Fires of Innocence, page 2
She walked back toward him, keenly aware that he watched her. He was getting an eyeful, the mangy cur.
She knelt down beside him, suddenly unafraid. “I certainly hope you’re happy,” she said as she set down the poultice and wiped off the wound again. “You’ve stripped me of all my self-respect.”
He swore, then sucked in his breath as she shoved him onto his side and pressed the poultice against his wound. “And you’re going to make me pay for it, aren’t you?”
“Don’t tempt me,” she answered, pushing one end of the flannel under him so she could pull it out the other side.
He lifted off the floor slightly, allowing her to push the flannel through. “I … wouldn’t dream … of it.” He sucked in his breath again before relaxing against the bedding.
Scotty pulled the flannel across his wide chest, covering the lower half of his ribs, then under, around and back again, to just above his hair-covered navel. His flesh was firm and warm. The hair that covered him wasn’t soft, nor was it stiff. Her fingers grazed it often, and she had a wild urge to splay her palms over the area of his breasts and feel the pelt.
Her cheeks flared with heat at such thoughts. Surely he was casting a spell of some sort upon her. When she’d finished wrapping him, she fastened the flap to the side and glanced at his face. She seethed inwardly, for he was staring at her chest, smirking like a lecher.
She leaped to her feet and, with a mutinous glare, stepped into her trousers, pulling them up over her hips. She also slipped back into her shirt and buttoned it to her neck, ignoring him.
As she pulled on her moccasins, the thought struck her that he could be a killer or even a rapist. Slowly, she backed away.
If he were unconscious, she’d be safe. But thoughts of the long night ahead terrified her. She was already exhausted from tending to his needs. While it would be impossible to stay awake all night and keep her eye on him, she would have to try. He’d already proved he was a man who got the upper hand easily.
“Come here,” he rasped, waving the gun at her again.
Scotty swallowed bile, but didn’t move. “What do you want now?”
“My clothes,” he said.
“Your clothes are all bloody.”
He nodded. “I know. Take them off.”
Her mouth fell open. “Off? Yours?”
“Off. Mine.” He twitched the revolver in her direction.
Again, she grew cold. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she crept slowly toward him.
“Hurry up!”
She jumped at the harsh sound, then bent over him again, dragging his bloody shirt out from under him. He made a sound in his throat, but appeared to bite it back before it became a groan.
She studied him, hoping he’d finally lost consciousness. When he didn’t open his eyes or even move, she backed away.
“The rest of them,” he commanded.
Scotty swallowed a sound of annoyance, then went to the end of the sleeping roll, pulling back the blanket. She cringed. There was blood everywhere. She hastily threw the quilt back over him, then reached up under it and found the waist of his trousers. She noted with dismay that his fly was buttoned.
By the holy, if this didn’t get her knickers in a twist, nothing would. She hadn’t even had to undo her own father’s buttons when he’d been ill.
Taking a deep breath, she gingerly released each button from its hole, trying to ignore the heavy mound that lay behind the underwear. It wasn’t possible. The gesture, so painfully intimate, was made more so by the heat discharged from his body. Suddenly, the backs of her fingers accidentally grazed the mass, and it moved. She jerked her hand away and looked at him. There was a half-smile on his lips, and one black eyebrow was arched up over one eye.
“You have a free hand,” she sputtered, sitting back on her haunches. “Do it yourself.”
“I like the way you do it,” he answered with a wicked grin.
Her temper flared as her cheeks flamed. So that’s how it was going to be? With vicious glee, she thrust her hands up under the blanket, finished unbuttoning his fly, then jerked his trousers down over his hips and knees. With equal vengeance she pulled down his long underwear, trying to avoid touching the long, hard muscles along the outside of his thighs.
She stood, hoping she’d caused him pain. But when she looked at him, he actually appeared to be asleep—or maybe, she thought hopefully, he’d passed out. Not taking her eyes off him, she tiptoed closer, nudging him with her toe. He didn’t move, but the gun slid from his fingers.
