Whirlwind Wedding (19 page)

After a moment, the urge to take her ebbed into a manageable state and his hands steadied. Touching her like this, without her knowledge, her
permission,
was a violation. He couldn't help himself. She stirred against him and he throbbed painfully. Lifting her hand, he softly kissed her knuckles, then the center of her palm.

There had been women in his life before, but he had never felt anything like what he felt for her. He didn't understand half of the emotions tearing through him, but he knew he could never touch her the way he wanted.

She didn't know the truth about him, what he'd come to take from her. And if he pursued this lashing, savage need and claimed her body the way he burned to do, he would be stealing everything from her. Trust, innocence. Jericho stared at the dance of moonlight on the wall, tortured by what he knew and what she didn't. But he couldn't leave her yet. She had touched something deep inside him and he had answered with his instincts, the only way he knew how. For better or worse.

Something warm grazed the hollow of his throat. Before
he could identify it—tears? her hair?—the sensation came again. A featherlight caress, but longer this time. Hot and wet. As Catherine laid a hand on his chest, he realized what was happening.

Her tongue. She had kissed him,
was
kissing him.

Need shot through him like lightning, and so did alarm. After the horrible memory she had just shared with him, he could not fathom giving in to the temptation of putting his hands on her the way he wanted. He reached up and covered her hand with his wounded one. She had been shaken earlier. She didn't know what she was about.

But when she looked at him, the quiet certainty in her eyes told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

She sat up, her hair tickling his chest. He took advantage of the movement, dropping his hand from her waist and scooting her down his thigh to his knee. He didn't want to push her off, but he had to get out of here. “Catherine, I don't want to leave if you're not all right, but—”

“But?” She stared transfixed at his mouth, and lust roared through him.

Lust and panic. “I can't stay. But after what you've told me, I don't want to hurt you.”

“Then kiss me,” she whispered.

He already didn't have a thimble's worth of restraint, and his trousers were too snug by far. He grabbed her waist and lifted her, setting her feet on the floor.

She blinked at him, looking startled, then wounded. Hell, he didn't want that, but he couldn't allow himself to reach for her. He got to his feet in turn, biting back a groan as blood rushed in a fiery tingle to his feet.

Concern flared in her eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” Amazing that his voice didn't betray the fierce need clawing through him. He started for the door, damn near
bent over from the pounding in his groin. “I'll be just outside if anything happens.”

“All right,” she said softly, tentatively.

He wanted nothing more than to go back and kiss her. Touch her.
Take her.

“You shouldn't have felt you needed to stay,” she said defensively.

He turned his cowardly butt around, refusing to let her think he didn't care about her feelings. “I didn't do anything I didn't want to do.”

Searching his face, her eyes darkened with gratitude and some emotion that sucked the air dangerously out of his lungs. “Thank you.”

Looking into those eyes, he could see clear to the core of her. She was so good, so trusting. He suddenly wanted to be worthy of that trust, and in the next instant, he didn't. Lives depended on his not being worthy of it, on staying true to his purpose for coming here.

“You're welcome.” He limped out, aching for relief in his heart as much as his body. He didn't know how he would keep his hands off her now, but he would.

His erection throbbed. He headed straight for the barn, heedless of sharp pebbles hurting his feet, the occasional stab of grass between his toes.

Hot, reckless impulses surged through his blood, and Jericho knew he wouldn't get a wink of sleep. Not while knowing she was steps away, or remembering the way she'd curled against him, pressing shy kisses against his chest.

Bending his stiff right hand into a fist, Jericho let the shattering pain slice sharply through the haze of desire. He grunted, welcoming the discomfort for a moment. But at the barn, he stopped. He already felt suffocated; he couldn't go inside, where the walls would press in on him. He leaned one
shoulder against the shadowed wall, wishing he could leave thoughts of Catherine behind as easily as he'd stepped out of the moonlight.

The darkness was his refuge as he struggled to calm the pounding of his blood. He didn't know how much time passed. A stray cloud covered the moon, then scudded past. The stars glittered in the midnight sky. He stilled his thoughts, as well as his body. Braced against the rough wood, he balanced his weight on his uninjured leg. The rush of his blood finally slowed, but he couldn't block the images of Catherine, the feel of her moist lips on his chest, her hip pressing against his erection.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. Hell.

A sound caught his attention and he glanced over his shoulder toward the house. In the moonlight, he recognized a blurred but familiar profile moving stealthily onto the back stoop. The door opened with a squeak, the noise that had alerted both him and Catherine.

Andrew.

