Authors: Barbara Ankrum
Mariah frowned, clutching her arms. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Tell you what?" he nearly shouted in exasperation. "I got us here, didn't I? Let's just leave it at that."
"Fine." She frowned and turned away. He could deny it all he wanted, she fumed, dropping the heavy buffalo robe into one of the two pelt-lined willow chairs flanking the fireplace. There was a good deal more than sheer coincidence in the uncanny knack he had for knowing things. She was curious about it, but she'd be damned if she'd grovel at his feet for the truth.
Her clothes were wet where she had leaned against Creed. She shivered, rubbed her upper arms and looked around the cabin. It was a small but comfortable one-room structure that smelled musty from years of disuse.
Dominating one corner was a pelt-covered bed. It was built from sturdy, unpeeled lodgepole pine logs and was, she noticed with some dismay, large enough for two. Unbidden, her body heated fractionally at the sight—a reaction born as much of anticipation as fear. Preferring not to dwell on that, she turned her attention to the rest of the room.
From the thick-beamed ceiling hung several pairs of willow snowshoes, baskets, and bunches of dusty dried herbs. A bighorn ram's curly horns crowned one of the four-paned glass windows by the door. Finely tanned pelts of beaver, black bear, and lynx covered the lime-chinked walls, adding an extra measure of insulation.
She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the scarred slab-table in the center of the room. Her fingers left a trail in the dust and stopped on an exquisite, if dusty, hand-blown blue vase at the center of the table. She picked it up, examining the fine craftsmanship. The house had once had a woman's touch, she decided, glancing at the faded blue curtains and the braided rag rugs.
Her eyes were drawn to a pegged shelf on the wall. There, beside an old steeple shelf-clock which had long since wound down, was a punched-tin frame containing a small oil portrait of a woman. A beautiful woman with Creed's black hair and unusual-colored eyes. The resemblance was extraordinary.
"Solange Devereaux." Creed's voice came from right behind her. "My mother."
Mariah whirled around guiltily and replaced the vase on the table. "Oh. I—was just... she's very beautiful."
Creed's eyes darkened as he brushed the soot from his hands.
"Oui.
She was. Beautiful and fragile. Just like you."
"That sounds more like an accusation than a compliment. What happened to her?"
"I told you," he said, holding her gaze, "this country's hard on women, Mariah. My mother was headstrong, and in love with my father. She thought she was up to this kind of life, too. But it killed her. Sucked the life right out of her."
Like it will you,
his unspoken words rang out.
Mariah's eyes smarted at the stark pain she saw in his face and she tamped down her flare of anger. "I'm sorry, Creed."
"Don't be. It was a long time ago. I didn't tell you to get pity—"
Her mouth dropped open.
"Pity?"
"—I told you for your own good." He gathered up a coil of rope hanging by the door and started tying it around his waist.
Tears of frustration stung her eyes. "Oh, really? My own good? As if it's news to me that I'm unwanted here. You've been trying to get rid of me since the moment I stepped off the boat."
He whirled on her. "And you've been trying to kill yourself since then, too."
"I have not!" she choked out. "Things have happened, yes, but unlike your mother, I'm still here, and very much alive in case you haven't noticed."
He cinched the rope's knot with a vicious tug. "Oh, I've noticed. Believe me. I'm not made of stone, Mariah. I've noticed."
Without another word, he yanked open the door, with its gust of freezing air, and slammed out. Mariah stared at the whirling snowflakes as they drifted to the floor and melted in miniature puddles. She sank down onto the bench beside the table, dropped her head on her folded arms, and gave in to the wrenching tears that had been threatening all day long.
She cried for herself and for this awful mess she'd gotten herself into. She cried for Creed and his stubborn, angry need to shut her out. And finally, she cried for Seth, whose only fault in all this was that he loved her.
