Open Country (41 page)

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the room. “How’d you get undressed?” he asked, a bit disappointed that he hadn’t been there to help her.

“Brady helped me.”

Hank tensed, then realized she was teasing, although he didn’t find her little quip particularly amusing. “Did he wash your back too?”

Her mouth quirked. “That wouldn’t be proper. I decided to wait for you instead.” Dropping her forehead onto her upraised knees, she lifted the damp curls from the back of her neck with her bandaged right hand. “Use the soap Iantha gave me.”

Straddling the stool by the tub, he rolled up his sleeves, soaped a rag, and started scrubbing, focusing only on the small patch of skin he was washing.

He could do this. It might kill him, but he could do this.

Flower-scented steam rose from her back, then her shoulders, then her arms. It was so strong and sweet it almost made him dizzy. “Stand up,” he said, his voice sounding gruffer than he intended.

In a sluice of water she rose. Facing away from him toward the wall, she stood while he drew the cloth across her butt and down her legs to where water lapped at her calves. He wondered if it was the heat that made her skin so red, or if she was blushing. He wondered what she would do if he slid his hand up and—

“I think you already washed that spot,” she said, looking down at him over her shoulder.

Lifting an arm, he wiped steam—or maybe sweat—from his brow and motioned with the rag. “Then turn around.”

She turned.

He stared at her round, bouncy bosoms. They seemed to stare back. This was the first time he’d seen her—really seen her—in full light, and she was a wonderment. Clearing his throat, he quickly scrubbed, distracting himself by reciting times tables in his mind, and when that stopped working, dismantling and reassembling clock-works by memory.

“You’re mumbling,” she said.

He looked up to find her smiling down at him.

“I’m sorry if this is difficult for you,” she said.

“Difficult” wasn’t the word for it. “Torturous.” “Unhinging.” He felt like a drooling adolescent at his first girlie show.

But she seemed to be taking it in stride, he noticed. Which bothered him a bit.

He had figured to be in control of this seduction, but it was clear he wasn’t. And it was disconcerting that the wife he’d thought so shy and innocent was neither. Part of him was relieved that she wasn’t a blushing bride he would have to coddle and tiptoe around. Another part was a little shocked by her worldly-wise attitude.

Shocked, maybe. But not truly disappointed. And admittedly, a bit intrigued by all the possibilities that opened up to him.

Avoiding her gaze, he dipped the rag into the water then squeezed it out over her shoulder, entranced by the way the soap bubbles slid slowly down to hang on the puckered tip of her breast.

“You don’t seem bothered by it,” he said, adding more soap to the rag then starting on her other shoulder.

She shrugged.

He felt the movement through the rag.

“I’m a nurse. The human body holds few surprises for me, and it would be ludicrous to pretend otherwise.”

His head shot up. “I don’t want you to pretend. Anything. Ever.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Then she took a deep breath.

He felt that motion through the rag too.

“I think that’s clean now,” she said.

Realizing what he was doing, he jerked his hand from her breast and dropped the offending rag over the edge of the tub. “Step out.”

“A good lesson for me, though,” she said, using his shoulder for balance as she stepped over the high side of the tub.

Lesson in what?
Hank wondered, staring hungrily at the bosom dangling inches from his face like a plump, downy peach.

“Now I know how my male patients must have felt when I bathed them.”

That was certainly an image he didn’t want in his head. Grabbing an oversized towel from one of the pegs by the sink, he threw it around her shoulders, thinking if he could relieve himself of the sight of her naked body, it might relieve the turmoil in his mind as well.

It didn’t.

“Although, of course, this is different,” she added, blotting at her face with one end of the towel.

“How?”

She chuckled. “Well, for one thing, they never look at me the way you do.”

“And for another . . .” Her gaze met his.

She was so close he could see little flecks of brown in her iris, the faintest dusting of freckles across her nose, every golden chestnut hair in her brows.

“I could never see them the way I see you.”

