He worked rapidly, leading the team to the cabin door, where Rachel waited beside an assortment of crates and boxes. In moments, he had the wagon in place, the reins tied to a low branch of the nearest tree, lest the horses take it in their heads to return to the rich pastureland on the other side of the stream.
“How long you been here?” he asked, satisfied finally that the team was secure.
“A few weeks.” She lifted a box he deemed beyond her strength and he took it from her, their hands brushing as he eased it from her arms.
“I can get it!” Her pride glittered from blue eyes that scorned his aid.
He nodded. “I imagine you can, but there’s no need.”
She turned away, bending to lift one end of a trunk the boys were struggling to shove through the doorway. And then as she stood erect, he was there once more, close behind her.
His big hands gripped her waist and he spoke gruffly against the dark braid she’d coiled on top of her head.
“Stand back, Rachel. I’ll tend to this. The boys can help me.”
She shivered in his grasp and he heard her indrawn breath. “I’m stronger than you think,” she told him, her voice containing a faint breathlessness. And then she lowered the trunk, stepping away to retreat toward the waiting wagon.
“I’ve not underestimated you, Rachel,” he said, lifting one end of the trunk with ease. He waited till her brothers passed the doorway, then, lifting the bulk of the weight, he helped them ease their burden into the wagon.
She watched him warily and her hesitant air amused him. He had her on the run, off balance and acquiescent. Just as he’d hoped, she was going along with his plan. Now if he could keep her moving, he’d have the thing accomplished before she caught her breath.
“This won’t take long.” With a hand on each of their heads, Cord turned the two boys back toward the shack.
Willingly, they followed his lead and in minutes, the motley assortment of boxes and crates had been loaded. Her mother’s rocker and feather ticks, along with her hand-carved dresser, topped the load. Their faces alight with admiration, Jay and Henry watched as the pile was secured with a rope taken from Cord’s saddle.
“That didn’t take any time, did it, Rae?” Jay’s enthusiasm was evident, his cheeks flushed with excitement as he launched himself over the tailgate.
She shook her head, scraping up a smile for the small boy’s benefit. “No, you were a big help, Jay.”
“You want to take a look in the shack, make sure you haven’t forgotten anything?” Cord’s husky voice prompted her and Rachel nodded, hurrying toward the doorway.
It was cool inside, only a trace of sunlight slanting across the floor from the single window. She looked around, taking in the dilapidated furnishings, the dirt floor and the dust motes that filtered down from the rafters. Already, the place held a deserted air.
Another few days and the last trace of crumbs on the floor would be eaten by stray critters, the wind would whistle through the broken door at night, and it would be as if they had never been there.
She shivered at the thought and turned away. “I think we’re ready,” she said, squinting against the sunlight as she passed through the doorway.
Cord set the door in place and gave her his hand, lifting her to the wagon seat. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Rachel lifted the reins and looked down at Henry. He’s growing, she thought. His head comes above my shoulder now. From behind her, Jay was making impatient noises, and she cast him a glance of warning.
Cord’s big gelding moved ahead of her, leading the way. She slapped the leather straps against the broad backs of her team, urging them to move out.
“He’s nice, isn’t he, Rae?” Henry’s words were soft, meant only for her ears, and she nodded her reply.
The boy reached into his pocket, lifting on one hip to snake the long licorice whip from its depths.
“You’ve still got candy left?” she asked, smiling at his frugality.
“Yeah. Want a bite?” Gnawing off a length, he offered the treat in her direction.
“No. Thanks anyway.” Perhaps he’d have more than a piece of candy now and then, once she managed to save a little money. Maybe she could afford to do better by the boys if this job panned out
She drew a deep breath, glancing up at the sky, where clouds rode in billowing herds…where the sun cast its muted rays on the earth below. And then that brilliant orb burst forth from behind a cloud bank, allowing the undiluted splendor of sunlight to wash over her surroundings.