Scotty couldn’t believe her luck. She inched closer still, knelt down and scooped up the weapon. Crossing the room in three quick leaps, she then hid his gun in one of the nooks in the rolltop desk.
She quickly pulled on her jacket, went outside and shoveled snow into a bucket, hauling it back inside and setting it in front of the fire. While she waited for the snow to melt, she went through the man’s pockets. She found no identification, only a beautiful gold watch with the initials AAG delicately scrolled on the back.
Running her fingers back and forth across the surface of the watch, she looked at the rough, wild man. He’d probably stolen it. Or maybe, she thought, her nerves cresting with fresh fear, he’d killed the owner first.
Shuddering, she set the timepiece on the counter. After stoking the fire again, she draped another quilt over him. Then, stretching her back, she walked over and sat down in her father’s chair by the hearth. After kicking off her moccasins and tucking her feet under her, Muggin scurried over and curled up in her lap.
“Well, girl,” she said, scratching that special place just above Muggin’s tail, “what do you think?”
Muggin stared at the quiet form on the floor and growled deep in her throat.
Scotty glared at the insolent stranger, too. “My sentiments exactly.”
She turned her head to the side, letting Muggin probe her heavy coiled braids in search of her hairpins. The movement brought a sharp stinging pain from under the cloth she’d wrapped around her neck, and she remembered that he’d cut her. She reached up and touched the cloth. It was dry. Well, at least she wasn’t bleeding. She’d dress it properly later. Right now, with Muggin unbraiding her hair, a drowsy lethargy was spreading through her.
She tried to keep her eyes open; she couldn’t afford to doze off. She had to watch the man, not only to make sure he didn’t start bleeding again, but to make sure he didn’t kill her in her sleep. She had to … She yawned behind her hand and nestled deeper into the chair. No, she couldn’t afford to sleep. Not only did she have her usual chores to do, but she still had a jackrabbit to clean.
Several hours later, Scotty awoke with a start. Immediately upon rising from the chair, she skinned and cleaned the rabbit and made a fresh batch of biscuits. While the biscuits were cooling on the counter, she went into the cave and mucked out Glory, her father’s mule’s stall, and hunted for eggs. It was always an adventure, for her scurrilous hen often refused to part with them. This time was no exception. She got bit. Cursing mildly, she pushed aside the deerskin that covered the opening to the cave and stepped into the cabin, her bleeding finger in her mouth. Cradling the precious egg in her other hand, she crossed to the counter and gingerly set her booty in a rounded dish so it wouldn’t roll out and break.
She turned as Muggin yipped at her from the hammock in the far corner. “Oh, it’s nothing, little lass. Just that old hen trying to keep her egg for herself,” she said.
The raccoon swung from the hammock like an acrobat tumbling from a circus net. She scampered over to Scotty, climbed onto the counter and nudged the egg with her nose.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Scotty scolded, hiding the egg in the cupboard. “I know what you want, you rascal.” She hauled the animal into her arms and held her like a baby. “You not only want that egg, but you want me to butcher that nasty hen so you can feast on cooked chicken neck, don’t you?”
Muggin fought her way out of Scotty’s arms and jumped to the floor, landing close to the stranger. Letting out an ear-piercing shriek, she scurried to the wooden box, peering out from behind it to stare at the man.
Scotty shook her head and went to wash up. He’d been motionless as a buried stick for hours, for which she was grateful. Every time she began to wonder who he was, thoughts of how he’d made her strip to her underwear bombarded her brain, fueling her fury. And when she thought about that, she remembered how he’d touched her, claiming to search for a knife. She also remembered that there had been almost as much heat in his gaze as there’d been in the fireplace. Sweet Mary, he was the most revolting kind of criminal. What cruel fate had brought him into her life, anyway?
Pushing away all thoughts of the man, she returned to the counter and began browning the rabbit meat for the stew.
