«Well, come on,» Shannon said impatiently. «Silent John swore by — swearsby — the healing power of the spring, and your hands are pretty well chewed.»
«I’ll be damned,» Whip said, stepping toward the cupboard. «So this is why he built the cabin right into the mountainside.»
Shannon shrugged. «All I know is the hot spring boils meat and washes clothes and dishes real clean at the far end, and is just right for bathing at this end. Everywhere else, the hot spring keeps the worst of the cold at bay when I can’t get out to gather wood in the winter.»
Shannon set the lantern on a wooden crate that had once held ammunition. Light transformed twists of steam into ghostly golden wraiths.
Whip ducked low as he went through the cupboard. Once inside the cave, he saw that the ceiling was high enough for him to stand upright. Lantern light glanced off the rocky walls and uneven floor, and made the many deep cracks in the rock look like ragged slices of midnight. But for the tiny hissing of the lamp and the seething, whispering swirls of water, the cave was utterly still.
A metal pan scraped over rock as Shannon dipped up hot water for Whip. She put the steaming pan on the crate next to the lantern, fished a lump of soap from a smaller wooden box and stepped aside to make room for Whip.
When Whip looked from the water to Shannon, but didn’t move farther into the cave, she made an exasperated sound.
«Surely you aren’t afraid of caves?» Shannon asked curtly.
«No. But you ought to be.»
«Why? I’ve been here a thousand times.»
«Not with me. Not when lantern light outlines your breasts and shows me that your nipples are still hard, still hungry. Do they ache, honey girl?»
Shannon flushed to the roots of her hair. She did ache, and not only in her breasts. But she wasn’t about to mention that to Whip. He had had enough fun at her expense already.
«Go to hell, yondering man. What I feel is none of your business.»
Frustration fairly vibrated through Shannon’s body and voice. Whip knew what its source was, knew its cure, and worst of all he knew the naive little widow would be the hottest woman he had ever shared a bed with.
Abruptly Whip closed his eyes, unable to look at Shannon any longer without touching her.
And if he touched her, he would take her.
He didn’t want that to happen. Not yet. Not after he had just discovered how naive she was. Seducing her now would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Whip wanted Shannon to give herself to him knowing full well what she was doing, not because her judgment had been clouded by her first taste of real pleasure.
«I’m counting to three,» Whip said, his voice rough. «When I open my eyes, you better be —»
«But —»
«— in the cabin or I’ll strip those ragged clothes off you and teach you everything your damned husband should have about men, women, and sex.»
Shannon drew a swift, audible breath at Whip’s bluntness. If it hadn’t been for his bleeding hands, she would have grabbed the lantern and left him standing alone in the dark.
«Your hands need tending,» she said through her teeth.
«They don’t ache nearly so much as my crotch does. Do you want to tend to that, too?»
«You are a crude, miserable, surely —»
«Get your sweet little rump out of here,» Whip interrupted savagely, «or I’ll do something we’ll both regret. One.»
The temptation to throw the pan of water at Whip was so great that Shannon had her hands wrapped around the warm metal rim before she realized what she was doing.
For an instant her fingers tightened, getting ready to lift the pan.
Then common sense returned in a cold rush. No matter how angry and unsettled she was, it would be plain foolish to bait a man as dangerous as Whip, especially after she had received the clearest kind of warning about the state of his temper.
With a stifled curse Shannon let go of the pan and stepped back.
«Two,» Whip said.
He hesitated for a time before he spoke the next number. Motionless, he listened. He heard no sounds of Shannon’s retreat. He heard nothing at all but the muted noises of lantern and hot spring.
«Three.»
Whip opened his eyes and discovered that Shannon had gone as silently as steam rising from the hot spring’s gently seething surface.
Damn.
I was hoping she’d lose her temper and sling that pan of water at me. It would have been fun using every stitch of her clothing to dry myself off.
It would have been even more fun getting her wet in return.
Whip took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to release the aggressive, coiled hunger of his body.
It’s better this way. She’s too naive.
Whip kept repeating that bit of wisdom all the way to the pan of water, but it didn’t convince him worth a damn. He still wanted Shannon like hell burning.
He plunged his hands into the hot water, hoping pain would take his mind off the hunger that was knotting his guts.
It didn’t.
Swearing, Whip began to work soap into the ragged cuts on his hands. As he did, he remembered what Jessi, Wolfe’s wife, had told him about keeping wounds clean so that they would heal quickly.
Silently he wondered if soap would wash away desire as well as blood and dirt.
Somehow, I doubt it, Whip thought sourly.
He was right.
8
For the rest of the day, Whip and Shannon were as polite to one another as well-bred strangers. She cooked for him; he split wood and replaced a rotten log in the cabin wall. She washed his clothes; he picketed the old mule in a fresh section of meadow and caught a half dozen trout for dinner. She mended his clothes; he began tanning buckskin for moccasins for her.
The subject of passion and naive little eggs never came up. Nor was there any discussion of death and Silent John or of widows and safety.
The weather was a favorite topic for what little conversation Whip and Shannon had.
Prettyface was the only creature in the cabin that was fully at ease. He begged scraps from Whip and Shannon equally, offered his head to both people to be petted, and looked to man and woman alike as a source of open doors and romps in the meadow.
Shannon should have been pleased by Prettyface’s acceptance of Whip. Most of her was, but a part of her wondered acidly if the dog would leave her when Whip did.
The following morning Shannon slept later than usual. She had spent a restless night filled with dreams and yearnings she couldn’t express in words. She woke up to a familiar sound. Whip was splitting wood.
«Good,» Shannon said beneath her breath. «Maybe he can work out his bad temper on the woodpile instead of on me. Besides, what did I ever do to him except…»
Sensual memories licked through Shannon with tiny tongues of fire. Her nipples tightened to aching peaks.
Oh, no. Why won’t it go away?
Shannon threw back the blankets and shot out of bed as though it were on fire.
But it wasn’t the bed. It was her body.
No wonder Whip is giving the wood such a going over. He must feel as edgy-achey-strange as I do.
Hurriedly Shannon went about the familiar chores of making breakfast and putting the cabin back in order. When she was finished, she went to the cabin window, unlatched the shutters, and let the crisp air wash over her.
A glance told her that Whip had split an impressive amount of stove wood since she had first heard him at work shortly after dawn. She had meant to get up then, but instead had rolled over and slid back into the subtly fevered dreams that had claimed her for most of the night.
With a hunger Shannon didn’t understand, she watched the taut strength of Whip’s body while he transformed lengths of fir logs into clean pieces of stove wood. Never once did he look up to see if she was standing in the window. He simply kept working as though his strength was truly limitless.