Jericho stood motionless and watched as the boy slipped into the house. He took two limping steps out of the shadows, then one more, listening hard to the night sounds outdoors, and focusing on the muffled ones inside the house. A floor-board creaked, then another. Likely the same ones he had stepped on earlier. The kid was home safe, but how long could he keep this up?

Jericho didn't like knowing that Catherine would worry herself sick if she knew her brother was still sneaking out. He couldn't forbid the boy from going anywhere, not only because he had no right to but also because he needed the kid to lead him to the McDougals.

Frustrated over that for the first time since arriving, Jericho wondered if he could get Andrew to admit that he was in
contact with the outlaws. If so, maybe Jericho could figure out a way to get to them without having to use the boy any further. The idea held far more appeal than it should have, until Jericho reminded himself that he had seen Andrew shoot him and his partner.

 

He had to face her sometime. Best just to get it over and done. The next morning, Jericho gave the pump handle three sharp jerks, then stuck his head under the spout. When the cool water hit the warmth of his neck, he winced at the change in temperature. Maybe he should've done this last night, he thought ruefully. It might have served to douse the fire in his blood and clear the fog of desire that had overtaken his mind.

He splashed water over his face and neck, scrubbed at the bristle of his whiskers. Walking away from her had been the right thing to do, the only thing.

Straightening, he dragged his hands down his face. He needed another shave. Water dripped onto his bare chest, sluiced down his back and into the waistband of his trousers as he shoved his hands through his hair. Steering his thoughts to Andrew, and the recollection of watching him sneak back into the house last night, Jericho reached for the towel hanging over the handle and passed it over his chest, turning as he did so.

The boy stood there, solemn and pale, with shadows under his eyes. No doubt because of his late night.

Jericho narrowed his gaze. “Doing all right?”

Obviously nervous, Andrew stepped in front of him and worked the pump handle a couple of times, washing his hands.

Surprise might be the way to trip up the kid. Spearing him with a look, Jericho said, “Your sister heard a noise last night. So did I.”

He waited. Nothing. “Did
you?
”

Andrew shook his head.

Jericho thought the boy's chin quivered. “Sounded like somebody went out the back door, but I didn't find anyone.” He drew out the silence for a bit, wanting to see how Andrew would respond.

Pressing bloodless lips together, Catherine's brother wiped his hands on the towel Jericho had used. He had to admire the boy. Even though his pulse beat wildly in his throat, he looked Jericho in the eye. “Maybe that was when I went to the outhouse,” he mumbled.

“Hmm.” Of course the kid was lying, but Jericho wouldn't get anywhere by pressuring him. His best bet was to follow Andrew the next time he left the house. Regardless of how his leg was, Jericho would trail the kid.

He glanced over and saw Catherine in the doorway, watching them. She worried the hem of her apron until he caught her eye. She gave him a tentative smile—a truce—and went back inside.

Regret flayed Jericho. If she knew he was trying to intimidate her brother into giving him some answers, she wouldn't want a truce.

Andrew seemed to be mighty interested in the pump handle. “What would you do if there was a girl—”

Aw, hell, the kid wasn't going to ask him how to cozy up to some girl, was he? Jericho had all he could do to
resist
cozying up to Andrew's sister.

“—and someone was trying to hurt her?”

That got his attention. “Trying to hurt her how?”

“Just threats.” Andrew wiped jerkily at his face with the towel. “Saying they're going to do stuff to her.”

“Have they done anything yet?”

“No.”

“Are they your age?”

“Older. Bigger.”

“Have you tried to get them to back down?”

Andrew hesitated, then nodded. “They just laughed.”

“But you take them seriously?”

He nodded again.

“Is this taking place after school?”

“Yes.”

“I can go talk to the teacher.”

“No!”

Jericho frowned at the boy's vehemence.

“Uh, that would just make things worse.”

Was that sweat on the kid's temple? “It's not Creed and Miguel, is it?”

“No, sir. No.”

He threw another look toward the house. “What does your sister say?”

If possible the kid went even whiter. “I wanted to ask you.”

“Do you want
me
to talk to them?”

“No.” Andrew's eyes widened in protest. “I just wondered if there was something I could do.”

“If you don't think the teacher can handle it, maybe you should tell the sheriff.”

Tension coiled in Andrew's stocky body and his gaze darted nervously around the yard. The kid was as jumpy as a grasshopper outrunning a prairie fire.

“What is it?” Jericho asked softly.

The boy released a shaky breath.

“It's okay, Andrew.” He clasped the kid's shoulder.

