Daisies In The Wind (20 page)

The September air had grown quite chilly,
though thankfully the wind was still. The moon rode low in the
star-filled sky, now and then disappearing behind the peaks of the
mountains. Rebeccah pulled her shawl close around her shoulders and
tried not to shiver with cold as Wolf guided the horses along the
grassy, rutted trail. Shivering was a sign of weakness, and she
refused to appear weak before him. But Wolf must have noticed
something, for he suddenly yanked a woven Navajo blanket out from
under the seat and thrust it at her, not saying a word, and never
taking his eyes from the road ahead.

It stopped the shivering, but for some reason
her feet began to fidget. Rebeccah concentrated all during the rest
of the drive on keeping them still and on keeping at bay the
lonely, painful yearning growing ever more strongly inside her.

There was silence in the wagon until Wolf at
last halted the horses in front of Rebeccah’s front porch. The song
of crickets filled the starry night, and the fragrance of autumn
leaves and pine air drifted with intoxicating sweetness about them.
A mosquito swooped before her nose, and she swatted it away, so
intensely aware of Wolf’s large, wide-shouldered frame beside her,
of his clean, invigorating smell, and of his strong hands holding
the reins, that it was all she could do not to tremble with the
longing that rose unbidden in the deepest places of her being.

“Why’d you take the teaching position?” Wolf
Bodine asked abruptly, so abruptly, she jerked her head toward him
in surprise.

“It was offered to me,” she replied, her
heart thumping at the unusually intent darkness of his eyes.

Wolf leaned back thoughtfully. He was about
to violate all the codes of polite behavior Caitlin had drilled
into him for years. But his lawman’s suspicious nature and his
curiosity drove him to understand why the daughter of a wealthy and
successful outlaw would want to earn a pitiful salary teaching
school in a town where folks were leery of her. From outward
appearances, and from every reasonable expectation, Rebeccah
Rawlings should be rolling in money. Unless ...

“Did your father gamble away all his loot? Is
that it?” Wolf demanded, keeping his tone level, studying her with
cold, probing eyes that missed nothing. “Miss Rawlings, do you need
this job?”

Shock whistled through her. He had hit too
close to the truth. She couldn’t bear to think about what else he
might discover, or about how her own feelings might betray her and
make her vulnerable to him, more vulnerable than she was already.
She threw the blanket off her lap and crouched to face him, drawing
on anger and pride to get her through this.

“How dare you.” Her shoulders trembled, but
no longer from the cold. “You have
no right
to ask me
questions of such a personal nature. Or is this an official
investigation, Sheriff? Are you going to lock me up now for wanting
to teach school? Are you afraid of what I’ll teach Billy?”

Wolf’s muscles coiled with tension. Moonglow
illuminated her heart-shaped face, bringing alive the passionate
anger flaring in her magnificent violet eyes, revealing her dainty
cheeks flushed the shade of wild roses. He couldn’t help noticing
the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the clinging calico
gown. “Hold on,” he growled, almost more to himself than to her. “I
only asked a simple question—”

“Maybe I’ll teach him to rob stagecoaches,”
Rebeccah rushed on, too incensed to stop now. Her emotions were
galloping away with her, and her voice took on a taunting note. “Is
that what you’re afraid of? Or maybe you’re worried that I’ll teach
him how to blow open a bank vault with a stick or two of dynamite,
or how to lose a posse by covering his tracks so well, not even an
Apache scout could find him, or—?”

Wolf grabbed her. Her shoulders felt narrow
and vulnerable beneath his taut fingers. “Didn’t anyone ever teach
you when to shut up?” he exploded.

And suddenly his mouth crushed down on hers
with a violent heat that seared away all the words and thoughts
that had been bubbling inside of her. Wolf’s arms snaked around
her, pinioning her against him with brute force, and a rush of
jangling feelings tore through her, feelings that overwhelmed her
as powerfully as the physical sensations of his ravishing mouth and
knowing, gliding hands.

Wolf didn’t understand why in hell he was
kissing her. It sure wasn’t the way he kissed Nel Westerly or
Lorelie Simpson—or even Molly Duke. He’d been banging heads and
tempers with Rebeccah Rawlings for long enough now and he ought to
be staying away from her—she was trouble—but instead of keeping his
distance he just kept grabbing her and pulling her close ... closer
...

