Harris Channing (6 page)

Bobbie bounded in from behind the
makeshift curtain, twirling around in the pale gray woolen gown. "It fits
almost perfectly," she crowed. "I am a bit tall and a bit narrow, but
it's warm and lovely."

He set the scissors back into his
kit and stared at her reflection on the mirror. She was right, it was almost a
perfect fit and damnation she looked beautiful, her skin fresh and pink from
her bath, her long dark curls cascading over her slender shoulders. His cock
pressed against his pants, a painful reminder that he was still a young man.
Anger nearly suffocated him and he turned on her. "That's Sarah's
dress."

She stopped, all the joy sliding
from her face. "I know. Thank you. I meant no disrespect." Her gray
eyes grew large and moist. "I would never try to hurt you, David. I'm
sorry."

Guilt had him looking past her. But
was it guilt for yelling at her? Or was it guilt for allowing the urchin to
have an impact on him? He knew. It was the same old guilt that had dogged his
every step these five years, compounded by his carnal desire to make love to a
woman other than his beloved. He brushed past her and ducked behind the
curtain, determined to grab up one of his last bottles of whiskey. It would be
time to make a run to the trading post soon. He needed drink and he'd ditch her
with Henry. It made more sense anyway. He'd take better care of her and God
knew taking care of her was killing him.

Swallowing, he savored the burn as
the alcohol slid down his throat. Eyeing the tub, he slammed the bottle down
upon the small table and undressing, slid into the lukewarm water. The feel of
the scented liquid did little to ease his arousal, for she bathed with lilac
soap…Sarah's lilac soap.

"Damnation," he mumbled.
If she wanted him clean, he'd be clean, but then he owed her nothing more. She
was not Sarah. She had no right to ask him for anything. Not even a haircut.

He lathered, drank, rinsed and
drank. If he did it right, he'd be foxed by the time he finished his bath. His
ache for Bobbie would cease and with luck, he'd be curled up on the pallet
before the fire and another day would draw to an end without him even being
aware.

***

No matter what she did she was
wrong. But that realization did little to ease her guilt. God knew she would
have put her own gown back on, but he offered her the one she now wore. Was it
wicked to like having a fine dress? She supposed she wasn't wrong, but
reluctantly, she admitted, his reaction to her pirouetting around in Sarah's
clothes wasn't wrong either.

Flopping down on her bed, she
studied her hands. The skin was still in ugly shape but her fingers moved, her
blisters healing, no infection…she was clean, clothed, full of rabbit stew and
only moments before verging on happiness.

Still she didn't have to wonder why
he acted the way he did. She knew. It was about her looking the part of Sarah.
Sarah, he called her name in his sleep. Sarah, he kept a locket with her
picture in his pocket. He ate, breathed and most especially drank, Sarah.
Despite her being gone, the woman's memory was killing him.

Alfred curled up on the bed beside
her and she stroked his soft brindle fur. "What can I do to help
him?" she asked the dog.

"Nothing Roberta. There is
nothing you can do to help me."

He stood before her, a towel around
his waist. His broad, muscular frame glistened in the orange light of the fire.
She swallowed back her surprise, having never considered what he would look
like beneath his filthy buckskin and wool. With as much as he drank he should
have been either fat or thin, but he was neither. His physical condition had
her wanting to reach out and touch him, wondering if the lightly haired body
was as hard as it looked. And with his beard trimmed and his hair clean, well
he was quite a handsome man. The transformation kicked her heartbeat up a notch
and a strange tickle cascaded through her abdomen.

"But David, you're
miserable."

His green eyes darkened, and his
full lips pinched into an angry line. "Your understated observation makes
me sick."

She didn't like the look on his
face, didn't like the way his rage constantly bubbled beneath the surface. But
what had her fighting her own ire was how his mood slipped from pleasant
gentleman to mad drunk without the slightest warning. Crossing her arms over
her body she glared back at him. "You drink too much. It makes you
mean."

"You watch too closely,
Roberta Shallcross. You judge when you know nothing of my pain."

