Christine Dorsey (21 page)

When the cabin came in sight, Samantha heaved a sigh of relief. Everything looked normal. The chickens were clucking around, scratching for seeds. Charity was lying in a patch of late afternoon sun, her nose buried in her paws.

Samantha slid from Pru’s back just as Will came bursting through the door. He ran toward her, full of excitement and grabbed for the mule’s reins.

“I thought you’d never get home,” he said. “Guess who’s back?”

“Back?” Samantha’s mind flew to all sorts of possibilities, Bundy Atwood and Landis Moore heading the list. But when her gaze followed Will’s pointing finger, she caught sight of Jake Morgan leaning against the open door frame. Her breath left her in a rush. “What are you doing here?”

Jake’s brows lifted. “At the moment wondering what’s for supper.”

Didn’t this man ever think of anything but his stomach? Samantha pushed a reluctant Will toward the barn. “Take care of Prudence,” she told him before marching toward the house. As she approached the porch, Jake stepped aside to let her enter the cabin. And then he followed her in and closed the door.

Samantha took a deep breath, allowing herself time to settle down. She hadn’t expected to see him again, and certainly not casually leaning against her door. “I don’t recall asking you to supper,” she said, turning to confront him.

Jake crossed his arms. “I’m not staying without being fed.” He cocked his head to the side. “You do remember asking me to stay, don’t you?”

How could she ever forget that, or what had happened after he refused. “Yes.” Samantha clutched the chair back. “But I also remember your reply.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Listen, Samantha. I still think you’re crazy to stay here. But I can’t leave, knowing what I know. I told myself I could. You can believe me when I say I want to. But I simply can’t.”

“This isn’t your problem.” Samantha gave up her death grip on the chair and took a bowl off the shelf. Better to keep her hands busy than to let him know how upsetting his presence was. After scooping cornmeal from the bin, she added water and began mixing with a carved wooden spoon.

“I know that.” Jake watched her a moment, her head bent in concentration as she whipped the spoon around. “And when the war was over, I told myself that never again would I get mixed up with something that wasn’t my concern, but—”

Samantha glanced up. “Is that the way you felt, that the war wasn’t your concern?”

“No.” Jake ran his fingers through his hair. “It was my concern. It was everybody’s concern. Maybe it just wasn’t my fight.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Why?” Jake shook his head. “I don’t really know why. It seemed the thing to do at the time.”

“Like this does.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, your help isn’t necessary this time.” Samantha placed the corn batter in the Dutch oven.

“What I said in town about Bundy Atwood is true.”

“And I believed you... still believe you.” Samantha turned to find him standing near her. She hadn’t heard him move. Brushing past him, she put the dirty bowl in the dry sink. “That’s why I sent a telegram before I left town. To the military commander at Fort Scott. I asked him to send some troops.”

Yankees, she meant. She’d contacted the Yankees. Jake had a moment of apprehension before he remembered the war was over and he had a parole, and life went on. “That’s good,” he heard himself say. “Do you think they’ll come?”

“Probably... hopefully,” Samantha amended. “The commander was an old friend of my father’s. He used to be devoted to helping the families sent here by the New England Emigrant Aid Company.”

“Is that how you got here?”

“Sort of. We weren’t exactly part of that group. My father decided we should come here to a place that needed us more, rather than settle in a bunch. He believed in spreading the word.”

Jake lifted his brow inquisitively. Already the sweet smell of cornbread filled the cabin. “What word was that?”

“Abolitionism. My father... my entire family felt strongly that slavery was an unholy institution.”

“I see.” Jake hooked a chair leg with his boot and scraped it across the floor. After straddling it, he faced Samantha. “I guess I’ll only be staying a short time then.”

“I just told you, there’s no reason for you to stay at all.”

“Till the army gets here, there is.”

“I won’t lie with you again.”

Jake’s head shot up, his eyes locking with hers. He’d have bet she’d convinced herself their intimacy never took place. “I didn’t expect you would.”

“Good.” Samantha folded her hands. “Because if you think by staying that... What I mean is...”

“It was a mistake,” Jake finished for her.

“Yes. A mistake,” Samantha agreed. “And if you think by staying here—”

“That we’ll repeat that mistake?”

