Slow Fever by Cait London Page A

deepening the lines bracketing his mouth and between his black slashing brows. “Let me guess. You’re burning off excess sexual energy.”
    “I’m burning off pounds, not sexual energy,” she lied, glaring up at him.
    “Sure,” he said flatly. “You had to come up here, alone, to do that?”
    Unpredictable as always, she’d scared the hell out of him. This time of year, an early snowfall could take bears and wolves searching for food. She could have slipped, falling into those jutting, deadly ravines. He hadn’t realized his blood could run so cold, or his fear could rise so high. He’d pushed himself up the mountain, half running, his sides aching, his heart pounding with fear, only to find her dreaming by her campfire, snug and warm. She had the ability to terrorize him and that frightened him, too. He didn’t like the quivering emotions within him, the unrighteous need to hold her tight and safe for the rest of his life.
    Kylie sat up and looped her arms around her bent knees. How could a man’s mouth be so sweet and tender and hungry and then become an unrelenting line? “I’m certain you wouldn’t know anything about excess sensual energy. How long has she been gone—two whole days?”
    In the firelight, Michael’s grin was slow and devastating. “I told you she was a friend.” His tone taunted.
    At least he had that, a little jealous spark from her, to comfort his torn nerves.
    “What are you doing here, anyway? Why do you always turn up when I’m putting myself together?” But Michael was studying the clearing and Kylie knew he was remembering when her father had brought them both up here. Wary of revealing his hard life, Michael had only been eight to her six, and her father had taught him how to fish. Even then, Michael had known life’s hard skills, a boy trying to survive. Poorly fed and clothed, Michael had “made-do” for himself—and not always by legal means. Her parents had both spoken for him when the sheriff came circling him. Those few days away on the camping trip were meant for her alone—Tanner and Miranda didn’t want her tagging after them and she’d been hurt. But she didn’t mind sharing her father with Michael. Paul Bennett was a gentle man and he’d put his arm around Michael, speaking to him quietly. Michael had tensed, his face paling, but he’d answered, his dark eyes brilliant with unshed tears.
    He hadn’t known a man like Paul Bennett before, Michael thought, remembering back to the man’s calm, easy voice. A man to trust, Paul had been everything in a father that Michael had dreamed of and hadn’t had. He’d have given his soul to be Paul Bennett’s son, then and always. He hadn’t known that fathers could talk so gently, explaining the right and the wrong and the confusion of love and hurt.
    Kylie studied Michael’s blunt cheekbones, those incredible lashes concealing his thoughts, the tight, wary set of his body. The day they’d come down from the mountain, her father’s expression was grim. She’d heard the stories later: her father had been terminally ill, and yet he’d gone to the Cusack shack and called out Fred Cusack. Her father had shamed Fred then, in front of the town, exposing him as a bully. Then he’d turned to Michael. “You can stay with us if you want. You’re a good boy. You’ll be a fine man. I believe in you. Just keep to the good track and be what a man should be. Keep your pride and your honor,” Paul Bennett had said, then he’d walked off, giving Michael his choices.
    Her mother had said that Michael stayed with his drunken father because of pride and because he’d known that she—as a widow—could little afford to take him. Fred had died when Michael was eighteen and already gone from Freedom Valley. But he’d returned periodically, and in later years, eventually had been able to replace Fred’s charity grave marker with a proper tombstone.
    “You can’t stay here,” Kylie said to Michael, the adult male