Chapter Four

The cabin door swung open, and Evander and a healthy gust of chilly air plowed through the opening. Snow coated every exposed inch of him, from his scarf wrapped head to his boot-clad feet. He looked like a snowman come to life.

Abigail tossed the last of the picture frame wood onto the fire and rushed across the room. “Your arms are full. Let me get the door for you.”

He stomped snow from his boots and moved into the room, toting a large load of firewood. “Brrr. Sure is cold out there. The snow has let up, but the wind is still blowing hard—hard enough it could freeze the nose right off your face.”

Drat. Not what she wanted to hear. She shut the door and seated the locking bar. “I suppose that means we won’t be resuming our trip today.”

“Not likely. About a foot of snow fell last night, and with the wind blowing, you can barely see in front of you. Not to mention it’s creating three and four foot drifts. We’ll just have to wait until the wind dies down and the temperature rises.”

A delay she couldn’t afford. But there was nothing she could do about it. She might be rash, but she wasn’t addlepated. Insisting they continue their trip in blowing snow and freezing temperatures would put both their lives in danger. Not a risk she was willing to take. Hopefully, they could make up the lost time elsewhere.

Evander crossed to the fireplace and deposited the firewood onto the hearth. Snow sizzled as it rolled off the logs and met the heated stones. He tugged off his gloves and rubbed his hands in front of the fire. “Ah, that feels good.”

His deep sigh rumbled through her. She banked the embers that flared inside her and retrieved a chair from the table. “You must be near frozen. Please. Sit. Warm yourself.”

He removed his hat and unwound the scarf. His nose came into view—it hadn’t frozen off after all. And then his lips emerged, those wonderful, firm lips that had pressed against hers and turned her insides to porridge.

“Abigail? Did you hear me?”

Horse feathers. She had to get thoughts of that kiss out of her head. There was no reason to be dreaming of something that wouldn’t happen again.

She grabbed the iron poker and jabbed at the fire. “My apologies. My mind was elsewhere. What was it you asked?”

“I said I see you had to use your picture frame for kindling.”

“Yes, you weren’t back, and the fire started dying down.” She poked harder, sending sparks flying. “I had to keep it going.”

“I’m sorry you had to burn your sister’s gift. It took me longer than expected to find wood.”

“It’s not important. I can replace the frame.” Too bad she couldn’t replace her body with one that didn’t burst into flames at the least provocation.

He shrugged out of his overcoat and settled onto the chair with a grunt. “If you burned the picture frame, what did you do with the painting?”

She propped the poker against the fireplace. A puddle had begun forming beneath his chair. Perhaps a little levity would help calm her flustered wits. She put on a genial smile and waggled her fingers at him. “Let me hang your things by the fire. The melting snow is creating quite the puddle. As much as I enjoy wading, I don’t think this is a suitable place for such an amusement.”

He glanced down and grimaced. “Oh, of course. Sorry, I should have removed my coat by the door.”

“It’s not a problem. A good swipe with a towel is all it needs.”

She took the garments from him. Heat lingered in the inner lining of the overcoat. A yearning to burrow into it rose inside her. She slung the coat onto a wall peg instead. Her reactions were becoming quite a nuisance. Surely she could control them better than some silly, starry-eyed schoolgirl.

She set the scarf and hat on pegs next to the coat and turned back to him. “You asked about the painting. I rolled it up and stowed it in my satchel. I expect it should be safe there.”

His frown deepened. “I don’t see the crate wood. Did you burn that, too?”

“I used that first since there was more of it. Once it burned down, I resorted to the frame.” She grabbed a log and tossed it onto the fire. “But now that you have fetched more wood, we shouldn’t have any trouble keeping a good, strong fire going.”

“I suppose you did what you had to. I just wish you hadn’t been put in that position in the first place.”

“It couldn’t be avoided. I’m not fretting over the loss, so neither should you.” His concern was touching. Other than her father, few men would be bothered about something as trivial as the loss of a picture frame.

