something unintelligible, but did as he was told.
Willing her hands to remain steady, she began to work on the first small stitch, biting her lip in concentration. As the flesh had knit together and healed over, the small strands of sinew she had used as thread had drawn tight and worked their way deep into his skin. Carefully she inserted the tip of the razor sharp knife beneath the sinew and twisted up and out.
Feeling a sharp pinch of pain as the thread snapped, he grunted.
“I said hold still,” she repeated crossly, snipping the next stitch the same way. The thread would not come free as easily. No help for it, she had to touch him to steady herself. Although no longer hot with fever, his skin was still warm and smooth beneath the palm of her left hand. She could feel the hardness of muscle over rib bones as her fingers pressed down. Laying aside the knife, she used the tweezers to pull the sinew free.