Worry lines were etched on his young forehead. He looked off into the distance, chewing his lip. Catherine did the same when she was nervous, Jericho noted absently. Her brother turned and opened his mouth, then clamped it shut, looking tortured.

“If you have a problem, you can tell me. I'll try to help.”

“I don't.” His voice was thick and guttural as he pivoted away. “Thanks.”

Jericho followed the boy inside. He was disappointed that Andrew hadn't given up any information about the McDougals, but the kid was running scared from something. What could've happened to make him ask for Jericho's advice about anything? Did it involve the McDougals or not?

It was a shame Andrew had gotten tangled up with those outlaws. Jericho was starting to like him.

Inside, Catherine rushed around, pouring coffee and milk and pushing a plate of day-old biscuits and ham to the middle of the table. Andrew wolfed down two biscuits in short order, and Jericho diligently kept his eyes on his coffee, the honey he drizzled on his biscuits, the dust motes floating in the strip of sunshine coming in the window. Everywhere but on Catherine.

Her hair hung down her back in a neat plait and she had scrubbed her face, all pink and creamy. Her blue gaze met his, then skittered away as she sipped her coffee. Regret pinched him. He hated that she felt uneasy, but he couldn't afford to breach the distance he'd put between them last night. Run away. That's what he had done.

Andrew cleared his crumbs from the table and grabbed his lunch pail, holding it out to his sister. “Here ya go.”

She took it and he picked up his books, tightening the leather strap holding them together. He balanced them over his shoulder and moved toward the door.

Catherine stared after him. A smile curved her lips as, lifting the lunch pail, she turned and met Jericho's gaze. “What do you think about that?”

He wanted to drink her in, kiss the pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. “I think you're gonna be late for school.”

She came around to his side of the table on her way out. “You'll be ready when I get back?”

He knew she meant to work his hand. But he was ready now, Jericho wanted to grumble. With the feel of her body burned into his, he figured he'd be ready from now till hell froze over. And hell was likely where he was going for what he wanted to do to her. With her.

He was coming dangerously close to forgetting why he was here. No woman had ever made him want to stay until now. And this was the one place on earth he would never be welcome after he showed her the truth about her brother.

C
atherine had watched Jericho and Andrew having what looked like a serious conversation. But when they came in for breakfast, neither of them volunteered the topic of their discussion. What surprised her was that the two of them seemed almost comfortable with each other, while she and Jericho didn't.

She sighed. The strain didn't stem from the awful story she'd told him last night. No, the unease closing in like a press was due to the kiss she'd given him. He had held her, protected her and listened. And while she snuggled in his lap, she'd felt his arousal against her hip. She had waited for the fear, expected it, but rather than make her want to run, the feel of him against her had piqued her interest. And excited her.

For the first time since her attack, she had felt something stronger than fear. She'd experienced desire, and a soaring relief that she had finally put the incident behind her. The soft kiss he'd placed in her palm had encouraged her to follow a wild impulse to do the same, but
her
attempt at kissing him had gone badly. The taste of his skin, a warm blend of soap
and salt and male, still lingered on her lips, interfering with her chores, her time with Andrew, her concentration.

Sensations she had never noticed before unfurled inside her. The rub of her breasts against the linen of her chemise, the silkiness of her hair drifting across her neck and shoulders. She wanted him to touch her. This awareness, acute and strange, was especially strong when she looked at him. Which was too frequently.

He, on the other hand, hardly looked at her at all over the next couple of days. He was still polite, continuing to help with the chores, but his face and eyes were carefully blank. Despite that, she felt a curious anticipation, an expectancy charging the air between them.

 

On Wednesday, he rode with her to the fort and pestered her into letting him drive the wagon. She finally relented, pleased to see that he managed the reins fairly well with his left hand. In an effort to fill the thick silence between them, she asked about his years as a Ranger, and about his friend, Hays.

She hoarded every bit of information he gave her. The men had met when Jericho secured a commission with the company of Rangers, and the two had become fast friends after getting caught in a hail of gunfire on their first assignment, escorting two prisoners to Austin. Hays had saved his life by picking off a pair of bandits who had Jericho in their sights. Jericho had returned the favor a couple of times in their twelve years together, but he hadn't been able to help his friend on the day of the McDougal ambush. Catherine knew that weighed heavily on him. His eyes hard, his voice even harder, he told her he would bring every last one of them to justice, and she believed him.

Even though he shared parts of his past with her, there was a reserve in him that hadn't been there before she'd stupidly
touched her tongue to his throat. She had seen more than desire in his eyes that night, but she'd seen nothing since.