She replaced a thick log that had rolled off the stack. “Where did you find this wood? It looks dry and reasonably free of decay.”

“There was a fallen tree about a hundred yards into the woods.” He bent over and began tugging off his boots. “Looked like it came down during the summer months. Some of the branches still had dried leaves on them.”

One boot thudded to the floor, and then the other. He started peeling off his socks, revealing long narrow feet with high arches and slender toes. The sight seemed as intimate as if he’d removed his trousers.

She moistened lips gone dry as a summer pond. “How fortunate you found a source of seasoned wood.”

“Fortunate indeed. It should keep us supplied with firewood for the rest of our stay here.” He brushed wood chips from his trouser legs. “Provided I don’t chop off my foot with that rusted axe I discovered in the woodshed.”

Her stomach churned around breakfast. She didn’t know what put her more on edge—talk of blood or seeing intimate male body parts. “Please be careful, Evander. I’m not much good with doctoring. Blood makes me squeamish.”

“Well, well. The lady has a weakness after all.” His gentle smile rippled over her. “I shall do my best to avoid any bloodshed.”

Blood wasn’t her only weakness. Now if only he could do something about those exposed feet of his. She snagged the coffee pot from the hearth. “I believe I’ll go gather some snow to melt for water. You look like you could use a good cup of coffee to warm your insides.”

“It’s much too raw out there, Abigail.” He reached for his boots. “I’ll go get the snow for you.”

She stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. His muscles quivered beneath her fingertips. Was he shivering from being chilled, or was he reacting to her touch? Best to believe it was the former—for her own peace of mind.

“You’re shaking with cold, Evander. You stay right here by the fire. The last thing we need is for you to take ill.” She dropped her hand to her side. “It won’t take me but a few minutes to scoop up some snow.”

He unholstered his pistol and held it out to her. “Fine, but take this. With the storm abating, those wolves might be back on the prowl.”

She wagged her head and started for the door. “That gun won’t do me much good unless the creatures get close enough that I can hit them over the head with it. I never learned to shoot.”

“What? Why didn’t you say so at the tunnel? I never would have left you alone.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.”

“You’re going to be the death of me, Abigail Whitlock.” His words held a provocative bite as if he meant more than just her little white lie.

He pushed to his feet. “No time like the present to learn how to fire a pistol. Put down that coffee pot and come over here. I’ll give you a lesson.”

“Shoot a gun? Inside? I think the cold has turned you addlepated, Evander Holt.”

He snapped open the cylinder and removed the bullets. “We’ll practice without ammunition first. Let you get accustomed to holding it. Then we’ll go out on the porch for a quick round of live firing.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“It is. Now, come over here. Remember our agreement?”

Mudpies. He had to rake up that old potato. She set the coffee pot on the table and crossed to stand beside him.

He threaded the gun into her hand. Cold steel branded her palm while warm fingers scalded her skin. She braced against a shiver that had nothing to do with being chilled.

“Since your hand is smaller than mine, you should probably use both of them around the grip. That will help keep the barrel steadier.”

She laced both hands on the pistol grip. “Like this?”

“Yes. Now keep your arms extended and lift the pistol until you can see down the top.”

She lifted the gun until it was eye level. Oddly, holding a firearm felt comfortable, natural, as if it was an extension of her arm.

“Pick a target on the other side of the room and aim at it. Adjust the angle until the sight at the end of the barrel lines up with the target and this sight near the hammer.” He tapped the two nodules on the gun barrel. “Got it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Good. Now thumb back the hammer and slide your finger onto the trigger. When you’re ready, squeeze the trigger. Don’t pull it.”

She did what she thought was a squeeze. The hammer slammed down with a resounding click.

“Hmmm, well, the ceiling would now have a drain hole in it. You pulled instead of squeezing. Let me show you.”