A sly smile spread across her beautiful face. She bent, skewered the dripping rag with her index finger, and pinned it against his shirtfront. “Your turn.”

My turn?
He looked down at his soaked shirt, then back at her. He took the wet rag from her hand. “But you can’t get your bandages wet,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his.

“No I can’t.” Draping the towel around herself like a long shawl, she moved to the stool and sat, one leg crossed over the other, elbow on her knee. “But I can watch.”

 

 

“OH MY,” MOLLY BREATHED A WHILE LATER AS SHE STARED up at the ceiling over the bed. “My heart rate must be sky high.”

“It is.” Hank nuzzled her breast. “Sounds like cows stampeding over a wooden bridge.” Lifting his head, he grinned at her. “So maybe the human body holds some surprises for you after all.”

She laughed softly. “Maybe a few.”

Ha. He’d shown her surprises all right. And he’d shown himself a few as well. He wasn’t even sure some of the things they did was allowed between husbands and wives, but he wasn’t complaining. Mostly he’d learned that if bathing Molly had been stimulating, bathing himself with her watching had been unexpectedly gratifying.

Inspired anew, he worked his way up her neck, trailing kisses over her flower-scented skin, thinking of a few other surprises he wanted to spring.

“Although I knew most of it from my readings, of course.”

He lifted his head. “Readings?”

“In Papa’s medical books.”

“They teach this in medical books?” He reminded himself to remember to check through Molly’s when they arrived.

“Mostly the physical changes due to sexual excitation. Increased respiration and perspiration, elevated heart rate, and so forth. Did you know the pupils of the eyes dilate during intercourse and various nerves in special places react to a single touch—”

Hank held up a hand. “Didn’t know and don’t want to know.” This was why people shouldn’t discuss such things; it reduced a really fun activity to nuts and bolts.

“And then, I also talked to the camp prostitutes.”

He blinked at her. Most proper women would never even speak to a whore, much less discuss such a thing with one. Then he remembered how chummy she had been with Martha Burnett. He frowned, wondering if they’d ever discussed him.

The idea didn’t set well. In fact, it was so disturbing in so many ways, he didn’t even want to think about it. “And what did you learn from them?” he asked in spite of himself.

She fluffed a curl from her brow. “Oh, the mechanics of the thing mostly. What goes where and so forth. Apparently most prostitutes find it all rather boring.”

“In fact, they have amusing nicknames for . . . well, never mind.”

Again, more than he cared to know. Not that he intended to frequent whores anymore, but he hated having fond memories of previous trips tarnished.

Inspiration dwindling, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the rafters, wondering if any of the girls had a nickname for him and what it might be.

“But the best things I learned from you.”

He turned his head and looked at her.

She lay curled on her side, her cheek resting on her bandaged hands, a smile tugging at her wide mouth. Her face was red from his whiskers, her lips slightly swollen, and her eyes full of joy and laughter.

She was beautiful.

And she was all his.

Emotion swamped him, bringing with it a sense of contentment and peace he had never known. It was as if he had finally come home to the place he was meant to be. “And what did you learn?”

Molly studied his beautiful face, wondering how to answer that. How could she put into words the indescribable pleasure he had brought to her—the wanting and needing and utter joy of connecting with another person on such an elemental level. It transcended time and thought and being. It was without reason or order.

It was bliss.

And there were no words for that.

So she told him what had taken root in her heart, and her mind, and her very soul. She told him the most important thing she had ever told anyone. “I learned that I love you.”

She watched to see how her pronouncement affected him—if it was too soon or too intense for a man who armored himself so well—or if he would feel compelled to say it back—and if he did, what words would he use.

Silence stretched between them. Yet he didn’t look away or try to dissemble, and she was encouraged by that.

His chest rose and fell on a deep breath. Then he smiled. “Me too.”

Me too?
That was all he gave her? The man was a blathering romantic. Fighting a smile, she poked his leg with her toe. “You make me giddy.”

