He had to respect her. She was tough and uncomplaining and loyal. And yet there was a softness in her, too. A truly rare female. Wyatt had known little comfort in his life and even less love, not as a boy in a rough, chaotic household and not as a lawman working in the lawless West. He'd seen enough that he admired anyone with true strength. He admired Garnet.
He stepped forward and took the cup from her wet fingers. Small soap bubbles clung to the sparkling clean rim. "Thanks."
There was a frankness in her eyes, in those blue-and-green specked depths, and a kindness in her soul that he could not dismiss.
"I washed the coffeepot and then boiled fresh for you." She turned, plunging her hands inside the soapy bucket and coming up with his only fork.
"You washed my coffeepot?"
"Disgusting coffee stains and the most deplorable-looking mung were caked on the bottom of the poor pot. You have no notion how hard I had to scrub to get it off. Really, Wyatt, you should wash your possessions more often. It's unhealthy."
He tried to ignore her civilizing advice. Great. Just great. Now his treasured cup of morning coffee would taste of that strong lye soap she was using.
Wyatt reached for the stained, torn shirt he used as a hot pad and grabbed the pot from the stove. He filled the clean cup and watched with disappointment as the coffee poured out thin, brown, and watery. Where was the bitter blackness? The thick rich brew that looked like mud?
Wyatt fought to keep a lid on his temper. Since a man couldn't survive on this weak brew, he grabbed the closest whiskey bottle from the shelf, one of a dozen, and snapped open the seal. He poured a liberal dollop of liquor into his cup before retightening the cap. When he turned, he saw both women staring at him in disapproval.
"This is my shack," he reminded them.
Garnet clucked her tongue like a seasoned schoolmarm. "I did not say a word."
"That look you're giving me sure does."
Hell, he hadn't rescued the damn woman from the wolves just to have her take over his life, wash his cup, make his coffee.
Grumbling, Wyatt rescued his plate of pancakes from the oven, grabbed his only fork from Golda's trembling fingers and, armed with his whiskey-laden cup of coffee, marched outside.
He would eat by the creek where only nature and no women were there to bother him.
* * *
"He looks vicious," Golda whispered the instant Wyatt had disappeared from sight. "Those eyes of his. Did you notice how black and soulless they are? I bet he's a wanted man hiding out from the law in this godforsaken wilderness. He's killed somebody. Maybe even a lot of somebodies. Everyone in town said he was dangerous."
Garnet frowned at her sister's bothersome imagination. "Really, be realistic. Mr. Tanner may be highly disagreeable, but he did save my life and Pa's. He carried me here, even though it was a long way, and tended my wound. He even gave me the cabin for the night."
"Well, I just don't like him," Golda wailed nervously. She dropped the frying pan and bent to retrieve it. "He terrifies me."
"Well, he should," she snapped, her nerves suddenly on edge. Had Golda always been this way? Garnet wrung out a rag she'd torn from that old shirt in the corner and began wiping down the table with swift, vigorous strokes. Her rag came up muddy, so she rinsed and scrubbed a second time. "Wyatt Tanner is a dangerous, unpredictable man and any sensible woman ought to be terrified of him. But he took care of me and I am grateful."
"You're not making any sense."
"I'm making perfect sense. Go throw out this water and bring in fresh. We've got a lot more washing to do."
"Garnet, tell me you don't mean you have feelings for that horrible ruffian. You spent the night with him."
"I was here with Pa, and Wyatt remained
He stepped forward and took the cup from her wet fingers. Small soap bubbles clung to the sparkling clean rim. "Thanks."
There was a frankness in her eyes, in those blue-and-green specked depths, and a kindness in her soul that he could not dismiss.
"I washed the coffeepot and then boiled fresh for you." She turned, plunging her hands inside the soapy bucket and coming up with his only fork.
"You washed my coffeepot?"
"Disgusting coffee stains and the most deplorable-looking mung were caked on the bottom of the poor pot. You have no notion how hard I had to scrub to get it off. Really, Wyatt, you should wash your possessions more often. It's unhealthy."
He tried to ignore her civilizing advice. Great. Just great. Now his treasured cup of morning coffee would taste of that strong lye soap she was using.
Wyatt reached for the stained, torn shirt he used as a hot pad and grabbed the pot from the stove. He filled the clean cup and watched with disappointment as the coffee poured out thin, brown, and watery. Where was the bitter blackness? The thick rich brew that looked like mud?
Wyatt fought to keep a lid on his temper. Since a man couldn't survive on this weak brew, he grabbed the closest whiskey bottle from the shelf, one of a dozen, and snapped open the seal. He poured a liberal dollop of liquor into his cup before retightening the cap. When he turned, he saw both women staring at him in disapproval.
"This is my shack," he reminded them.
Garnet clucked her tongue like a seasoned schoolmarm. "I did not say a word."
"That look you're giving me sure does."
Hell, he hadn't rescued the damn woman from the wolves just to have her take over his life, wash his cup, make his coffee.
Grumbling, Wyatt rescued his plate of pancakes from the oven, grabbed his only fork from Golda's trembling fingers and, armed with his whiskey-laden cup of coffee, marched outside.
He would eat by the creek where only nature and no women were there to bother him.
* * *
"He looks vicious," Golda whispered the instant Wyatt had disappeared from sight. "Those eyes of his. Did you notice how black and soulless they are? I bet he's a wanted man hiding out from the law in this godforsaken wilderness. He's killed somebody. Maybe even a lot of somebodies. Everyone in town said he was dangerous."
Garnet frowned at her sister's bothersome imagination. "Really, be realistic. Mr. Tanner may be highly disagreeable, but he did save my life and Pa's. He carried me here, even though it was a long way, and tended my wound. He even gave me the cabin for the night."
"Well, I just don't like him," Golda wailed nervously. She dropped the frying pan and bent to retrieve it. "He terrifies me."
"Well, he should," she snapped, her nerves suddenly on edge. Had Golda always been this way? Garnet wrung out a rag she'd torn from that old shirt in the corner and began wiping down the table with swift, vigorous strokes. Her rag came up muddy, so she rinsed and scrubbed a second time. "Wyatt Tanner is a dangerous, unpredictable man and any sensible woman ought to be terrified of him. But he took care of me and I am grateful."
"You're not making any sense."
"I'm making perfect sense. Go throw out this water and bring in fresh. We've got a lot more washing to do."
"Garnet, tell me you don't mean you have feelings for that horrible ruffian. You spent the night with him."
"I was here with Pa, and Wyatt remained
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