Chapter 4

 

Judas Priest but he was a stupid son of a bitch. Idiot. Imbecile. Jackass. Buck couldn't come up with enough foul names to call himself, though he said none aloud, what with Angel riding in his lap and Tempest alongside on her old soot-colored mule, holding Ethan.

Why had he done such a fool thing? He was the last man on earth to be playing white knight to a woman who didn’t even look grateful. Not that he'd done it for gratitude. He'd done it to salve his own conscience. Buck couldn’t abide seeing a woman abused, and Jonas Creedy didn’t know any other way to treat one. Buck didn’t like thinking what having Creedy as a father might do to the widow’s kids either.

The child seated in front of him squirmed. In his anger and frustration he had tightened his grip on her. He forced himself to loosen his hold and eased his temper with a few deep breaths. She was a cute little thing, like his sisters, Lize and Larken, had been when he’d last seen them fifteen years ago. It amazed him to realize how much he still missed them. Usually he kept the pain and loneliness of having been cast from his family sunk so deep in his soul he rarely thought of them. Now, feeling the warm, wriggly little girl in his arms, memories gushed back with alarming force and clarity. He swallowed the sudden itch in his throat and glanced to see if Tempest noticed his momentary weakness. Her gaze seemed fixed somewhere between the long ears of the mule she rode, and she appeared as though she’d been chewing nails and wanted to spit them out, sharp end first—right at Buck’s heart.

While Mrs. Sims shooed away curious wedding guests, Jonas had demanded to know why—if Buck truly was Skeet Whitney—he hadn’t come forward sooner. Why had he lied about who he was? Buck said the only thing he could think of, that before disclosing his presence, he’d wanted to make sure she hadn’t remarried and might take him back.

“Well, she’s promised to be my wife now,” Jonas had retorted with a sneer. “So you can go back to playing dead.”

Buck's smile could have frozen hell. “Don’t think so, Creedy. See, I don’t like you. I don’t like the way you treat your women, and I sure as thunder don’t want scum like you raising my children.”

Jonas’s hand shot to his waist, but he’d left off his gun belt for the wedding. The veins in his temples bulged with fury. “You white-assed sonuvabitch. She might be a little less glad to welcome you back in her bed if she knew where you been sleeping the last three days. Tell me, does she squeal and pant and beg for more the way Lacey’s done every night since you come to town?”

That was when Buck knocked the ugly bastard on his ear, but he wished he’d done it a few seconds sooner —before Tempest was humiliated in front of her friends.

He glanced at her again. With her amber-flecked eyes flashing and her cheeks flushed with anger, she was actually pretty. He hadn’t recognized her at first in her black dress and bonnet and prim gloves. When he did, it took all his self-control not to laugh in Jonas's face, making a bad situation worse. What other woman would wear widow’s weeds to her own wedding? That she could look so feminine all dressed up proper surprised him. The bodice molded to her curves, revealing what her baggy shirt and apron had hidden before. The skirt, hiked up to ride astride, showed gently-rounded calves and slim ankles sheathed in black wool stockings. Of course, the scuffed up boy's work boots sort of ruined the image, but he found them comforting; they assured him this truly was the Tempest Whitney he knew, and disliked.

"Go on," he said, encouraging her to nourish his antipathy. "Nail me to the cross. Been done before."

Tempest glared. She knew she should be grateful to him, but having to feel beholden to any man rankled her. And, ridiculous as it might be, she was mortified that everybody knew he’d been sleeping with Jonas’s fallen doves. "Don't tempt me, you snake-eyed sneak-in-the-night. What in purple petunias did you think you were doing back there? You have any idea the mess you've made?"

Buck grinned. He had never met anybody better at name-calling than Tempest Whitney. The urge to provoke her a little more was irresistible. "Only petunias I ever saw were pink, but they don't grow in this desert. Sure you don't mean prairie flax?”

Tempest snorted. "What would a two-legged, offal-eating skunk like you know about flowers?”

He leaned closer, giving her the smile prison guards called his devil's grin. "You'd be surprised what I know. Care to find out?"

