"Shannon?"
"Yes," she called softly.
"You all right back there?"
"Yes."
"We'll go another hour."
"Fine."
They plodded onward. Where the stream forked, he took the westward trail, telling her to walk the black gelding behind his bay mare in the rocky, shallow water. That way there would be no footprints for the bushwhackers to follow.
With the first light, he reined in. There was a perfect little copse beside the water. It was sheltered by magnificent oaks, and grass grew there like a blanket. On one side of the stream, the water deepened in a small natural pond. It was just like the swimming hole back home where he and Cole and Jamie had roughhoused after working hours, and where the neighborhood girls had come to watch and giggle from the trees, and where, sometimes, the young ladies had boldly determined to join them. He smiled, thinking about those days. They had been so long ago.
Malachi realized that Shannon had reined up behind him. "This is it," he said softly. "We'll rest here."
Nodding, she moved to dismount and missed her footing. She fell flat into the water on her rear and lay sprawled, apparently too tired to move.
Malachi dismounted and hunkered down in front of her, smiling. "Hey. Come on out of the water."
She nodded, barely. Her eyes fell on his, dazed.
He flicked water on her face and saw the surprise and then the anger spark her eyes. "You do need a bath," he told her. Dirt still smudged her face. "Badly. But this doesn't seem to be the right time. Come on, I'll help you out."
His greatcoat had fallen open, exposing the lace and flowers of her corset When he went to take her hand, his fingers brushed over the lace, and over the firm satiny flush that rose above the border. Warmth sizzled straight to his loins, and he paused, stunned by the strength of the feeling. He shook his head, irritated with himself, and grabbed her hands. "Up, Shannon, damn it, get up."
Sensing the sudden anger in him, she staggered to her feet, using his hand for support.
You're soaked. Let's get up on the bank."
Thank God he was exhausted, he told himself. Really so exhausted that he couldn't even think about what the sight of her did…
She sighed softly as they cleared the water, throwing his coat from her shoulders and sinking down to remove her boots. Her hair, touched by the pale, new light of the coming morning, glowed with a fiery radiance and teased the flesh of her shoulders and breasts. He didn't touch her at all, but the warmth sizzled through him again, making his heart pump too fast and his tired body come alive.
Maybe it was impossible to be too exhausted.
He gritted his teeth and swore.
She paused in surprise. "Malachi, what's wrong?"
When had she learned to make those blue eyes so innocent and so damned sultry all in one? And her hair, just falling over one eye now…
"What's wrong?" he yelled at her. "All I was trying to do was get Kristin back from the Red Legs, and instead I'm running over half of Missouri to get you back from a pack of bushwhackers. And did you try to use one ounce of sense in the hands of death? No, Shannon, you just provoke them further, and almost get us both killed."
She jumped to her feet. She was trembling, he saw.
"You don't understand. You don't understand and you can't understand. You weren't there when my pa was killed, and you didn't get to hear, in rumor and in truth, day after day after day, what was done to the men outside Centralia. You don't—"
"Shannon, I fought in the war. I know all about dying."
"It wasn't the dying!" Tears glittered brightly in her eyes, but she wouldn't shed them, she wouldn't break down again, and he knew it. "It wasn't the dying. It was the way that they died. He admitted it; that bastard admitted that he had been there, outside Centralia. He might have been the one who—who…Malachi, they had to pick up his pieces! They had to pick up Robert's pieces. I loved him, I loved him so much."
Her face was smudged but her chin was high, and her eyes were even more beautiful fevered with emotion. He felt her pain, and he wished heartily that he had never spoken to her. She still didn't understand. Justin just might want to do the same damned thing to her, if he could get his hands on her again. She'd fought Justin anyway. Or maybe she had understood, and hadn't cared.
She stared at him, her head high, her hands on her hips, her passion like an aura around her. "I loved him, and that bastard helped dismember him!"
"It can't matter!" Malachi told her curtly. "You can't allow it to matter right now!"
"You don't understand—"
"Maybe I don't understand, but you're not going to explain anything to me. No Yank is ever going to explain the horror of this war to a Confederate. We lost, remember? Oh, yes, of course, you're the one who likes to remind me of that fact"
"Maybe you do understand dying and killing. Maybe you just don't understand what love is."
"Shannon, you're a fool, and my life is none of your damned business."
"Malachi, damn you—"
"I don't want to listen right now, Shannon. I'm tired. I have to have some sleep," he said wearily. He didn't want to fight with her. He just didn't want to look at her anymore. He didn't want to see all the fire and excitement and beauty…and the pain and misery that haunted her.
He didn't want to desire her.
But he did.
He turned away from her, heading for the horses. For a moment he thought that she was going to run after him and continue the fight. But she didn't. She stayed still for several long minutes, tense, staring after him. Then she walked down to the water. He tried to ignore her as he unsaddled the horses and rolled out his bedroll and blanket beneath the largest oak.
He hesitated, looked at her bedroll, rolled behind the seat of her saddle. He unrolled it, too, beside his own. He didn't want her too far away. He knew that he would awaken if footsteps came anywhere near them, but he was still wary of sleeping. Justin struck him as the type of man who worked hard toward vengeance.
He could hear her, drinking thirstily, splashing water, washing her face. Scrubbing her face and her hands again and again.
He threw himself down on the bedroll, using his saddle as a pillow and turning so he could keep an eye on her. Day was coming fast now. Sunlight played through the leaves and branches, caressing her hair and shoulders and arms. It rippled against the water in a magical dazzle.
"What are you doing?" he demanded.
"Scrubbing. Scrubbing away that awful bushwhacker!" she retorted.
"You can throw your whole body in later and scrub to your heart's content!" he called to her irritably. "Get out now. Let's get some sleep."
She turned around and saw him stretched out, then opened her mouth as if she was about to argue with him.
Maybe she was just tired. Maybe, just maybe, she was still a little bit grateful. Whatever, she closed her mouth and walked toward him.
She hesitated by her bedroll, looking at him. Strands of damp hair curled around her face, and its planes were delineated, soft and beautiful. Water beads hovered over her breasts.
He groaned inwardly and tipped his hat over his face. "Good night, Shannon."
"Perhaps I should move this." She indicated her bedroll.
"Lie down."
"I've never had to sleep this close to a Reb before."
"You slept with Justin just about on top of you yesterday."
She smiled with sweet sarcasm and widened her eyes. "I've never willingly slept this close to a Reb before."
"Willing or other, lie down, brat!"