This Calder Range (43 page)

“It's just smoke and ash,” he assured her tiredly. “It will wash off.”

Her fingers came away smudged when she touched his shirt. Satisfied he was unhurt, Lorna grimaced at his blackened clothes. “I don't know if that shirt and pants will ever be clean again.” She scooped the hat off Webb's head, but it had already left a blackened ring on his forehead. She shooed the little boy into the cabin ahead of them. “Stay clear of your father. I don't want you getting all dirty, too.”

She handled his hat gingerly, hanging it on a peg inside the door. Her nose wrinkled at the strong smell of smoke and singed hair that clung to his clothes and skin. It tainted the air in the cabin. Little Arthur took one look at Benteen and let out a squawl of fright, trotting over to hide in Lorna's skirts.

“I know he doesn't look like him, but that's your daddy,” Lorna assured the toddler.

“Wait until I get my face and hands washed.” Benteen sent a weary smile to his younger son and crossed the cabin to the washstand. As he filled the basin with water from the pitcher, he noticed the food cooking on the stove. “Supper nearly ready?”

“Yes. We'll eat as soon as you're washed.” She picked up two water pails and started for the door.

“Where are you going?” Benteen half-turned.

“To bring some water for your bath,” she answered without pausing. “It can be heating while we eat.” Little Arthur hurried after, whimpering because the voice belonged to his father but he still wasn't sure it was him. Lorna stopped at the door. “Webb, mind your little brother until I come back.”

Webb took his young brother forcefully by the hand and pulled him away from the door. Arthur immediately sent up a loud protest despite Webb's adultlike attempts to shush him.

The soap lather turned into gray-black bubbles when
Benteen scrubbed his face. It took repeated soapings before the rinse water washed away clear. When Lorna returned with the buckets filled, he was blotting his stinging eyes. Arthur watched him with a thoughtful finger in his mouth; then a smile split his face.

“Daddy!” He pointed a wet finger at Benteen in happy recognition.

“That's right.” Benteen draped the wet towel over a corner of the washstand and bent down to his younger son.

“Don't pick him up,” Lorna ordered, dishing up their supper plates. “You've still got that ash all over your clothes.”

“Sorry, fella.” He rumpled the top of Arthur's hair and took hold of his hand to walk to the table.

After Lorna set the plates on the table, she went back to the stove to put kettles of water on to heat. Benteen and the two boys started eating without her. The food was nearly cold when she finally joined them.

“How did the fire start? Do you know?” she asked.

“No.” There was a brief shake of his head. “We'll probably never know. Half a dozen things could have started it.”

“Was it bad?” Worry began to set in now that he was safe and looking halfway human again. She had frightening visions of him fighting the fire while it blazed around him.

“Bad enough,” he answered. “We won't really know until we've been able to check the burned area.”

“I thought I smelled smoke in the wind. Was it to the south?” Her question received an affirmative nod. She shivered a little. “If it had kept burning, it could have reached here.”

“It's out. Barnie and Shorty are camping there to make sure no hot spots flare up,” Benteen said to assure her there was no further danger.

“Do me and Arthur have to have a bath?” Webb asked, ready to make a face of protest.

“Not tonight,” Lorna replied. “We're just going to clean up your smelly father.” She glanced at his plate. “Don't forget to eat your potatoes.”

When supper was through, Lorna dragged out the squat, oblong tub and positioned it in front of the stove. She alternated filling it with buckets of water and the heated water from the kettles. While Benteen shed his smoky clothes, she put the boys to bed. She carried the pile of smelly clothes outside and hung them over the clothesline that ran from a corner of the cabin to a tree so they could air.

When she returned, Benteen was sitting in the short tub with his knees bent, letting the medium-hot water soak his tired body. Fatigue drooped his muscled shoulders and closed his eyes. He was making no effort to soap himself down.

“You'll never get clean that way,” Lorna remarked, and moved to the side of the tub. “Do I have to wash behind your ears the way I do the boys?”