She was engrossed in her cooking, having almost forgotten she wasn’t alone.
“What the hell!”
The deep, rumbling voice made her jump, and she dropped a piece of meat on the floor. For a moment she panicked, hunting wildly for the rifle she’d placed so carefully beside her. Finally seeing it, she grabbed it and swung around, pointing it at the intruder.
He was up on one elbow, frowning down at his naked chest. Suddenly he looked at her, and his eyes glistered dangerously. “Where in the hell are my clothes?”
Scotty swallowed hard. “You told me to take them off. They were all bloody.”
He made a growling noise in his throat, the sound wild and menacing. “I didn’t tell you to leave me buck naked.”
“You didn’t tell me to dress you, either,” she answered as tartly as she could, given the circumstances. She focused her gaze at the dark whorls of hair on his chest, remembering, in spite of herself, the fascination she’d felt when she’d touched it. It was safer than looking him in the eye—wasn’t it?
“Would you have?”
Her gaze moved to his face. “What?”
“Dressed me?”
She fumed. “Not before I carved out your bloody heart.”
He started to laugh, then sobered, groping the floor on either side of him. “Dammit, where is it?”
She gripped her rifle harder. Unconscious, he had seemed helpless enough. But now, he was awake, virile and … and male. And his brief teasing puzzled her. “I … I put your gun in a safe place.”
He swore, threw back the covers and bared himself in front of her.
She gawked at him and sucked in her breath, holding it so long she almost fainted. His shoulders were wide and hard, his arms appeared sculpted from granite, and his chest drew her gaze again, tempting her as it had done before. There was a blatant lustiness about him. His whole bearing was potent. And he seemed unbelievably dangerous now that he had some of his strength back.
Gasping for breath, she leaned back against the counter and briefly looked away. Heaven, hell and purgatory, the man had no shame. Nor did she, it would seem, considering how she stared at him and how her gaze was drawn irresistibly to him again.
He started to get up. The long, hard muscles of his thighs bulged under his weight. She gaped at the profusion of black hair below the bandage, the sight drawing her eyes like a bairn’s mouth to a sugar tit. Heaven help her, she had to do something.
“Stop it! Stay back! Stay away from me!” She jabbed the rifle at him, fending him off as though he were a charging grizzly.
Suddenly he doubled over and groaned, clutching his side. He lay back against the pillow, panting as drops of sweat beaded his forehead. “I want my gun.”
“Not before I find out who you are,” she retorted, regaining her composure.
“I’m your worst nightmare if you don’t give me my gun.”
The rifle made Scotty brave. “And I’m yours if you dinna tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
He closed his eyes and sagged against the pillow. “All in good time,” he muttered weakly.
“I want to know now.” She touched the flannel binding at her throat. “You almost separated my head from my shoulders. I think I have a right to know who the devil you are.”
He lay there, unconcerned, his forearm over his face.
Scotty glowered at him. “Who shot you?”
He sighed, lifted his arm off his face and stared at her, again grazing her body with indecent arrogance. “Someone who didn’t like what I do for a living.”
She gave him a cynical look “A few inches higher, and he’d have claimed your lung. Too bad he wasn’t a better shot.”
He studied her, examining her chest and hips before dragging his gaze to her face. “I liked you better in your underwear.”
Her face got hot. “And I liked you better when you were snoring like a dead hammer.”
He grinned, a maddening half-grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Why? So you could get a better look at my body?”
She gasped, feeling the blush heat up the roots of her hair. “You arrogant, conceited, cocky, son-of-a—”
“Tut, tut,” he interrupted, wagging a finger at her. “That’s no way for a young lady to talk.”
“I wish I’d had the pleasure of shooting you myself. I wouldn’t have missed the vital places,” she added, glaring at his covered groin.
He continued to peruse her. Had his look been any hotter, her clothes would have become ashes and fallen to the floor.
“Then I’m lucky you didn’t get to me first, aren’t I?”
