Fires of Innocence, page 8
He looked up as she walked past him. “Where did he find this information about the valley’s origin?”
She deposited the eggs and dried fruits on the counter, then reached into a cabinet for a large bowl. “Papa wasn’t the first man to write about the valley.”
“Who was?”
She cut the dried apples into quarters and dropped them into a cooking pot with measured amounts of sugar, water and essence of lemon. “He met Galen Clark a few years ago.” She glanced at him. “You do know who he is, don’t you?”
He nodded. “He was appointed trustee of Yosemite Valley by the governor.”
She inclined her head. “He’d known of a man named Lafayette Bunnell who came into the valley with the Mariposa Battalion back in ’fifty-one.”
“Who came up with the name Yosemite?”
She lifted the kettle of cereal off the fire and set it on a trivet on the hearth. “It was only named Yosemite after the battalion came in and hunted all the Indians down. The Indians had an ancient name for it—Ah-Wah-Nee, I think. It was probably hard to translate, but from what I understand, it-means ‘deep grassy valley.’ ”
“Then who renamed it?”
She hung the pot of apples over the fire, stirring them briefly before laying the spoon on a plate. “I think Mr. Bunnell did. Yosemite is the Indian word for ‘full-grown grizzly bear.’ It’s also the name of one of the tribes they discovered when they came into the valley.”
“I should have known more about the history before I took on this job.”
Scotty glanced at him, noting his pensive tone. She was pleased that he wasn’t the type of man to make excuses for himself.
After testing the apples with a fork, she pulled the pot off the fire. With a padded cloth, she gripped the handle of the pot and crossed to the doorway.
“Here,” he said, meeting her at the entry. “Let me get that.” He opened the door, then took the heavy skillet from her.
Nodding her thanks, she stepped outside with him and squinted against the clear morning light. Though the air was still and cold, the sun was warm, gleaming off the snow in twinkling sparkles of gold.
She pointed to a stone outcropping halfway up the side of the cabin. “You can set the kettle there.”
He easily lifted the pot to the high shelf, then followed her back inside.
“Help yourself to some breakfast,” she offered, setting everything out on the table.
He slid onto the bench, then glanced up at her. “You’re not eating?”
“Oh, I will. I just have some things I want to finish first.” She worked quietly, glancing back at him periodically. She didn’t voice her surprise when he took only a single helping of cereal, ate it quickly, then washed and dried his own utensils.
As she gathered together ingredients, he came up behind her. Though he didn’t touch her, she could feel him along the entire length of her back. Her heart bumped her ribs and her pelvis tightened.
With a firm grip on her measuring spoon, she dipped into the spice drawer, pulling out a pungent heap of cinnamon. She followed it with cloves and nutmeg, dumping it all into a bowl, acutely aware that he was standing so close, she could feel his breath near her ear.
“What are you making?”
His breath feathered the tiny hairs that had fallen over her ear, and she gasped quietly. “Christmas fruitcake,” she answered, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremor in her voice.
Although she didn’t turn around, she knew he’d gone, for she felt an empty chill all the way down her back. She glanced over her shoulder. He was at the window, his hands clasped behind him and his face filled with a dark brooding.
“Is something wrong?”
He drew in a sigh and shook his head. “Are you ready for the apples?”
“Yes, please.”
With an economy of movements, he went outside and retrieved her kettle of fruit. He placed it on the counter in front of her.
Nodding her thanks, she mixed the ingredients together and spooned it into the pans. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
He glanced at her briefly, then turned back to the window. “It’s Christmas, already.” His voice was soft, a mixture of sadness and warmth.
She shoved the cake filled pans into an opening in the side of the fireplace, then closed the small, heavy door. Wiping her hands on a towel, she joined him at the window. The sun had melted the snow, for water dripped in heavy wet drops from the roof. By evening, there would be a slender river of ice surrounding the cabin.
She stood beside him, fighting the urge to lean against him. “Your family will miss you.”
Sighing again, he turned and crossed to the fire. “Yes,” he answered. “They will miss me.”
She ached for him, understanding his pain. But she ached for herself, too. Though they’d been cooped up together for almost two months, they were still strangers. She knew he was lonely and wished he’d tell her about his family, but she couldn’t ask, for she was afraid of his answer.
There was a possessiveness in her feelings for him, although she knew it was foolish. Now, more than at any other time of her life, she wished she had someone to talk to. Yet, the only person she could talk to was the person she needed to talk about. Shaking her head, she realized that thinking about Alex at all was a dizzy, heady experience that left her more befuddled than she’d ever been before.
“Tupi, will you please light the candles on the table?” Scotty watched him reverently light the short, fat candles that sat in the old burnished copper candle bowls. He’d spent Christmas with her and her father for the past five years, yet she wasn’t even sure he understood exactly what they were celebrating. She knew he was a very religious man himself, but hadn’t chosen to share his religion with them.
“Too bad Mr. Jamie isn’t here,” Tupi verbalized innocently.
Scotty turned back to the fire and carefully stirred the hot syrup. “I don’t even know where he is.”