As if it were a sign, a prediction of good things to come, she basked in its warmth. Her gaze drawn again to the man who rode before her, she smiled, admiring the straight line of his back, the easy movement of his body as he sat astride his horse.
And wondered at the shiver of delight that coursed through her body as she considered him.
Chapter Three
“Damn dog belongs outdoors, Rachel!” Cord’s brows were lowered over stormy eyes as he confronted his new cook. The front of his shirt wore a lavish display of hot coffee, and his fingertips held the wet fabric as far away from his chest as possible, as he roared his disapproval.
Rachel’s lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes widened with dismay as she beheld her employer’s anger. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McPherson. The boys gave Buster a bath when they got up. They let him in the house so he wouldn’t roll in the dirt. I had him shut in the pantry during breakfast. He must have gotten out when I was clearing up.”
Cord’s fingers worked at the buttons of the shirt he’d donned, fresh from his drawer, only an hour ago. Undoing them and stripping the wet garment from his body, he muttered his thoughts aloud regarding the mutt who watched from behind the pantry door.
“Rules are rules, Rachel. Dogs belong outdoors.” He handed her the gray shirt and she reached to grasp it.
“Let me get some butter to put on the burn,” she offered, her gaze intent on the flexing muscles in his upper arms as he moved. “It will take out the sting.”
“A cold cloth will do as well,” he told her. She turned to the sink where a dish towel was pressed into service as she pumped water to wet it before wringing it out Rachel handed it to him, watching as he spread the cool cloth against his flesh.
He was tall, well muscled, his arms and shoulders seeming more powerful without the covering of a shirt. Her gaze was drawn by the width of his chest, her eyes fixed on the curling dark hair that centered there. He was big. There was no other word to adequately describe the man. His arms were long, thick with muscles and pale above the elbows.
She clenched her hands, fearful that the urge to touch him would somehow gain control of her, that her traitorous fingers would reach to flex against the flesh he bared to her eyes.
“Will you go up and get me a clean shirt?” He motioned to his boots, dusty from the barn. “I don’t want to track on the carpets. My room’s the one at the head of the stairs.”
She’d paid scant attention last night, once she’d put together a meal for ten. Though only nine had been around the big table in the kitchen. Cord had muttered something about Jake eating later and Rachel could only be relieved at one less to wait on.
The men had made short work of her fried ham and mashed potatoes, scraping every last smidgen from the bowl. Jay and Henry had eaten their share, silent for a change as they attempted to follow the fast-paced conversation. Rachel had only held her breath in hopes that the men’s monstrous appetites would be satisfied before the food ran out.
“Rachel?” Cord waited, hands on hips as his lowvoiced reminder prodded her into action. “The shirt?”
She nodded, feeling a flush paint her cheeks as she dropped her gaze, hurrying from the room. He’d think she was foolish, gawking at him that way. As if she’d never seen a man’s chest before! Pa had often stripped to the waist to wash up before a meal, in front of the sink in the kitchen.
But he’d never looked like Cord McPherson, she admitted to hers
elf, her feet flying up the stairway as she hurried to do his bidding.
Matter of fact, she’d never seen a sight anywhere to match the man downstairs.
She opened his bedroom door and paused for a moment. It was a man’s room, no doubt about it, with no frills to be seen. A huge bureau sat against the far wall, between the two windows. She slid open the first drawer, only to find short stacks of undergarments. Her cheeks ablaze, she slid the drawer shut and opened the second.
Success. His shirts were folded neatly, four altogether, still bearing iron marks where the hot sad iron had imprinted itself.
Even fresh from the ironing board, they bore his scent, an aroma lye soap could not overcome. She’d noticed it on the shirt she held in her hand, that smell of leather and fresh air, the faintly musky odor that had caught her nostrils at the supper table as she served the food.
Snatching at a neatly folded shirt, she closed his bureau drawer and scurried toward the doorway. If he should see her standing like a dolt, staring at his belongings, he’d likely send her packing. The man had offered her a job in his house, not the right to moon over him like a…
She shook her head against the thought Whether or not she admired the sight of Cord McPherson’s body, he was her employer, and she’d do well to remember it.