She squirmed under his scrutiny, terribly uncomfortable and unaccustomed to having someone examine her this way. She would have thought that after all that he’d put her through earlier, nothing would have bothered her. She was wrong.
Suddenly he gasped. A look of pain spread across his face. “Do something, dammit, it hurts like hell.” He swore again. “I need a drink.”
Scotty gripped the rifle and inched toward him. “Move your arm away from your side.” He did, and she glanced down at the blood that had soaked through half the binding.
Dredging up her courage, she said, “I’m going to have to take a closer look at it.”
He nodded, shoving the blankets down past his navel.
She looked at the expanse of flesh again. Up close, the symmetrical pattern of chest hair not covered by the flannel binding was dark and curly. As she knelt down beside him, memories of her father’s chest, thin in illness and void of hair, swam before her and she gave her head a violent shake.
“Remember,” she warned. “One move out of you, and I’ll blow your bloody head off.”
He lifted a black, contemptuous eyebrow in her direction, but said nothing.
She left him briefly to get fresh supplies, then returned and put the rifle out of his reach, and bent to his wound. When she’d finished, she put everything away, then dug in the cupboard and dragged out a bottle.
“Here,” she said, filling a cup and handing it to him.
Giving her a suspicious look, he took the vessel from her. He brought it to his nose and sniffed, then gave her a pleasant look of surprise. “Whiskey?”
“I’m told that if you drink enough of the stuff, you can’t hit a wall with a handful of beans.” She shrugged, giving him a mocking smile. “I can only hope that in your case it’s true.”
He laughed quietly. And, to Scotty’s surprise, his eyes were filled with amusement.
He finally slept again. The quiet, rhythmic sound of his breathing sedated the ragged edges of her nerves. After drinking a cup of tea herself, she picked up her milk pail and went into the cave to milk her goat, Rosie.
The earth-smell of the interior always soothed her. The only light, other than that which shone in from the cabin, came from openings high on the wall of the cave. Once Scotty’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she settled herself on the stool beside Rosie and slid the pail beneath her udders.
Noticing the heavy sac of milk, she patted Rosie’s rump lovingly. “I’m sorry, girl,” she apologized as she began to pull on the teats. “I’ve had a little bit extra on my mind today.”
She continued to milk the goat, resting her forehead against the animal’s warm stomach as she did so. Her thoughts briefly went to the last kid Rosie bore. Jamie had slaughtered it, for her father had been too weak to do it, and Scotty wouldn’t … couldn’t do it herself.
The events of her frustrating morning intruded then, and she realized she’d been prepared to spend the winter alone with her animals. She knew it would get tiresome, and she knew she’d be lonely without her father. But she’d been so relieved that the government man hadn’t gotten around to evicting her before the passes closed that she welcomed the loneliness.
Every time she thought about how the government had come into the valley and told everyone they had to leave their homes, she got angry all over again. Her father had made her promise she’d not let their land be taken over by the state of California for any reason, and she intended to keep that promise even if it meant fighting with everything she had. Which, she realized sadly, wasn’t much.
She remembered her father’s reaction to the eviction notice. He hadn’t believed for a minute that they were kicking everyone out of the valley so they could preserve it. That was merely a cock-and-bull story. A hoax. The government, under the phony veil of justice, wanted the land for its own use. Her father firmly believed that, and Scotty believed it, too.
If they wanted her off the land, they were going to have to carry her out—bodily. She wasn’t giving an inch. Anyway, she thought, feeling a niggle of panic, where would she go? She’d lived ten of her eighteen years in Yosemite. It was home.
She’d often made light of roaming through the valley alone, despite her father’s concern. There wasn’t an inch of it she hadn’t explored. She’d learned the subtle nuances of each pine tree, knew all the game that lived in the forests winter and summer, and could identify every wildflower that grew from the rocky alpine slopes to the smooth, grassy valley floor. She’d never had anything to fear. At least, she thought with a shiver, until today.