“Tupi know.”
She turned, surprised. “You do? Where?”
“Mr. Jamie in San Francisco, waiting for the thaw. Then he will come back to the valley.”
“What about the animals? Who’s watching them?”
“Tupi’s friend Jory is watching them until Mr. Jamie gets back.”
Scotty glanced at Alex, who’d just swatted Muggin off the counter.
“Don’t be a grump,” she ordered, tossing him a stern glance.
“I’m not very good at this,” he groused, as Muggin hopped up and sniffed the large dishpan of popped corn Alex had been persuaded to guard. “Can’t you lock this beast in the cave?”
She turned and stared at him. “On Christmas Eve? What kind of monster are you?” Gripping the handle of the kettle with a hot pad, she lifted it off the fire and onto the counter next to the popped corn. She took a small bowl out of the cupboard, dipped it into the dishpan and crossed to the back of the cave.
She called for the raccoon, who covered the space between them in three leaps. After setting the bowl down next to the stream, she joined Alex and Tupi back at the counter.
Alex squinted back at the animal. “What’s it doing?”
Scotty glanced toward the stream and smiled. “She’s dipping each piece into the water.”
“Washing popped corn?”
“No, not really. She just likes to dip most of her food in the water.” Scotty reached into the small icebox and pulled out a dish of precious butter. “Alex, pour the syrup over the corn, please.”
“What about me?” Tupi asked, hovering over her.
Scotty handed him a big wooden spoon. “After Alex has poured in the syrup, you make sure it’s mixed in with the corn.”
She stood back and watched the two men work. Although she’d always thought Tupi was tall, he was clearly two or three inches shorter than Alex. And where Tupi was lean and compact, Alex was thickly muscled. Her gaze wandered to Alex’s narrow hips, then over his wide shoulders. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as he hoisted the kettle high over the dishpan and scraped the remaining syrup onto the corn, a motion that bunched the muscles in his bare, hair-covered forearm.
Alex turned and looked at her. “Now what?”
She cleared her throat and sat down at the table. “Here,” she said, patting the tabletop. “Bring the butter and put the dishpan here.”
The men did as she asked, then she motioned them to sit. Tupi sat down next to her and Alex took the bench directly across from her.
“Okay, let’s do it,” she said, rolling up her sleeves.
Both men looked at her, their faces blank.
“Do what?” Tupi asked.
She smeared some butter on the palms of her hands. “Didn’t we make popcorn balls last Christmas?” When he shook his head, she glanced at Alex. “Surely you’ve had popcorn balls.”
He frowned. “Possibly. But I’ve never had to make them myself.”
“Hmmm. Something your valet did for you, no doubt.” She ignored his dark look and scooped out some warm, sticky popcorn, formed a ball, then put it on a plate. She’d made three, and the men still hadn’t moved. Her heart sank. This was supposed to be fun.
“I’m going to be very unhappy if no one helps me,” she finally said.
Tupi buttered his fingers and dug into the dishpan, solemnly following Scotty’s lead.
“Oh, come on, Alex,” she coaxed. “Try it. You might enjoy it.” She’d tried hard to lift him out of his doldrums all afternoon. Finally, when Tupi came bearing a small sack of coffee, Alex had actually laughed out loud. He’d improvised without a coffeepot, but had drunk the harsh brew, apparently savoring every drop.
Alex gave her an exaggerated sigh, then reached into the dishpan, pulling out a handful of sticky popcorn. He went through the motions of forming a ball, but couldn’t get the corn off his hands. He shook them over the dishpan, trying to dislodge the mess that stuck to his fingers.
“What in hell is wrong with this stuff?”
Scotty frowned. “I can’t imagine. You did butter your fingers first, didn’t you?”
Alex shot her a sheepish glance. “Butter my fingers?”
She tried not to smile. “It works best if you butter your fingers.” Reaching across the table, she grabbed one of his wrists, scraping the popcorn from his fingers, back into the dishpan.
Glancing up, she caught his dark gaze. She blinked nervously, trying to curb the rapid rise in her pulse. She scraped off as much popcorn as she could, then switched to the other hand.
Her fingers were butter-slick, and as she worked on his palm, the slippery substance was transferred to him, making her skin glide easily against his. The feeling was deliciously sensual.
Suddenly a bolt of desire flashed through her as one of his fingers pressed her palm. She looked at him again, and his gaze was hot. Instinct told her to finish her feeble attempt at cleaning him off. Curiosity urged her to draw it out and discover what would happen if she didn’t.
With a hesitant urgency, she slowly grasped his finger in hers, allowing the slickness of the butter to rub off the stuck popcorn. She knew there was some innuendo in her actions, for Alex’s look nearly stopped the breath in her throat. Suddenly he gripped her slick fingers, and her blood beat a wild path to her head, sending it hammering into her ears.
“Hey, I’m doing all the work here.”
Tupi’s voice sliced into Scotty’s erotic fog, and she swallowed hard, dropping Alex’s hand from hers. Her cheeks were on fire, and her blood pounded hotly through her veins.
