Authors: Beth Williamson
After she grabbed the other bucket of water, Frankie and Josephine walked to the edge of the trees. The leaves were still young and didn’t quite create the curtain she wanted, but Frankie didn’t have much choice. Josephine laid the clean dress on a branch and held up the quilt. She was four inches taller than Frankie, allowing her to provide a smidge more privacy.
She rinsed her hands in the bucket as best she could, although the right one stung the moment it hit the water. The gun had burned her for sure. She unbuttoned the dress, wincing with each new smear she made. The Missouri mud was thick and dark in color. She managed to get a few spots on her chemise before the dress was finally off. It stood on its own, the mud already beginning to dry on the back. It looked as though someone had used a giant paintbrush to coat the frock.
“You might want to hurry. I hear Mr. Malloy headed this way.” Josephine cocked one brow and smiled.
“I am certain you will protect me.” She grinned back at her sister but wasted no more time.
Frankie grabbed the blue dress and yanked it on, in the process pulling the pins from her hair. Unfortunately or not, the mud kept it in one lump, which swayed back and forth on her now clean back. She hurriedly buttoned the dress, knowing she needed to get the mud out of her hair before she had no unstained clothing to wear.
The buttons didn’t want to cooperate and took twice as long to slide into the right holes. “
Merde
.” She ought not to let Charlotte hear her curse.
“Where is your mama, Frankie? I need to get this doctored and be on my way. I do have a job to get to.” The amused charmer had vanished, replaced by the gruff man again.
Frankie emerged from behind the quilt, hands on her hips. “You may call me Miss Chastain.”
His gaze dropped to her too-large bosom, the bane of her existence, the reason she could not share dresses with her sisters. The feature she had always despised. “You, ah, might want to finish up there,
Miss Chastain
.”
Embarrassed once again, Frankie whirled back around and found three buttons gaping open, giving Mr. Malloy a full view of her chemise and her breasts. She buttoned them slowly, making sure they were secured before she turned back around, the mud bun still swinging on her back.
“Thank you for helping me, Josephine. Could you find Maman and let her know we need her help?”
Her sister folded the quilt with a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. With one final glance at Frankie, she picked up the bucket and she set off to find their mother. Frankie counted to five before she looked up at Mr. Malloy. He stood with his hands on his hips, formidable and cool. Charlotte must have wrapped the rag around his hand, and to Frankie’s surprise, blood seeped through the cloth.
She’d assumed his injury was minor, but he had bled quite a bit. Guilt washed over her for dismissing his claim of being hurt. His presence disconcerted her and that bothered her the most. He was too much to absorb at once, big and full of life.
Growing up in New York, she hadn’t had occasion to bump into many cowboys or men who carried pistols on their hips, for that matter. She knew what to do to protect herself on the streets of a city, but a cowboy left her at a loss. Her temper had flared, which was not an uncommon occurrence, and now she wasn’t sure how to even speak to him. The west was like a foreign land and Frankie was the foreigner.
To her shame, she decided to avoid him rather than determine how to speak to him. She snatched up her dress and walked away.
“Where are you going?” He was beside her in moments. “Don’t forget I’m covered with mud and it itches like hell.”
“I need to rinse the mud out of my dress and my hair,
monsieur
.” Frankie didn’t turn her head. She didn’t want to look at him anymore. He was too distracting, made her think of things she ought not to. “Charlotte shall sit with you while Josephine fetches my mother.”
He snorted. “She’s a little spitfire. Gonna drive some man to drink in a few years.”
To her consternation, he kept walking beside her. She tried to walk faster but nearly tripped on her own skirts. Red-faced and frustrated, she regained her balanced without help from the cowboy and kept marching. The creek was just beyond the edge of the tree line.
By the time she stepped onto the grassy bank of the creek, she was breathing hard. John Malloy strolled up beside her, not even remotely winded.
She wanted to smack him.
“Nice creek. It’ll do.” To her shock, he took off his hat, stripped off his shirt, then tugged off his boots.
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and all the heavenly saints. He was nearly naked. Naked!
Regardless of what she should or shouldn’t do, Frankie stared, mesmerized by Mr. Malloy’s body. Her eyes felt hot and tight as she drank in the expanse of man in front of her. Muscles stretched over bone, covered with honey-touched skin attesting to his time in the sun. Whorls of dark brown hair swirled around his wide chest, leading down to his belly. The hair grew thicker, darker, and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Frankie could hardly breathe for the heat suffusing her body. She was on fire, her pulse thundering at merely the sight of a half-naked man. When his boots landed on the grass, she glanced at his feet. The toes had funny hairs on them, sticking every which way. She had never paid attention to a man’s feet before. What was wrong with her? She didn’t know where to look or what to do. For the first time in her life, Frankie Chastain was speechless.
He grinned at her and stepped into the water. “Holy shit, that’s cold. Must be a mountain run-off from somewhere. Damn good thing I’ve still got my trousers one or I’d shrink up like, er, never mind.”
Frankie swallowed the dry spit in her mouth, freeing her voice. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting the mud offa me and my shirt. The cold water should help the swelling in my hand too.” He held up the shirt and sniffed, rearing back. “Damn. You ought to do the same if you smell like this too. Stinks like a horse took a shit on me.”
She hadn’t forgotten about the horses and the mud she’d landed in. She held her muddy dress up and sniffed, gagged and dropped it to the ground.
“
Sacre bleu
, it smells horrible.”
“I’m guessing your hair does too.” John waded out further into the stream and sat down, submerging himself up to his armpits.