That was how Creed found her when he came back from putting the stock up—hiccupping in long, gulping sobs that nearly broke his heart. He lowered the saddlebags to the floor and untied the rope that had kept him from getting lost in the whiteness. His fists, numb with cold, curled at his sides.
Damn you, Devereaux. Now look what you've done!
She'd been beaten up, nearly drowned, almost murdered, and through it all, she'd held up like a trooper—never complaining or whining, never blaming him. But he'd sharpened his tongue on her and with a few well-placed thrusts he'd finally put her over the edge. It wasn't her fault that they were in this situation. It was his. He reached out to touch her shoulder.
"Mariah?"
She jumped at the contact and turned swollen eyes up to him. Then, embarrassed, she dropped her face in her hands.
"Don't... don't look at be." Her nose was clogged from crying and her m's came out sounding like b's.
His gut twisted. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry,
ma petite."
She shook her head hopelessly. "It's not just you. It's—it's," she hiccupped—"everythink."
He knelt down beside her, rubbing a hand comfortingly over her back. "Everything?"
Lifting her hands palms up, she cried, "You were right. I should never have cub. I've been nothig but trouble to you—"
"No, I shouldn't have said that."
"I'b so tired I can't see straight, you hate be—"
"I don't hate you—"
"—and look at be. Look at
us!"
Creed ran a self-conscious hand over his stubble of beard. "In two days," she went on with a sniffle, "I'b going to see Seth—
if
he's alive... and
if
we survive this damb weather. And here I ab..."—she let loose another sob—"wearing your filthy clothes, looking like subthing subbody dragged under a wagon frub Illinois. What's he going to think?"
Creed's hand slowed on her back. He knew she was talking about more than her clothes. She was as worried as he was about what Seth would think when they rode in together. There was nothing to be done for it now.
Hell and damnation.
He went to the dresser and took out one of his mother's neatly folded linen hankies, and handed it to her. "Here. Blow."
"But..." She looked at the delicate initials, "S. D.," embroidered into the folds. "It's... it's your buther's!" A new gush of tears broke free.
"I know it's my mother's," he said, patting her shoulder awkwardly. "Just blow."
In between sobs, she did.
Dieu,
he hated it when women cried. He felt so... helpless. He slipped outside the door for a moment with two buckets and came back with them full of snow. He dumped them into the cooking pot that hung over the fire, then went back for two more. When he'd filled the pot, he strung a blanket up across the room, separating the bed area from the rest.
Flipping over the old steel tub propped in the corner, he set it beside the bed and, when the water had heated, he filled it.
He dug up an old bar of tallow soap and set it with a towel and an old flannel nightrail on the bed.
When he'd finished, he took Mariah by the arm and led her to the curtained-off area. "Strip," he ordered, gaining a wide-eyed reaction from her that put an immediate, if shocked, halt to her tears.
"Wh-what?"
She clutched the neckline of her shirt tightly in her fist.
"I mean, after I leave." He was only slightly irritated by her vast look of relief. "It's the best bath I can offer under the circumstances. It will... make you feel better. I'll be out here if you need anything." He started to back out of the makeshift room.
She nodded with a sniff and relaxed her death-grip on her shirt. "Creed?"
He ducked his head back in. "What?"
"Thank you."
"Yeah." Muttering, he retrieved two more buckets of snow and tossed them in the pot. He ran a hand over his face, deciding he could stand to get acquainted with a little water himself. Pouring some of the heated water back in a bucket, he stripped off his shirt and pulled his shaving things out of his saddlebags.
With one ear, he listened to the sounds of Mariah bathing. Each splash of water fed his overactive imagination and bit by bit dispelled the chill that had settled into his bones. He pictured her there, naked and wet, water rivulets coursing down the curve of her—
With an oath, he plunged his frost-bitten hands into the warm water, but even that painful distraction was little help with Mariah Parsons four feet away in the beautiful altogether.
Damn, damn, damn.
