Frontier Courtship

“Take it as you like,” she offered, slipping the scissors, a wide-toothed comb and a small hand mirror into her apron pocket.

Once again, Connell tentatively held out his arms to her. Situated above him as she was, allowing his help in descending was the sensible thing to do. This time, Faith acquiesced.

“Okay. Easy,” she said, placing one hand on each of his shoulders and leaning forward.

His hands circled her slim waist, almost fully spanning it, and he lifted gently, slowly and with great care, bringing her closer, then lowering her till he felt her feet brush the toes of his boots.

Breathless at his nearness, Faith was loath to let go. She was remembering how marvelous it was to be cradled against this man’s broad chest, to be held the way a loving husband might hold his wife.

Only she and the plainsman weren’t husband and wife, nor would they ever be, she reminded herself. Not only was he betrothed to someone else, he was little more than a stranger to her!

Shocked by the wild thoughts racing through her head, Faith decided they must be sinful. She’d always been taught that no good Christian woman desired a man’s arms around her, so why did this moment seem so right, so meant to be, as if her whole life had been nothing but preparation for her extraordinary encounter with the plainsman?

Connell knew he should let go of her, yet kept granting himself one more breath of the natural fragrance of her hair, another second to plumb the wondrous depths of her dark, expressive eyes. If they had been alone, he knew he might very well have leaned down and kissed her. Then there’d be a fracas for sure, wouldn’t there?

“Did I hurt you?” he finally asked as he released her.

Faith cleared her throat. “Um, no. Not at all.”

“Good. Where do you want me?”

For some reason, her brain seemed as befuddled as it had been immediately following her accident at Fort Laramie. “Want you?”

“To sit. For my haircut.”

“Oh.” She took as deep a breath as her ribs would allow, then gestured toward one of the packing boxes they had used for chairs while they ate. “Over there. Take off your hat.”

Connell seated himself, hat in hand.

“You’d better take your shirt off, too,” she warned. “Papa always complained I got bits of hair down his neck.”

“I’ll be fine the way I am.”

Faith knew she should let him have his way, especially since his reply had sounded so gruff, yet a perverse part of her nature insisted otherwise. “You act as if I’ve never seen the top of a man’s union suit before,” she taunted. “I guess if you’re afraid to remove your shirt in my presence we’ll just have to make do as is. I won’t be responsible, though, if you itch something fierce afterwards.”

Casting her a sidelong glance that was more an irate glare than an expression of admiration for her boldness, he reached down, crossed his arms and drew the soft buckskin hunting shirt off over his head. There’d been times when he’d stripped to breechcloth and leggings while stalking buffalo or antelope, but when among those he considered the polite society of his upbringing, he’d always remained fully clothed. Till now.