she liked watching him move hadn’t helped to cool him off one bit.
But he had to cool off.
The closer Whip got to Shannon, the more he realized that she wasn’t like the windows he had met from time to time and shared a few days or weeks with. She blushed when she looked at him. She glanced away an instant after she met his eyes. Yet it wasn’t flirting. She no more knew how to flirt than she knew how to stalk deer.
Silent John mustn’t have been any great shakes when it came to making a girl feel like a woman, Whip thought as he slammed the maul into a big log. Shannon acts more like a nervous bridge fresh from the church than a window who’s done it all a thousand times before.
Damnation. I wonder just how green she is when it comes to being a woman with her man?
The thought was unnerving.
Whip shifted his grip and brought the maul down so hard it whistled through the air. The wood broke apart violently and leaped beyond his reach.
With a muttered curse at his own clumsiness, Whip grabbed one of the chunks and set it on the chopping block once more.
«It’s hot and waiting for you,» Shannon called from the window.
The maul missed its target completely.
«Well, son of a bitch,» Whip muttered softly. «Looks like I’m no more use than a broken handle.»
He lifted the maul over his head again and swung down, using less force. The log obediently fell into two pieces and lay within easy reach.
Let that be a lesson, Whip told himself sardonically. Whether it’s logs or women, finesse beats raw strength any day of the week.
Whip split the log again for good measure before he set aside the maul, removed his leather work gloves, and stuffed the gloves into the back pocket of his pants. From long habit he picked up and settled the bullwhip on his shoulder.
As he went to the cabin, sleet fell against his face and lodged in his clothes. When he removed his hat to wash up, sleet mixed into his hair. He bent down over the washbasin, then stopped, sniffing the steam that rose from the water. Through it was mint rather than Willow’s favorite lavender scent rising from the basin, the smell of the water kindled a memory in him.
Willow’s bathhouse. All full of warmth from the hot spring water Wolfe and Reno piped in for them. No real sulfur to it, just a richness of minerals.
Whip scooped up steaming water and lowered his face into his palms. He made a sound of pleasure as the water spilled over him, washing away sweat and sleet alike.
Wish I’d had this when I shaved this morning. Cold water is pure hell, no matter how sharp the razor is.
Whip paused as a though struck him. He looked at the surrounding forest and the clearing itself. No telltale plumes of white rose into the cold, clear air.
I haven’t seen sign of a hot spring around here for miles in any direction, either. It must be in a cave somewhere.
«Come and get it before I feet it to Prettyface,» Shannon said from the window.
«Don’t you dare, woman!»
Quickly Whip splashed hot water over his face and hands. He followed it up with the morsel of soap that was balanced on the basin’s wide rim. Then he rinsed again, making certain he was clean. When he lifted his head, dripping, the cabin door was closed and Shannon was standing very close.
«Here,» she said softly.
Whip looked at the piece of cloth Shannon was holding out to him. It was faded and threadbare, but enough remained for him to see that the fabric once had held a vivid pattern of flowers and birds. It was a very feminine design, as clean and graceful as the hand that held it.
Looking at the rag, Whip guessed that it was the remainder of a favorite dress. Or perhaps Shannon’sonlydress. Certainly he had seen her in nothing but secondhand men’s clothing that had been cut down to fit her slender frame.
«Thank you,» he said huskily.
When Whip took the towel, he thought he felt the silky brush of Shannon’s fingers against his own, but he couldn’t be certain.
Yet Shannon was certain she had touched him. Whip could see it in the sudden expansion of her pupils, the rush of color to her cheeks, the breath that hesitated and then came out in a ragged sigh.
«I’ll — I’ll wait by the door,» she said breathlessly.
«You don’t have to,» Whip said. He lowered his face into the fabric Shannon had once worn against her skin. «I won’t bite.»
«Prettyface might. That’s why I’m keeping him inside for now. He’s not used to being around men.»
«How old is he?»
The question was muffled, but Shannon understood.
«Oh, a little more than two years, I guess,» she said.
Whip’s head came up quickly.
«What about Silent John?» Whip asked. «He’s a man, isn’t he?»
Shannon blinked, bit her lip, and flushed.
«Silent John is the exception, of course,» she said, looking at her hands.
Whip had a strong suspicion that Shannon was lying. He just didn’t know why.
Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to know how often Silent John is gone. And for how long.
Then Whip understood more than he wanted to: Shannon’s husband had been absent so much that her dog never had a chance to get used to men.
Judas Priest!
Shannon has had God’s own luck keeping out of reach of gold miners and renegades. But she can’t count on luck to keep the Culpeppers at bay forever.
Before I go yondering, I’ll have to have another talk with those boys. Make them understand all the way to their black souls just how lacking in Christian charity their manners have been.
Absently Whip wiped off his hands and started toward the cabin door.
«Wait,» Shannon said, stepping closer.
Whip looked down at her through half-lowered lids.
«Change your mind?» he asked.
«About what?»
As Shannon spoke, she took the damp rag from Whip’s hands and blotted his mustache right above the peak of his lip.
«There,» she said, examining the cleanly drawn curves of Whip’s mouth. «Now the biscuits won’t taste like soap to you.»
Then Shannon looked up into Whip’s eyes and forgot to breathe. Close up, his eyes were a clear, luminous gray surrounded by a glittering circle of black. Intriguing splinters of blue and green radiated from the pupils, which were expanding as she watched them. Soon there was only a smoky crystal band of color left in his eyes.
Whip was looking at Shannon’s mouth with a smoldering intensity that made her feel weak.
«You missed a bit of lather,» she explained, her voice shaky.
«Just one?»
She nodded.
«Sure there aren’t any more?» he coaxed.
His dark, husky voice made shimmering sensations chase down from Shannon’s breastbone to her thighs, as though she were watching him in secret from the cabin window again.
«More?» she whispered.
«Bits of lather. To wipe off.»
With shuttered eagerness, Shannon’s glance went over the pronounced planes and masculine angles of
