headed back to Boston.
Over the years that followed, Chase continued his white education, marking time, gaining knowledge of their civilization, but always assuming that his destiny lay west with the Cheyenne. That was before Stevie came back into his life. He cursed to think it was the old man who had introduced the insidious idea of marriage. And even worse that he had instantly thought of her.
Deep in thought he stirred the steaming kettle of thick vegetables and venison, the latter a product of his hunting skills. There were times when he had to cleanse the stink of the city from his body, even if his soul was still tainted.
That need was what had caused him to desert the delectable Sara's bed and go hunting in the bitter New England winter. “What the hell will I do about her?” Chase muttered aloud as he dished up the fragrant food. He was not thinking of the diva but the innocent lying in his bed down the hall. Damn, it had been a near thing, climbing in bed with her that way. Only an idiot would have placed himself in such an impossible situation. Maybe you intended to deflower her. Then you 'd have to marry her.
He almost dropped the bowl. Was that what he'd been about? Would marrying her be so awful? Bitterly he realized that it would. It would mean accepting the Remington name and living the rest of his life surrounded by men like Jeremiah...and Burke. No matter how brave and hardy Stevie was, she could not survive on the plains. Look how his mother had ended up—widowed and starving with a sick child for whom she had sold her soul and her sanity.
No, if he chose the girl, he would have to abandon his Cheyenne heritage. He rubbed his eyes as a headache thrummed behind them. “I have to think.” But thinking under the same roof with Stephanie Summerfield was not all that easy. As he returned to the bedroom with their supper, he prayed the storm would clear by morning.
* * * *
The day dawned gray and cold with snow still falling. The sounds of clanking pots from the kitchen awakened Stephanie. She blinked and sat up, alone in Chase's big bed. They had talked little as they shared the simple meal he brought. He had been taciturn, deeply preoccupied, answering her questions with monosyllables or turning them back on her. She had been exhausted from the ordeal and he quickly insisted she go to sleep.
Chase had brought back one of his servant's old nightshirts, explaining that he owned none. She had blushed at the sudden image of his bronzed body naked between the white sheets and accepted the soft cotton garment which was nearly a fit. Essex was a slight man and she was tall for a female. Stephanie gingerly threw off the covers and swung her legs across to the icy floor. Someone, probably Chase, had kept the fire blazing all through the night while she slept, but now it had burned low.
Experimentally, she stretched and stood up. There were a few bruises but considering she had a near brush with death, nothing of note. Her feet were freezing. Picking up the old plaid robe Chase had left her—it did belong to him—she bundled up in it, belting the tie around her slender waist, then rolling up the sleeves that hung ridiculously long on her. A wardrobe stood across the room. Surely somewhere inside the massive piece she would find some house slippers or at least a pair of warm woolen socks, no matter how much too large. She opened one massive door, knelt down and began to rummage.
After spending an exceedingly uncomfortable night sleeping on a straight-backed Louis XVI sofa, Chase was in no mood for Standish's imperious demands or the affected English accent.
“I say, you know I'm grateful you happened along, old chap, but Miss Summerfield and I simply must get back to the city. I shall need medical attention,” he averred, gingerly touching the bandage on his head.
Over the years that followed, Chase continued his white education, marking time, gaining knowledge of their civilization, but always assuming that his destiny lay west with the Cheyenne. That was before Stevie came back into his life. He cursed to think it was the old man who had introduced the insidious idea of marriage. And even worse that he had instantly thought of her.
Deep in thought he stirred the steaming kettle of thick vegetables and venison, the latter a product of his hunting skills. There were times when he had to cleanse the stink of the city from his body, even if his soul was still tainted.
That need was what had caused him to desert the delectable Sara's bed and go hunting in the bitter New England winter. “What the hell will I do about her?” Chase muttered aloud as he dished up the fragrant food. He was not thinking of the diva but the innocent lying in his bed down the hall. Damn, it had been a near thing, climbing in bed with her that way. Only an idiot would have placed himself in such an impossible situation. Maybe you intended to deflower her. Then you 'd have to marry her.
He almost dropped the bowl. Was that what he'd been about? Would marrying her be so awful? Bitterly he realized that it would. It would mean accepting the Remington name and living the rest of his life surrounded by men like Jeremiah...and Burke. No matter how brave and hardy Stevie was, she could not survive on the plains. Look how his mother had ended up—widowed and starving with a sick child for whom she had sold her soul and her sanity.
No, if he chose the girl, he would have to abandon his Cheyenne heritage. He rubbed his eyes as a headache thrummed behind them. “I have to think.” But thinking under the same roof with Stephanie Summerfield was not all that easy. As he returned to the bedroom with their supper, he prayed the storm would clear by morning.
* * * *
The day dawned gray and cold with snow still falling. The sounds of clanking pots from the kitchen awakened Stephanie. She blinked and sat up, alone in Chase's big bed. They had talked little as they shared the simple meal he brought. He had been taciturn, deeply preoccupied, answering her questions with monosyllables or turning them back on her. She had been exhausted from the ordeal and he quickly insisted she go to sleep.
Chase had brought back one of his servant's old nightshirts, explaining that he owned none. She had blushed at the sudden image of his bronzed body naked between the white sheets and accepted the soft cotton garment which was nearly a fit. Essex was a slight man and she was tall for a female. Stephanie gingerly threw off the covers and swung her legs across to the icy floor. Someone, probably Chase, had kept the fire blazing all through the night while she slept, but now it had burned low.
Experimentally, she stretched and stood up. There were a few bruises but considering she had a near brush with death, nothing of note. Her feet were freezing. Picking up the old plaid robe Chase had left her—it did belong to him—she bundled up in it, belting the tie around her slender waist, then rolling up the sleeves that hung ridiculously long on her. A wardrobe stood across the room. Surely somewhere inside the massive piece she would find some house slippers or at least a pair of warm woolen socks, no matter how much too large. She opened one massive door, knelt down and began to rummage.
After spending an exceedingly uncomfortable night sleeping on a straight-backed Louis XVI sofa, Chase was in no mood for Standish's imperious demands or the affected English accent.
“I say, you know I'm grateful you happened along, old chap, but Miss Summerfield and I simply must get back to the city. I shall need medical attention,” he averred, gingerly touching the bandage on his head.
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