Deborah Camp (8 page)

“No, it’s Abraham.”

“What?” she asked, glancing at him and looking away quickly. He was almost naked! Didn’t he know that?

“My middle name,” he explained. “It’s Abraham.”

“Get back in the house. I’m busy and I don’t have time to jaw with you.”

He laughed softly and glanced down at his bare feet. “Could I bother you for some of that potato soup?”

“It’s all gone.”

“Oh, I see.”

She sighed and dropped the hoe, giving in to his stubborn interference. “I was gonna make squirrel stew. Guess I can start it now so’s you’ll get back into bed and shut your trap.”

“Oh, doc,” he said, laughing lightly. “You have such a pleasant bedside manner.”

She marched past him, resolutely keeping her eyes away from his naked upper torso. “Come on. Careful you don’t
get that sheet dirty. I won’t be washing up things for a few more days.”

“Yes, ma’am! If you’d kindly tell me where you’ve hidden my clothes, I’d be most happy to wear them instead of your sheet.”

“You got to get back into bed,” she ordered, entering the cabin and removing her bonnet. “You’re a long ways from being fit.”

“Yes, but I’d like to sit at the table and have my stew, and I’d be more comfortable in my clothes.”

“They’re over there,” she said, pointing toward the cot and the small bundle of clothing resting on the floor near it. “I washed ’em up for you.”

“Well, that’s mighty kind of you, doc.”

“My name ain’t doc,” she informed him, freezing him with a cold glare. “It’s—”

“Cassandra Potter,” he finished for her. “I remember.” He picked up his clothes and started for the bedroom. “What have you been forcing down my throat? It left a godawful taste in my mouth.”

“Medicine,” she said, grabbing up the skinned squirrels. “Don’t know what’s in it. It’s some kinda Indian potion.”

He stopped at the bedroom door. “Did you kill those squirrels by popping off their heads with your whip?”

She frowned to keep from smiling at the image he’d put in her head. “No, I shot ’em.” She glanced up in time to see his dark eyes widen and his throat move as he swallowed hard. “Three shots is all it took.”

“Amazing,” he murmured before leaving her to her cooking.

By the light of the afternoon sun, her hair looked golden, but Rook knew that it was a light color—almost white. She kept her eyes away from him, preferring to stare at the squirrel stew in the wooden bowl before her. She’d changed from the gray skirt and blouse she’d worn earlier to a moss green skirt and loose, brown blouse. Her clothes were serviceable and frayed, all of dark colors and rough fabric. She wore boots that had seen better days. She’d tamed her
hair into a braid that she’d wound around the crown of her head. But with all these obstructions, her femininity was revealed in the thickness of her lashes, in the long curve of her neck, and in the way she moved—with a liquid grace that was all the more attractive because it was totally natural and completely unintentional.

Rook scooped up a piece of squirrel meat and chewed on the tender, tasty morsel as he continued his uninterrupted perusal. Cassandra Potter mystified him. For all her cockiness, there was an undercurrent of desperation running through her that was growing stronger with each passing hour. She ate silently, stoically ignoring his company across the table from her. A drop of juice fell on her lower lip and the pink tip of her tongue darted out to absorb it. A bolt of sexuality zigzagged through him.

Holy moley, he must be desperate for female company! he chided himself. When a bad-tempered, surly girl like this one could make his loins tingle, he was in dire straits.

“Where’s your mother?” he asked, and she jerked all over at the sound of his voice, giving credence to his evaluation of her inner turmoil.

Her throat moved in a long, vertical flex as she swallowed. “Dead. Buried in St. Louis.”

“You don’t mince words, do you, doc?” He wedged a short, clean fingernail between his front two teeth and released a particle of meat. He saw her looking at him from behind the curtain of her lashes, and he smiled to himself as he spooned more of the savory stew into his mouth. One thing he had to say for her: she could make tasty meals out of virtually nothing. She must have a knack for seasoning, he decided.

“You’re all alone out here now?” he asked, unable to keep the quick grin from his lips. He loved to tease women. Loved to see their eyes sparkle knowingly and their full lips twitch into alluring smiles.

Her golden lashes lifted to reveal wariness instead of the appreciation he’d expected.

