couldn't be the cause of her high color and all-around glow. They were cousins. What kind of a man was he to even think such a thing? She straightened abruptly then, breaking eye contact with him, and marched over to the tree, where he'd left a strip of toweling. When she returned and began to clean the remaining lather off of his skin, her breathing had slowed and her eyes were their usual color again. Had he imagined what he thought he'd seen?
Trying to look as casual and unruffled as possible, certainly far more than she felt, Mariah backed away from the lawman and studied the results of her efforts. She'd shaved him clean except for a strip of beard an inch and a half wide which ran from ear to ear, outlining the shape of his strong, angular jaw. Cleaned up, his eyes sparkling with vitality, Cain didn't look quite as harsh or cruel as he once had. In fact, if she were honest with herself, now that she'd taken a good look at him, she'd have to say that he wasn't a bad-looking man. But of course, she couldn't say it. And never would.
Aware suddenly that her cheeks were burning—and worse, that Cain had watched them catch fire—Mariah said, "I think that shave will do you just fine. Have a look and see if you don't agree." She handed Cain the mirror she'd picked up with the toweling and rambled on while he examined his reflection. "I tried to make your beard look a little like the one Abraham Lincoln used to wear, you know? It looks real honest-like. I'm thinking once we get you the proper clothing, folks are just naturally going to feel pretty much the same way about you as they did him. Like it?"
He shrugged, far more interested in—and confused by—her. "It'll do, I suppose."
"Good." Mariah lifted the hem of her skirt and turned toward the slope. "We'll be pulling out as soon as you're dressed and ready to go. Get a move on." Then, her cheeks still burning, she started up the hill.
Cain watched her as she walked away, unable to tear his gaze from the rounded outline of her bottom. Oh, she was wearing a proper enough skirt all right, but the way her hips swayed left room for doubt as to whether she'd donned enough petticoats and bloomers or whatever in the hell it was she ought to have been wearing by way of underpinnings. More disturbing than that—he couldn't seem to stop himself from staring at her or imagining the woman beneath that proper clothing.
What the hell kind of a man was he, anyway? It seemed to him that he must have been a moral kind of fellah, or thoughts such as the ones he was having wouldn't have disturbed him so. But still, if he was so damn principled, how could he be having these feelings at all? Desire hadn't just tickled his loins at the thought of Mariah naked under that skirt, it had licked him from within, painfully swelling him beyond simple arousal. Lord, if he was this depraved now, what kind of a man had he once been? The woman was his cousin , for heaven's sake.
Maybe, he thought, desperate for a reasonable explanation, the fever in his mind had taken control over his body as well. Or maybe more than his memory had been scrambled in the accident, maybe his very soul had been lost in the bargain. Cain didn't know. He only knew one, utterly appalling thing for sure right then. He'd been hard almost since the first moment her sensuous fingers had touched his shoulder.
* * *
Better than one hundred miles from the Penny encampment, most of the Doolittle Gang was settling in for the night at the ruins of an ancient Indian village. Gang leader and elder brother Billy Doolittle had discovered the dwellings the year before on an advance scouting trip of the area. Located just below the sheer, overhanging cliffs of a towering mesa some thirty miles west of Durango, the series of little "cave pueblos" made a perfect, nearly inaccessible hideout.
Billy leaned in close to the fire pit and flipped the venison steaks over to the other side, ducking as the lard he'd used to sweeten the skillet
Trying to look as casual and unruffled as possible, certainly far more than she felt, Mariah backed away from the lawman and studied the results of her efforts. She'd shaved him clean except for a strip of beard an inch and a half wide which ran from ear to ear, outlining the shape of his strong, angular jaw. Cleaned up, his eyes sparkling with vitality, Cain didn't look quite as harsh or cruel as he once had. In fact, if she were honest with herself, now that she'd taken a good look at him, she'd have to say that he wasn't a bad-looking man. But of course, she couldn't say it. And never would.
Aware suddenly that her cheeks were burning—and worse, that Cain had watched them catch fire—Mariah said, "I think that shave will do you just fine. Have a look and see if you don't agree." She handed Cain the mirror she'd picked up with the toweling and rambled on while he examined his reflection. "I tried to make your beard look a little like the one Abraham Lincoln used to wear, you know? It looks real honest-like. I'm thinking once we get you the proper clothing, folks are just naturally going to feel pretty much the same way about you as they did him. Like it?"
He shrugged, far more interested in—and confused by—her. "It'll do, I suppose."
"Good." Mariah lifted the hem of her skirt and turned toward the slope. "We'll be pulling out as soon as you're dressed and ready to go. Get a move on." Then, her cheeks still burning, she started up the hill.
Cain watched her as she walked away, unable to tear his gaze from the rounded outline of her bottom. Oh, she was wearing a proper enough skirt all right, but the way her hips swayed left room for doubt as to whether she'd donned enough petticoats and bloomers or whatever in the hell it was she ought to have been wearing by way of underpinnings. More disturbing than that—he couldn't seem to stop himself from staring at her or imagining the woman beneath that proper clothing.
What the hell kind of a man was he, anyway? It seemed to him that he must have been a moral kind of fellah, or thoughts such as the ones he was having wouldn't have disturbed him so. But still, if he was so damn principled, how could he be having these feelings at all? Desire hadn't just tickled his loins at the thought of Mariah naked under that skirt, it had licked him from within, painfully swelling him beyond simple arousal. Lord, if he was this depraved now, what kind of a man had he once been? The woman was his cousin , for heaven's sake.
Maybe, he thought, desperate for a reasonable explanation, the fever in his mind had taken control over his body as well. Or maybe more than his memory had been scrambled in the accident, maybe his very soul had been lost in the bargain. Cain didn't know. He only knew one, utterly appalling thing for sure right then. He'd been hard almost since the first moment her sensuous fingers had touched his shoulder.
* * *
Better than one hundred miles from the Penny encampment, most of the Doolittle Gang was settling in for the night at the ruins of an ancient Indian village. Gang leader and elder brother Billy Doolittle had discovered the dwellings the year before on an advance scouting trip of the area. Located just below the sheer, overhanging cliffs of a towering mesa some thirty miles west of Durango, the series of little "cave pueblos" made a perfect, nearly inaccessible hideout.
Billy leaned in close to the fire pit and flipped the venison steaks over to the other side, ducking as the lard he'd used to sweeten the skillet
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