Bride Of Shadow Canyon. Stacey Kayne

Why did I have to look downstream?

      He suppressed a groan while trying to push the tantalizing image of her perfect, pint-size body from his mind. Crouching beside his pack, he pulled out a cast iron skillet and dropped in two fish. He reached into a deep pouch on his saddlebag and pulled out his last lemon. Cursing his short temper, he carried everything to the fire. He should have taken the time to buy more supplies. What he had left wouldn’t last long, and he surely wouldn’t be finding any fruit trees until he reached his ranch in California.

      As he seasoned the fish, his gaze kept wavering to the vision across the fire. He’d been doing his job, he reasoned. After watching her approach a shallow pool of water, he’d scouted a decent perimeter for any signs of danger. Satisfied that all was clear, he’d returned to the river’s edge to catch some trout for supper. Rachell was still standing on the rocky shoreline, staring into a calm pool of water.

      And then, before he’d realized what she was about to do, she was as naked as the sunrise, with all its shimmering splendor. The sight had knocked the air from his lungs and all the sense from his head. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from her ivory skin and long auburn hair that radiated in the sunshine. She’d shocked him again by slipping into the frigid water, completely submerging herself. Only then did he find enough sense to step back from the river’s edge.

      She must have been desperate for a bath. He wasn’t against bathing in cold mountain streams, and had every intention of bathing later this evening, but most women would go without, rather than endure the bite of the cold water. He almost felt guilty for not allowing her to use his soap.

      Almost. The last thing he needed was for this woman to be more enticing. Even his bitter lye soap would be too sweet a scent on her soft skin. His gaze skimmed across her pretty face before he forced himself to look away.

      Blazing hell, but he’d never before had so much trouble controlling his wayward thoughts. This little bit of a woman, who’d done nothing but glare and shout at him, was making short work of the disciplined control he usually executed over his mind and body.

      Lord save him if she actually tilted those delicate pink lips upward and flashed him a smile.

      Deciding not to disturb her sleep, he prepared their food and finished his meal in peace before he went to wake her. His hand barely grazed her shoulder when her arm shot out, fast as a striking snake to combat his touch.

      “Jed,” she said, releasing a slow breath as she sat up.

      “Good thing you don’t wear a gun,” he said. “Or I’d surely have a hole between my eyes.” He wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Her wide eyes had fastened to the plate he held in his hand, her hunger as transparent as her pale skin.

      “You caught fish—biscuits!” She dragged her eyes away from the plate, which he imagined hadn’t been easy for her, and glanced up at the pink-streaked sky behind him.

      “Gracious! I didn’t mean to sleep so long.” Guilt-filled eyes met his gaze. “Sorry.”

      He couldn’t fight his laughter. “Don’t worry,” he said, handing her the plate. “We’ll find a way for you to earn your keep.”

      He read her startled response before she said the words.

      “I am not a—”

      “That’s not what I meant. You’re Elizabeth’s sister for cryin’ out loud. Just what kind of a bastard do you take me for?”

      “I just—”

      “Thought I’d take advantage of a woman stuck in my care. Well, sugar, I’m not in the practice of badgering women with unwanted advances.”

      “I didn’t intend to be insulting,” she said. “But I know you don’t believe me. I’m not a prostitute.”

      Jed held her angry gaze, wanting to press her with questions about the man chasing her, but now wasn’t the time. She didn’t trust him. And at the moment, her word didn’t carry a whole lot of weight.

      “Why won’t you believe me?” she demanded.

      “Did you lie to your sister about living in Kansas?”

      “Only because I was—”

      “Did you lie to her about running a boardinghouse?”

      “Yes, but—”

      “If you’ll lie to your own sister,” he continued, talking over her, “why should I expect you to be truthful with me? I read your letters, Rachell.”

      That seemed to surprise her. “Your sister thought the information may be of some use, but we both know those pieces of paper were full of nothing but fabricated stories.”

      He saw the anger growing in her eyes, but continued anyway. “I’ll tell you what I do know. You dress like a saloon girl, you admit to working in a saloon, and you’re on the run from a man who either believes you belong to him in a personal manner or views your absence as a profit loss. Now, you can shout innocent songbird all you like, but I say…if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck—”

      “I am no more a duck than I am a prostitute!”

      “Fine. Sing for me.”

      Her eyes popped wide. Her posture stiffened. “What?”

      “You say you’re a songbird. Prove it. Let’s hear the voice that drives a man to send a posse across the country just to keep you in his saloon.”

      Seemed a fair enough request to him, but judging by the burning rage in her glare, she didn’t agree. The three words that exploded from her mouth confirmed that notion.

       “Go to hell!”

      He didn’t need this aggravation. “Eat your supper. You have dish detail. There’s water on the fire.” He turned away, grabbed his saddlebags and slung them onto his shoulder. Reaching into one of the pockets, he pulled out one of his shirts and tossed it onto the blanket next to her. “See about working that into some sort of bonnet. Your nose is already starting to peel.” He dropped a rawhide pouch on top of the ivory shirt.

      Stunned by his sudden change from hateful to considerate, Rachell watched him grab his rifle and head toward the river.

      Now, why did he have to do that? She didn’t want to accept anything from a man who thought she was a liar. Her stomach churned loudly as she eyed two fish fillets, three biscuits and half an apple. More than she’d eaten in a week. That too surprised her.

      Most folks attempted to starve her, judging her appetite by her size, but she was certain Jed had given her exactly half of all the food he’d prepared. The succulent aroma tortured her senses. Hungry enough to eat her boots, she broke off a piece of fish and popped it into her mouth. She shuddered from sheer delight. He’d seasoned it—with lemon juice and salt.

      After spending a week eating mostly dust and a bit of dried beef, she was certain no finer tasting food had ever touched her tongue. The man knew his business when it came to cooking. She wondered if there was anything he couldn’t master. The probable answer to that question sent a frown sliding across her face.

       Pompous know-it-all.

      For all his skill and know-how, Jed Doulan was positively infuriating.

      After eating and doing the chores he’d assigned her, Rachell sat by the fire, stitching the fabric she’d cut up with the shears she’d found in the leather pouch, and intermittently looking at the bedroll spread out on the other side of the low flames.

      I don’t need his lousy blankets, she told herself, trying to ignore the cold shivers shaking her body. She and Titus had slept outdoors without such comforts plenty of times in the past five years, although, she’d been smart enough to keep her hair dry and had been wearing more than one thin layer of cotton.

      Things just seemed to keep going from bad to worse.