Her feet skimmed the stairs as she hurried to where he waited and then she slammed to a full stop as she caught sight of him once more.
He was facing the sink, his back to where she watched at the kitchen door. His hands were occupied with wringing out the cloth he’d held against his reddened flesh and his skin stretched tightly across his back as he lifted his hands to apply the cooling towel once more.
Rachel’s gaze was caught by the exposed flesh, her eyes widening as she viewed the pale stripes crisscrossing his body. A sound of despair she could not recall slipped from her lips and she lifted one hand quickly to cover the lapse.
He spun to face her, his eyes dark and threatening as he scanned her wary stance. “You might have let me know you were there,” he said, lowering the towel he held in one hand. “Give me the shirt.” He reached for it, his palm outstretched, and she moved to obey.
He clasped the soft fabric and in the doing managed to grasp her fingertips. She’d gripped the fabric tightly, so stunned by the sight of his scarred flesh she’d been unable to release her hold. And then the warmth of his palm enclosing her fingers brought her to her senses and she murmured a soft sound of protest as she freed herself from his grasp.
He slid his arms into the sleeves and rolled them up, an automatic gesture that bespoke his usual mode of dress. His fingers worked the buttons rapidly, and then his mouth twisted in a dark, mocking grin that brought a flush to ride her cheeks.
“Would you like to turn your back while I tuck it in?” His hesitation gave her the moment’s grace she required and she spun to face the doorway, aware of the sound of his denim pants being opened, the brushing of his hands against fabric as he completed the donning of his shirt.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she managed, aware of his gaze upon her, straightening her shoulders as if she must assume a cloak of dignity before she turned to face him again.
He cleared his throat. “No, I’m the sorry one, Rachel. I embarrassed you, and I apologize.” His hands rested on her shoulders and he turned her to face him.
The vee of his neckline was before her eyes, a few strands of dark hair curling against the gray cotton and she felt stunned by the intimacy of it. He held her inches from his body, just a finger’s touch from his flesh, and from his skin rose that faintly musky scent she yearned to inhale.
“You’ve been hurt.” The whispered words were all she could manage.
His shrug was a mute dismissal of her concern, even as his fingers slid to tighten against her upper arms.
She trembled in his grasp and rued the emotions that ran riot throughout her. Sorrow, that he had been hurt. Anger, at the culprit who had damaged him so badly.
And most of all, fear, for herself, for the woman she’d become in these few short moments.
Cord McPherson held it within his power to ruin her, her mind proclaimed, the knowledge quickening her heartbeat. His strong hands could tug her against his body and she would go, willingly. His mouth could lower to hers and she, who had never known a man’s caress, would welcome the touch of his lips.
She’d made an unwise choice, coming here. An even graver error in judgment, pledging her presence in his home until springtime next year. With only the weight of his hands against her shoulders, he’d been able to melt her store of resistance to his greater strength.
With just a look from those dark eyes, he could send her insides churning in a whirlwind of emotion she had no ability to guard against
From girl to woman, she had turned the corner in these few minutes of time, and her heart ached with the knowledge of her own vulnerability to this man.
“Rachel? Are you all right?” His hands shook her, clasping her firmly as if he would support her entire body by the hold he had taken on her upper arms.
She blinked, roused from her soul-searching, and met his gaze with what she grimly hoped was a sensible smile of accord.
“I’m fine, Mr. McPherson. Just fine.” Her spine held her erect as she stepped back from him, her flesh cooling as his hands slid to his sides.
She was too tempting by far, this piece of womanhood he’d brought into his home. Cord’s mouth tightened as he considered his folly, not to mention his carelessness in shedding his shirt in her presence. And so his measuring glance was harsh, his words a warning.
“They’re old scars, Rachel. Too old to worry about now, and none of your concern.”
