Big Sky Rancher (4 page)

“You do know what gravy is, don't you?” he asked, his sarcasm unmistakable now.

She rose from the table and lifted her plate, carrying it to the sink, where she added it to the heaping stack of dishes he'd gathered up over the past days. “Actually,” she said in a soft voice, “I was wondering if you had any inkling what clean dishes look like.” She set aside the scrub rag she'd used on the skillet in favor of a clean dish towel she found in the kitchen drawer.

She sorted the dishes, rinsed them and then stacked them in the dishpan, drizzling a form of liquid soap she found in a quart jar beneath the sink over the whole mess. Using a fairly clean saucepan, she scooped warm water from the reservoir at the side of the cookstove and dumped it over the dishes, then returned for more.

“Why use a towel when a dish rag will do the job better?” he asked.

“If you want to wash these dishes, you may use anything you like to get the job done,” she told him. “But if you'd like me to handle it, I'd suggest you leave well enough alone.”

“That's exactly why I married you,” he answered, obviously intent on getting her dander up.

It worked. She held the sopping wet towel in one hand and faced him, her heart pounding, her breath coming in short gasps. The towel flew across the kitchen to where he sat, water scattering hither and yon as it headed toward him. Her aim was accurate, he'd give her that much, for the towel hit him squarely in the face, the soap she'd poured into the dishpan burning his eyes, the warm water wetting the front of his shirt in seconds.

He stared at her in disbelief. Women were supposed to be well-mannered, biddable creatures; wives especially, he'd assumed. If Jennifer thought her actions came under the heading of obeying her husband, she was sadly mistaken. And, after all, the woman
had
promised to obey. He recalled her choking out the word, signifying her distaste for the vow she'd been forced to make.

And now, she'd insulted him. Ignored his needs as a husband and failed as a cook. Not to mention the fact that she made terrible coffee.

“Where on earth did you come from?” he asked. “You're not a normal woman, Jennifer.”

“I'm as normal as they get,” she answered, her eyes just a bit haunted, as if she rued the actions she'd indulged in.

“No, you're not,” he said, disagreeing with her on all levels. “I sent for a wife, a woman who would cook and clean
and mend my clothes. A woman to warm my bed and bear my children. Thus far, you've failed miserably to come up to my expectations.”

“And what about
my
expectations?” she asked, tears filling her eyes, even as she lifted the front of his mother's apron to wipe them from his sight.

“Women aren't supposed to have any. Women are made to be wives and mothers, serving their families and doing all the womanly things that are assigned to them.”

“You are an
idiot,
Lucas O'Reilly,” she shrieked. “A full-fledged
jackass,
if ever I saw one.” Her cheeks reddened as she spoke.

“Well, you're a spoiled, selfish child,” he sputtered. “And you know what I told you about acting like a child.”

“Don't lay one hand on me,” she said, backing against the sink.

He rose and approached her, and she turned aside, primed to run from the kitchen. Losing her balance, she reached out and her hand touched the top of the stove. The odor of burning flesh rose from her fingers and she held her palm against her breasts, tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Let me see,” Lucas said, ashamed now that he'd caused her to be hurt. “I never meant for you to burn yourself, Jen. Let me look at it.”

She shook her head and he took charge, knowing that she was hurting, and her actions were those of a woman frightened by the pain that had almost brought her to her knees.

Seating her on a kitchen chair, he knelt in front of her and held her hand in his, blowing on the skin that was already blistered and puffy. “I'll get some cold water. It should help with the burning,” he told her. “And then I'll get out my mother's
home remedy kit. She had stuff in there for any sort of injury. I'm sure there's something for a burn.”

“Butter,” Jennifer croaked. “Spread butter on it.”

“No, I don't think so,” he told her. “I seem to remember Ma saying that you can get infection that way, no matter that it's an old remedy.” He stood and found the clean saucepan she'd used to dip water and filled it half full from the pump. From deep in the ground, the water poured out in a stream that felt like ice to his hands.

To her damaged skin it would surely be almost intolerable, but it would take the burning away, stop the damage to her flesh before it went any deeper. He placed the pan on the table and lifted her hand, lowering it into the water. She stifled a sob and he knelt in front of her again.

“Leave it in the water, Jennifer. I know it hurts, but it'll ease the pain. Now, promise me,” he coaxed, and was rewarded by a quick nod.

