The Wedding Promise

She shivered at the thought and turned away. “I think we’re ready,” she said, squinting against the sunlight as she passed through the doorway.

Cord set the door in place and gave her his hand, lifting her to the wagon seat. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

Rachel lifted the reins and looked down at Henry. He’s growing, she thought. His head comes above my shoulder now. From behind her, Jay was making impatient noises, and she cast him a glance of warning.

Cord’s big gelding moved ahead of her, leading the way. She slapped the leather straps against the broad backs of her team, urging them to move out.

“He’s nice, isn’t he, Rae?” Henry’s words were soft, meant only for her ears, and she nodded her reply.

The boy reached into his pocket, lifting on one hip to snake the long licorice whip from its depths.

“You’ve still got candy left?” she asked, smiling at his frugality.

“Yeah. Want a bite?” Gnawing off a length, he offered the treat in her direction.

“No. Thanks anyway.” Perhaps he’d have more than a piece of candy now and then, once she managed to save a little money. Maybe she could afford to do better by the boys if this job panned out

She drew a deep breath, glancing up at the sky, where clouds rode in billowing herds…where the sun cast its muted rays on the earth below. And then that brilliant orb burst forth from behind a cloud bank, allowing the undiluted splendor of sunlight to wash over her surroundings.

As if it were a sign, a prediction of good things to come, she basked in its warmth. Her gaze drawn again to the man who rode before her, she smiled, admiring the straight line of his back, the easy movement of his body as he sat astride his horse.

And wondered at the shiver of delight that coursed through her body as she considered him.

Chapter Three (#ulink_ca62d432-424c-521f-8735-3bfe2e2e2403)

“Damn dog belongs outdoors, Rachel!” Cord’s brows were lowered over stormy eyes as he confronted his new cook. The front of his shirt wore a lavish display of hot coffee, and his fingertips held the wet fabric as far away from his chest as possible, as he roared his disapproval.

Rachel’s lips were pressed tightly together and her eyes widened with dismay as she beheld her employer’s anger. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McPherson. The boys gave Buster a bath when they got up. They let him in the house so he wouldn’t roll in the dirt. I had him shut in the pantry during breakfast. He must have gotten out when I was clearing up.”

Cord’s fingers worked at the buttons of the shirt he’d donned, fresh from his drawer, only an hour ago. Undoing them and stripping the wet garment from his body, he muttered his thoughts aloud regarding the mutt who watched from behind the pantry door.

“Rules are rules, Rachel. Dogs belong outdoors.” He handed her the gray shirt and she reached to grasp it.

“Let me get some butter to put on the burn,” she offered, her gaze intent on the flexing muscles in his upper arms as he moved. “It will take out the sting.”

“A cold cloth will do as well,” he told her. She turned to the sink where a dish towel was pressed into service as she pumped water to wet it before wringing it out Rachel handed it to him, watching as he spread the cool cloth against his flesh.

He was tall, well muscled, his arms and shoulders seeming more powerful without the covering of a shirt. Her gaze was drawn by the width of his chest, her eyes fixed on the curling dark hair that centered there. He was big. There was no other word to adequately describe the man. His arms were long, thick with muscles and pale above the elbows.

She clenched her hands, fearful that the urge to touch him would somehow gain control of her, that her traitorous fingers would reach to flex against the flesh he bared to her eyes.

“Will you go up and get me a clean shirt?” He motioned to his boots, dusty from the barn. “I don’t want to track on the carpets. My room’s the one at the head of the stairs.”

She’d paid scant attention last night, once she’d put together a meal for ten. Though only nine had been around the big table in the kitchen. Cord had muttered something about Jake eating later and Rachel could only be relieved at one less to wait on.

The men had made short work of her fried ham and mashed potatoes, scraping every last smidgen from the bowl. Jay and Henry had eaten their share, silent for a change as they attempted to follow the fast-paced conversation. Rachel had only held her breath in hopes that the men’s monstrous appetites would be satisfied before the food ran out.

“Rachel?” Cord waited, hands on hips as his lowvoiced reminder prodded her into action. “The shirt?”

She nodded, feeling a flush paint her cheeks as she dropped her gaze, hurrying from the room. He’d think she was foolish, gawking at him that way. As if she’d never seen a man’s chest before! Pa had often stripped to the waist to wash up before a meal, in front of the sink in the kitchen.