“Yes... I mean no. I mean we won’t.” Samantha swallowed. Just looking at him brought back vividly how it felt to be held by him, to be kissed, to have him deep inside her.

“I know we won’t.” But he wanted to. Just looking at her—hair curling out of the bun she’d put it in, soft mouth pursed—he wanted to. Jake took a deep breath, trying to suppress his wayward thoughts. “Something’s burning.”

Did he know what she was thinking? “What?” Samantha felt embarrassed color tint her cheeks.

“Burning,” Jake repeated, heading for the Dutch oven on top of the stove. “The cornbread.”

“Oh no. Oh, my goodness.” Samantha grabbed a dish towel and reached for the lid, but Jake beat her to it.

“Ouch, damnit!”

“I won’t have cursing in my house either!” Samantha pushed him aside and dragged the oven off the stove.

“I burned myself, damnit!” Jake scowled at Samantha and fanned his hand back and forth, cursing under his breath.

“And whose fault was that?” She pried the lid off. “It’s ruined.”

“What about my hand?” It didn’t take a doctor to know that his burn wasn’t serious, but it hurt. And damnit, she should care something about it.

“Oh, let me see.” Samantha blew hair out of her face. She gave one last wistful look at the charred cornbread, and turned her attention to Jake.

Her hands were gentle as they opened his fingers. She traced the burn carefully. “It doesn’t look bad.”

“It hurts.” Jake grimaced at his words. He sounded like a whiny kid. But he wanted sympathy. From her. As ridiculous as it seemed. As foreign to his nature as it was, he’d liked it when she gave it to him before. And he wanted it again.

Samantha studied his expression. He didn’t act like this, even when his wound was at its worst. He gave her a boyish grin and she shrugged. After dragging the pottery butter crock off the shelf, she placed it on the table.

“Let me see it again,” she said, stepping between Jake’s outstretched legs. Her skirt brushed against his pant legs, and Samantha tried to ignore the fleeting sensation that ran through her.

The butter felt warm and slippery on her fingers as she slid them across his broad palm. His hands were rough, she remembered that well from the night he’d touched her, but the butter softened his calluses.

Samantha tried to keep her touch impersonal as it traced the angry reddened ridge traversing his palm, but she could not dismiss his nearness.

His hand wavered and she used hers to steady it. Her hands were used to work, to the sun and soil of a Kansas farm, but they looked small and pale, almost dainty compared to his.

Taking a steadying breath, Samantha dipped two fingers into the crock for more butter. Jake shifted and his thighs tightened on either side of hers. Samantha swallowed hard and glanced at Jake. He was looking down at their hands. Her standing to his sitting put her slightly higher than he. She couldn’t see his eyes, just his lashes, long and gold-tipped as he watched the slow movement of her fingers over his palm.

Breathing became difficult, and Samantha’s knees felt weak. She cleared her throat. “Does it feel better now?” Her voice sounded husky.

Jake lifted his eyes. He couldn’t explain what was happening here, but from the expression on Samantha’s face, she felt it the same as he.

She professed to want no part of him physically; he readily agreed. Yet the urge to possess her, to feel again those slender legs wrapped around him, was almost overpowering.

He leaned forward. The abrasion of her skirt against the V of his legs was as powerful as a caress. Lord, her eyes were blue, soft, sweet and innocent, and locked on his. And her lips were parted, ready to be kissed...

“What’s that smell? Is something burning, Sam!”

Will burst through the door, breaking the sensual spell surrounding Samantha. She jerked away from Jake—had she just come close to kissing him?—and grabbed up the butter crock. Sliding it on the shelf, she kept her back turned to Jake and her brother. But it only took so long to replace the crock, and in the end she had to turn around. Taking a deep breath, then letting it out slowly, Samantha faced her brother. The glimpse she caught of Jake showed him still sitting, though he’d twisted his chair to position it toward the table.

“Nothing is burning,” Samantha said matter-of-factly, though she noted a slight breathless quality to her voice. “I simply overcooked the cornbread, and—”

“How come?”

“I beg your pardon.”

“How come you
burned
the cornbread? You never burn anything.”