"No, and don't try to sidetrack me, Mr. Maddux. The subject was your breaking in on my wedding and announcing to the world that you were my husband. If you think this is going to get you the rest of Hearts-ease you failed to bamboozle my husband out of, best think again."

Her accusation jabbed his innards like a ten-inch prickly pear spine. Maybe he was a no-account; he'd made plenty of mistakes in his time, he'd grant that. Mistakes that still gave him nightmares. But he’d never knowingly cheated a soul and had no intention of starting now. Something he would make very clear to Tempest Whitney. In one easy motion, he bent from his saddle, grabbed her reins and brought their animals to a halt. Spook tossed his head and whinnied in protest at being crowded so close to the mule, but Buck ignored him.

"Dammit, woman, I didn't bamboozle anything out of that fool you married and there's nothing I want from you either. You got that? Including this pitiful excuse for a ranch."

* * *

Pinned by his burning gaze, Tempest could only stare back at him. He had gone from a devil-may-care womanizer to a hard-eyed demon even a Ute warrior would hesitate to tangle with, all in an instant's time, and without warning. That there was more to Buck Maddux than met the eye, more than he wanted her to see, was plain as summer lightning

In her lap Ethan squirmed and whimpered. She patted his leg with her free hand, her gaze falling away from Buck's. Her fury waned. Truth to tell, she wasn't sure why she'd felt so angry. Except that she was scared, and that always made her angry. If the Lord had set out to teach her exactly how helpless she was without a man, He had gone about it right, but she sure didn't like it. Viola Sims was on her own and nobody bothered her. Why did Tempest need a husband, if Viola didn't?

Viola is fifteen years older, has a bad eye, wears a pistol, and talks to her dead husband as if he were still alive. Well, so what? Tempest considered herself no prize. And she had a derringer; all she had to do was carry it.

That wouldn't have kept Jonas from using your mortgage to force you into marriage. Tempest couldn’t argue that.

She still didn’t understand Buck Maddux’s storybook heroics. "If you don't want anything from me, why did you interfere?"

"Hell if I know. Call it insanity." Releasing her reins, he spurred Spook away from the mule and they resumed traveling. "I promised your husband I'd make sure you were all right, and being married to Jonas Creedy wasn't my idea of all right."

His voice was still hard-edged as a razor, though he looked more frustrated now than angry. For the first time since he burst into Jonas's house, Tempest thought of what it had cost him to help her. He’d given away every cent he had and put himself in an awkward situation, since he was now forced to pretend to be her husband. Why? Because of a promise? She found it safer to assume he was greedy for her land, or feeling guilty over the stolen money—if the man had a conscience.

“No one in town could tell me anything about Skeet,” he said after a moment. “Said they'd never even seen the man. Reckon that's what put the idea in my head." He took off his hat and rubbed his neck. "Must be someone here who knew him though and can put the lie to my claim. So you're right, it was a damn foolish thing to do."

"I'm surprised you didn't tell Jonas that marrying me would only get him half my ranch," she muttered, "what with you claiming to own the other half. It would’ve been easier, and we wouldn't have to pretend to be married."

"Might have . . . if I could have proved it."

"You mean Skeet didn't sign anything giving you half the land?"

Cramming the hat back on his head, he growled, "No, I mean I tore the blasted paper up after he died. Anyway, it was my understanding that Jonas wanted more out of this deal than your land. I couldn't risk having him settle for half the land . . . and you. Reckoned it was safer to say I was your husband."

Tempest had no doubt Jonas would have done exactly what Buck had anticipated; take half the land and her, then figure out how to take the other half. His words came back to her, reminding her what Buck had saved her from. I'll ride you so hard tonight you'll forget you ever had a life without me in it—without me inside you. She shuddered.

"Is the idea of pretending to be my wife that repulsive?" Buck asked.

His insightfulness surprised her. So did the flash of pain in his eyes. She started to tell him it was thinking of Jonas that made her shudder, not him, and snapped her mouth shut. Let the arrogant rogue think what he wanted; it might keep him away from her. For all she knew he could have a real wife somewhere.