He brought the box holding his mother's salves and potions to the table and opened it wide, allowing Jennifer to look within. “I think this stuff is what she used,” he muttered, lifting a jar from the neat collection. Writing on the label proclaimed it a “burn salve” and he opened it, revealing a thick, brown, pungent ointment that gave promise of being the proper cure.

He remembered having the stuff applied to his leg once when he'd tarried too long, burning the trash and playing with a stick that glowed with an intense heat. Heat he'd somehow transferred to his own leg by accident. His cries of pain had brought his mother running, and she'd calmly sat him on the porch and dressed his leg with this same potion, covering it with a thin layer of fabric torn from an old sheet.

Now he addressed the wound in front of him, smearing the ripe-smelling salve on Jennifer's hand carefully, mindful of the blisters, not wanting to break them. A neat roll of bandage from his mother's collection came into play as he tore off a strip and folded it, pressing it against her palm, then completed the task by tying strips of the white fabric carefully across her hand.

“Thank you,” Jennifer told him, her voice shaking, her eyes still showing evidence of tears. “I didn't mean to be so clumsy. My father would have said it was because I don't think before I sail into action.”

“You were angry,” Luc told her. “And with good reason. I'm sorrier for that than you'll ever know. It was all my fault, sweetheart.”

“Don't call me that,” she whispered. “I'm not your sweetheart.”

“Ah, but you will be,” he said, correcting her assumption. “You'll be my sweetheart and my wife one day. Just not right now.”

“You won't—” She waved her hand in the general direction of the hallway, where the wide staircase rose to the second floor.

“No, I won't,” he told her, the words sour in his mouth. He'd just promised her that she was safe, that he'd leave her in her virgin state. And as he'd told her earlier, he always kept his word. “But I will help you get undressed and into bed. After I've done up these dishes.”

So it was that Jennifer had what he was sure was the distinct pleasure of watching as her husband of less than a day washed a sinkful of dishes and stacked them to dry on the sink board. He caught her smug look with a quick glance in her direction and turned away, his grin hidden from her. The little fiend was enjoying this.

But then, so was he. The anticipation surging through him as he considered removing her clothing and tucking her beneath the sheet drove him to complete his task, so that she wouldn't have the chance to gloat over a panful of dirty dishes.

 

H
E WAS GOING
to undress her. It was her gut instinct that he'd drag it out, enjoy the blushes she was certain to wear, and no doubt inspect every inch of skin he revealed.

She was absolutely right, and for once in her life, she rued the fact that it was so. His fingers released buttons with ease and he slid her clothing from her in a ceremony of sorts. When she was garbed only in a petticoat and vest, plus the soft, thin chemise she wore next to her skin, he halted, his fingers slowing as he looked his fill.

“You're beautiful,” he told her, his hands careful as he undid the strings of her petticoat and allowed it to fall to the floor around her feet. “Now sit down and I'll strip off your stockings.”

“I can do that,” she protested.

“No.” He shook his head. “I may not get much loving from you tonight, but I intend to enjoy what little bit of satisfaction I'm being allowed during this process of taking off your clothing.”

Kneeling in front of her, he lowered her garters and stockings, then placed them in her shoes. “Stand up,” he told her, and if his voice sounded choked, she barely noticed, so intent was she on keeping her shift pulled down over her thighs.

He lifted her vest over her head, careful to slip her bandaged hand free without allowing the fabric to touch it.

“Get my nightgown,” she whispered, hoping he would respond as should a gentleman, even though he had none of the
characteristics of one. None but the fact that he'd dressed her hand and done the dishes, and now was doing his best to ready her for bed.

And why she should be thankful for that was a question she could not answer. Only that the man was showing a side of himself she'd thought not to have existed. Kindness came easily to him, it seemed, for he extracted her nightgown from the depths of her valise, careful not to disarrange her clothing, and then came back to her.

“Put it over my head, please,” she said, holding up her arms.

“You're going to sleep with that thing on?” he asked, pointing at her chemise.

“Yes, I am. Now help me get my gown on.”

“No.” His single word of reply was harsh and he shook his head as if to emphasize his stand on this matter. “I'll close my eyes while we get that thing off of you and I won't look while you get your nightgown tucked in place, but that's as far as I go, sweetheart.”

There was no choice, it seemed, for she'd found already that Lucas meant each word that passed his lips. “All right.” Her acquiescence was reluctant, but it seemed he was satisfied with it.

