Loner's Lady

Instantly he lifted his hands from her body, but too late. He wanted to smell her, all of her. Taste her.

And more. His groin tightened.

Jess let out an uneven breath. What the hell was he thinking? There was something he had to do here, and the woman didn’t matter. She damn well couldn’t matter.

Chapter Five

I t took Ellen a quarter of an hour to maneuver herself down the stairs using the crutch Mr. Flint had contrived for her. Settling one leg on the lower step and swinging the curved oak staff down to meet it, stair by stair, she managed a noisy descent, terrified that at any second she would land off balance and tumble to the bottom. But not even the ache in her injured leg dampened her determination. She had chickens to feed. She had herself to feed as well.

Moving around on only one good leg made her heart pound with exertion. By the time she reached the landing, her breath was heaving in and out in hoarse gasps. Now she knew why old Jeremiah Dowd, who had lost a leg during the War of the Rebellion, spent so many afternoons sitting under the leafy oak tree in the town square.

The first thing she saw when she stumped into the kitchen was her blue speckleware coffeepot on the still-warm stove. She lifted the lid and peeked in to find an almost full pot of rich-smelling brew. Four fresh eggs nestled in a china bowl, and the frying pan waited beside it. Thoughtful of the man. Either he was more civilized than she’d thought or he was after something.

But what? What would make a man like Mr. Flint take interest in the tiny farm she was working so hard to hold on to?

She broke the eggs into the bowl, whipped them into a froth with a fork and had just poured them into the butter-coated pan when she glanced out the window. Her hand froze on the spatula.

Mr. Flint stood in her yard, stirring something in her washtub, which sat over a fire pit he’d dug. With his shirt off he looked younger than she had supposed, his chest well developed, his back lean and tanned. She gazed at his smooth, bronzy skin and the V of fine dark hair that disappeared beneath his belt buckle until she felt her cheeks flush. With every movement of the peeled branch he used to stir the tub contents, sinewy muscles rippled in his shoulders.

Ellen slid the frying pan off the heat and clumped out onto the back porch. The hole in the screen door had been patched with a scrap of wire mesh. She didn’t need reminding that there were zillions of such chores waiting to be addressed. Annoyed, she pushed the screen open with a slap. “What do you think you’re doing?”

He poled the sudsy mass of pale-colored garments around the tub without looking up. “Washing clothes.”

Steam rose into the hot morning air, making Ellen more acutely aware of the heat in the pit of her stomach. Heat she hadn’t felt since Dan left.

“I usually do that in the shade. Yonder, by the pepper tree.” She flinched at the accusatory tone in her voice. What was the matter with her? The man was doing her a favor, taking on work she couldn’t manage at present.

He looked at her, shading his eyes with one hand. “Wasn’t any sun when I started. Real pretty sunrise, though.”

He’d started washing clothes at dawn? Ellen moved closer and peered down into the tub. She recognized the blue shirt he’d worn the day before, then the petticoat she’d muddied in the creek and the underdrawers he’d cut off her when he’d set her leg. Then another pair of what looked like men’s drawers. No, two pairs.

His mouth quirked in a lazy, off-center smile. “Been awhile since my duds have seen hot water. I’m washing everything I own except the pants I’m wearing.”

Heavens, did that mean under his tight-fitting jeans he wore no…no underwear? She stared at his crotch for an instant, then flicked her gaze to his mouth. Unlike his eyes, which revealed nothing, his mouth was extraordinarily expressive. She could practically read his mind from the position of his lips. At this moment, he was not thinking of his tub of washing; he was thinking of her!

Ellen swallowed hard. “Save the water. The creek’s getting low, and my tomatoes are drying up.”

“Got lye soap in it. You still want—”

“The tomatoes are over there, trained up on the chicken wire.” Again, the words came out harsher than she intended.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The rinse water,” she snapped. “Not the soapy. Pour the soapy water on my honeysuckle vine next to the chicken house.”

He studied her a moment longer than necessary, then shrugged his shoulders and resumed stirring the tub contents. The flush of heat in Ellen’s face traveled down her neck and into her chest, as if a rush of hot, wet wind had curled about her.

She pivoted so fast the crutch under her armpit wobbled. “Excuse me, Mr. Flint. I have quite forgotten something.”

Jess chuckled as she stumped away across the yard. “Call me Jess, why don’t you?” he said to her back.

She kept moving. “Why should I?”

“Because it looks like I’ll be here for a while.” He chuckled again as the screen door snapped shut. He could tell she didn’t like the idea much.