"First building in Harper didn't go up until last year, after Skeet died," she said, switching the conversation to a more comfortable track. So what if he was married? All Tempest wanted was his protection for a few weeks until she could pay off the loan. “There is Melba Washburn, she'd know him. Only she lives too far away to be any real threat." Under her breath she added, "Or help, depending on how you look at it."

"How do you look at it, Tempest?" he asked. "You want me to ride on? You could tell folks you kicked me out. They’d understand, under the circumstances."

Silently, she cursed his good ears. “An absentee husband wouldn't keep a hungry buzzard like Jonas at bay for long." Quickly, she added, "That's the only reason I'm not sending you packing though. Don't get any ideas about how things will be between us. This’ll be a pretend marriage, nothing more.”

His eyes were like frozen bits of sky. "I told you, woman, I don't want your land . . . or you."

She didn't believe him. All her life men had wanted something from her. With her father and brothers it had been cooking, washing and mending clothes. Skeet had needed a mama. He'd tapped into her strength, the way Indian paintbrush taps into the roots of other plants to steal their food, and he’d nearly drained her dry. Buck Maddux wasn't weak like Skeet. He was too hard, too self-reliant to lean on a woman. He was also too much of a devil to trust. She had seen the desire in his eyes the day he'd come to the dugout and pinned her against the wall with his body. He may not want her land, but he did want her.

And you want him.

No! I want a man who will love me for what I am, instead of sucking the strength from me.Using me.

Then why does thinking about him heat up your body like a spring fever?

"What about your father?" Buck said, ending her inner argument. "Will he go along with this ridiculous charade?"

"I was living a hundred miles from home when I married Skeet. My family never met him. Papa may have questions like everyone else about why you came here claiming to be someone else at first, but he can't prove you aren't Skeet."

"Might work then." Again he pinned her with those keen, blue, blue eyes. "If you want it to."

Tempest averted her gaze to the sculpted canyon walls she loved. "I don't want to marry Jonas.”

"I'll take that as a yes.” The satisfaction that gave him also frightened him. “What about the money for your mortgage? Any idea how we can come up with it?"

Her chin dipped. She forced it back up. "I could go to Provo and try for another loan."

He didn’t bother to point out how unlikely she was to get one. "No family to borrow it from?"

"All I’ve got is Papa . . . and the debts he runs up for me.”

"I’ll see to it he stays out of the saloons. How do you buy supplies?"

“I keep the Eisenbeins and Viola Sims supplied with produce from my garden, and I sell jams and jellies and herbs. The mule colts I’ve raised paid the loan payments until now, but Papa found what I'd hoarded up over the summer and spent it on liquor and gambling.” Ethan lurched in her lap, trying to reach a butterfly. "Sit still, Ethan, you’ll fall off.” The hopelessness of the situation made her want to cry. Or scream. She banished both impulses.

Buck muttered something vile about her father and rubbed his neck. "We'll find a way out of this somehow. We have to."

They lapsed into silence. Out of the corner of her eye, she studied him, pondering how far he might try to carry their "charade." His use of “we” troubled her, not only because it made her question again what he expected from her, but also because the sound of it pleased her. The man was good looking; she had to admit that. His forearms, exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his chambray shirt, were tan and rough with dark hair. The veins in his large, strong hands were thick and blue with blood that pulsed through them in a throbbing echo of her heartbeat. How many women had felt the touch of those hands—besides Lacey? Were they gentle and tender, or grasping and selfish as Skeet’s had often been? For a certainty, they wouldn’t be cruel like Jonas’s. The thought of Buck’s hands caressing her caused a tingling low in her body. She tried to look away, to put the inappropriate thoughts from her mind, but she couldn’t help watching him, and wondering.

Angel leaned over in his lap to hug the dappled horse they rode, and he reached to keep the girl from falling, showing Tempest exactly how gentle his hands could be. Stood to reason a gentle man would also be a giving man. Something she’d yearned for, though she hadn’t dared to hope to really find it. But Buck Maddux was a drifter, an arrogant devil of a rogue. She couldn't allow herself to think of him as anything other than a temporary means to an end. Living in the same house with him long enough to solve their dilemma was more than unthinkable. It was insane.