True enough. Her father had considered waste a sin. And burning food, especially in those early years, was undeniably a waste. Samantha had learned early on—almost as soon as her mother died and the responsibility for cooking had fallen on her—not to burn the meals.

She set about scraping the charred cornbread into the slop pot. “Well, I burned this.”

“Your sister was filling me in on the... responsibilities for my new job,” Jake interjected. “I guess we both forgot there was something in the Dutch oven.” Jake pushed off from the table and stood. “There’s a lot to get done. What do you say we get started?”

“What about supper?” Will seemed genuinely shocked by Jake’s suggestion.

And Jake could hardly blame him. His stomach and the chirping of twilight crickets were enough to convince him that it was past time for supper. But there was nothing to be done for it. Besides if Samantha felt half as bewildered as she looked, a little time alone wouldn’t hurt.

Grabbing his hat off the table, he linked his other arm around Will’s neck. “Let’s see about putting that wheel back on the wagon.”

“In the dark?” Will trailed along reluctantly.

“There’s still plenty of light.”

Will’s response was lost as the door shut behind them.

Samantha straightened, dropping the knife she’d used to scrape the cornbread into the iron pot with a thud. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her? Her hands were trembling, and with no conscious effort, she could recall the way it felt to touch Jake.

Moving toward the window, pushing aside a section of stretched cotton, Samantha glanced outside. Sure enough, Jake had set Will to lighting the lantern and fetching the wheel. He himself was straining against the wagon, shifting it into a better position to work on it.

She could tell he still favored his left side, but he used his right hand as normally as if he hadn’t burned it. Samantha shook her head, wondering just how sore it could have been. As she watched, Will brought the wheel up, and after a few words from Jake, he rolled it into place beside the axle. Then Jake hunched over, straining against the wagon’s weight. Samantha could see the bulging of his muscles and the grimace on his face as he lifted. It reminded her again of just how strong he was. And how much she enjoyed watching him.

With a sigh, she turned away from the window. His staying here was never going to work. But he didn’t seem likely to leave until the army arrived in Hager’s Flats. Samantha could only hope they’d come—and come soon.

She was still hoping that the next day, but not so desperately. Oh, she still wanted the soldiers to arrive and take care of capturing the gang harassing the settlers, but she decided she could handle Jake’s presence.

Supper last night hadn’t been nearly the ordeal she’d expected. She’d fried up ham and potatoes and made fresh biscuits—not quite ready to face another batch of cornbread after cleaning up the first. By the time Jake and Will came in, they were dirty and hungry... and tired.

They all ate quickly and quietly. When Will excused himself without even finishing his apple pie to climb slowly into the loft, Samantha knew a moment of panic. Once again she was alone with Jake. And history had taught her where that could lead.

But this time it led nowhere. Jake rose, thanked her for the meal, and left—she assumed, to sleep in the barn.

And she was glad. She really was!

This morning after devouring a huge stack of flapjacks, and surreptitiously massaging his wounds Jake motioned for Will to follow him into the yard.

“Wait a minute,” Samantha yelled when they hitched up the wagon and drove it past the cabin door. Between hurriedly cleaning up the breakfast dishes, she packed them all a lunch.

“No need for you to come along,” Jake said after gracefully bounding from the seat. “Will and I can handle the corn. Isn’t that right, Will?”

“Sure is, Jake.”

Samantha looked from one to the other. Will was obviously thrilled by the idea of spending the day with Jake, even if it meant picking corn, and Jake... Jake was staring at her, his expression unreadable. Samantha pursed her lips. “I always help with the harvesting.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Before Luke left for the war, she hadn’t.

“Well, this time you don’t have to.”

“But I—” Samantha stopped herself. Jake didn’t look as if wished to argue the point. He also didn’t seem willing to concede it. Samantha had gone into the cornfields when they hired Jim Farley because he was basically lazy. She knew Jake didn’t suffer from that malady.

“All right,” Samantha said, folding her hands. “I’ll stay here.”

“Good.”

“It’s not as if I don’t have plenty of work to do.”

Embarrassed by the lift of the corners of Jake’s mouth, Samantha glanced away, but looked back when he reached into the wagon bed.