Jane Bonander (12 page)

He released his hold and rested his head against her shoulder, breathing hard. “I’m sorry, Susannah. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She rubbed her arms, feeling cold, and angry with herself for allowing Harlan Walker’s disgusting treatment of her to intrude on what she now could have.

“No.” She stood and picked up the picnic basket. “It’s my fault, not yours.” She had to get away from him before he saw something in her eyes she didn’t want him to see.

Nathan watched her scurry away.
Ah, Susannah
. He’d just begun to untangle her own web of lies. Walker had beat her, he was sure of it now. He shouldn’t have grabbed her arms, but it had been a reflex. Hell, he hadn’t even been thinking about the Walker boys, only Susannah, and how much he’d wanted to kiss her. And she kissed like a woman who’d never been kissed before, at least not with any tenderness.

Thoughts of her life prior to her running filled Nathan with so much anger, he tried to force them away. But the picture of Susannah being hit set fire to his gut. Until she was willing to talk about what she’d done, he had no way of knowing what had happened to Harlan Walker. Whatever it was, Nathan was beginning to believe the bastard deserved it.

But who was he to pass judgment? He was the hunter and she was his prey. He couldn’t follow through. He couldn’t drag her back to Sonny Walker. Hell and damnation, he couldn’t do it.

Corey turned on his side and sucked noisily on his thumb. Nathan feathered the boy’s fine, golden hair off his forehead, recalling the change that had come over Corey since he’d arrived. Maybe he’d been good for the boy. He knew the boy had been good for him. The pain of Jackson’s death was still there, but, as he’d hoped, the sharp edges were gone. The dull ache would never go away. That was all right, too.

He glanced at the river, seeing Susannah’s look of shocked surprise when he’d dropped her. And her laugh . . . robust. Full-bodied. Full of life. Like her. He wouldn’t have dared play that way with Judith.

Ah, Susannah, he thought again. What a work of art she was. Not a sixteenth century nude Caravaggio or Rubens, where the women were overly plump and dimpled, but a sleek, smooth marble statue, whose insides were smoldering with untapped desire. And healthy enough for a good old-fashioned roll in the hay. For some reason, he couldn’t get that image out of his head.

He swore. Who was he kidding? If she ever discovered who he was, she’d use him for fish bait. He wondered when it would happen. How it would happen. He only knew for sure that it would, eventually, happen. The constant feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach intensified.

Nathan rapped on her bedroom door. “Susannah?”

She’d just pulled on her nightgown and was uncoiling her hair. She stepped to the door, opening it slightly.

He appeared contrite. And outrageously handsome. His chest was bare. “My shoulders are sore.”

To hide the pleasure of seeing him stripped to the waist, she chided, “I won’t say ‘I told you so.”

He winced as he flexed his back. “You already have.”

She pulled the door open and scooted past him, aware of the warmth that radiated from his body. “Sit at the table. I’ll get the salve.”

She took the ointment from the cupboard and went behind him, swallowing hard as she examined his back and shoulders. Admitting to herself that she wanted to touch him, she took the lid off the salve, dipped two fingers in and spread it over one burned shoulder.

“Ouch!”

“See? I told you the sun was hotter up here,” she scolded as she gentled her motions. She was sorry he was uncomfortable, but not at all sorry that she was given the chance to touch him.

She wanted the chore to last. “Have you always been a rancher?” She hit a particularly pink spot, and heard his sharp intake of breath. “Sorry,” she said, and truly was.

“For the last two years I’ve been digging posts for the railroad.”

“Hmmm.” That kind of work explained the sharply delineated muscles in his back and shoulders. She was tempted to grip her fingers around his upper arm and squeeze.

Her desire for him darted through her. She also wanted to press herself against his back, wrap her arms around his waist and run her fingers through the hair on his chest. Her desire thickened, and she felt weak.

“Are you done?”

She jumped at the interruption into her thoughts. “Almost,” she said, moving to his other shoulder. She’d left her room in haste, forgetting her wrapper. Now, her breasts were loose beneath her nightgown, and her nipples tingled. Each movement of her arm dragged the soft cloth over them, further intensifying her longing.

She moved away and took a dizzying breath. “There. We’re done.”