Laughing, Hank rolled over and kissed her soundly. “What special places?” he asked. “You said there were nerves in special places. What special places?”

She trailed her bandaged fingers up the back of his thigh. “Well, here for one.”

“Holy Christ.”

 

 

“I SENT WORD TO RIKKER,” BRADY SAID WHEN HANK WAN dered into his office the morning after Christmas with two cups of coffee. Brady had been up for several hours already, too restless to sleep—his usual condition since he had learned Jessica was breeding again, but he was surprised Hank had slept in so late; his brother was usually up and out by the crack of dawn.

“Told him to play it close,” he added, taking the cup Hank offered. “But to ask the federal marshal about Fletcher and keep an eye out for Scarface.” As he sipped his coffee, Brady studied his brother over the rim of his cup. He seemed different. The frown was gone, and he was actually grinning. “What are you so happy about?”

“Am I happy?” Settling in his usual chair, Hank propped his boots on the corner of the desk and yawned.

He looked worn out. But pleasantly so.

“Rough night?” Brady asked.

“Long night.”

“Didn’t sleep?”

“Not much.”

“Ah.”

Hank looked at him.

Ignoring him, Brady stared past the grizzly’s upraised paw to the sunny vista beyond the window. It was another crisp, bright day, the kind of day that reminded him how lucky he was to be here instead of trapped in some crowded city where the only view was of the building next door. He remembered how close he’d come to living out the rest of his life in rainy England, and shuddered at the thought of it.

Hank leaned forward, set his cup on the edge of the desk, and sat back.

Brady could feel his brother probing his mind, but held fast. He could be inscrutable too.

“Ah, what?” Hank finally asked.

Brady hid his grin behind his cup. “Seems you and Molly are getting on well.”

“We are.”

“Got over your mad, then?”

Hank looked at him.

“I’m only asking because of the annulment.”

“What annulment?”

Brady studied the dregs in his cup. “The one I promised I’d get for Molly. If she still wants it, that is.”

“She doesn’t.”

“Oh?” Tossing back the last swallow, Brady set the cup carefully onto his desk. It was part of a matched set Jessica had ordered from some English china company. Made from ground-up buffalo bones, or so the crate said. Sad use of a magnificent animal, he thought. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Ah.”

They sat in silence for a time, then Brady said, “You know what today is, don’t you? I mean, other than the day you finally dropped a rope on your wife.”

Hank glared at him.

Brady grinned back. “Boxing Day.”

“Aw, hell.”

“I know.” Boxing Day was another of Jessica’s traditions that didn’t necessarily translate well to the ranch. The English practice of giving Christmas bonuses to their employees was fine with Brady. Even spending the day in sporting contests between the workers and the owners was all right, especially since he and Hank ordinarily would have the advantage, due to size and general meanness.

But after the first year, the workers, being an inventive and vicious lot, devised their own events. Last year it had been a pepper-eating contest, which naturally the buckskin-bellied beaners won, but left him and Hank with a bad case of blisters in various places. The year before, wearing nothing but boots and bright red unions, they’d had to twist the tail of an angry bull then race it back to the corral fence and safety, which also favored the workers, since they were more agile and smaller targets. Brady’s butt still ached if he sat in the saddle too long. This year the contest was to see who could stay in the creek longest . . . once the ice had been broken.

“I don’t want to do it,” Hank complained. “I’m a married man now. I got duties to perform.”

“Stop whining. Be good for you.”

“Us. Good for us.”

Brady gave a long sigh of regret. “Sorry, little brother. You’re on your own this year. With Scarface out there, somebody’s got to stay and guard the house.”

Hank’s boots hit the floor with a thud. “It’s my wife he’s after. I should do it.”

Brady scratched his chin in thought. “Then how about we flip for it? Leave it purely to chance.” Pulling open the middle drawer, he retrieved his lucky silver dollar. “Call it.” He tossed the coin into the air, caught it, and slapped it on his wrist. “But don’t call ‘tails’ because that’s what I want.”