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He jerked to his feet.
Jerking to his feet wasn’t wise with a sore shoulder. The pain was his own stinking fault. Actually the pain was the fault of the bail jumper who’d shot him. Okay, then the desire shooting through him was his own fault. He knew exactly what to do about it. As soon as he was miles and miles away from here, he’d find a warm and willing woman.
There was a warm, willing woman in this very room.
He swung around fast, swearing out loud at the new shooting pain. Josie was so busy talking she hadn’t heard.
“...If I’m not careful I’ll end up like Edwina Gilson...”
Talking. Talking. Josie was always talking. She talked while she fixed meals. She’d even talked while she took her bath a little while ago. Kane had kept his back to her the whole time, commending himself on his willpower. Still, every splash had been sheer torture. He was getting worked up all over again just thinking about it. For crying out loud, he didn’t even like skinny women.
“...She’s seventy-three, and she’s never set foot off this mountain.”
Pacing to the bed, he reached for what was left of his sheepskin coat and groused, “You call this a mountain?”
Josie went perfectly still. In her efforts to win Kane over, she’d tried being nice. Kane Slater was not an easy man to be nice to. He wasn’t an easy man, period. She’d just about used up the last of her patience.
With a toss of her head that sent her hair cascading down her back and around her shoulders, she planted her hands, hairbrush and all, on her hips, and glared at him. “I’m sick and dam tired of all your disparaging comments about my mountain. I don’t know what you have against the Blue Ridge Mountains, but they are so mountains. It says so in the encyclopedia. And there’s nothing wrong with Tennessee, either. Why, Davy Crockett grew up here, and three United States presidents lived in Tennessee. Don’t ’spose you know which ones.”
Feeling her blood pressure starting to climb, she took a step toward him. “James Polk and the two Andrews—Jackson and Johnson. I’ve never seen the mountains in Montana, but if they’re anywhere near as big as the chip on your shoulder, they must be huge.”
She stared at him across the ensuing silence. Nostrils flaring, he glared back at her, and then, out of the blue, he turned his back on her. She did not understand him. Worse, she simply couldn’t seem to get a handle on what made him tick. He never reacted to the same situation the same way twice. He yelled, swore or withdrew, in no particular order.
Crossing her arms, she sighed. “What makes the mountains in Montana so special, Kane?”
Kane felt a jolt run through him, yet his feet seemed to be frozen to the floor. Staring at the rough-sawn walls and the bed and the age-old cupboard nearby, he found himself saying, “It’s not just the mountains. It’s the sky and the air and the way the land stretches toward the horizon as far as the eye can see. Some mornings, it’s quiet enough to hear the break of day.”
He hadn’t been aware that he’d turned around until he saw her lips part and her chest rise with the deep breath she took. She smiled, and his body reacted all over again. In a voice gone soft and gentle, she said, “Quietude isn’t something people around me get a lot of.”
It took him a full five seconds to drag his gaze away from her smile, but it was the desire thrumming through him that finally brought him to his senses. Heart pounding, he jerked around and tried to put on his coat.
She was there all of a sudden, reaching out with a helping hand, tsk, tsk, tsking about his language. She smelled like shampoo and soap and woman. Placing an iron grip on his resolve, he moved out of her reach. “I can do it myself.”
Josie watched him struggle to get the coat over his sore shoulder. He reminded her of a raccoon she’d come across years ago during one of her treks up to Witches Peak. The animal had been stuck in a trap fifteen feet off the beaten path. He was in agony, and would have chewed his own leg off in order to be free, and yet he’d snapped and snarled every time she’d tried to get close enough to help. She’d ended up covering him with her thick coat until she’d managed to open the trap. Free, he’d growled at her until he’d disappeared into the bushes.
Turning on her heel, she strode to the corner where she kept her father’s twelve-gauge, thinking, Some creatures simply didn’t have it in them to be appreciative.
“What are you doing?”
Gun in hand, she glanced at Kane, who was watching her, obviously unnerved and uncertain of what she was going to do. She pulled a face and sputtered, “I’ve spent the last five days nursing you back to health. I’ve put up with your cussing and your grumbling and your ornery tendencies. Do you really think I’d shoot you now? Not that you don’t deserve it.”
Kane glanced from the long barreled shotgun in Josie’s hand to the anger flashing in her eyes. “Then what are you going to do with that gun?”
He heard her loud sigh all the way from the other side of the room. “I brought enough food with me to last me three weeks, at least, but I wasn’t expecting company. For an injured man, you eat like a horse.”
Trusty shotgun in hand, she stomped out into the snow to try to rustle up something to eat for supper.