His eyes closed and she settled her gaze there, lest he cheat and open them momentarily. His hands groped for her and he lifted the chemise over her head, once more careful to guard her hand against additional harm. How he could be so handy in the dark was beyond her, but she blest the fact that he seemed to have no trouble with putting the nightgown over her head and pulling it down into place.

“Thank you,” she told him, relieved that the ordeal was behind her and she'd been unseen by those blue eyes.

“You're welcome,” he intoned, and hid his smile. Peering through his lashes was not a satisfactory method, but he'd managed to catch more than a glimpse of pleasing curves. She was slender almost to the point of thinness, as he'd told her earlier, but her legs were rounded and well-formed, her hips narrow but shapely, and though he had only seen the front view, it was enough to keep him happy for the rest of the night.

Well, maybe not happy, but at least hopeful of a second viewing in the morning when he helped her put her clothing on. For now, he'd crawl in behind her and enjoy the proximity of a woman's warmth, with the pure satisfaction of knowing that this woman was his wife and would one day turn to him with passion lighting her gaze.

S
OMEHOW
she'd managed to locate an all-enveloping robe and get herself into it by the time Luc awakened. He watched her as she reached thoughtlessly to turn the knob on the bedroom door, and heard her soft cry of pain.

“Stand still, Jennifer. I'll get the door,” he said, swinging his feet to the floor.

“I can do it,” she retorted, using her other hand to awkwardly twist the knob. The woman was not left-handed, he decided. And burning her right hand had damaged her independence, no matter how capable she might consider herself to be.

He'd stripped to his drawers last night and now they outlined, only too well, the shape of his early morning problem. So used to his inability to do anything about it, he ignored the pulsing of his erection and approached the door and the woman who stood in front of it, her gaze glued to his groin.

“Don't come any closer,” she whispered. Had she not been trembling, he might have laughed and ignored her words. As it was, he felt a pang of regret that he'd so frightened her to this point and, after less than twenty-four hours, become a brute in her sight.

“I'm only going to open the door for you,” he murmured, not halting his advance but slowing his steps, giving her time
to move aside. Small, bare feet peeked from beneath the hemline of her robe, making her appear vulnerable and, somehow, almost naked.

“Thank you.” It was a whisper, an automatic response from a well-brought-up young lady, and he smiled. The woman had little to be thankful for, as far as he could see.

Her independence had been shattered, her virtue violated—though not in the sense he'd have preferred—and she was in pain due to his impetuous behavior. He'd riled her to the point of total frustration, causing her to lose her balance and burn her hand, and now he loomed over her like her worst nightmare. And still she thanked him.

Guilt flooded him, even though he was still aching to clutch her against himself and spend his lust on her slender body. Jennifer was no more ready to be swept off her feet, and into his bed, than she was to fly from the barn roof. Her fear was palpable, her pain obvious and unless he missed his guess, she was about five seconds from dissolving into tears.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, standing in front of her, feeling like the worst sort of bully. “Just let me help you, sweetheart.”

She blanched. There was no other word for it. A scattering of freckles stood out in bold relief, peppering her cheeks. He hadn't noticed them before, he mused, probably because she'd spent yesterday in a perpetual state of anger, her face flushed with emotion.

He turned the knob and opened the door wide, allowing her to slip across the threshold with haste, her sidelong glance telegraphing her fear that he might lay a hand on her. No chance of that. He'd already decided to tuck his lust away for another day and try to make amends for his blundering.

He couldn't follow her down the stairs until he was dressed,
so he turned from her retreating back to where his clothing was scattered around the bedroom. A stifled yelp of pain from the staircase caught his attention and he bellowed out a question in her direction.

“Are you all right? What'd you do?” He danced on one foot, working at the toes that were caught inside the denim trouser leg. “Were you—tryin' to grab hold…” He punched the other leg into his trousers, buttoned them hastily as he headed for the hallway and then skidded to a stop. “You did, didn't you? You grabbed hold of the banister.”

She was perched on the second step from the top, her upper body swaying from side to side as she nursed the pain of burning flesh.

“Damn.” He uttered the word beneath his breath, but apparently loud enough for her to hear the single, angry syllable, for she turned to peer at him over her shoulder.

“I wish you wouldn't use vile language in my presence. You did the same thing yesterday, but I want you to know I won't stand for it, Lucas.”