“Well, old man,” Alex said, his voice clipped and even, “we can’t have that, now, can we?”
She looked across at him. He appeared calm and in control. She wondered if the suggestive little incident had been in her mind alone.
Christmas had come and gone. The new year was fast approaching. Scotty wanted time to stand still, for as each day passed, the time for Alex to leave came closer.
“You really shouldn’t be lifting so much.” Scotty watched Alex hoist another bucket of hot water into the oval tub she used for bathing.
“Those muscles will never get strong again if I don’t use them.”
She knew he was right, but she was also aware of the flash of discomfort that crossed his face each time he lifted something heavy. “I wish you’d let me do that—”
“Scotty.” His voice was sharp, scolding, as if he were addressing a child.
“Yes?”
“Are you as innocent as you appear, or is this just an act?”
Her heart dipped, making her stomach hurt. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He put the empty bucket on the floor and unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the chest she’d come to adore.
“If you’re really innocent, then you need a lesson or two.”
“A lesson?” she asked, choking on the words as she watched him undress.
He nodded, pulling off his shirt and tossing it on the chair. “Never unman a man.”
She swallowed hard. “Unman?”
He nodded, a tiny grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You should try a little coyness. Pretend you can’t do something so the man you’re with feels strong and protective.”
She blinked, staring at the wide, hair-covered expanse of his chest. “Is that … is that the way it’s done in the city?”
He rubbed his hand over the hair that covered his nipples, the motion causing her mouth to go dry. “That’s the way it’s done in polite society.”
“Is that how you like your women?”
He swore. “How I like my women doesn’t matter. We’re talking about you, not me. And anyway,” he added, “you’re just a girl.”
“I am not a girl. I know women my age who have already been married for years. And had children.”
In spite of what his partial nudity did to her, she stepped toward him. “How you like your women matters to me, Alex. I want to please you.” That didn’t sound right, but she didn’t know how else to say it. “I want you to be happy here.”
“Dammit! You don’t have to please me. And it’s not up to you to make me happy.” His fingers dove through his hair. “Ah, hell,” he swore. “Listen to me. If I were your guardian, then you’d have to please me. If I were your … your father—”
“Don’t be silly. You’re not old enough to be my father,” she interrupted, trying to ignore the heat in his gaze.
“But if I were,” he almost shouted, “and you said to any man the things you’ve just said to me, I’d take you across my—”
Her eyebrows went up. “You’d spank me?”
He turned and pressed his palms against the fireplace mantel, bracing his weight. “Never mind,” he growled.
Heat spread through her. Surely spanking wouldn’t … No. That’s ridiculous.
“You’re just too damned outspoken, Scotty.”
“I am?”
He nodded again, turned toward her and gave her a stern look.
She looked away, his attitude puzzling her. “I dinna know any other way to be.”
“I’ve never met anyone like you. You bring a whole new meaning to the word woman.”
She bristled. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He shook his head, sat down in the chair and took off his boots. “You’re like a contrary, curious child in a … a woman’s body.”
He always seemed to have great difficulty getting the word woman past his lips when he referred to her. Anger and humiliation welled up in her. “Oh, a child, am I?”
“Yes,” he answered, stripping off his socks. “A child.”
Scotty narrowed her gaze. “Well, then,” she began. “The child in me wants to know why a man such as yourself has so much hair covering his body.”
He stopped undressing, one stocking hanging from his fingertips. “What?”
She strutted to the fire and stood in front of him, hands on hips. “That’s right. Why do you have so much body hair? Papa’s chest was almost hairless. Just a few hairs around his nipples. And Tupi’s is as broad and slick as—”
“What in the hell are you doing?”
His voice thundered off the walls of the cabin. From the corner, Muggin shrieked like a terrified bairn.
“I’m acting like a child. I’m asking questions that have gnawed at me since the minute you bullied your way into my … home.” She was going to say “heart,” but caught herself.
“Young lady.” His voice was a low threat. “You’d better watch yourself.”
“Or what?”
He glowered at her, but said nothing. There was a deeper color to his neck.
“You’re blushing.”
He swore. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Why are you blushing? Was it something I said?”
He stood up and faced her, his broad hands on his hips and his legs wide apart. “I wonder if you’re really so brave.”
Swallowing a lump of alarm, she said, “I’m not afraid.”
He gave her a devil-like smirk, then began unbuttoning his pants.
Heat rushed through her again, warming her insides. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to scare her. Swallowing hard, she wondered who would back down first.
He kicked off his pants, shoving them to the side with his foot. Scotty’s eyes were riveted on the bulge beneath his snuggies, at that place between his thighs. It seemed larger than usual. She pulled her gaze up to his chest, watching as he unwrapped the light bandage she’d placed there the day before. Soon his entire chest was exposed.
“I have so much body hair,” he crooned, “because my father was as hairy as a grizzly.”
She worked her mouth, but nothing came out. Something in her chest fluttered and clanged. It was probably her heart, although she’d never felt it do such things before.