He turned his gaze on her, his eyelids heavy, his nostrils flaring slightly. “I think we’ve just begun.”

S
usannah’s heart trembled in her breast and heat sizzled through her.

Nathan took her hand, drew her around in front of him and pulled her onto his lap.

She fought for breath, and what breath she had came out jerky and she felt winded. With tentative fingers, she touched his chest. The hair, crinkly and curly, caressed her palms. She sucked in a breath and swallowed a moan of pleasure. His skin was warm and firm.

Swallowing hard, she pushed her fingers through the hair, her movements becoming greedy. She loved the feel of it against her palms. She dragged her gaze to his face and saw the desire in his eyes, the storm brewing there no longer cold, but hot as an August wind.

He touched her waist, drawing her close until she rested against him. He groaned, moving her breasts back and forth across his chest before he reached up to touch one through her nightgown.

Susannah stiffened, and he stopped, misreading her reaction. She touched his hand, pressing it against her breast. He caressed it through the soft fabric, examining its shape, weighing it in his hand. Then he dragged his thumb over her nipple and she whimpered with pleasure, resting her forehead against his.

His breath mingled with hers as their lips touched, clung. His tongue brushed her mouth and she opened for him. New pleasures careened through her, lighting here, then there, finally coming to land in a mysterious place deep in her pelvis, a place, that although inside her own body, was unknown to her until this moment.

She rested her arms on either side of his neck, careful not to touch his sore shoulders. He fondled her breasts, electrifying her, making her ache and feel swollen in places that had only been numb before. A frantic sense of hunger tumbled through and she collapsed against him.

He stroked her hair, combing his fingers through it as he brought it to his face. “Ah, Susannah, Susannah,” he whispered. “Your beauty takes my breath away.”

Her heart pounded and heat rushed over her as she pulled him to her, feeling his hot expulsion of air as it penetrated her gown and engulfed her skin. She was heady with desire, as if she’d just had a sip of wine on an empty stomach.

She moved on his lap, feeling him thick and hard beneath her, and she pulled away, her need for him dwindling as quickly as it came. She stood and stared at him, then glanced at his crotch.

His size shocked her. Frightened her. She brought her hands to her cheeks; they were still warm. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, “I’m sorry. So sorry. I wanted to . . . I . . . I thought I could—” She stumbled to her room and shut the door. As she crawled into bed, she shook with fear, waiting for him to come after her and force her. Then she knew he wouldn’t. He wasn’t Harlan. He was Nathan. Sweet, gentle Nathan.

But she’d disappointed him and hadn’t meant to. She had truly wanted him. But the act itself still scared her. Just the thought of it had cooled her down faster than a tumble in a snowbank.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized Harlan hadn’t deserved the pleasure of dying. She’d conveniently ended his misery, but hers would go on and on. In the deep, dark recesses of her heart, she wished his punishment could have been painfully drawn out over the next one hundred years, and she would have insisted on ruling the sentence herself.

Dismounting in front of the smithy that was adjacent to the livery, Nate listened as one of the local ranchers berated Kito.

“I told you I wanted it done yesterday, damnit,” the rancher growled. “You damned free niggers ain’t worth hog piss. I’ll have your job for this.”

Kito trembled, a nervous grin on his lips. “Yessuh, I’m sorry, suh, I’ll have it done ’afore you leave town, suh.”

The rancher stormed from the livery, pushing past Nate without acknowledging him. Nate caught the hate in Kito’s gaze as it followed the rancher out the door. “’Morning, Kito.”

Kito stood silent for a moment, then, with a limping shuffle, went to the forge, pulled out a strip of hot iron and rested it over the anvil. With a huge ball peen hammer, he began to shape the metal, the muscles in his arms and shoulders gleaming with sweat.

“Y-yessuh,” he said with a stutter, “it’s a fine morning.”

Nate raised an eyebrow. The “down guilty” look didn’t sit well on someone Kito’s size. Somehow Nate felt there was a different man lurking there, beneath the servility. Needing an ally, he wanted it to be Kito, and not Eli Clegg.

“Are you available to haul some lumber for me today?”

“Yessuh,” he said, his lips quivering around his strong, white teeth. “Jus’ let me know when you’re ready, suh.”