He made his way to where she sat, planting his behind on the step above her. With an easy movement, he picked her up and swung her into his lap. She stiffened and jerked from his touch. The movement seemed to throw her off balance, raising the very real possibility that she would fall down the stairs. He tightened his grip and she curled against him as though he were a shelter against harm.

He cuddled her close, his arms wrapped around her, his head bent over hers. “I'm sorry if my language upsets you,” he said. “But I wasn't angry with you, sweetheart. Only myself.”

She trembled and tears fell, dampening his shirt as she turned to press her face against his chest. “I don't usually cry
so often,” she managed to whisper between sobs. “In fact, I never cry. At least, I haven't for a long time—up until I met you, in fact.” Her voice was accusing. “When I was a little girl, my mother told me I should practice self-control. She said tears would make my nose run and my eyes swell, and everyone would think I was ugly.”

He squeezed her against himself and chuckled, unable to believe that anyone in his right mind would ever think this female ugly. She was blessed with fine features, dark, curling hair and blue eyes that stirred him to a fever pitch.

“I don't care if your nose runs,” he said, leaning forward as he pulled a clean handkerchief from his back pocket. “And I think your eyes are beautiful, even when you cry.”

She laughed, snatching the cloth from his hand and wiping the tears beneath her eyes. “I know better than that,” she told him. “A woman is definitely at a disadvantage when she's blubbering and dripping all over the place.”

He shook his head. “I fear your mother was wrong, for you have a distinct hold over me, sweetheart. In fact, you could pretty much have whatever you'd like. At least, whatever I'm capable of giving you.”

“Does that include a ticket on the next eastbound stage?” she asked with a hopeful smile.

“Now, you know better than that,” he said. “I told you to choose something I'm capable of giving you. And sending you away is beyond my ability. I'm just beginning to enjoy having you here.”

“You're enjoying
this?
” she asked, including her position on his lap and the damage to her right hand in an all-encompassing gesture.

“I sure am, honey,” he murmured. “Especially the part that
includes having my arms around you.” He squeezed and then released her. “If you want to head downstairs, you can, but let me lend a hand, will you?”

She rose—a precarious maneuver, given her position—and nodded her acceptance of his terms. He gripped her arm with one hand, the other circling her, seeking out the narrowing of her waist.

They descended the stairs and she pulled from him, her footsteps taking her into the kitchen. At least it was neat and tidy, she thought with satisfaction. A far cry from the chaos she'd walked into yesterday. She reached for the handle protruding from a burner, her left hand awkward at the task, and then heard a muffled sound from Lucas.

“Let me do that,” he said. “Don't try to manage the stove by yourself.” She stepped back and he lifted the round, iron cover to expose the banked fire from the day before. Adding wood, he accomplished the feat of warming the kitchen in mere minutes.

Jennifer bent to lift the iron skillet from the oven and settled the heavy pan on the burner. “Do you want bacon?” she asked. “Or don't you have any?”

“Yeah, I've got bacon, but you can't slice it by yourself.”

Anger welled in her anew, that her efforts to provide him with meals of a sort would be hampered for days to come by her injury.

“Probably just as well. I'm not a good cook, as you found out yesterday.”

“Anyone can fry bacon,” he said, apparently in an attempt to comfort her.

“Don't count on it,” she muttered.

Ignoring her words, he went to the pantry and brought out
a large slab of bacon, wrapped in netting. Unwrapping it, he sliced it with quick slashes of a long knife.

Jennifer placed the slices in the skillet and watched as they began to sizzle and curl around the edges. Lucas placed a fork from the drawer in her hand and she nodded a silent thank-you in his direction as she pushed and prodded the meat, watching it brown.

“I've decided to get you some help,” Lucas said.

“Whatever for?” she asked, unwilling that another woman should be privy to her carelessness, and her absolute ignorance of the basics of keeping house.

“I'd think that would be pretty obvious,” he said, an air of arrogance spoiling his recent affability. “You're going to need some help getting settled in here, at least until your burns heal.”

She thought about the idea of another woman within these walls, wondering for a moment if Lucas would be so persistent in his pursuit of her, should he have an audience. The notion that she might learn from a competent female just how to go about being a wife took root. That fact alone surprised her and she turned to Lucas, blurting out her thoughts before she considered what their import might be.