Josie dropped a handful of baby onions into the pot then leaned over to add wood to the fire. She might have closed the door with a little more force than was necessary, but she couldn’t help it. She considered herself a reasonable woman, but she was close to reaching the end of her rope. She’d spent two and a half hours outside. A person would think all the energy she’d exerted trudging through snowdrifts would have alleviated her anger a little.
Very little.
She’d done a lot of walking and she’d done a lot of thinking, which had led to a lot of soul-searching. She didn’t question her feelings for Kane. She questioned her good sense. Adding potatoes and carrots to the bubbling stew, she muttered under her breath. “I’ve tried everything I could think of to bring out that man’s gentler side and what does he do? Practically accuses me of wantin’ to shoot him. Why, if I wanted to shoot him I woulda done it by now. If he wasn’t so thickheaded and stubborn he’d know that all I want is to get to know him. I’ve tried being nice. The nicer I am, the grouchier he gets.”
She was still sputtering an hour later. Huffing, she reminded herself that she didn’t have to take this kind of abuse. Not from her father and brothers. Not from the man she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with. Until he gave her a sign, she was done being nice to him. That decided, she carried two chipped bowls and mismatched cups to the table.
On the other side of the room, Kane grimaced and ducked his head slightly. Amazed that neither of the shallow bowls had broken beneath the force with which Josie had clanked them onto the worn wooden table, he measured her with a long, appraising look.
She’d stomped the snow off her boots and had come inside almost two hours ago. Although she hadn’t said a word to him, she’d talked to herself pretty much nonstop. She was wearing another flannel shirt, this one yellow and green. Instead of buttoning it, she’d left it open, revealing a plain white shirt that clung to her thin body.
Ambling closer, he said, “My mother used to sputter like that under her breath, too. I’d forgotten until now.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Something tells me you gave your mother a lot to sputter about.”
Kane shrugged his good shoulder. “What’s for supper?”
She waited a good, long time before answering. “Rabbit stew.”
Kane strode a little closer. Stomach rumbling, he sniffed the air. She’d been gone two hours before he’d heard the first shot. The second shot had come from someplace closer half an hour later. He’d tried not to watch the clock, he’d tried to sleep and he’d tried to tell himself that the reason he couldn’t seem to do either had nothing to do with a guilty conscience.
Kane Slater may have been a lot of things, but he was no liar. He’d screwed up, plain and simple. He’d been ornery, mean and inconsiderate. She’d nursed him back to health, sharing her warm cabin and her food. And what had he done? Treated her unkindly.
“I’m sorry, Josie.”
Josie turned around slowly. Kane was looking at her, one arm cradled in the makeshift sling, the other hanging limply at his side. He seemed as surprised by his apology as she was.
“I should have thought. I should have realized. And I should have thanked you,” he said, hesitating as if he’d had to dredge the words from a place deep inside him.
She tried to hold a grudge, really she did, but she didn’t have it in her to stay angry at this man. She’d hoped he had a gentle side. Like the tip of an iceberg, she was glimpsing it now.
“I know it’s no excuse,” he said. “But I’m not used to all this inactivity. Sitting around is driving me crazy.”
She studied him thoughtfully for several seconds. He’d had another bath that morning, but this time he’d insisted upon doing everything himself. The nick in his chin was the result of shaving with his left hand. Other than that, he’d managed quite well. His light brown hair was clean, the color of his skin more healthy looking. He’d come to her injured and bleeding. The flicker of emotion way in the back of his eyes made her think that his shoulder hadn’t been his most serious wound. The realization was dredged from a place beyond logic and reason, a place where there were only shimmery emotions and yearnings older than time.
He’d told her, in no uncertain terms, that he didn’t want or need anybody. Need was a funny thing. It could hide deep inside a person, going undetected for years, until one day you noticed it squeezing into your thoughts, into your sighs, into your soul. Kane might not have realized it yet, but he needed a woman’s softness, a woman’s gentleness, a woman’s strength. Not just any woman’s. He needed hers.
Going back to her stew, she said, “Apology accepted. And you’re welcome. Now, I hope this stew gets done soon. There’s nothing like trailing a potential supper for hours to give me an appetite.”
She handed him the silverware and told him to make himself useful. She noticed he set the table restaurant style, the fork on the left, spoon and knife on the right. Somebody had taught him manners. Feeling suddenly buoyant, she smiled and said, “It was beautiful out there today. I don’t understand what you don’t like about the Blue Ridge Mountains. They’re just so pretty. Did you know that on a clear day you can see seven states from Lookout Mountain?”