As Nate pulled Susannah’s package from his saddlebag, he said, “You’ve heard the talk about Susannah and me?” He turned and caught Kito’s masked look.

Kito bobbed his head. “Yessuh, I heard.”

Nate took a deep breath. As he expelled it, he prayed he was doing the right thing. “It’s not true, you know.”

Kito kept his eyes downcast. “Nosuh.”

Nate swore. “Cut all the bowing and scraping, and talk to me like a man. That damned Sambo impersonation doesn’t work on me.”

With a pair of tongs, Kito removed the steel to a bucket. The water inside bubbled and hissed as it cooled the metal. He still avoided Nate’s gaze. “Suh?”

Nate had worked with escaped slaves during the war. He’d learned to force them to look him in the eye. He’d discovered that out of necessity, they’d become artful and clever, assuming a servility that had been expected of them. Nate also learned that this act was one way they kept “Old Master” from learning what was really going on inside their heads.

“I saw your expression, Kito. If looks could kill, that rancher would have had a knife carved into his back, making a hole big enough to pull out his spine.”

Kito stepped so close, Nate could smell his sweat, in which there was no whiff of fear. The man’s blackcoffee eyes were the same color as his face, and the whites glistened in the dim light of the smithy. Sweat beaded at his hairline, coursing over his forehead, and his temples. It dripped from his chin, and ran in thick streams over his enormous ebony chest. His arms, thick as tree trunks, were crossed, accentuating the bulging muscles. He lowered his eyes, but not before Nate saw the derision.

“All right.” Kito’s deep, baritone voice held no trace of servility. He met Nate’s gaze and jabbed one thick, soot-blackened finger at Nate’s chest. “I ain’t got nothin’ to lose with you, ’cause you got somethin’ to hide. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but you hurt that girl and her baby boy, an’ I promise I’ll come after you. I’ll fin’ you, rip of your head and spit down your throat.”

Although the servility was gone, there was still a thick, southern quality to his speech. Nate matched his glare, refusing to look away. “I wouldn’t hurt her.” Damn it, he meant it.

“You bes’ not,” said the Negro on a hiss of breath.

“We understand each other, then?”

Kito stood before him, a proud, magnificent giant of a man, and studied him, unsmiling. “I sure as hell hope so. For your sake.” He waited a moment, then added, “Suh.” However, the word came out sounding nothing like a polite form of respect.

Nate shoved the package under his arm, left the smithy and crossed the street. As he walked toward the dress shop, he felt Kito’s stare boring into the back of his head. Maybe it was his imagination—or his guilty conscience. Either way, he knew that if Susannah found out why he was there and didn’t get to him first, Kito would do a commendable job of maiming him for life. Neither prospect pleased him much.

Sitting slumped in her sewing chair, Susannah stared at her machine. The machine wasn’t the problem this time, it was the dress lying on it. It had belonged to her mother. It was the only thing she’d salvaged after the gossip mongers learned her mother, “the Whore of Baldwin County,” had died.

She remembered watching in horror as they’d descended on the house like a flock of vultures, picking the house clean. The sheriff had understood her shock, but had done nothing to stop them. “Little miss,” he’d said, “what would you do with all this stuff, anyhow?”

She hadn’t known until years later that every whore who died in their community had her belongings taken from her. It was justice, she’d been told. For years the whores stole the men, making them faithless husbands. Upon death, a whore’s property belonged to the women whose husbands had been lured away. But Susannah had sneaked in and taken the dress before any of the old crones had seen her.

Even then, the dress wasn’t safe. After she and Harlan had married, he’d tried taking it away from her as punishment when she hadn’t pleased him But she’d fooled him. The first time she’d seen him rooting around for the dress, she’d taken it and hid it under the false bottom of an old trunk that was filled with his mother’s clothes.

Now, as Susannah studied the white cotton voile with ribbon motif and pastel flowers, wrinkled, smelling of mildew and devoured by moths, she wondered how she could possibly restore it enough to wear it to the apple-paring party. If they actually went, that is.

She poked her finger through one of the holes she’d discovered, testing the sturdiness of the fabric. She did have that bit of grosgrain left after doing the last dress for Lillian. She stood and held the dress out in front of her, studying the haphazard pattern of the moth holes. Maybe she could—

Hearing Kito’s creaky wagon, she flung the dress on her sewing chair and went to the window. Her pulse trembled at the base of her throat as she watched Nathan haul lumber from the wagon to the side of the cabin. New, exciting emotions scrambled into her throat, filling her eyes with tears of joy, of anticipation.