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her. His chest molded her back, and his thighs pressed ever so pleasantly against her buttocks. Tremors shot down her spine. Might as well feed those bullets back into the cylinder and shoot her. It appeared she had lost total control of her wits.

He spooned his finger over hers, thumbed back the hammer, and guided the gun to eye level. “Got your target in sight?”

His warm breath caressed her neck. She couldn’t breathe much less speak. She managed a nod.

“All right. Now squeeze the trigger. Like this.” He tugged ever so slightly on her finger. The hammer clicked down. “There. Perfect. Now you try.”

He backed away, giving her some much needed breathing space. She tugged in several deep gulps of air. So much for not thinking about his kisses. Now, not only did her lips burn for him, her entire body was afire.

****

Evander guided his horse to the shallower end of a huge snowdrift. Not as big as the previous drift, but still large enough that it slowed their progress. The wind had let up by mid-day and the sun had emerged, so they decided to set out for Waynesboro. According to his map, the town was only seven or eight miles to the west. Yet, at this snail’s pace, it would take them the rest of the day to travel the short distance.

He turned around and looked back. He’d put Abigail behind him this time, letting his horse break through the deep snow so she would have an easier ride. He’d rather have her riding point so he could keep a closer eye on her. But lessening the toll on her already strained body outweighed the possibility of something jumping her from behind.

Although she would probably be able to defend herself just fine. Once she got accustomed to firing his pistol, she’d hit each target he set for her. She was one remarkable lady. Not to mention soft and sweet smelling. Was it any wonder his body burned for her? He could still feel her curves pressed against him as he instructed her how to shoot. It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep from taking her right there in the cabin.

His horse stumbled, and Evander swung around to catch himself from falling. He’d best get his mind out of the bedroom and onto the trip else he risked putting them both in danger with his negligence.

Steam poured from his horse’s nostrils with each exhale. The gelding was starting to blow pretty hard. So was the mule. As much as he wanted to keep going, it would be best if they stopped and let the animals rest.

He reined his mount into a clearing just off the pathway where the wind had swept away all but a dusting of snow. “Let’s stop here for a bit and give the horses a rest. We can grab a bite to eat.”

“That’s fine with me. I could use a rest myself.”

Was the ride getting too difficult for her? She wouldn’t let a sliver of complaint slip past her lips. She was a perfect combination of sturdiness and softness—an ideal travelling companion. He wouldn’t let himself think of her as anything more.

He dismounted and kicked through the snow to Abigail’s horse. She slid into his arms without hesitancy. She must really need the rest for her to overlook her wariness of him so easily. Ever since the shooting lesson, she’d done her best to avoid touching him. Not that he could blame her. Between the kiss and the intimate closeness during the lesson, she had to be on edge, waiting for his next ungentlemanly attack.

She hobbled across the clearing and gingerly lowered herself onto a large rock. Stubborn as the pack mule. Once they reached Waynesboro, he would insist she use the liniment. Propriety had its place; and it wasn’t in the backwoods.

He secured both horses to a bush. They stood, heads down, sides heaving. He’d take them over to the nearby creek for a drink once they stopped blowing so hard.

He retrieved his canteen and what was left of their provisions and joined Abigail on the rock. “There’s not much left to eat.” He handed her a strip of pemmican. “Try this.”

“What is it?”

“Dried meat and berries. A jerky of sorts, called pemmican. I purchased it from Gunderson. He said his wife made it.” Gunderson’s wife was a short, squat Cherokee squaw. He hoped she cooked better than she spoke English.

Abigail took the sliver and bit off a piece. Her jaw muscles twitched as she gnawed on the leathery meat. After a few moments, she gave him a clearly counterfeit smile. “Mmm. Sure is delicious.”

He stuffed down a laugh. She’d never make it big in vaudeville. “Keep chewing. It will get softer and tastier.”

One quirked eyebrow was all the response he got. He smiled and began working on his own mouthful of jerky. A restful silence stretched between them as they ate. Birds flitted in the tree tops, calling to one another. A bold squirrel scampered across hair-thin branches. Though still chilly, it was a day he would savor during the long hot months patrolling the Kansas plains.