Kane shook his head and lowered onto a straight-back chair. Barely taking enough time to draw a deep breath, Josie continued. “Tennessee is called the big bend state. Wanna know why?”
Kane shrugged. Sure, why not? He was getting used to listening to her stories.
“Because,” she said, her long wooden spoon sending steam wafting from the pot of bubbling stew. “The Tennessee River bends in the middle and flows through the state twice. Bubba Jones told me that in the third grade. He went to Texas to be a rodeo champion. He couldn’t hit a bull in the butt with a bass fiddle, let alone ride one, but he ended up marrying a rich widow from Portland, Oregon way. Strange how some things work out, isn’t it?”
Kane stared across the small room. He felt dizzy. That happened a lot when he tried to make sense of what Josie said.
She talked on, telling him about people he’d never heard of and places he never planned to go. He glanced up in surprise when she placed the pot of stew on the table and began ladling a healthy portion into his bowl. Breathing in the mouthwatering aroma, he said, “I can’t believe there are still women alive who can shoot supper, clean it, dress it, cook it and still have the stomach to eat it after all that.”
She dropped onto a chair opposite him and scooped up a spoonful of stew. “It’s given me a good understanding of why some people become vegetarians. They say they can’t eat the flesh of living creatures. Plants were alive, too, once. How do we know they don’t have feelings? I once read that there’s an entire segment of our population that talks to their roses and tomatoes and whatnot. I think the human race has to eat something, don’t you?”
Kane stared across the table, spoon poised in midair.
“What?” she asked.
“Oh,” he said, lowering his spoon to his bowl, “I was just thinking that you’re really nothing like I expected a mountain woman to be.”
“And how’s that?”
Waiting to answer until after he’d taken his first bite of supper, he said, “Bear in mind that what little knowledge I have of mountain people is based on Beverly Hillbillies reruns.”
“I’m definitely no Granny, and I’m afraid I’m not built like Elly May.”
“You don’t wear a bra.” He clamped his mouth shut. Where had that come from?
Her smile set his teeth on edge. “There’s something to be said for small breasts, isn’t there?”
He groaned inwardly, his gaze straying below her shoulders. There was something to be said for her small breasts. Dragging his gaze away from the gentle slopes evident through the white fabric of her shirt, he cleared his throat and took another bite of stew. He tried not to think about kissing her taut nipples, tried not to wonder if he would be the first.
It was lucky for him that she didn’t seem to mind keeping up a one-sided conversation. Funny, a few days ago he hadn’t thought there was anything lucky about it. A few days ago he hadn’t felt a surging desire when he least expected it. A few days ago he hadn’t eaten two bowls of rabbit stew without tasting any of it.
She didn’t look at him again until her bowl was empty. Only then did her gaze meet his from the other side of the table. She smiled, and he felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. He did his best to return her grin, but it wasn’t easy, when what he wanted to do was vault over the table and kiss her the way he had the other day in the bath.
“Had enough?” she asked.
Enough? Oh, enough stew. “Yes. Plenty. Thanks.”
“Then we’d better get to it.”
He gulped. “It?”
“You said you’re going stir-crazy. The activity will be good for you.”
Activity? Something intense flared through him, something he wasn’t certain he’d ever felt in exactly this way. It was the knowledge that she was a virgin. It messed with a man’s head, making him think about the darnedest things. It took the simplicity out of a man wanting a woman. And Kane believed in keeping things simple.
“Come on, Kane, let’s dance.”
“Dance? That’s what you want to do...dance?”
“What did you think?”
Since Kane wasn’t about to admit what he’d been thinking, he said, “There’s no music.”
She started to hum. Seconds later she broke out into song. Lord, there she went with the singing again.
“Come on, Kane,” she said, drawing him with her to the center of the room.
“I can’t dance,” he said, stalling.
Totally undeterred, she placed his good hand on her shoulder and his other one on her waist, talking all the while. “I’ve watched every Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie ever made a hundred times. I can teach even a mule with four left feet to dance.”
She hummed a few bars of the “Tennessee Waltz.”
“Josie, I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Don’t worry,” she whispered, inching closer. “I’ll be real careful of your bad shoulder. There, how’s that?”
She started humming again, swaying slightly, easing him into his first step. “Dancin’ ain’t—isn’t—hard. It’s like playing leapfrog or making love.”
He swallowed, his feet moving him around the room, her voice sending his thoughts to the other side of the moon. “It’s all about trust and consent, about swaying this way and dipping that way. You hold me just so. And I hold you just so. There. Feel that?”
Kane felt that, all right. He felt her breasts against his chest and her hair under his chin. He felt her breath on his neck and her thighs between his. He felt a lot more than he cared to admit. It left him warm and wanting, and he didn’t want to stop.