Had she thrown herself at him? Should she apologize or just follow his lead and try to dismiss the incident? But how could she dismiss it when it had melted her fear? Maybe that was it. Maybe he thought she was afraid. She wanted to tell him she wasn't, but his polite detachment kept her silent.

Except for appearing at the times they had agreed to work on his hand, he stayed to himself. He spent his mornings behind the house practicing with his revolver. On Thursday, she heard an explosive blast and ran out to find him cocking his rifle awkwardly with his left hand.

That evening she found him on the porch attempting to shave himself. Hurt that he would rather cut his face than ask for her help, she firmly took the straight-edge and impersonally finished the job. Then she handed him a damp towel to wipe the shaving soap from his face, and walked off.

For a couple of days she secretly believed that he would bend, and confess that he wanted her with the same desperation she wanted him. Her mind conjured all kinds of scenarios. As they drove back from the fort, he would pull her to him and kiss her. Or when they worked on his hand. Or maybe he would just walk into the house and do it. But none of those things happened.
Nothing
happened.

The whole business was highly exasperating.

Finally on Friday, four days after he had sat on her bed and comforted her, she was forced to admit that the wall between them was one she couldn't breach, and Jericho didn't want her to. Though his deliberate distance stung, she struggled to carry on the way they had.

Since Dr. Butler hadn't needed her that day, she had been doing the wash. Now, with the sun starting its descent, she was nearly finished, her hair wilted, her arms aching. Andrew had
asked if he could go to Creed Carter's until suppertime. Catherine thought Jericho was behind the house, working with his gun. The wash water boiled in the kettle over the fire; a nearby barrel held cool water for rinsing. She always rinsed thoroughly, hating how the lye soap made her skin itch.

Steam from the hot water misted her face as she scrubbed at a pair of Andrew's grass-stained trousers, the last garment in her pile of laundry. With the back of her hand, she wiped away the perspiration on her brow, pushing damp hair off her forehead. The loose bodice of the threadbare dress she wore on laundry day stuck to a patch of damp skin between her shoulder blades and clung to her breasts.

A breath of wind circled the house and she stepped away from the fire to enjoy the welcome relief. Lifting her braid, she put a hand to her aching back and stretched. The pungent scents of wood smoke and strong soap drifted through the air. A pair of crows cawed hoarsely, their shrieks joined by a sound she didn't recognize.

It sounded like a moan. She glanced around, but saw nothing. She dunked Andrew's trousers into the barrel to rinse them, then heard the noise again. What was it? After wringing out the trousers and hanging them on the clothesline, she walked to the corner of the house and listened. It came again, louder. A groan. From behind the house.

Jericho. Picking up her skirts, she ran past the garden and root cellar. Jericho wasn't in the backyard or in the pasture beyond, so she headed toward the barn, her heart banging hard against her chest at the thought that she might find him hurt. She paused in the doorway, squinting into the dimness, but didn't see him. The groan came again.

Behind the barn? She raced around the back, her shoes silent on the short grass. She rounded the corner and saw
Cinco standing in a slight hollow in the ground. Jericho sat on the horse's back without a saddle. Or bridle, she could see now. And he wasn't sitting; he lay slumped over the horse's neck, his dark head visible between the animal's black-tipped ears. Struggling to catch her breath, she slowed. The Appaloosa stared at her with big dark eyes.

Her heart skipped a beat as she moved toward horse and rider. What was wrong? What had happened?

She was within arm's reach when Jericho swore violently and pushed himself to a sitting position. His gaze crashed into hers. His face was taut, his lips thin with pain, but she saw no blood, no awkwardly twisted limbs.

“Are you all right?” Alarm made her voice husky. “What is it?”

“I'm okay.” He scowled. His shoulders blocked most of the sun as it sank to the horizon.

Her heart beating sharply in relief, she put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing? How did you get up there?”

He glared, muttering something she couldn't understand. He looked like Andrew had the first time she'd walked him to school, furious and embarrassed.

“You shouldn't be on that horse.”

“It's time,” he said shortly. “I need to ride.”

“You've hurt yourself.”

“My muscles just aren't used to this. I'm fine.”

She refrained from pointing out that he had just groaned loudly enough to be heard in the next county. He shifted on the mare's back and his face creased in pain. She could see the sheen of sweat on his neck.

“What about your stitches?”

“I took them out.”

“You what?” She shouldn't have been surprised. “What would make you do such a thing?”

“I didn't want to rip them.”