“Good idea,” he murmured without opening his eyes, and lifted his hand from the water to give her the bar of soap.

“Let's start at the top and wash your hair first.” It reeked of smoke as she knelt beside the tub. Her hand curved itself to the back of his neck, feeling the taut, sinewy cords. Reluctantly Benteen shifted his position in the water and yielded to the pressure of her hand that forced his head underwater. She lathered it hard with the strong soap. There was a wiry feel to the ends of his hair where it had been partially singed by the extreme heat. Lorna shivered inwardly again, realizing how very close he must have been to the fire. Then she was forcing his head underwater again to rinse out the soap.

Wiping the soapy water from his eyes, Benteen resumed his former position in the tub. “I think you did that on purpose to wake me up,” he accused.

“I just want to be sure you're alive.” Her voice had a husky pitch. She lathered a cloth to scrub his back.

His flesh was solid beneath her rubbing hand, even with the powerful muscles at rest. After bathing the boys so many times, it was a novel experience to have the full-grown width of a man's tapering back to wash. There was a slight play of muscle as he resisted the pressure of her hand, pushing against it. It became important to cover every inch of his spine and shoulders. Lorna didn't realize how much time she was taking to wash the back of one shoulder until she happened to catch the gleam in his dark eye. Suddenly self-conscious, she made a couple more swipes at it, then attempted to briskly hand him the soapy washcloth.

“Don't stop now,” Benteen murmured. “I was just beginning to enjoy it.”

“I think you can do the rest,” she tried to insist.

“I'd much rather you did it,” he replied, and leaned against the back of the oblong tub.

The look in his eyes made her warm. She felt a little bit naughty, pleasantly so, as she began soaping his flatly muscled chest with its dark crown of hairs. She stole a glance at his face and saw that he was enjoying it. His ease at having someone else bathe him made her wonder.

“Has anyone else given you a bath before?” Lorna asked with more than just curiosity. “Other than your mother, of course.”

Benteen seemed to stiffen under her touch. With guilt?

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you don't act like this is the first time.” Her scrubbing motions became brisk, a little jealousy showing as she washed the flexed muscles of his arm. “How about that time in Dodge City when you claimed you took a bath at one of the saloons? Maybe you had one of the ladies scrub your back.” She remembered the brass token she'd found in his bedroll, and she began rubbing harder.

“Hey!” Benteen protested her roughness and caught
hold of her wrist, water dripping from his hand. Her dark eyes were snapping when she met his puzzled gaze. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Does the name Miss Belle mean anything?” She hadn't forgotten the name printed on the token.

His frown deepened. “Not a thing. Why do you think it should?”

“Because I found a dollar token in your bedroll with her name on it, and portrait.” Lorna confronted him with her knowledge and dared him to deny the evidence. “And you know you stayed out late both nights we were in Dodge City.”

“Do you think I spent those nights in the company of some other woman?” His eyes narrowed.

“How else did you get the token?” she challenged.

“It's accepted as coin. I probably got it back in change when I paid for the drinks I had at the saloon on one of those evenings,” he said. “No woman gave it to me. I was trying to get myself drunk enough not to want you.”

“Is that true?” She had drawn warily back from the tub to study him.

A hardness flickered across his expression. “I can't prove it, if that's what you're asking.”

“You wanted to make love to me and I …” Lorna stopped, not wanting to remember why she had been so reluctant to have him touch her. It was best left in the past. “You could have gone to another woman to satisfy your needs.”

“Perhaps.” There was a grimness to his mouth. “But it so happens since the night I undressed my bride, I haven't been interested in the satisfaction some other female might provide. It seems you have done too good a job at that.”

There was an underlying thread of anger in his voice that seemed at odds with his assertion. “Why does that upset you?” She frowned.

“Because…” His wet hand pulled her back to the edge of the tub as his other hand came up to grip the
nape of her neck. “… I can't get enough of you.” He breathed the words into her mouth, filling her with the heat of his desire.