So why do I feel this secret thrill inside?

* * *

Buck guided Spook down the sloping bank of a dry gully carved by the rushing water of a flash flood. The big appaloosa climbed easily onto the road again and Buck turned to make sure the mule maneuvered the crumbling bank without difficulty. Tempest had fallen behind. She was nursing her son, shielded by the crocheted wool of her shawl. The naked bliss in her smile as her son suckled her breast, cooing his contentment, lit a spark that seared Buck's innards. It also left him feeling set apart, empty and bereft. He told himself it was the same old loneliness he'd lived with half his life. The same hunger for a home, hearth and family that could never be his. Whipping around in his seat he stared morosely forward, wondering how long it would take to shake loose of Tempest Whitney and her mewling brats.

"Mithter Buck?"

He squirmed as he looked down at the tiny child in his lap, a riot of pale curls swirling about her sweet face like a wind-tossed halo. Judas, he didn't want to have to talk with her. What did a man say to a four-year-old? "Yeah, Angel?"

"Are you really my daddy?"

Buck cursed silently. He hadn't been around children in years and had given no thought to how this ruse would affect Tempest’s. New guilt and doubts riddled him. He surprised himself by thumbing a chocolate smudge off her button mouth. The girl hadn't hesitated to make free with the wedding cake while the adults argued after Buck disrupted the ceremony. "No, honey. I'm only going to be a pretend daddy for a while, till your mama can handle things on her own again. It'll be like a game, a secret one nobody will know about except you, me, Ethan, and Mama. All right?"

For thirty seconds Angel chewed on that before gazing up at him again. "Ethan and me ain't got no real daddy then."

"I know." A shocking, bittersweet mixture of pleasure and pain skewered his heart. Pleasure that she might want him, pain because he would never have little ones of his own. “Doesn't mean we can't be friends. Okay?"

"Okay." The soft wistfulness in her voice found a corresponding note inside his soul. Swiftly he stamped it out. A drifter's life held no room for angels. Or widows either, no matter how fetching he might find them.

* * *

When they reached Hearts-ease, Tempest took the children into the dugout and started supper. Buck lingered in the barn, tending to Spook and the mule. Matters still needed to be settled between him and the widow. Like how they would come up with the cash to pay off Creedy and regain their freedom. Like where he was going to sleep tonight. Matters he didn't relish facing because he knew, with a woman like her, it would mean arguing. Tempest Whitney wasn’t the type to make things easy.

The only thing Buck hated more than arguing with a woman was hearing one cry. His memory already owned a wealth of female sobbing he'd never be able to shed. Wails of terror and grief that haunted his nights. Buck prayed Tempest Whitney didn’t add to those nightmares, and he wouldn't regret saving her from Jonas more than he already did. He could climb back on Spook and simply ride off. Trouble was, his conscience wouldn’t let him. Besides, he didn't have a dime. Tempest's thwarted bridegroom had screeched at the top of his lungs that "that bitch" wasn't going anywhere until she repaid some of what she owed him. Like an idiot Buck had emptied his pockets onto the table.

"That's all there is, Creedy," he’d said. “Twenty-four dollars and six cents. You might be able to get a judge to award you some of Tempest's land for the rest of it. 'Course that would take time, and you'll be getting the whole ranch anyway when we fail to make the payment, won’t you? All you need is patience."

Creedy pocketed the money and ordered them off his land.

Twenty-four dollars and six cents. No fortune, for sure, but enough to get Buck the blazes away from Harper, Utah, and the Widow Whitney. What would happen now? Would Tempest expect him to stay here, with her? He didn't have a dollar for a room at the Harper Hotel. Or the dollar-fifty he’d need to spend the night with Lacey, which, of course, was out of the question now.

He had just become a married man.

Panic accompanied the thought, along with a frisson of longing. Buck shrugged them both away. Marriage, love, children—only dreams. Dreams that would never come true for him. He'd had his chance—and bungled it.