She tasted sweet as daisies and every bit as
wild as one. Wolf’s insides seemed to be crunching up like twigs on
fire. His hand slid up her back, cupped the delicate nape of her
neck, and brushed the tightly coiled fluff of her hair. Then his
tongue found its way inside her honey-warm mouth, and Wolf felt his
loins grow heavy with a fierce yearning. He groaned and held her
tighter, kissed her harder.

Rebeccah’s senses surrendered to the
onslaught of kissing and touching. A light-as-a-butterfly joy
winged through her, and instinctively her hands slid up his broad
shoulders and around his neck. It was so strong, corded with
muscle. She kissed him back, welcoming his tongue, savoring his
taste, and the groaning need she sensed in him. Fire and musk
consumed her. He was bringing out all those feelings in her,
feelings she had kept hidden and secret for so long, making her
whole, aware, alive.

She gave a low moan as his hand cupped the
nipple of her breast beneath her gown, rubbing it until tears ached
at her eyes. His lips grazed her soft neck, burned along the hollow
of her cheek, and nibbled at the seashell curve of her ear, drawing
forth sensations of delight.

But then, as Wolf pressed her back against
the wagon seat and his powerful body leaned against hers, the panic
came.

It cut her like an old rusty razor. It drove
away the pleasure and the sweetness and the fire. It roused her
like a bucket of stinging cold water. “No!” she begged, tearing her
mouth from his.

In terror she pulled back, flailing wildly at
his massive strength.

Wolf stopped, his brain struggling to take in
her cries and the blows she was raining futilely at his chest.
“Rebeccah,” he said sharply, his voice hoarse, and then he saw that
same look of panic in her eyes that he had seen before.

He straightened, pulling back. His hands fell
away. He let her pummel him, saying nothing, until the fear died
out of her eyes and she realized he was no longer holding her, no
longer even touching her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Both
hands flew to her throat.

“Don’t!” she said tremblingly, and started to
hurl herself miserably out of the wagon. “Don’t ever touch me
again!”

He caught her before she could get out. His
fingers closed around her arm and yanked her back. Rebeccah gave a
startled scream.

“It’s all right, Rebeccah. I’m not going to
hurt you.”

“I want to go inside.”

“That’s fine. But let me help you down. It’s
dark, and you could lose your footing. And let me scout out your
cabin and make sure there’s no unwelcome visitors waiting for
you.”

His quiet words penetrated the anguished
confusion in her brain. Suddenly she glanced at the cabin in
trepidation. “Do you really think ... ?”

“You would know more about that than I would.
But after Fess Jones, I reckon we can’t be too careful.”

His hands felt so protectively strong and
comforting around her waist that the last shreds of Rebeccah’s
panic faded as he set her down on the ground as carefully as a
china doll. She looked into his handsome face, so intent, so
serious.
He’s a lawman, he won’t rape you
, she told
herself and her mind knew it was true. There was no resemblance at
all between Wolf Bodine and Neely Stoner—he would never do such
awful things, but when he’d leaned across her that way, the
memories had taken over, as they always did, and she had slipped
into that deep, black well of fear.

Looking at Wolf now, standing tall and quiet
beside her, her insides turned into a puddle of jelly. She fought
the very strong urge to slide her fingers through the burnished
curls falling lankly across his forehead, to touch that wonderful,
sensuous mouth that had done such indecent things to her own
...

“Come in, then—for a moment,” Rebeccah
Rawlings said with all the composure she could muster under the
circumstances—and turned away before she lost what little was left
of her resolve and her dignity.

No one was hiding in the cabin. She followed
Wolf through the parlor, the kitchen, and finally the bedroom. All
was as she had left it, down to the camisole and lace drawers she
had left tumbled anyhow on the bed when she had changed into fresh
clothes earlier. She noticed his gaze fix on the wispy lace
garments, and immediately color seeped into her cheeks.

“Do you mind,” she snapped, recovering her
composure. She slammed the bedroom door. “I think you should leave
now before you overstay your welcome—Sheriff!”

He shot her a look full of amusement, but
obediently followed her back to the cabin door, admiring the gentle
sway of her hips and rounded bottom beneath that soft
cherry-and-white gown.

