But first I’ve got to get past that hellhound of yours without scaring you to death.
«I’m on my way,» Whip called.
His voice was curt. Prettyface was a whole row of thorns in Whip’s side. Though only partly wolf in his body, the dog was mostly wolf in his temperament. Despite Whip’s best efforts, the animal refused to treat Whip as anything but a dangerous intruder. Several times Whip had found himself on the edge of reaching for the snarling dog to teach it the only kind of lesson it seemed capable of learning from a man.
Fear, pure and simple.
Whip knew it was the wolf’s nature to give way only to superior strength. After Whip’s strength was established, respect would come, and then, finally, he could begin teaching Prettyface that not all men took pleasure in abusing a mongrel with the eyes of a wild wolf.
Given time, Prettyface would not only accept Whip, the dog would give Whip the same trust and loyalty he gave to the girl who had found him beaten nearly to death on the trail from Holler Creek.
All Whip needed was time.
How much time do I have before that sunrise calls my name?
There was no answer to Whip’s silent question. There never had been. When the wanderlust took him, he packed up and left. Nor did he ever come back to the same place again.
Sunrise called to him only once from each new land.
Before he left Echo Basin, Whip planned to see that Shannon’s cabin was in good repair, the larder was overflowing, and the firewood was stacked to the eaves on three sides of the cabin. It was what he had always done for the openhearted widows whose paths he crossed, even if the women did no more than cook his meals and mend his shirts and share the warmth of their kitchens with a yondering man.
The world was a difficult place for a woman alone, a fact that Whip understood better than most men. That was why he was haunted by the vision of Shannon lying beneath a fallen tree…Shannon injured and alone, no one to help her, no one even to know that she needed help.
She’s a widow whether she admits it or not. She’s got to be. Hell, she doesn’t even act married. She keeps watching me like she’s never seen a man before.
And I watch her like she’s the first woman I’ve ever seen.
Frowning, Whip pulled off his leather work gloves, stuffed them into his back pocket, and picked up the bullwhip that always lay within easy reach. As he walked toward the house, Prettyface appeared from the surrounding forest and snarled viciously at him.
«Good morning to you, too, you evil-tempered son of a bitch,» Whip said pleasantly.
«Prettyface, stop that!» Shannon called from inside.
The dog’s snarling increased.
Shannon rushed to the cabin door. Half-braided hair spilled out of her hands and fanned over the faded blue flannel of her shirt. The contrast between the worn fabric and the lustrous silk of her hair tempted Whip almost beyond endurance.
«Stop that!» Shannon commanded, staring right at the dog’s yellow eyes.
Prettyface gave Whip a predatory look. Then, reluctantly, the dog obeyed his mistress.
Whip gave the look back with interest before he turned to the basin of steaming water Shannon had put out for him. His folding razor lay by the basin, along with soap and the faded, flower-printed rag. As he bent over the water, the familiar scent of mint floated up to him.
Without warning, desire raked Whip, tightening every muscle in his body. He drew a deep, careful breath, then another, until his body slowly began to relax. The ease and intensity of his arousal around Shannon was a warning to him.
And an incredible lure. Whip had never wanted a woman the way he wanted Shannon Conner Smith.
The sensible part of Whip’s mind told him that his growing obsession with Shannon was the best reason in the world for him to pack up and ride on. Only heartbreak could come of an affair between a yondering man and a young widow who watched him with dreams in her eyes.
But Whip wasn’t listening to caution or conscience anymore. He sensed too clearly the unspeakable ecstasy that awaited him within Shannon’s body. Until he drank the dark wine of her sensuality to the last, lush drop, he wouldn’t leave.
He couldn’t.
I need her.
Come heaven, come hell, I have to have her.
The intensity of his own thoughts shocked Whip. Some time in the past ten days he had gone from straightforward masculine desire to a more complex passion — darker, more intense, a fierce hunger that had no beginning and no possible end other than shimmering oblivion deep inside Shannon’s body.
Whip’s thoughts had an inevitable reaction on his body, increasing the ache of flesh that was already pulsing with need. Cursing silently, he rubbed soap into lather between his big palms and applied it to his face. He began shaving, using an exquisite sense of touch as well as his small shaving mirror.
Shannon watched, fascinated.
«You act like you’ve never seen a man shave,» Whip said, flattered and irritated at the same time. The feminine approval in her dark blue glance aroused him all over again.
«Silent John just wore a beard,» Shannon said.
Whip grunted, stroked, and flicked lather off the blade.
«You always speak of him in the past tense,» Whip said after a few more strokes.
«Who?»
«Your husband.»
Shannon opened her mouth, closed it, and hugged herself as though suddenly cold.
«I’ll be more careful,» she promised. «Those Culpeppers are brazen enough as it is.»
«You think Silent John is dead.»
Although it wasn’t quite a question, Shannon sensed Whip’s intense interest in her answer.
«I don’t think I’ll see Silent John again,» she admitted in a low voice. Then, anxiously, «But please don’t say anything about it in Holler Creek. Murphy isn’t much more polite to me than the Culpeppers. If they thought Silent John wasn’t ever coming back…»
Shannon’s voice died.
But she didn’t have to finish the sentence. Whip knew exactly what she meant.
«Maybe you better plan on leaving Echo Basin,» he said flatly.
For an instant hope flared in Shannon that Whip was asking her to go with him when he left.
«Where would I go?» she asked softly.
«I don’t know, but I do know that at least one of those Culpeppers is always camped about two miles down the road.»
«Why?»
«Waiting for me to leave. When —»
«But —» she interrupted.
Whip talked over Shannon. «When I leave, they’ll start bothering you again.»
Quickly Shannon looked away, not wanting Whip to see the hurt in her eyes.
When I leave.
Not if.
When.
Until that moment Shannon hadn’t known how much part of her had counted on having Whip stay. Each day he watched her more intently, wanted her more obviously. Yet despite his urgent male hunger, he cared enough for her not to speak crudely to her of his need or to back her up against a wall and buck against her the way she once had seen a man do with Clementine.
«I’ll manage,» Shannon said in a low voice. «I always have.»
«Not without Silent John.»
«Prettyface protects me now.»
«That’s not good enough and you know it.»
«It isn’t your concern,» she said tightly. «It’s mine. Breakfast is ready.»
With a muttered word, Whip bent and splashed more water on his face, rinsing it. Then he held his hand out for the rag.
His hand remained empty.
Whip looked up, ignoring the water running down his face. Through narrowed eyes he saw that Shannon had gone back into the cabin.
There would be no mint-scented cloth given to him by her hands. There would be no careful dabbing at his face by minty fingers. Worst of all, there would be no sapphire eyes going over his face like loving hands, transparently admiring him, blushing when he caught her watching him.