Finding work in Deception Canyon was about as likely as him being named a prophet in the Mormon church. All that amounted to the thriving metropolis of Harper were the two saloons, Eisenbein's store, Bennet's livery, the hotel, and The Boston Eatery. The one ranch other than Hearts-ease that was owned by a gentile and was large enough to employ more than a hand or two, was Creedy's. Mormons avoided giving their business, their jobs, or their women to non-believers.

Buck was straight out broke, and had just taken on the responsibility of a woman and two small children. Him, Buck Maddux, who'd spent his life, since the age of twenty, making sure he wasn't accountable to anybody. Hell of a fix. One he had to get out of, before it worsened. He grabbed up his saddle and was about to plunk it onto Spook's back when a high, lisping voice halted him.

"Mithter Buck? You aren't going no where, are you?"

Guilt shafted through him at the sight of Angel's moonbeam curls and worried little-girl frown. He put down the saddle. "No, Angel. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm glad." Her face blossomed with a smile sweeter than peppermint sticks. "I came to tell you thupper's ready. Mama made fried taters and onions."

"Sounds great." Feeling inexplicably cheerful all of a sudden, he lifted her high in the air until she squealed, and lowered her to his shoulders. Her hands knotted in his black, silver-streaked hair as she straddled his neck.

“Reckon we oughta wash up?" he said in mock seriousness as he headed for the house. "Little mud and horse droppings won't hurt nothing, will it?"

Angel giggled. “Mama makes uth wath all the time."

He chuckled at the disgust in her lisping voice. "Little girls are supposed to like being clean. You are a little girl, aren't you?"

"Yeth, but being clean all the time ith thilly."

"Tell you what..." He lifted her down and held her in front of him. "We'll just wash off the top layer and not tell a soul. How's that sound?"

To his surprise, the girl framed his face in her two small hands and kissed him full on the mouth. "I like you, Mithter Buck. I hope God makth you my daddy for forever."

A tiny door inside him unlatched. He set her down next to a bench holding the wash basin and a bar of homemade lye soap. "Being friends is better."

Angel took up a pitcher of water he would have thought too heavy for her, and filled the basin without spilling a drop. Handing him the soap, she gave him a quizzical look. "How?"

Bending from the waist, he put his nose close to hers. "If I were your daddy, I'd have to make you scrub off all the dirt instead of only the top layer. As a friend, I don’t."

"Oh."

While she contemplated that, Buck stripped off his shirt and set it aside. He splashed water on his face, soaped up his hands and scrubbed hard. After rinsing off he opened his eyes to see Angel gaping at him in disgust.

"You tell whopperth, Mithter Buck."

"What, me?" he uttered in shocked amazement. "How can you say such a thing?"

"I can thay it cauthe I theen you rub off all the layers, even behind your ears and the back of your neck."

Buck felt his ears and neck with his hands as though terrified he might find them missing. "What do you know, I believe you're right. Think I ought to sprinkle a little dirt on 'em?"

"That won't be necessary," said another voice.

Tempest stood in the doorway. Her braid remained coiled neatly at her nape, but the black gown had been replaced by the loose denims, sack-like shirt and long apron she'd worn the day he met her. She was smiling and he realized it was the first time he had seen the sight. Damned if it didn't make her look downright fetching.

Her gaze lowered to his bare chest. The smile fled. Her throat convulsed as her eyes followed a bead of water from his neck onto the rugged plain of his chest where it caught in a brake of black hair. The pulse visible in the hollow of her throat kicked into a lope as the droplet slid free and she watched it venture lower, over his rib cage onto his belly. When it vanished inside his navel, she licked her lips, and Buck's veins turned to liquid fire.

She jerked her gaze away, and inadvertently met his. To keep from reaching for her, he retreated behind the mask he used to hide his pain and loneliness. Flashing her a devilish, knowing grin, he winked. Her unfashionably tanned face took on a delightful rosy hue. He expected her to whirl and storm back into the house. Or call him some new, inventive name. Instead, she held firm, refusing to look away first.

"We have serious matters to discuss, Mr. Maddux . . . if you're through teaching my daughter your bad habits."

