remember. And because grinning didn't match with the quickening the sight—hell, the thought—of her too often produced in his body.
He'd settled in to eat just as Wood arrived. He'd heard enough to have even less cause to grin. Yet here he sat, fighting a grin, as she charged in like a windstorm, picking up speed and irritation as she came.
She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he had to tip his head to make eye contact under the brim of his hat.
"What were you doing at Jasper Pond that day?” she demanded.
"Taking a bath."
She frowned. And blushed.
Both reactions pleased him, which made about as much sense as grinning.
"I know that,” she said, impatient, then blushed harder as he watched the memory of how she knew deepen the color of her eyes. “I mean, why were you still there? You'd made camp the night before, right?"
"No."
"No? But somebody'd made camp. Wasn't that you?"
"Yes."
She glared at him. “Well?"
"Not night. Made camp near sunup."
Her frown deepened. “What did you do all night?"
"Watch."
"Watch what?"
"Turns out, nothing."
She squared off to him, fists on hips. “Mr. Dusaq,” she said, and he knew the emphasis was deliberate, “this conversational style of yours might do fine for telegraphs, but I want answers. Whole answers. And I want them now. I don't want a grain of sand for every question, I want a mountain. I want to know what you were doing there and why."
Shaking off a prickling sensation at her choosing the same image as the old padre had used for his sins, Nick straightened from his slouch, then slowly stood, deliberately closing the space between them. She tensed, but didn't back away. He met her look. She was bucking a lifetime of habit. He didn't explain. He didn't answer demands.
"What you think you want, Mrs. Terhune, might not be what's best for you."
Her eyes changed color again; she was as aware as he that he'd never before called her by name. “I decide what's best for me."
If she'd said it defiantly, stubbornly, he might have ridden out, might even have succeeded in not looking back. But she said the words as flat fact ... with a bedrock of loneliness beneath. And the fact and the loneliness were so familiar, it was like hearing an echo of his own soul.
"I left Chelico late afternoon and camped that night just outside Lazy W range,” he started, reciting facts, no more. “Covered their spread the next day, reaching the canyon at dusk. Then—"
"You crossed Natchez from the east road to the canyon in a day? But nobody...” She sputtered out of protests as he met her look unblinking.
"I spent the night watching,” he picked up as if she hadn't spoken. “Scouted for signs of rustling. Didn't see any. Cooked breakfast, ate it, got some sleep, then took a bath. As you know.” He held her eyes, knowing the danger, but courting the hot slide of awareness that went through him. “Then I rode on to the Circle T home ranch, and waited to be interviewed by the Widow Terhune."
He was pleased to see her swallow hard before her inevitable questions.
"What made you think there was rustling?"
"It was a possibility. Some men trying to drive someone out of business would stop at nothing."
She blinked, slowly. “You're saying Gordon Wood is trying to drive the Circle T out of business? That's crazy! Sure he wants Natchez to be the biggest and best around here, but the idea he'd resort to rustling..."
"He'd resort to marriage."
"He doesn't seem to think it would be such a sacrifice,” she snapped.
"Wood wants the Circle T under his thumb and—"
"He knows I won't sell."
"—he wants you underneath him, in his bed."
Her swift intake of breath was the only sound for a long, charged moment.
Then she turned and marched away, the twin skirts swaying around her legs. He watched her go. Feeling the clamp in his lower body as he watched the slight sway of her firm bottom.
He wondered if she'd heard, in that crackling air between them, the whisper
He'd settled in to eat just as Wood arrived. He'd heard enough to have even less cause to grin. Yet here he sat, fighting a grin, as she charged in like a windstorm, picking up speed and irritation as she came.
She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he had to tip his head to make eye contact under the brim of his hat.
"What were you doing at Jasper Pond that day?” she demanded.
"Taking a bath."
She frowned. And blushed.
Both reactions pleased him, which made about as much sense as grinning.
"I know that,” she said, impatient, then blushed harder as he watched the memory of how she knew deepen the color of her eyes. “I mean, why were you still there? You'd made camp the night before, right?"
"No."
"No? But somebody'd made camp. Wasn't that you?"
"Yes."
She glared at him. “Well?"
"Not night. Made camp near sunup."
Her frown deepened. “What did you do all night?"
"Watch."
"Watch what?"
"Turns out, nothing."
She squared off to him, fists on hips. “Mr. Dusaq,” she said, and he knew the emphasis was deliberate, “this conversational style of yours might do fine for telegraphs, but I want answers. Whole answers. And I want them now. I don't want a grain of sand for every question, I want a mountain. I want to know what you were doing there and why."
Shaking off a prickling sensation at her choosing the same image as the old padre had used for his sins, Nick straightened from his slouch, then slowly stood, deliberately closing the space between them. She tensed, but didn't back away. He met her look. She was bucking a lifetime of habit. He didn't explain. He didn't answer demands.
"What you think you want, Mrs. Terhune, might not be what's best for you."
Her eyes changed color again; she was as aware as he that he'd never before called her by name. “I decide what's best for me."
If she'd said it defiantly, stubbornly, he might have ridden out, might even have succeeded in not looking back. But she said the words as flat fact ... with a bedrock of loneliness beneath. And the fact and the loneliness were so familiar, it was like hearing an echo of his own soul.
"I left Chelico late afternoon and camped that night just outside Lazy W range,” he started, reciting facts, no more. “Covered their spread the next day, reaching the canyon at dusk. Then—"
"You crossed Natchez from the east road to the canyon in a day? But nobody...” She sputtered out of protests as he met her look unblinking.
"I spent the night watching,” he picked up as if she hadn't spoken. “Scouted for signs of rustling. Didn't see any. Cooked breakfast, ate it, got some sleep, then took a bath. As you know.” He held her eyes, knowing the danger, but courting the hot slide of awareness that went through him. “Then I rode on to the Circle T home ranch, and waited to be interviewed by the Widow Terhune."
He was pleased to see her swallow hard before her inevitable questions.
"What made you think there was rustling?"
"It was a possibility. Some men trying to drive someone out of business would stop at nothing."
She blinked, slowly. “You're saying Gordon Wood is trying to drive the Circle T out of business? That's crazy! Sure he wants Natchez to be the biggest and best around here, but the idea he'd resort to rustling..."
"He'd resort to marriage."
"He doesn't seem to think it would be such a sacrifice,” she snapped.
"Wood wants the Circle T under his thumb and—"
"He knows I won't sell."
"—he wants you underneath him, in his bed."
Her swift intake of breath was the only sound for a long, charged moment.
Then she turned and marched away, the twin skirts swaying around her legs. He watched her go. Feeling the clamp in his lower body as he watched the slight sway of her firm bottom.
He wondered if she'd heard, in that crackling air between them, the whisper
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