They had avoided each other since the night she’d spread ointment on his sunburn. She still felt awful that she couldn’t give him what he wanted, but he hadn’t brought up the subject, and she was grateful.

When Nathan finally came inside, she turned away to wipe her eyes, then gave him a questioning look. “Well?”

He nodded. “I talked to him.”

She pressed her fingers against her throat. “And?”

Nathan snorted a laugh. “He’ll keep quiet, all right.”

“Did you threaten him?” she asked, angry.

“
Me
? Threaten
him
? Haven’t you noticed? He has arms like tree trunks.”

Relieved, she said, almost to herself, “Yours aren’t so bad either.”

He crooked an eyebrow. “What was that?”

She dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. “I have a good friend I’m just dying for Kito to meet.”

“Oh, so you’re a matchmaker, are you?” He studied her warmly from across the room.

Self-conscious under his scrutiny, she shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t suppose it will ever happen. She’s in—” She stopped herself. Did it matter if she told him? She didn’t think so “She’s in Missouri. I don’t expect I’ll ever see her again.” It made her sad. She loved Louisa very much. To her relief, Nathan said nothing, didn’t question her further.

Returning to her sewing table, she picked up the dress and studied it again. She felt Nathan behind her.

“What are we going to do about the party, Nathan? It’s less than two days away.”

“What do you think we should do?”

“Darn it,” she spat out, crushing the dress in her fists. “Why do you answer my question with a question?”

“Why do you answer
my
question with a question?”

She felt a smile coming on but stopped it. “Nathan, this is serious.” She turned and gazed up at him. “What will we do?”

He reached down and touched the dress, running his fingers over the wrinkled voile. “If we went, were you planning to wear this?”

Embarrassed at her paltry wardrobe, she pulled the dress away. “It . . . it was my mother’s. It’s old, but there’s nothing wrong with it that I can’t fix. And yes,” she added defensively, “I was planning to wear it.”

“Then by all means, let’s go to the party.”

Her insides quickened. “Do you really think we should?”

He shrugged and left her, going to the window. “I don’t know why not. It can’t make our situation any worse than it already is.”

Susannah frowned. It wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for, but then again, she was letting her hopes interfere with reality. After all, what they truly had
was
a “situation,” and it was already as bad as it could get.

“Nathan, I don’t know how to dance. That’s going to look pretty stupid, don’t you think?”

He turned, snagging her gaze. “That’s easy enough to remedy.”

She swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, coming toward her, “I’ll teach you.”

“You . . . you will? But . . . but there’s not enough time.”

Grabbing her hands, he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll teach you a couple of different steps. The most popular ones. If they play something you don’t know, we’ll sit it out. All right, now, put one hand here,” he directed, placing her hand on his shoulder. “I’ll hold the other one in mine, like this.”

Susannah stood close, a willing, eager pupil. Her pulse raced and she felt weak in the knees. “N-now, what?”

Nathan cleared his throat, all business. Putting his hand at her waist, he answered, “I’ll teach you the waltz first. The steps are slow and easy.”

He murmured the tempo into her ear—
one
-two-three,
one
-two-three—and she followed, stumbling over his boots whenever she allowed his nearness to interrupt the rhythm. And his nearness was truly an interruption. How could she explain such a thing to a man who had danced before, held a woman close before? Could he do this without becoming aroused?

For her, it wasn’t possible. Nothing in her daydreams had prepared her for the sensation of moving against a man whose mere touch sent her pulses soaring anyway.

She tried to concentrate on the dance. She
tried
. A heaviness gathered low in her belly, warming her, seducing her, urging her to press against him. She was more than grateful that he held himself away from her.

What she felt wasn’t normal. If it were, every couple who had ever danced together would end up rolling around in the hay, or pressing together in a darkened garden. She sensed that babies would be born nine months from every barn raising and apple-paring. Oh, my, yes. There was definitely something wrong with her. Pulling in a deep breath, she asked, “Are all dances so slow? Maybe we should learn a faster one.”