Buck expanded his grin, this time in genuine enjoyment. He sketched a low bow. "At your service, ma'am."

Her snort was as delicate a one as he'd ever heard. "Angel, when you come inside, I expect to see every layer of dirt gone. You hear?"

"Yeth, Mama."

"And don't forget to get Ethan washed up."

With that Tempest disappeared into the house. Buck toweled off and took up his shirt. He winked at Angel as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. The girl grinned back as if they shared a secret, and went to fetch her brother. A dog the same faded yellow ochre as the dirt lifted itself from the ground as Buck approached the doorway and bared its fangs in a snarl.

"Hello, fella," Buck crooned. "You the one tried to rip the britches off me the other day?"

The dog barked and made a mock lunge at him. From inside the dugout Tempest yelled, "Down, Rooster."

The dog backed off reluctantly and flopped against the wall again.

"Rooster?" Buck removed his hat, ducked beneath the low doorway and entered the house, the clanking of his spurs seeming unnaturally loud within the thick walls. "What kind of name is that for a self-respecting hound?"

“He howls every morning when the sun comes up. Angel named him," she added as if that explained everything, which it did.

"Doesn't much care for daylight, huh? My kind of dog. Too bad he doesn't like me."

Tempest felt the man’s presence with every nerve in her body. He filled the room, like the musty air surrounding her. Touching her, embracing her. Her pulse sped up. She glanced over her shoulder, certain he was hovering behind her. Instead he stood in the center of the room, several feet away, his head bowed to avoid brushing the ceiling.

Buck felt the walls of the small room close in on him as he studied her pathetic, patched-up furniture. A battered sideboard with a broken mirror shared one end of the room with the cook stove, placed as close as possible to the bedroom doorway for heat distribution. A table took up the center of the room, while the far end was occupied by a narrow bed. Dried herbs hung from the ceiling, along with strings of onions. He saw no sofa or divan. No comfortable chair. The rock wall between the two rooms had been roughly plastered with clay and decorated with pictures of flowers cut from magazines. The only flowers on the property, he noted; all else was brutally plain and practical. It hurt him to imagine the harshness of a life that’s one concession to the typical, feminine need for beauty had come so cheaply, and secondhand to boot.

Tempest’s face flushed as eyes glance shifted to her. For the first time she was glad of the dimness of the light filtering through the velum that acted as window panes. In bright light her home and possessions would appear even meaner. The open door did little to alleviate the darkness. Tempest loved Hearts-ease. But she hated the dank, fusty dugout. Heaven, she was certain, had smooth, wooden floors, real glass windows and walls that kept out snakes and insects. Taking a deep breath she tried to relax. Her nostrils filled with the aroma of wood smoke, onions, and coal oil. Familiar smells. Comforting smells. And a new odor; the potent, masculine scent of Buck Maddux.

He stepped into the back room and peered into shadowed corners. A single bed crowded the far corner, a small table beside it. A dresser, trunk, rocking chair and wash tub made up the rest of the furniture. The house was as dank and depressing as a cave, the furnishings as sparse as they came. Yet it was the scarcity of feminine trappings that tore at him most. He felt a strange and mortifying urge to haul her and the children out of there and see them settled somewhere decent. Finally he turned and met her gaze.

Tempest was aware on some level of consciousness of the potatoes sizzling in the fry pan, the wood popping on the fire, the faint trill of children's laughter outside. Yet the silence had never seemed so deep. It thickened until she could barely breathe. She tried not to imagine him in that bed, her bed, and felt heat rush to her face, along with other places that had never felt so fevered before. She couldn’t look away. Her knees puddled beneath her apron, threatening to dump her on the floor. No man had done that to her before.

"Who are you?" she whispered. "Where did you come from?" Do you already belong to some other woman?

His eyes flicked back to the big bed. As he walked toward her, the room shrank. The world shrank. Only the two of them existed, staring at each other, trying to divine the other's thoughts.

"Nobody," he said, his voice deep and husky. "A drifter who's been most everywhere, done most everything—" he halted an arm's length away and Tempest stopped breathing "—and accomplished nothing."