But he’d never looked like Cord McPherson, she admitted to herself, her feet flying up the stairway as she hurried to do his bidding.

Matter of fact, she’d never seen a sight anywhere to match the man downstairs.

She opened his bedroom door and paused for a moment. It was a man’s room, no doubt about it, with no frills to be seen. A huge bureau sat against the far wall, between the two windows. She slid open the first drawer, only to find short stacks of undergarments. Her cheeks ablaze, she slid the drawer shut and opened the second.

Success. His shirts were folded neatly, four altogether, still bearing iron marks where the hot sad iron had imprinted itself.

Even fresh from the ironing board, they bore his scent, an aroma lye soap could not overcome. She’d noticed it on the shirt she held in her hand, that smell of leather and fresh air, the faintly musky odor that had caught her nostrils at the supper table as she served the food.

Snatching at a neatly folded shirt, she closed his bureau drawer and scurried toward the doorway. If he should see her standing like a dolt, staring at his belongings, he’d likely send her packing. The man had offered her a job in his house, not the right to moon over him like a…

She shook her head against the thought Whether or not she admired the sight of Cord McPherson’s body, he was her employer, and she’d do well to remember it.

Her feet skimmed the stairs as she hurried to where he waited and then she slammed to a full stop as she caught sight of him once more.

He was facing the sink, his back to where she watched at the kitchen door. His hands were occupied with wringing out the cloth he’d held against his reddened flesh and his skin stretched tightly across his back as he lifted his hands to apply the cooling towel once more.

Rachel’s gaze was caught by the exposed flesh, her eyes widening as she viewed the pale stripes crisscrossing his body. A sound of despair she could not recall slipped from her lips and she lifted one hand quickly to cover the lapse.

He spun to face her, his eyes dark and threatening as he scanned her wary stance. “You might have let me know you were there,” he said, lowering the towel he held in one hand. “Give me the shirt.” He reached for it, his palm outstretched, and she moved to obey.

He clasped the soft fabric and in the doing managed to grasp her fingertips. She’d gripped the fabric tightly, so stunned by the sight of his scarred flesh she’d been unable to release her hold. And then the warmth of his palm enclosing her fingers brought her to her senses and she murmured a soft sound of protest as she freed herself from his grasp.

He slid his arms into the sleeves and rolled them up, an automatic gesture that bespoke his usual mode of dress. His fingers worked the buttons rapidly, and then his mouth twisted in a dark, mocking grin that brought a flush to ride her cheeks.

“Would you like to turn your back while I tuck it in?” His hesitation gave her the moment’s grace she required and she spun to face the doorway, aware of the sound of his denim pants being opened, the brushing of his hands against fabric as he completed the donning of his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she managed, aware of his gaze upon her, straightening her shoulders as if she must assume a cloak of dignity before she turned to face him again.

He cleared his throat. “No, I’m the sorry one, Rachel. I embarrassed you, and I apologize.” His hands rested on her shoulders and he turned her to face him.

The vee of his neckline was before her eyes, a few strands of dark hair curling against the gray cotton and she felt stunned by the intimacy of it. He held her inches from his body, just a finger’s touch from his flesh, and from his skin rose that faintly musky scent she yearned to inhale.

“You’ve been hurt.” The whispered words were all she could manage.

His shrug was a mute dismissal of her concern, even as his fingers slid to tighten against her upper arms.

She trembled in his grasp and rued the emotions that ran riot throughout her. Sorrow, that he had been hurt. Anger, at the culprit who had damaged him so badly.

And most of all, fear, for herself, for the woman she’d become in these few short moments.

Cord McPherson held it within his power to ruin her, her mind proclaimed, the knowledge quickening her heartbeat. His strong hands could tug her against his body and she would go, willingly. His mouth could lower to hers and she, who had never known a man’s caress, would welcome the touch of his lips.

She’d made an unwise choice, coming here. An even graver error in judgment, pledging her presence in his home until springtime next year. With only the weight of his hands against her shoulders, he’d been able to melt her store of resistance to his greater strength.

With just a look from those dark eyes, he could send her insides churning in a whirlwind of emotion she had no ability to guard against