She lowered her lashes until she could no longer see his upper body, and she concentrated on his words, as if unwilling to meet his gaze any longer. “You’re right. I made a fuss over nothing. I’ll tend to my own business from now on.”
She watched his hand clench into a fist, there at his side, and then his fingers flexed and he rested his palm flat against his thigh.
“You’d better soak that shirt or the coffee will stain it,” he said, grumbling the order as he turned away.
“Yes…” Her whisper followed him, as did her bewildered glance, looking up from the clean, wide boards of the kitchen floor as he allowed the screen door to slam behind himself.
A clod of dirt received a swift kick, his hat was mercilessly swatted against his thigh, and words his mama had never taught him spewed forth from Cord’s mouth in a muttered litany. Each stride was a thudding release of the anger he directed at himself, jarring his teeth as he clenched his jaw.
“Shamus!” The roar was almost enough to rattle the rafters in the big barn. From inside, a growling reply met Cord’s ears and he halted in the wide doorway.
“You needn’t scare the bejabbers out of the mare, McPherson.” Bending over a hind hoof, Shamus Quinn spoke around the nails he held between his teeth. Beyond him, the mare turned to look at the noisy intruder, her placid manner belying the fright attributed to her by the man fitting her with the last of her new shoes.
Cord cocked one hip, his fist resting against the angle, his abused hat tugged low over his forehead. “When are you gonna learn who’s boss here?” he snarled, his jaw jutting fiercely.
Spitting the nails he held in his mouth into his palm, Shamus dropped them into the front pocket of the leather apron he wore. Lowering the mare’s foot to the earthen floor, he eased his back, stretching to one side, then the other.
“Don’t know as I’ve got a problem with that, McPherson.” His sandy hair was a riot of curls atop his head, and one hand rubbed slowly over the thick mat as he eyed his employer. His bowlegged stance and sunleathered skin proclaimed him a horseman, but the ease with which he handled the mare added credence to that title.
“Thought I told you to see to the new stud next.” Cord’s words were harsher than he’d intended, his ire easing as he watched the man who’d be
en his friend since childhood.
Shamus nodded. “So you did.” Moving back to the mare’s side, he lifted her foot and rested it against his leg.
“Hold still, girl,” Shamus murmured to the horse. “We’re about done with you.” With ease, he worked at the shoe, fitting it carefully, his pliers nipping at the exposed nails.
“I’m wanting to ride him today.” Cord’s voice had resumed a normal volume and Shamus cast him a sidelong glance.
“He’s ready for you. I took care of him first thing when I got up. Before breakfast in fact.” Easing the mare’s foot to the floor, Shamus stepped back. “You sure hirin’ that gal on was a good idea?”
Cord’s eyes narrowed. “What does Rachel have to do with anything?”
The other man shrugged. “Dunno.” He peered at Cord, a grin edging his mouth. “Seems like you been on edge ever since she got here yesterday. Havin’ a female around ain’t good for you. It makes you ornery. S’pose maybe you need a trip to town?”
Cord’s glance was fierce, his demeanor defensive. “We needed a cook. Sam’s got his hands full with Jake.” He frowned, thinking of his brother. “I haven’t taken time to see him yet today. Right now I need to get the rest of the calves penned up for branding this afternoon.”
He thought of the woman he’d left in the kitchen. To beat all, he’d snarled at her and stomped off in a fit of temper. He didn’t need a woman fussing over him, even though the thought of Rachel’s slim fingers brushing against the old, silvered scars he bore made him shiver involuntarily.
Just as well he’d snapped at her. She was too good a cook to lose, and if he let his urges loose on her, she’d be hightailing it up the road, sure as the world.
Shamus was on his way to the back of the barn with the mare, and Cord followed him. “Bring me my saddle from the tack room,” he called, halting before the big box stall enclosing his new stallion. The horse eyed him cautiously, then bobbed his head and approached, stretching out his neck and flaring his nostrils.
The Wedding Promise Page 4