Abigail tilted her head back and let the sun paint her face. Most ladies he knew would do everything in their power to avoid sunlight. He’d rather see a healthy glow on a woman’s face rather than the favored pasty white coloring that made them look sickly.

Her honeyed sigh trickled over him. He ached to press a kiss to the pulse throbbing in her exposed neck. Let his lips travel down her breastbone to her succulent—

“Evander?”

Hog tails. She’d caught him gawking. He jerked his gaze to his trousers and worked at brushing off a clump of snow that had fallen from an overhead branch. Pesky squirrel. “Yes?”

“I asked if I could have a swallow of water.”

“Oh, of course.” He handed her the canteen, and she unscrewed the cap.

“What were you thinking about?”

You. He moved his gaze skyward. “Just checking to see how much more daylight we have left.” Not quite the truth, but he didn’t want to add to her wariness by revealing his true thoughts. “Based on my calculations, we should arrive in Waynesboro by sundown.”

“That’s encouraging. Though I have to admit, I’m not looking forward to leaving the quiet and beauty of the mountain. It’s so peaceful here. So refreshing. Even if it is dangerous.”

“You are quite the conundrum, Abigail Whitlock.”

“Am I? I always thought of myself as rather direct and unexciting. My sister, now she’s the puzzling one. Prim and proper one minute, mischief-maker the next.”

“I would never call you unexciting.”

She hefted the canteen and took a long, slow pull. He’d made her uncomfortable. Not at all what he intended.

She lowered the canteen. Vibrant blue eyes met his. She licked a droplet from her lips. “Before the war, what was life like in the military?”

“It’s a harsh life. Few amenities. Fewer pleasures. Country and duty come above all else. But I wouldn’t trade it for a hundred grand palaces.”

“It sounds intriguing. Almost like surviving out here in the wilderness.”

“You’d make the perfect officer’s wife.”

The admission jumped out at him like a wolf from the shadows, unexpected and quite startling. When had he begun to think of her as more than just an obligation?

Her laugh was somewhere between amused and anxious. “Are you asking for my hand, Evander Holt?”

Was he? While they had only been in each other’s company for two days, he felt as if he’d known her forever. He cocked his head to the side, watching for her reaction. “What if I am?”

“I’d have to give it some thought.” She capped and handed him the canteen. “Marriage is a serious undertaking, not one to be made lightly.”

Smart as well as beautiful. A strange feeling of relief washed over him, as if he’d found something he’d been looking for. He reached out and cupped her chin. “Abigail—”

“Don’t move, bluebelly.”

Evander froze. He’d only heard that term said with that much bitterness a few times since the War had ended. All of them had been in the South. All of them had resulted in someone’s death.

He cut a glance to the side. On the other side of the clearing, a bearded man stood next to a tree with a shotgun pointed at them. Should he throw himself over Abigail and draw on the man? It was risky, but—

More figures emerged. Men with guns. That shot his idea to hell.

“Real easy-like, unholster that pistol and toss it over here,” the first man, likely the leader of the rag-tag bunch, ordered.

Fingers dug like talons into his arm. “Evander?”

“It’s all right, Abigail. Just stay calm and do what they say.” He slowly raised a hand. “I’m reaching for my gun now, mister. Don’t get all jumpy and start shooting.” If anything happened to Abigail...No. He wouldn’t let his thoughts go there.

“Move nice and slow, bluebelly, and no one will get hurt.”

Using one finger, he slid his gun free of the holster and tossed it across the clearing. “There. Nice and slow. Just like you asked.”

“Good. Now get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head.”

He did as instructed. The leader closed the distance between them. He wore leggin’s and a fur coat like many of the trappers at Gundersons, but the Rebel slouch hat told him all he needed to know. Their journey had just hit another rockslide—one that could crush them.