That was fine with him. In a funny way he didn’t much like the idea, either, even though it was what he’d planned. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy her company, because he did. She had a crispness about her, a strength he found intriguing. She worked hard. The vegetable garden flourished, the cow was healthy, the horse well cared for. She even had a well-scrubbed kitchen floor. It could not have been easy for her alone all this time, but it sure was plain she wasn’t a quitter. She had courage and she had grit. He wondered if husband Dan knew what he’d thrown away when he rode off.

Ellen O’Brian had two other things Jess would give his right arm for—the respect of the townspeople and the ability to laugh at herself. Rare qualities for a woman in these circumstances. Downright admirable. He wished he didn’t have to hurt her to get what he wanted.

For a moment he considered stripping and tossing his jeans into the tub, then discarded the idea. It might spook her so bad she’d run him off, and no matter how dirt-encrusted or sweat-sticky his trousers, he couldn’t take the risk.

He watched the soapy water bubble around his underdrawers and her petticoat. Entwined together in a sudsy knot, the garments writhed in a sinuously suggestive dance, and suddenly he remembered the satiny skin of her thigh when he’d cut her lace-trimmed drawers away. His fingers tightened on the stirring pole. Better keep his mind on her tomatoes.

And on his most important task of the day—searching another small area of O’Brian land.

When the clothes looked reasonably clean, he dragged the tub of water off the fire and over to the chicken house, tipping it out where the honeysuckle vine wound up the wall and spilled over the roof. A honeysuckle vine on a chicken house, of all things. On the privy, too, he noted. He’d save a gallon or so of water for that one as well.

Rinsing was easier. And cooler. He pumped fresh water into the tub, and after he’d kicked dirt over his coals and wrung out all the rinsed garments, he scouted for a clothesline hook. On his circuit around the yard he glimpsed a blur of blue through the kitchen window.

She wore another one of her husband’s shirts, a plain blue chambray. Most women would look dowdy in such a getup, but even though the shoulder seams drooped off her slim form and she’d rolled the sleeves up to her elbows, the oversize garment made her look female as hell. He’d bet she didn’t know that. Or maybe she didn’t care what she looked like.

Jess halted. He’d never met a woman who didn’t care about her appearance. Was saving this farm for her scoundrel of a husband more important to her than how she felt as a woman?

The thought nagged at the back of his brain until he found the clothesline loop at the side of the house and ran a rope to the pepper tree some yards away. He lugged over the tub of clean, wet clothes and began to drape the garments over the line.

First her lace-trimmed underdrawers. Carefully he shook the wrinkles from the garment and then, unable to suppress the urge, he stood looking at it. The warm breeze caught the underside and belled the drawers out. The leg he’d had to slit flapped in the current of air; maybe she could mend it on the treadle sewing machine he’d seen in her parlor.

He ran one finger down the seam. It was all that lacy edging that fascinated him. She sure as hell cared what she wore underneath her sturdy work skirt and Dan’s old shirt. On impulse, he brought the soft white fabric to his nose and inhaled. Beneath the clean smell of laundry soap floated a faint flowery scent. He breathed in again, deeper, and almost choked at the sound of her voice.

“Clothespins,” she said. She thrust a striped denim drawstring sack at him and shook it once so it rattled. The sound reminded him of the collection of chicken wishbones he’d treasured as a boy. Funny thing to treasure, maybe, but knowing he had a chance for even one of his wishes to come true had kept him going. Jess wished he had one of those wishbones now, just for luck.

With an effort he jerked his thoughts back to the laundry. “Thanks.”

She stood looking at him, dropped her gaze to the underdrawers in his hand and then perused the line he’d rigged.

“I should be thanking you, Mr. Flint. I don’t believe I could manage hanging out clothes balancing on my crutch.”

“Don’t even try,” he ordered. “If you fall, I’ll have another load of washing to do.”

A glimmer of a smile touched her mouth. “I try never to take on more than I can manage.”

“Seems to me running this farm might be more than you can manage. And don’t ‘Mr. Flint’ me. Name’s Jess. Short for Jason.”

Her eyes widened and he could have bit his tongue off. Hell, she must have heard of Jason Flint. Half the sheriffs west of the Mississippi had his picture plastered all over their walls.

“Very well, then. Jess.” She looked at him curiously and Jess’s gut tightened. If she did recognize him, she could go for the sheriff.

But she couldn’t ride. She couldn’t even walk very far. Besides, maybe she hadn’t flinched because of his name; might be something else that made those unnerving, clear blue eyes look so big. Maybe his photograph wasn’t on the sheriff’s wall in Willow Flat.