Corra’s acceptance and good humor washed through Josiah as strong and clear as the creek he’d just bathed in. Feeling forgiven, he waited until she passed close enough to trail a fading hint of lilac. Nothing yet had put her off. Not Jess’s sullen ways, not his own mulish temperament. And she hadn’t complained about the lack of conveniences. It was as if she fit. The notion gave him pause.
She pulled a dinner chair back and set a lamp at the edge of the table. Then she brought the small table and lamp from where she read, positioned them on the opposite side, and turned up the wick.
“Please.” She gestured to the chair. “I’ll get my scissors.”
A moment later, she returned with a comb and shears big enough to clip a horse’s mane. He shot from his seat. “You use those on Pop?”
“These?” She held up the shears with wide-eyed innocence then laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed. “Sit. I’m just having a little fun. I cut fabric with these. But I admit, I had to hack away at Pop’s beard with them before I could shave him clean and trim his hair.”
She was laughing at him, and he refused to join her. Hang fire, he’d thought he had her figured out and then she had to go and scare him half to death.
She draped a length of toweling around his shoulders then combed her fingers through his hair. Fire trailed over his scalp.
“How short do you want it?” She came around and stood in front of him, holding a smaller scissor in one hand and the comb in the other.
He could make it to the door in two strides. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
She leveled a dead-eye glare. “You saw Pop, right? Did he look like I know what I’m doing?”
Her scowl shot him full of shame for being a coward. But he’d rather peal a bronc any day than sit here in his kitchen at the mercy of a woman who made his skin hot.
Looking down at his hands, he wondered what he should do with them. “Off my collar and out of my eyes.”
She moved behind him, and he tried to relax beneath her touch. She combed his hair back and lifted parts of it with her fingers. The scissors cut and a length of hair fell to the floor.
She hissed. “Don’t be jerking your head like that, or you’ll turn out a porcupine and it won’t be my fault.”
He squeezed his eyes shut.
The smell of her reminded him of what he’d lost when Maisie died—a woman’s warmth and softness. A lighter touch, a sweeter laugh. He folded his arms across his chest and hooked his feet around the chair legs. She moved around him as she worked, and her skirt brushed his trousers. Just when he thought he couldn’t take any more, she stopped cutting. He opened his eyes.
She stood in front of him with an odd look on her face, as if she were hungry.
He unfolded himself. “Done?”
She nodded. “Not bad.” Then she held out a hand mirror he hadn’t seen before, and he drummed up the courage to take a look. The man peering back was older than he remembered. Lines forked the corners of his eyes. Stubble covered his jaw. He handed her the mirror. “You know what you’re doing.”
She smiled and laid her instruments of torture on the table. “I should say so. I cut my father’s hair the last few years of his life and he never uttered one complaint.” She moved closer to pull the toweling from his shoulders and brushed at his shirt collar. “If you get itchy, it’s just some cut hair that fell down your neck.”
He hunched a shoulder and turned his head from side to side. She returned the small table and lamp to its corner, and for something to do, he scooted the chair in. “Jess and Joe won’t know me in the morning. Most likely forgot what I looked like without that mane.”
She folded her arms and looked at him straight on. “I think they’ll be pleased.” She held his eyes and he wouldn’t look away. He wanted to see deep down inside her. See what made her bold enough to take on his unthinkable proposition. He took a step forward and the air between them charged. She averted her gaze and returned to the table for her things.
Fighting the urge to do otherwise, he went to the door and took his hat from the peg. “Much obliged.”
She gripped the back of the chair. “I’ll have biscuits and gravy ready in the morning.”
He pulled the door closed behind him and sucked in the clean night air. That was close. Closer than it ought to be. With a habitual shove through his now shorn hair, he took out for the barn. This sure enough could be the longest summer of his life.
Corra held her breath until the door closed, and then took her comb and mirror and scissors to her room. Her hands trembled as she placed them on the dresser then smoothed her damp brow. The ordeal had been almost more than she could bear, in spite of her attempt at humor. Falling across the bed on her back, she crossed her arms above her head. She’d wanted to cut Josiah’s hair since she first saw him pushing it out of his face. But she’d not considered what such close proximity would do to her. Standing so near, touching him—even as little as possible—only confirmed his strength, his vigor. He was no author’s fanciful hero. He was flesh and bone and muscle, and she’d not anticipated her reaction.
Pushing up onto her elbows, she reminded herself why she was there. She would just have to keep her distance from Josiah Hanacker, aside from meals when others were around. With a renewed sense of purpose—and a plan of escape—she prepared for bed. Morning came all too soon at the Hanacker Land and Cattle Company. And she’d promised the altogether disarming owner biscuits and gravy for breakfast.