Deciding for once it might be best to keep her talking, he said, “Would you tell me something, Josie?”
She looked up at him and nodded, continuing to hum.
“I was just wondering why a girl who can sing like a lark and glide around the room on feet that don’t even touch the ground has stayed on this mountain,” he said, pausing for quiet emphasis. He really was trying to be nice. “I mean, why would a girl like you stay if you aren’t happy here?”
She stared into his eyes for a moment, and then past him as if she was seeing something in the distance only she could see. He watched her expression, intrigued.
“What makes you think I’m not happy here?” she asked.
“Are you?”
She shrugged. “I’m not unhappy, if that’s what you mean. Some kids don’t like school, but I loved it, especially geography and reading. My mama couldn’t read very well, but she was so proud of me. I used to talk to her for hours about the people and places I read about and how I was going to visit each and every corner of the world.”
“Why haven’t you?” he said quietly.
She lifted her chin, her eyes finding his. Their feet continued to move, but their steps took them in a circle that grew smaller and smaller. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Mama got sick when I was fourteen. I missed a lot of school after that. By the time she died, I was seventeen, and Daddy didn’t see much sense in sending me back.”
Kane had the feeling that for once, Josie was leaving a lot out. A lot of pain. A lot of sadness. A lot of hopelessness. A ton of disappointment. “It’s never too late,” he said.
“To go back to school? Maybe not in other parts of the country, but in Hawk Hollow, it’s way too late. That’s why I was hoping to convince you to take me to Montana with you. I’d try to be quiet, Kane. I’m a good cook and a fair to middling housekeeper. And don’t all men need a woman every now and then?”
Kane’s feet froze to the floor, his hand tightening at her waist.
“Kane?”
There was something in her voice that struck a chord in his heart. Until that instant, he didn’t know he still had a heart.
All he had to do was make the next move, and he would find relief for the pent-up need wreaking havoc with his senses. He thought about it. God, it was torture, but he couldn’t do it. It seemed that along with a heart came a conscience.
Ending the little dance lesson, he touched her cheek first, and then he straightened her collar. “I’m tempted, Josie. Believe me, I’m tempted. But a girl like you can do a lot better than a man like me.”
“You’re wrong about that, Kane.”
He shook his head, thinking about Obadiah Olson and his tooth. “Maybe not here, but somewhere. You should do whatever you want to do and be whatever you want to be.”
He hoped he hadn’t hurt her feelings too much, and prepared himself for her tongue-lashing and tirade. Neither came. She simply stared at him for several seconds before turning away. He wasn’t entirely comfortable with her silence, but the sparkle in her eyes made him downright suspicious.
Chapter Three
That sparkle was still in Josie’s eyes three days later. And Kane was still suspicious. He’d been practicing the fine art of holding the opposite sex at bay for years. Women in general didn’t make it easy. Josie was more difficult than most.
Now that he was stronger, he’d put a stop to her offers to lend a helping hand. He bathed himself, dressed himself, even took his turn cleaning up after breakfast, lunch and supper. There had been no more dance lessons, no more anything lessons. Every once in a while he’d detected what he’d thought was a waning on her part. He was pretty sure she’d given up completely when he’d turned down her far-from-innocent ploy to play strip poker earlier that morning. Now, she seemed more intent upon asking questions than luring him into bed. It was a hard call, but when push came to shove, Kane believed it was far easier to answer her questions than deter her amorous overtures.
“I don’t get it,” she said, studying the checkerboard between them. “If you want to catch bad guys, why not become a police officer? King me.”
Kane turned her checker over dazedly. Studying his next move, he said, “In this age of attorneys and individual rights, police officers’ hands are tied. Besides, police departments don’t have the time or the resources to chase missing suspects down.”
“By resources, you mean money,” she said.
At his nod, she asked, “How much does it cost to capture one of these fugitives?”
Kane lifted his gaze from the board, only to find Josie’s eyes down-turned. “The average fee for taking a fugitive off the street is five hundred dollars. High profile cases can net anywhere from ten to eighty thousand dollars for an arrest. Those are my specialty.”
She shrugged as if thoroughly unimpressed. “Is that why you do it? For the money?”
He shook his head. “I do it because somebody has to. And because I’m good at it. I have a good head on my shoulders and I’ve learned how a wanted fugitive thinks.”
“Have you ever killed anybody?”
That was a question a lot of people asked. Sliding his black checker to the next square, he shook his head. “In the old days a bounty hunter would track and corner his prey. More often than not the confrontation ended in gunfire. It’s much safer today.”
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