“If seems to me if you want me to be any sort of a wife, you'd better do something about my total ignorance, Lucas. Getting me a teacher of sorts might be the best idea. Not that I'm altogether pleased with the idea of cleaning up after you.” She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and considered her choices.

“I don't suppose you'll reconsider and ship me off, will you?” The plea in her voice riled her. She'd never in her life begged for anything, unwilling to make herself appear inadequate.

“You got that right,” he said, emphasizing each word. “I
married you in good faith and I'm not about to look like a total failure at the marriage game in front of the whole da—” He hesitated and then continued. “In front of the whole
blamed
town. We're married, Jennifer, and we're gonna stay that way. No matter how little you know about cooking and cleaning and such, you're stuck with me.”

“Well, isn't that a lovely way to start this marriage?” she asked. She didn't expect an answer, for she'd merely stated a fact.

“Don't be sassy with me,” he warned her. “I'm about to do you a big favor and ride into town for a woman to lend a hand here.”

She glared at him and then recoiled as the bacon sizzled and popped, spitting a bubble of grease against her cheek. She wiped at it with the back of her hand and Lucas took the fork from her.

“Don't you have chores to do?” she asked. “Give me back the fork.”

“I'm frying bacon right now,” he said. “Just bring a couple of plates from the dresser and find silverware in the drawer. I'll cook breakfast. This one time only,” he said, his voice deepening as he spoke the warning.

This one time only. She cast him a dark glance at the words of warning. “I didn't ask you to cook,” she reminded him. “Just give me back the fork and break some eggs into a bowl if you want to be useful.”

He seemed to consider that idea for a moment and then handed her the utensil. He brushed the spot on her cheek that had received the drop of hot grease just moments before. “I could kiss it and make it better,” he offered, an his expression softening as he bent to her.

“No, thanks. I'll be just fine.”

He went to the pantry and returned with eggs clutched in his hand. How he could hold four eggs in one hand… The thought skipped through her mind and she watched as he found a bowl and cracked the eggs, one by one, into its depths. His hands were large, true, but not pudgy, as were some she'd seen. Long and lean were the words that came to her mind.

Long and lean all over, she decided, noting his stance, the narrow waist and hips, the frame that towered over her. He was taller than most men, wider through the shoulders than anyone else she'd ever seen, and yet there was about him a graceful but decidedly masculine aura. His hands were scarred but clean, the skin on his fingers calloused but well cared for. The memory of those hands touching her with care as he'd dressed her burns glowed in her mind like a well-tended fire, and she shivered as she recalled those same hands exploring her body, brushing over her breasts and then the warmth of him settling at her backside.

She felt a hot blush climb her cheeks as she thought of the previous day and the intimacies he'd taken with her. And yet, he was her husband and had a legal right to her, could claim her body as his own if he so pleased.

Having a stranger take up residence in the house wouldn't call a halt to his planned seduction of her. Lucas O'Reilly was too bold, too arrogant, to be deterred by the presence of another, should he decide the time was ripe to claim his bride.

“What's wrong?” he asked, his gaze intent on her face, the hot cheeks that gave away her doubts and fears.

“Nothing,” she said, lying through her teeth. “I was just wondering if you'd slice some bread while you've got the knife out and handy.”

He ran the back of his hand over her cheek. “You're all hot and bothered, sweetheart,” he said. “What were you thinking?”

“Nothing,” she repeated, desperate for him to look aside, to allow her a moment in which to rearrange her thoughts and drag her mind from its wanderings. She turned back to the bacon, relieved that it seemed to be uncurling a bit and turning crispy. “Get me a plate for this, would you?” she asked, and reached for the one he offered.

The eggs were at hand, the bowl easy to hold and tilt over the skillet. She stepped back as the hot grease spattered and the eggs began to cook.

“I'll dish those up,” Lucas offered after a few moments, lifting a slotted spoon from the kitchen dresser and approaching. “Let me turn them over first.”

In a deft movement he'd turned the eggs, one at a time, then after a few seconds he lifted them to the plate she held. “Scrape a couple onto the other plate for yourself,” he told her. “And some of the bacon, too.”

She did as he asked and sat. He shoved the skillet to the back of the stove, sliced off two thick pieces of bread and then sat across from her. After lifting the lid from the butter dish, he pushed it nearer her plate. “You want me to spread that for you?” he asked, motioning at her bread.