His hand lifted and his fingertips lightly grazed her cheek. A dragonfly’s touch. His gaze on her mouth was like a moist, heated caress. Hungry, somber eyes lingered. Eyes full of darkness. His hand fell away. "Whatever happens now, pretty lady, is entirely up to you," he said gently. "I don't force myself on women."

He spoiled the moment with a licentious grin. “I only seduce them.”

The change was so sudden it took her a moment to take it in. The gentle, sensitive man vanished; the charming devil had returned. She tried to smile to show she wasn’t afraid of him, and failed. She needed to ask other questions, but couldn’t think of them. Not while he stood so close, overwhelming her with his size, his scent, his dark sensuality. “Supper’s nearly ready. Sit down," she said, pleased she'd managed not to stammer.

An assortment of crudely fashioned stools flanked the table. Buck chose the strongest. Wishing she had meat to serve instead of only potatoes with onions, and turnip greens, she busied herself setting buttermilk, hot golden-browned biscuits, a jar of sorghum, and last year's elderberry jam on the table. Not a dish, cup or glass matched. Neither did the flatware. She had never cared before, and cursed herself for letting it matter now.

Marmalade came and sat at Buck's feet, staring intently up at him. Tempest hid a smile to see the man squirm beneath the cat's green-eyed scrutiny. Marmalade leaped onto his thighs.

"Whoa! Wrong lap." He shoved the cat off with a look of abhorrence.

"Don't you like cats?" Tempest asked.

"Can't abide the sneaky little fleabags."

"You're in trouble then. Marmalade loves a challenge and never accepts no for an answer."

"Takes after you, huh?"

Tempest smiled in genuine enjoyment. "Not at all. I definitely accept no for an answer and make frequent use of the word myself."

"That's what I figured," he muttered.

The children came in and sat down. Buck felt hungry enough to eat one of the mules out in the corral and maybe a dog or two—an ornery yellow dog. He reached for the potatoes, only to pull back empty-handed as Tempest, Angel, and even Ethan, folded their hands and bowed their heads. In her sweet, lisping voice, Angel asked a blessing on the food. "And pleathe make Mithter Buck thtay here with uth, Lord, cauthe me and Ethan need a daddy real bad."

Tempest's head snapped up and she dropped her hands to her lap. "That's enough, Angel. Say Amen now, and put your napkin in your lap where it belongs."

Throughout the rest of the meal Tempest avoided Buck's gaze. When they finished eating, she changed Ethan’s diaper and the children went outside to play. Tempest scraped the plates and carried the scraps out to the small herd of pigs, dogs and cats. She came back in to find Buck filling the wash basin with hot water from the reservoir in the cook stove.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. Want to wash or dry?" He grinned, pleased at having taken her by surprise. Bad idea, letting a woman get to know a man too well. Best to keep them off-balance. That way, they never knew quite what to expect, which rendered them less likely to make demands a man didn’t want to meet.

"I'd better wash," she said. "You'd probably only scrub off the top layer."

Buck gave his devil's grin. Sidling up close, he drawled, "If a woman were to give me a good reason, I'd go down to the creek and scrub my whole body till it shone brighter than the moon."

"Don't bother. You'd simply get it dirty again sleeping in the barn with the pigs."

"Damn!" His warm breath caressed her cheek. "You wouldn't really do that to me, would you? I'm your husband, remember? Cost me twenty-five dollars in cold cash to prove it today. And I've been gone two long, lonely years."

“Twenty-four dollars and six cents," she corrected. Enjoying the game, she gazed up at the newspaper-lined ceiling, a slender finger tapping her lower lip as she pretended to reconsider his request. "You're right," she said finally with a coy smile, "making you sleep with pigs would be unseemly."

"Not to mention ungrateful," he provided.

"The wind has whipped up rather fierce out there, and the barn's terribly drafty."

Buck's grin returned.

"You can use Angel’s bed instead," she said, gesturing to the cot in the corner. "She can sleep with Ethan and me while you're here."

Watching her sashay across the room, her hips swaying seductively, he cursed.