"You never bothered to ask
anything but my name and my age. How could you possibly know of my life?
Perhaps I do understand some of what you're feeling." Hot, angry blood
flooded her cheeks. She was infuriated and she loathed him for it. She prided
herself on staying positive. Even when she was lost on the mountain, she knew
it would work out one way or the other. That life or death scenario was less
frustrating than dealing with an irate drunk in mourning.

"Oh, you're a widow? You lost
the love of your life through your own carelessness?"

"No," she replied,
lifting her chin in mock confidence. Truth was, she was having trouble holding
his gaze. "But I lost what's left of my family to either weather or
desertion. I watched a dear grandfather die in great pain. I buried my best
friend after she and I both struggled through typhus. You tell me, David, do
you suppose my life has been so easy?"

Thankfully, he looked away.
"None of those things are your fault, Bobbie. You can blame circumstance,
not your own foolishness."

What circumstance, she wondered.
But it had to be something that a man could blame himself for even though it
wasn't truly his fault. For David didn't seem the type to abuse or neglect.
"Did she die in childbirth?" she asked, weakly.

He didn't say anything and she
finally forced herself to look upon him. Anger had returned to his countenance.
"No. She was murdered. I found her dead right in front of the
fireplace."

She swallowed the horrified lump
that clogged her throat. Without thought, she jumped to her feet and rushed to
him, grabbing his hand. "I'm so sorry, David."

"So am I. It was a horrible
sight, one I close my eyes and see over and over." Tears filled his eyes
yet did not spill.

The ache of compassion had her
wrapping her arms around him and holding him close. It was a foolish move, she
realized as soon as she had done it, so why then did she not let go?

He stood still, allowing her to
wrap herself around him and even though he didn't hold her back, he didn't
force her away. "I am too. She wanted to leave, I wanted to stay. I was the
man, I did as I wanted." His tone had gone cold, his words listless.
"If I had only done what she asked none of this would have happened. We'd
be back in Tennessee with our child and she would be alive."

Fresh tears washed over her cheeks.
"Your loss is great," she said through sobs. "I didn't
know." Her words were weak and ineffective, and yet she continued to cling
to him. "But I do know it's not your fault. You didn't do it, you're not
to blame."

He moved and when he returned her
embrace she sank deeper into him. Lord help her she needed to be held as much
as he did. His strong arms a comfort, the masculine scent of his clean flesh,
the warmth of him and she held on tighter still.

"Forgive yourself. If Sarah
loved you as much as you love her, she wouldn't want you to suffer as you
are."

He pushed her away, but there was a
softness in his eyes that she'd never seen in him before. "Sarah loved me
but she hated it here. I will carry that burden for the rest of my life."
He reached up and brushed her tears away. "And you can't change that no
matter how close you hold me or how many tears you shed for me."

"I know I can't change
anything, but I've seen the good in you."

His hand lingered on her cheek and
again the strange, delicious warmth filled her belly. Was he going to caress
her more? Would he kiss her? She wet her lips and continued to look into the
vastness of his green-eyed stare.

Finally, he stepped away from her,
her flesh instantly longing for his return. "You can't stay here any
longer."

"What?" Surely she had
misunderstood. "I have nowhere to go."

"I'm taking you to the trading
post as soon as possible. Henry will take better care of you and you'll have
everything you need there."

The callousness had returned. How
she hated what the drink did to him. One moment he was kind and compassionate,
the next bitter and cold. "I have what I need here. Shelter, my dog,
food…you."

He shook his head. "You don't
need me, Bobbie. You're almost strong enough to make the trek. In a week or so,
we'll go to Henry's. Prepare yourself."

Worry had her hands trembling as
she clutched the rough fabric of her skirt. "I don't want to go out there.
Not until it's warmer. Can we wait until spring? Please?"

"No!" he shouted. "I
don't know what tomorrow holds for me and I don't want you watching me live the
way I want to live."

She stood her ground, refusing to
back down. Her worry fled, replaced by disgust. "You're not living. You're
a coward. You would rather drink yourself to death than deal with what happened
and move forward."