“You never answered my question,” he said as
she held open the door for him and left no doubt that she wanted
him to leave.

“I don’t intend to.”

“Then I’ll try another. Do you intend to go
to the schoolhouse dance?”

Rebeccah’s blood tingled. “Absolutely
not.”

“Why?”

“As I already told your mother earlier this
evening, I don’t care for dances.”

“Ah-huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“I never met a woman who didn’t care to
dance.”

“You have now. And besides, it’s my
understanding you already have a companion for that evening, so I
can’t imagine why you care about my plans. Good night, Sheriff
Bodine.”

She banged the door in his face and leaned
against it, eyes closed, breathing hard.

Wolf turned slowly away, his expression
thoughtful in the pale glint of moonlight. Rebeccah Rawlings
changed moods quicker than any female he’d ever met, he decided.
One minute she was flinty as stone, the next she was like melting
candle wax in his arms—and then the next moment she was as
terrified as a beaten pup, and then, quick as the gleam of a
firefly, a stone princess in a thorny girdle once more.

She wasn’t at all like Clarissa, he realized
suddenly as he got back into the wagon and turned the horses for
home. Clarissa had a one-track mind:
Clarissa
. Clarissa’s
pleasure, Clarissa’s schemes.

This woman was a jumble of complicated
thoughts and emotions. Hard to read, impossible to figure out. But
Wolf was coming to understand something about her: She wasn’t
anywhere near as tough as she tried to appear. Every once in a
while that rawhide veneer of hers slipped. It had with Billy and
Joey, the night she’d saved their skins and fixed them tea with
peppermint and kept them warm and dry by her fire. It had slipped
tonight when she’d chatted with Caitlin and Billy, and played the
piano, and sang, with a thousand emotions flitting over her face.
And again tonight when he’d kissed her and for a time she’d
responded with such red-hot passionate need.

Hell, that stubborn, dark-haired angel was
simmering right full of passion. But every time he caught a glimpse
of the tender woman beneath the surface, she yanked that tough coat
of rawhide back over her shoulders again.

She’s probably loco. And possibly
dishonest. And definitely the wrong woman for you
, he told
himself, but something made him glance back as the wagon neared the
rise, and he saw her slender silhouette framed in the window of the
cabin for a brief moment, and it looked like her face was pressed
against the glass. When she saw him look back, she moved quickly
away, leaving a dark, blank square in her place.

He grinned to himself. Loco. Trouble. Think
about Nel Westerly and her delicious blueberry pies. Think about
Lorelie Simpson and that brandy-laced chocolate cake specialty of
hers. Rebeccah Rawlings can’t even cook! Unless you call heating
beans and brewing coffee cooking.

Wolf made up his mind. He would stay away
from Rebeccah Rawlings. Being around her stirred up feelings that
were just plain uncomfortable, and he couldn’t be bothered with
them or with her. If Caitlin and Billy wanted to be her friends,
that was fine. Of course Billy was fast developing a case of calf
love for her, but that was harmless so long as Rebeccah didn’t
laugh at him over it.

Wolf sensed that she wouldn’t. Rebeccah
Rawlings had dealt with Billy naturally, effortlessly. Something
told him she would handle the boy’s sensitive feelings with
care.

She’d better
, he thought, his mouth
thinning as the wagon lurched toward home.
Or I’ll have to step
in and set her straight
. The thought of anyone hurting Billy
the way Clarissa had hurt him made his eyes narrow and the anger
deep inside him start to flare.

His life was finally in order again, he told
himself. The last thing he needed was an ornery, loco woman. The
last thing he needed was to get tangled up in any way with Miss
Rebeccah Rawlings.

* * *

No photograph of his dead wife
,
Rebeccah mused as she sat on her bed a few moments later brushing
her hair.
I wonder why
.

Perhaps the memories were too painful.
Perhaps she was so beautiful, so sweet and beloved, that even
looking at her face brought grief freshly to the surface.

She sighed. Well, perhaps Wolf Bodine was
finally getting over his grief. After all, he was squiring that
Westerly woman to that damned dance. And she gathered from what
Caitlin had said that he had the young Widow Simpson dangling on a
string as well.