Frankie let loose an unladylike snort and reached for her hair. That was where the other smell had been coming from. Mud caked the back of her head while the chunk still hung encrusted with mud. She dropped to her knees and managed to pull the pins from her hair, while avoiding the mud that cascaded down in thick plops around her.
Washing her hair while keeping the rest of her dry was going to be a challenge. If only she were a man and could strip down and wade into the river, not caring if her trousers got wet.
“If you get closer to the water, I can help.”
She lifted her head to find a very wet, and still half-naked, John Malloy in front of her. He must have been on his knees to be eye level with her. Water ran in rivulets down his chest, meandering through the hair, straight down to his trousers. That was a place she had no interest in exploring.
“How will you assist me?”
“I can rinse the shit out of your hair, unless you want to join me in the creek.” He raised one brow, a challenge in his gaze.
Frankie thought about jumping in the creek with him and taking him up on his challenge. To free herself from the societal rules that governed her and throw caution to the wind. For once escape what was expected, what she had to do, and do what she wanted. John Malloy was dangerous, more than she initially thought.
“Much as I think you would like that, I cannot join you in the creek. What you see before you is my wardrobe. I can only hope this dress comes clean so that I may wear both of them again.” She had to be practical. Throwing away her reputation on the wagon train, and possibly her future, to frolic in a creek with a big stranger would be beyond foolish.
“What about your hair? Do you want help or not?”
Frankie stared into his blue eyes and thought of all the reasons she should say no, of the fact she could ask one of her sisters to help, and of the chastisement she would receive from her mother. A tiny voice inside her whispered of dark secrets and decisions she could not undo.
In the end, Frankie chose the practical path.
“
Oui
, I need your assistance,
si vous plais
.”
Chapter Two
John could hardly believe his ears. Frankie, the spunky little thing, wanted him to help her wash her hair. He didn’t know whether to laugh or kiss her, because sure as hell he’d wanted to kiss her since she landed in the mud under him. Those flashing green eyes, that heart-shaped face, the soft, pillowy breasts that made his hands itch. She was sin incarnate, even covered in mud.
Now here she sat on the bank of the frigid creek, her hair undone. Although muddy, she had gorgeous hair, thick and wavy with the colors of sunset sparkling in the early morning sun. He’d be a fool to touch her.
John was obviously a complete fool.
“Then come closer and lean forward.”
She did as she was bade, coming close enough he could see the small hairs at the nape of her neck, tiny wisps that moved slightly in the breeze. He wanted to kiss them, breathe in the scent of Frankie, then kiss his way across the pink shell of her ear, her jaw, until he reached the full, ruby lips. Damn. He needed to adjust his dick as it grew several inches from looking at her shit-covered hair. He wasn’t one to get caught up in a woman’s looks, but something about this little French woman set his blood to boil.
John scooped up water with his hands, running it through her hair, working out the clumps of mud. Her hair was at least three feet long, rich and thick. He could well imagine what it would feel like clean and spread across the sheets.
Damn, but he’d been too long without a woman. He did not need to get involved with any of the folks from the wagon train, especially virginal young ladies.
“My neck is beginning to cramp.” She knew how to complain, that was for sure.
“I got the clumps out. Let me give it a good scrub.”
Her head felt so tiny in his hands, in contrast to the heavy hair she carried. He scrubbed at her scalp until her hair fairly squeaked. Then he kept at it a few minutes more, feeling perverse at keeping her on her knees in front of him. A lesser man would make a crude remark, but he kept his tongue. For a reason he couldn’t name, he liked her.
“I would like to stand now,
monsieur
.”
He chuckled and squeezed as much water from her hair as he could. “There you go, Frankie. Now toss me your dress and I’ll see what I can do.”
She swung her hair to the right, which made a slap as it hit her back. Without the cloud of hair, Frankie looked damn young, vulnerable. Then she opened her mouth and the illusion was broken.
“I do not believe I am the first woman to hear you say that.” She raised both brows. “Do you have experience as a laundress?”
“I’ve had to wash my own duds for years. I’m sure I can manage to get your frock clean.” He held out his hand, enjoying the play of emotions across her face.
“It is sturdy, but not canvas like your trousers. Please do not rip it.” She handed him the yellow dress with obvious reluctance.
The fact she’d entrusted him with what was apparently her only other dress was unexpected. He did his best to get the mud off, using the sand at the bottom of the creek to scour it away. Without soap, it wasn’t going to be shiny clean, but at least it was cleaner.
“Your sisters don’t have an accent like you.” He was curious about her, although he shouldn’t be.
“I was ten when we moved from France. The two youngest lost most of their accent, and Josephine is a governess and tutor. She trained herself to lose any trace of France.” She squeezed out her hair. “Wealthy people prefer a French maid or dresser, not a French tutor.”
John hadn’t had much contact with rich people, but her words had a ring of truth to them. There was a rich man on the wagon train and he was a jackass.
“What brings you west?”
She stopped and stared at him, her chin rising into a stubborn tilt. “Why do most settlers?”
He shrugged. If she didn’t want to talk about it, he wasn’t going to push. It wasn’t his business and truthfully, he’d heard too many stories in the last three years. He wouldn’t miss another one.
When he rose to wring out the dress, she gasped. His gaze flew to hers, noting she had been finger combing her hair and watching him. He wanted to puff out his chest and grin, but her expression stopped him.
“Do not wring out my dress,
monsieur
. Bring it here and I will extract the water,
si vous plais
.”
He frowned. “You sure are bossy.”
“My sisters would likely agree with you.” She got to her feet and held out her hands. He noted her wet hair had turned the top of her blue dress almost see-through.