His hands tried to draw her closer, attempting to arch her against him despite the barrier of the tub. A responsive need clamored within Lorna, turning her body pliant to his will while her pulse raced. His mouth traveled in a series of rough kisses over her face and throat. In a brief moment of sensibility, she felt the spreading dampness of her dress.

“You're getting me all wet,” she murmured in halfhearted protest.

“Take it off, then.” His fingers partially unfastened the back of her dress and impatiently pushed it off her shoulders so his lips could explore their round curves.

With trembling hands Lorna tried to unfasten the rest of it. “What about the boys?” She breathlessly reminded Benteen of the lack of privacy, willing to let it be his decision.

“They're sleeping.” He barely gave her time to slide the dress down her hips before his hands were tugging at the chemise that hid her breasts from him. “Get in the tub with me,” he insisted huskily.

“There's not room for both of us. It's too small.” She attempted to laugh at his suggestion, but the stimulating caress of hands turned it into a moaning sound.

“You just come here and I'll show you how we can fit in it.”

It wasn't until the next day that Benteen realized how close the fire had come to causing total devastation. The wind could have driven the fire across his entire range if they hadn't caught it early. Instead, it had taken only a portion of the southwest section. But it had hurt him. About thirty head of cattle had been killed outright by the fire, and another two hundred of his blooded breeding stock had been burned so badly they had to be destroyed.

When the last rifle shot faded into silence, Benteen
looked at the scene of an entire herd put down and felt a helpless anger. It jumped along his jawline as he turned to push his rifle into the scabbard. The barrel was still hot.

“It could have been worse,” Barnie reminded him in consolation.

“Yeah,” he admitted gruffly. “It could have been worse.” He swung into the saddle and turned the horse toward Shorty. “Make a sweep and drift the cattle into one of the other sections.”

“Want me to build another line camp?” Shorty asked. The fire had taken the one he'd been staying in, as well as his few belongings that weren't on his horse.

“No. We'll wait till next summer when the grass grows back.” He turned his gaze on the blackened stretch of plains. “When you're through here, move on back to the bunkhouse.”

The sun was hanging low in the sky when he rode his horse up to the shed-corral and dismounted. His mood remained grimly somber as he unsaddled his horse to turn it into the corral. Everything had been going smoothly until his mother turned up—Lady Crawford, he corrected with curling bitterness. There had been nothing but trouble since. He shook that idea away as unreasonable. She couldn't be blamed for Judd Boston's attempt to have the three claims thrown out, or for the prairie fire.

There was a leadenness to his strides as he crossed the yard to the cabin. The table was all set for supper when he walked in. Lorna was at the stove, dishing up the food. She sent him a quick smile over her shoulder.

“I timed it just perfectly for a change,” she said, and carried two plates to the table for the boys.

There was a shine to her face, an eagerness that he hadn't noticed recently. She seemed excited about something.

Benteen walked to the basin to wash his hands while she sat the boys at the table. “What's up?”

“Nothing,” she replied, then added, “There's a note on the table for you.”

Shaking the water off his hands, he partially turned to glance at the table as he groped for a towel to dry them. A small square slip of paper was on the table by his chair.

“Who's it from?”

“Lady Crawford. Mr. Giles came by with it this afternoon.” Once she started talking, it all rushed out. “I thought it was just a note to thank us for the other afternoon, so I went ahead and opened it.”

He stiffened, pausing in the act of drying his hands. “What did it say?”

“She wrote to say that she's staying at the Macqueen House in Miles City and asked if we would call on her Friday afternoon.”

“Is that all?” His gaze narrowed slightly to study her expression.

“Read the note.” Lorna picked it up from the table and carried it to him. “I can't think of any reason why we shouldn't accept the invitation. We'd be going there in a month or so anyway.”

The message contained in the note was what Lorna had told him, and nothing more—with one exception. It was addressed to him.

“This isn't a social invitation, Lorna.” Benteen folded it up and slipped it into his pocket. “She wants to speak to me on a business matter.”