6
A week later Shannon awoke just after dawn to the sound of an ax taking big bites from a tree. Relief washed through her.
Nothing changed while I slept. He’s still here.
If the Culpeppers came skulking around, they would find Shannon with a shotgun in her hands, a snarling dog at her heels…and a man called Whip by her side.
«See?» Shannon whispered to herself. «I told you he would still be here in the morning.»
This time.
When Shannon hadn’t heard Whip’s panpipes last night, she wondered if he had saddled up and left Echo Basin, never to return again. But he hadn’t. He was still here, still doing all the chores that had been difficult for Shannon to do alone.
Whip had repaired the lean-to where the old mule spent the worst of the winter, then he had trimmed and shod the beast’s hooves with horse-shoes Silent John never had gotten around to using. Whip had rehung the cabin door so that it closed evenly without being shoved or leaned on or kicked. Then Whip had rammed caulking so tightly between the cabin’s logs that the wind couldn’t get past to steal the fire’s warmth. He had chopped down eight trees and was working on a ninth.
Not only would Shannon have firewood curing for winter, with those trees gone there would be enough sun on the south side of the cabin for her to have a small kitchen garden. It was something she had always wanted, but she had given up on the idea four years ago. It had taken six days for her to gnaw through a tree with an ax, and then the tree had knocked her silly by falling the wrong way.
Silent John had laughed when she told him the story about the tree falling on her. But when she told Whip about it a few days ago, he hadn’t laughed at all. He had said something under his breath and then told her in very plain English that if he ever caught her trying to chop down a tree, they would both regret it — but she would regret it more.
Then, yesterday morning, the trees on the south side of the cabin had started to come down one by one, felled by a man who attacked each tree as though it was an enemy.
Humming quietly to herself, Shannon got out of bed and started the breakfast fire. As she worked, anticipation swirled through her like heat through flame. Soon Whip would call out and she would bring a pan of warm water to the bench at the side of the cabin. Then she would watch while he washed and shaved.
If she was lucky, he would overlook a bit of lather on his mustache or in the dimple on his chin. She would stand close to dab at the soap…and then she would look up and see the quicksilver of his eyes burning down at her, and the flare of his nostrils as he caught the scent of spearmint on her hands and breath.
«You’re a fool, Shannon Conner Smith,» she told herself firmly. «You’re letting that yondering man get too close.»
Yet all Shannon truly cared about was getting Whip closer still. She hungered for him in ways that were as old as desire and as new as sunrise.
She struck a match and bent over the open door of the wood stove. The flames caught and entwined with an ease that reminded her of Whip’s masculine grace. Heat filled the stove and radiated out into the room as wood and fire consumed one another.
Is that what it would be like with Whip? Would we feed one another until everything was gone but the memory of heat?
A shiver coursed through Shannon, touching her secret flesh like a match touched tinder; and like tinder, she burned.
Is this what the wood feels like? Does it ache and tremble and cry to be burned to an ash so fine it can fly right up to the sun?
«Lust, that’s all,» Shannon said beneath her breath. «Pure lust.»
Prettyface scratched at the cabin door, distracting Shannon from her study of the fire.
«Oh, all right. But if you snap and snarl at Whip when he comes up to wash, I swear I’m going to get a stick and beat you.»
The dog grinned and waved its long brindle tail. Rows of white, sharp teeth gleamed at her.
«Yeah, I don’t believe me either,» she admitted. «But I have to do something, Prettyface. You watch Whip like you can’t wait for an excuse to jump him. He’ll go soon enough. Much too soon. You don’t have to drive him away.»
Shannon opened the cabin door. Prettyface bounded out and began casting around for scent. Though Whip had shot more deer, the dog still hunted for himself. Whatever venison wasn’t eaten fresh was cured into jerky. It was the same for the trout. Whip was determined that Shannon have plenty of food for the coming winter.
As Shannon shut the door and headed for the dry goods cupboard, she noticed the fresh bouquet of wildflowers set on the small, scarred table. Very gently she ran her fingertips over the tender, scented petals. She was smiling when she reached into the cupboard and began to measure out flour into a battered tin bowl.
Whip was always bringing something to her, little things to brighten up the cabin’s dark interior. Usually it was flowers. Sometimes it was a pebble that was all smooth and rounded from the creek. Once it was a butterfly freshly come from its cocoon. Watching the wings slowly unfurl and become rich with color had been like having a rainbow gather and dance softly in the palm of her hand.
Shannon would never forget the look on Whip’s face as he watched the butterfly lift from her palm and spiral upward into the aching blue of the sky — pleasure, envy, understanding, satisfaction, yearning, all had been part of Whip’s smile.
I know he’s going to leave someday. But please, God, not today.
Not today.
Shannon’s hands jerked. Flour spilled. Carefully she gathered it with the edge of her hand and coaxed the white powder back into the cup.
Don’t think about Whip leaving, she told herself firmly. He will leave today or he won’t, and all I can do is watch him eat and blot lather from his chin and feel his smile like sunlight on my soul.
Instead of worrying about tomorrow, I should thank God for sending me a gentle, generous, decent man to help me. There’s fresh meat in the larder and jerky curing and fish being smoked outside and firewood piled high along the east side of the cabin.
Those are blessings enough for anyone, and a lot more than I had when I sold Mama’s wedding ring to keep from starving while I got better at stalking deer.
Bending down, Shannon felt the air inside the oven. It wasn’t hot enough to make the skin around her nails draw up. She added more wood to the fire, cut several slabs of meat from the ham that hung in the corner, and put the meat in a pan to fry while the biscuits were cooking.
The next time she tested the oven, it was ready. She went to the window and opened the shutters wide. Sunlight spilled in, bringing with it the scent and excitement of an untouched day.
«Biscuits are going in,» Shannon called to Whip. «I’ll bring the water out in a moment.»
The rhythmic chopping sounds ended. Whip stepped back from the tree. A single look told him that it would take him longer to fell the tree than it would take Shannon to cook the biscuits. With an easy, one-handed stroke, he sank the blade of the ax deeply into wood. There the cutting edge would stay safe and dry until he needed it again.
Whip looked over his shoulder and saw Shannon hanging partway out the window, a smile on her face and a comb in her hand. She drew the comb through her hair with swift strokes, as though impatient to be through with the small chore.
Sunlight made her hair an autumn glory, like dark fire shot through with streaks of gold and red.
Someday soon you’re going to let me comb all that beautiful hair for you, Whip promised silently. Soon. Real soon.
Your hair will be as soft and hot as fire running through my fingers, but nothing will be as soft or as hot as the dark woman-flower concealed between your thighs.
You’ll bloom for me, honey girl. I’m as sure of it as I’ve ever been of anything.