* * *
Mariah stepped hesitantly out of the tub, casting a brief look at the thin blanket separating her from Creed. He was standing only ten feet away. She could hear the splash of water, the tap of his straight razor against the washbasin as he finished his own ablutions. In her mind's eye, she pictured him with his shirt off and it shamed her to realize she wanted to do more than just fantasize about it. She had the craziest urge to touch his damp skin, feel the smooth play of muscle beneath it and the dusting of hair above.
Shivering, she dried herself quickly on the flannel blanket he'd left. The fire had yet to take the chill out of the air. She still had her hair to wash and didn't relish the idea of turning into an icicle while she did it.
Slipping the nightrail over her head, she rolled up the sleeves and kneeled over the tub. She poured water over her head with the bucket, then started to soap up her hair.
The soap squirted out of her hand and hit the floor with a slippery thud, skidding under the curtain. "Oh, for heaven's sake." She cracked an eye open, groping for the lost bar, but the soap seeped into eyes and she slammed them shut.
"Ow, ow-ow—" she whispered, rubbing at her eyes with the cotton sleeve of her nightrail. Blindly she reached for the flannel blanket she'd left on the floor beside her, but she gasped when her hand connected with Creed's.
"Here," he said, wiping her eyes with the edge of the blanket. "Let me help you with this."
"Creed, you shouldn't be—"
But he was already massaging, the soap through her hair. "Shouldn't be what?"
It took her a few long seconds to answer. "Doing this." She braced her palms on the edge of the tub. The tips of his fingers slid over every inch of her scalp in gentle, sensuous strokes. He squeezed the soap through her hair, lifting it and massaging it over and over. Soap suds gathered at her temple and slipped down her cheek. His finger caught the rivulet and slowly scraped up the side of her face, away from her eyes.
An ache curled low inside her, a need for more of his touch. Wantonly, she leaned back into his hands and her lashes closed over her cheeks. A shiver of anticipation traveled up her spine as his fingers slid lower, to the base of her neck where he massaged away the tension of the past few days.
"Mm-mmm. Doesn't it feel good?"
His voice was husky and deep.
Yes, oh yes.
A sigh escaped her. "But it's not... decent."
"No." She heard the smile in his voice. "Probably not." His fingers spread sensuously through her hair again, sliding deliciously against her scalp.
She lost herself to the sensation. It felt so good to let someone help her, pamper her—to just give in to it.
Finally, he said, "Lean over." She did. He dipped the bucket in the water and poured the warm water over her head, following its path with his hand. She held her breath when his fingers brushed the sensitive curve behind her ears. His steely thighs brushed flush against her rear for a moment as he leaned over her and it was suddenly, startlingly clear exactly how indecent their position was. Her heart thudded heavily until she thought the tub might echo its sound.
Never had a man touched her the way he was—with gentle, aching tenderness, with sheer male need. It made her heart swell and pound, her throat clog with an emotion she'd never known.
Creed squeezed the water from her hair, helped her up, and towel-dried her hair on the flannel blanket.
She opened her eyes and swallowed hard at her first real look at him. The top half of his long johns hung down around his hips. Her gaze was even with his bare chest and his flat, brown nipples in their nests of black hair. His chest rose and fell with a chaotic rhythm. Until that moment, she hadn't noticed that his hands still lingered on her shoulders. His skin was hot and smooth beneath her hands.
Her gaze moved up. He'd shaved and his hair was wet and finger-combed. The clean scent of soap lingered on his skin. His eyes, dark with hunger, burned into her and she prayed the roaring sound of the wind would drown out the cannon-like pounding of her heart.
If she hadn't touched him, perhaps nothing more would have happened, but she reached out and brushed a finger across the blue beads at his throat.
Pinioning her hand at the wrist, he brought her knuckles to his lips. His mouth, hot and wet, caressed her skin with the barest brush of his tongue. Her eyes slid shut when he turned her palm over and repeated the gesture.