He glowered at her. "A coward?
I fought in Gettysburg and damn near died during the Battle of Franklin, so
don't you dare tell me I'm a coward."

"Soldier? Well, where's that
soldier spirit now?"

He rushed to her and took both her
upper arms in a punishing grip. "I’m no coward nor am I a soldier any
longer. I'm a man waiting for his life to end so that I can be reunited with
his reason for ever existing, his reason for fighting to come home."

Warm, whiskey soaked breath fanned
across her face and despite the chill in the room her blood warmed. Why did she
long to be kissed by this beast of a man? "You're life doesn't have to be
over," she whispered. "David, you must know, God brought me here, to
you, for a reason."

His face contorted into an angry
mask and yet he eased his hold. "Am I worth the sacrifice your family made
to get you here?" He backed her up against the wall beside the fireplace.

Her breath caught in her throat and
his bitter words had a surge of guilt spiraling through her brain. "No,
that's not what I meant." She set her hands atop his warm chest, his heart
beat ruthlessly beneath her fingertips. "How can you take my meaning and
twist it with such evil?"

He leaned in closer, his lips but
inches from hers. "Because you must know I mean it when I say you need to
go. I'm a man who hasn't been with a woman in five years." His voice
cracked. "You make me want you and that cannot be." He shook her.
"Do you understand me? I cannot become attached to you. I will not debase
my wife's memory and I will not defile you."

She cursed her weakness, cursed her
lower jaw for trembling with pent up anxiety and despair. "I d-didn't know
you wanted me that way." Her stomach flip flopped at his admission. He had
locked himself into a box of misery and misplaced the keys.

He pressed his lips to her cheek,
the longing, the need in the kiss leaving her knees weak. "I'm a drunk,
but not a blind drunk," he mumbled in her ear, the heat of his words
sending a chill racing across her body. "You're beautiful Bobbie. Your heart
is good and it would be easy to take advantage of your innocence. And if you
don't go, I may very well do another thing I'll always regret."

Instead of pushing him away, she
rested her forehead against his bare shoulder. "Don't you think that
perhaps sending me away may be something you'll regret?"

With a sigh, he pulled away.
"You'll be safer there. Henry knows these mountains like no other. Please,
do this willingly. Do this for the man who saved you from Mother Nature's
wrath."

"I don't wish to desert
you," she said wanting nothing more than to hold him again. "I want
to help you, to repay your kindness."

"No." He turned his back
to her and reached for his fresh linen shirt. "You can't help. I am well
beyond that."

Chapter 6

"We've no business traveling
anywhere in these conditions." Her voice was not at all the sickly voice
of the woman he had taken in from the cold. No, she was now healthy and
authoritarian, bossy and verging on harpy. When he was boy he'd adopted a
kitten like that. Near death he'd nursed it back to health only to have it bite
and hiss at him whenever he came near. The cat was in ingrate and so was
Bobbie, never mind that she was probably right.

With Alfred slowly tromping behind
them, David held tight to her arm, practically dragging her toward Henry's
trading post. But he was determined that she'd spent her last night in his
cabin. Watching her sit before the fire last evening combing her hair had been
pure torture. It had taken all his power not to go to her, not to kiss her and take
her to his bed. Not to mention the fact that being trapped and aroused had made
his drinking worse. He was down to his last bottle. It would be bad for all
concerned if he didn't nurse himself to sleep with his form of mother's milk.

She struggled through a drift and
he glowered over his shoulder, ready to yell. But with the sun at her back, if
it were possible, she was even prettier. Dressed in Sarah's crimson wool coat
and black woolen cap she was a glorious silhouette against the sparkling
background of sunshine on virgin snow. Her pale skin now pink with health had
her looking like an angel fresh from heaven. Dark curls swirled against the
unforgiving wind and despite the cold, he again felt the need stirring within
him. Yes, taking her to Henry was the only thing he could do. Why did his body
have to be ready when his mind, heart and soul never would be?