“And what if I am? I got a gun and if you—”

“Hold on a minute,” he broke in. “I’m only making conversation. Don’t go accusing me of—”

“I’ll kill you if you touch me!” she said, her voice rising and falling with her exhaled breath. Her eyes were enormous, like those of a cornered animal.

The fun went out of him and he dropped his spoon into the bowl. “Let’s get something straight,” he said, ignoring her wild-eyed accusations. “I’m not going to do you any harm. I’m beholden to you for doctoring me. So settle down and quit looking at me as if I’m going to pounce on you at any moment. I’m not that desperate for the loving of a woman.” He leaned back in the chair and ran his hands down his shirtfront. “You’re awfully skittish. Has someone been around here bothering you?”

She nodded once. “You.”

“Me?” He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers and noticed that the band was loose. He must have lost ten pounds! He glanced down at his concave belly, realizing that he was far from being satiated. “I don’t know how I could bother you when I’ve been out cold most of the time.”

“Who’s Annabelle?”

“Anna—” He gritted his teeth, realizing that he hadn’t been completely out cold after all. “Oh, just a woman I know.”

“And Blackie?”

“A fella I used to pal around with.” He tapped his fingers against his chest. “Have you had fun listening to me?”

“No.” She rose swiftly and dumped her bowl into a shallow wash basin. “You finished?”

“Could I have another helping?”

“What?” She propped her hands on her hips like a stern mother. “You still hungry?”

He held up his bowl. “ ‘More, sir?’ ” he begged, batting his dark lashes in a pitiful show.

“Sir?” She tipped up her nose and sniffed. “I ain’t a man.”

“I was quoting from one of Dickens’s works.” He shook his head at her bewildered expression. “Never mind. Could I have another helping of that stew? It’s mighty tasty.”

“I guess so.” She snatched the bowl from his hands and
took it to the stove to fill it. “Did you kill somebody or something?”

“No.” Rook smiled his thanks when she placed the bowl in front of him again. “You’re determined to think I’m an outlaw, aren’t you?”

“I ain’t got no reason not to think it.”

“Who taught you your colorful language, Cassie Potter? Your pa?” He grinned when she turned her back on him and made a pretense of washing the dishes. “What did he die of?”

“A bullet in the back. For all I know, you shot him.”

He studied her erect spine and her shoulders that trembled ever so slightly beneath her loose-fitting blouse. No wonder she was frightened of him! Her father had been shot and killed. The poor girl had been living a nightmare the past few days.

“Cassie, I’m sorry about your father.” He shifted in the chair to see her profile, and the bruised skin around his wound tightened in a sharp reminder that he was still at a disadvantage. “You don’t know who shot him?”

“You, probably.”

“Not me.” He wished she would face him, but she was thoroughly involved with her dishwashing. “I swear I didn’t have anything to do with it. Why would someone shoot him?”

“How the hell would I know?” she snapped, whirling around and dropping into the straight-back chair like a stone. “Why did someone shoot you?”

He conceded the point with a swift shrug. “You don’t have any relatives close by?”

“No, but I got friends.”

“I’m sure you do.” One side of his mouth inched up before he could stop it when he recalled her recent visitor. He’d seen him through the windows and had disliked the man on sight. His red hair, sly manner, and calculated movements had reminded Rook of a fox. A fox after a helpless chicken, he thought as his gaze took in the fidgety girl who was clinging to her tattered shreds of bravado. “Like that banker who visited today. I think he’s sweet on you, ‘Miss Cassandra, ma’am.’”

She sat ramrod straight, her eyes frosty blue. Her lips moved for a few moments before she finally spoke. “You’re a pig!”

“A pig?” He chuckled at the description. “That’s a mild insult coming from you. I’m disappointed. You can do better than that, Cassie Potter.”

“You’re making fun of me,” she muttered darkly.

“Why would I poke fun at an illiterate shrew?”

“Come again?” she asked, standing up so that she could look down on him. “Can’t you talk regular?”

“Pardon me. Let me rephrase that so that you can understand.” He picked up his empty bowl as he rose from the chair. Dropping it into the water, he leaned close to her, mindful of her coiling like a rattlesnake ready to strike. “You’re a good doctor, Cassie, but most of the time you’re a horse’s ass.” He moved back, but she was as quick as her whip. The flat of her hand struck his cheek, leaving an imprint of water and lye soap. “You little witch!” He grabbed her wrists before she could attack him again.