“You would rather tear your wound?” she asked hotly. She moved to the horse's shoulder, tipping her head back to give Jericho an irritated look. The Appaloosa bumped her chest with a warm muzzle. “Come down from there right now.”

One dark eyebrow arched. “Or what?”

She frowned.

“You gonna come up here and get me? Pull me off?”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“I have to get back in the saddle, Catherine. I should've gone with that posse the other night. Next time I will.”

She understood how badly he wanted to capture the McDougal gang, that he had promised to avenge his friend's death. “I'm worried about your leg.”

“It's a little sore, but okay.”

“Let me look at it.”

“You want me to just drop my trousers right here?” he asked dryly.

“Well, how else will I be able to look at it?”

His mouth fell open, but he quickly recovered. “No.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “It's not like I haven't seen your…that…you naked before.”

“I was unconscious,” he muttered. “And couldn't be affected by you.”

He was affected by her? She hadn't only imagined it? A wild, stupid flare of hope leaped in her chest. “Come down.”

He stared at her mutinously.

“Didn't your mother teach you not to keep a lady waiting?”

A smile tugged at his lips, but it was completely at odds with the dark seriousness of his gray eyes. “All right.”

He leaned forward and held tight to Cinco's thick neck, then dragged his right leg over the animal's back. His tall, lean body draped over the horse and he hung there for a moment,
his booted feet dangling close to the grass. Catherine knew he was gauging the distance, trying to avoid jarring his leg when he touched the uneven ground.

She lightly placed her hands at his waist.

He froze. “You'd better move or I'll fall on you.”

“I'll just help you find your footing. Slide on down.” The heat of his skin reached her through his shirt, warming her palms.

Without thinking, she put a hand on the back of his left thigh to guide him. A breath hissed out of him as he set his feet on the ground. His breathing was rapid, his jaw drawn tight.

“How bad does it hurt?” she asked quietly.

“I'm okay.” His voice was strained as he faced her.

“I'll get your crutch.” She turned to look for it.

“I didn't bring it out here.”

“That's all right. I can help you in.”

“I don't need help, Catherine.” A desperate light, close to a plea, shone in his eyes. “I need you to leave me alone.”

“Which I would do if you would let me help you back to the house,” she said tartly, determined to keep her gaze from the wide expanse of chest in front of her.

The open placket of his shirt revealed the hollow at the base of his throat, a swath of burnished skin, a smattering of dark hair on the flat planes of his chest.

He stared hard at her, scowling.

She ignored the flutter in her stomach and folded her arms, staring back.

“All right,” he said gruffly. “But you're still not looking at my leg.”

“I really should—”

“No.”

He would stand here arguing until midnight, so she didn't answer, just slipped an arm around his waist and tugged gently. “Come on.”

He didn't budge.

She rolled her eyes and glanced up. An intent look had settled on his face; his eyes burned with silver light. “We'll get there a lot faster if you'll help me,” she chided softly.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. After a long hesitation, he carefully put an arm around her shoulders and they started across the uneven ground. She tried not to think about the last time she had felt the corded strength of his arm around her. Or wonder if his skin would taste the same today.

He was heavy. She reached up and grasped the wrist that hung over her shoulder, realizing she fit next to him as if they were a whole that had been separated into halves years ago. She belonged there. Why couldn't he see it? His heat pulsed against her and his heady male scent surrounded her, reminding her of questions she had been asking herself for the last four days.

“Do you find me…” She
was
going to ask. Catherine forced herself to look at him. “Is there something wrong with me?”

Perplexed, he stared down at her.

She could've quit right there, but she gathered her courage and plowed on. “I mean, why don't you want me?”

The words cut the air like a blade. He went perfectly still.

She couldn't take back what she'd said, but as the seconds stretched awkwardly, she wanted to.
Oh, please don't make me ask again.

He shook his head as if trying to clear it, saying hoarsely, “There's nothing wrong with you. Not one thing.”

Her face burned, but she had to know the truth. “Then is there someone else?”

“No.” He expelled the word like a curse, dropping his arm from her shoulders and stepping back.

“I don't understand.” Her voice thickened, but she made herself press on. “That night in my room, you wanted me. I felt it and I wasn't afraid.”

Dark color flushed the strong column of his neck. His good hand flexed at his side.

“I'm so inept at these kinds of things.” She wrapped her arms around herself, ready to chew her nails to the quick. “I don't know what to say or do.”

“You're doing just fine,” he said gruffly.

“But you don't want me. I don't know how to—”

His hand closed gently over her upper arm and he backed her up a step until she was pressed against the barn wall. “I want you more than I want my next breath.”