“I’ll kill you,” she said in a low voice, her lips pulling back from her teeth in a snarl.

“Why? Why would you want to kill me?” He peered through the dim light at the blue-tinted skin across her cheekbone. “How did you get that bruise? Did you sass the wrong person?”

“You did it, you stinking son of a bitch!” She struggled against him, trying to break free of his crushing hands.

“I might agree with the last of that statement, but saying that I stink is like the pot calling the kettle black.” He let go of her, pushing her away from him and curling his lip. “When was the last time
you
took a bath? When you were baptized?”

She ran her hands down her skirt and hunched her shoulders. The fight went out of her as quickly as summer lightning, and a dolorous expression pinched her face. “Haven’t had time … I’ve only got a little soap left and … well, I had to clean your wound a bunch.”

Goddamn her pathetic eyes, Rook thought as he turned away from her. Shame coated him, but he didn’t dare apologize.
Give this girl an inch and she took a mile. “I’d better lie down. I’m still woozy and—”

“Yes, go on.”

He gritted his teeth, suddenly sick at heart. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I didn’t mean—”

“You’re sorry, all right. Go lay down,” she snapped.

He wanted to kick himself for apologizing to the little wench. Her blue eyes challenged him, but he wasn’t up to the struggle.

“Ah, damn!” he spat at her, wishing he could wring her neck.

Cassie winced at the bang of the bedroom door and shot a withering glance at it.

Damn his hide! Oooo, she’d be glad to see his back! She didn’t like having to share her home and her vittles with the likes of him. Him and his fancy talking and wandering eyes. She’d known he was watching her all through the meal, and it had made her skin crawl. She’d wanted to pick up her bowl of stew and throw it in his face.

Drying the last bowl, she went outside to breathe air that didn’t smell of him. Her hands came up to touch her hair, her face, her throat. She sniffed, winced from the smell of sweat and grime, and hated Rook for making her aware of herself. Moving to the back of the cabin, she stared at the old tub behind the outhouse where she and Shorty had taken their baths—she, often; Shorty, seldom. The bottom of the tub was strewn with crumbling autumn leaves that had fallen from the oak that shaded the area. Acorns pooled in one end of it, caught by a spider’s dusty web.

She ran her hands along her arms as memories surrounded her, and she smiled faintly as one of them slipped from its moorings and bobbed to the surface. She could hear her father’s lusty voice as he sang while he splashed in the tub:

She’d always laughed when he’d sung that. She’d laughed a lot with her father. He was so full of nonsense. So ornery, yet so gentle.

She let the recollections of him keep her company as she carried bucket after bucket of water from the well to the tub. Filling it up halfway, she knelt beside it and used her wadded up apron to wipe away autumn’s decaying grime. Tipping up one side, Cassie let the murky water pour out onto the ground; she set the tub back on all fours. It was ready for her now, she thought. She’d use the last of the soap. Not because
he’d
told her she needed a bath, but because
she
wanted one. She wanted to smell fresh again. She wanted her hair to feel soft and thick. Pa had complained that she took too many baths. He’d scolded her, shaking a stubby finger in her face every time she had filled the tub.

“You’re washing away your oils,” he’d warned. “They protect you from sickness. You’ll be having a cold all winter, Cassie. I’m a warning you. Best listen!”

She’d wait until dusk, she decided, and then she’d slip out here and into the tub. Giving it one last, longing glance, she went to the front of the cabin and almost fainted with relief when she saw Jewel’s buggy rounding the bend.

“Jewel!” She raced forward to meet it as if it were a chariot of angels. “Jewel, I’m so glad to see you!”

“Hi, honey!” Jewel pulled back on the reins and the gray horse slid to an abrupt halt. Jewel’s bonnet was lemon yellow, and her matching dress was full skirted and tight waisted. A cameo brooch accented the high collar. Gold earrings dangled from Jewel’s lobes, catching at the sunlight. Jewel held out a black, lace-gloved hand. “Help me down from this thing, Cassie.”

Cassie wiped her hand down her skirt before offering it to Jewel. “I been wondering when you’d come back. I got the ground ready for the garden.”