Song of the West (7 page)

“Well, so far it doesn't sound as though you're asking for much,” Samantha giggled. “Just perfection.”

“The woman I have in mind can handle it.” He smiled broadly as he rose to pour coffee. Samantha stared at his back, feeling as though her heart had been dropped into a deep hole.
Lesley Marshall.
Her mind flashed the name like a neon sign in bright red letters.

Jake squelched her offer to do the dishes and swooped her from her chair and deposited her on the living room sofa.

“I feel useless,” she muttered, helplessly cocooned by blankets and pillows. “I'm not made for lying around. I'm never sick.” She gave Jake a sulky glare as if the entire matter was his fault. “I don't know how Bree coped with this sort of thing for a month.”

“Could be you got her share of strength, and she got your share of patience,” he considered, then shrugged. “Of course, I could be wrong.” She heard his chuckle and the quiet click of his lighter as he lit a cigar.

Well, Samantha, she chided herself, you've really done it this time. Not only are you isolated with a man who constantly confuses you, but you can't even stand on your own feet. They say people learn about each other quickly when they live together, but I think it's going to take much more than one day to learn what this man is all about.
Living together
, she repeated, finding herself more amused than embarrassed. If Momma could see me now, we'd need a gallon of smelling salts.

Chapter Seven

Dawn was breaking. Pink and gold streaks split the hazy blue of the sky, and light tumbled through to rest on Samantha's closed lids.

Morning? Sitting up with a start, she shook her head vigorously to dispel the last remnants of sleep. Pulling on the borrowed robe, she set her feet on the floor, took three deep breaths and stood. When both the room and her head remained stable, she let out a long sigh of relief. Her legs were weak, but they no longer felt as if they would melt from under her, and the stiffness in her ankle had disappeared.

Mobility, she thought with arrogant glee. I've never truly appreciated it until now. Coffee. One thought followed swiftly on the trail of the other, and she deserted the room with the intention of making fantasy fact. A door opened as she passed it, and with a cry of surprise, she fell against the opposite wall.

Jake stood in the doorway, rubbing a towel briskly through his damp hair, a terry-cloth robe tied loosely around his waist. “Morning, ma'am.”

“You startled me.” She swallowed, overpowered by the lean, bronzed maleness that the terry cloth did little to hide. He took a step toward her, and her breath caught instinctively. “I—I'm much better.” She began to babble, unconsciously cowering against the smooth paneling. “I can actually walk a straight line.”

Her voice died to a whisper as he stood directly in front of her. Her eyes were on a line with the tanned column of throat revealed by the open neck of the robe. His hand lifted her chin, and she trembled.

“Relax, Sam.” His laughter sounded deep in his throat. “I just want to look you over. You must have the constitution of an elephant,” he concluded with unflattering candor. “You look as though you've been on vacation instead of battling blizzards. One day's rest after nearly freezing to death. Most women would have been stretched out for a week.”

“I'm not most women.” She pushed his hand away from her face. “I'm not fragile and delicate, and I'm not going back to bed. I'm going to fix breakfast.” She nudged him out of her path and started down the hall.

“Coffee's already on,” he called after her.

Samantha had breakfast under way by the time Jake joined her. Clad in the less disturbing attire of corded jeans and flannel shirt, he watched her prepare the meal as he silently sipped at his coffee at the kitchen table.

“I'm getting used to having a pretty face across from me at breakfast,” he commented when she sat down to join him.

“I'm sure I'm not the first,” she commented with studied indifference. Nor, she added to herself, will I be the last.

“Nope,” he agreed easily, “but there's something to be said for big blue eyes first thing in the morning.”

“Blue eyes are common enough,” she muttered, and lowered them to the contents of her plate. “Besides, this is hardly a long-term arrangement.” He did not speak for a moment, and her fork moved restlessly among her eggs.

“We should have the road clear enough sometime tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she repeated. A hollow feeling spread through her stomach.

“There's a lot of snow out there, some of the drifts are small mountains. It's going to take a little time to move it.”

“I see.”

“Do you think you could manage on your own for a while today?”

“What? Oh, sure, I'll be fine.”

“There's a lot I should see to. My foreman was in charge yesterday, but the men need all the help they can get.” He was frowning. “Cattle need hay brought out to them. They haven't the sense to dig through to the grass. They'll just stand there and starve to death.”

“I suppose the storm did a lot of damage.”

“It's only minor from the reports I've gotten. We were hit worse a couple years ago.”

“Reports?”

“One of my men came by yesterday afternoon to fill me in.” Pouring more coffee in his cup, he reached for the cream. “You were asleep.”

“Oh.” Strange, she thought, there had been a ripple in their isolation and she had been totally unaware of it.

Lifting his cup, he studied her over the rim. “I don't like leaving you alone, especially with the phones out.”

Her shoulders moved. “Don't worry about me, I'll be fine.” Glancing up, she met his speculative gaze.

“I don't know how long I'll be gone.”

“Jake, stop fussing. I feel fine.”

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes still narrowed. “Stand up. I want to see how you feel for myself.”

Before she realized his intent, his arms were around her, and his mouth was on hers. Her legs buckled.

His mouth was light, teasing, his teeth nibbling at the fullness of her bottom lip until she moaned from the exquisite agony. She gripped his shoulders as a dim light of control seeped into the darkness. Pulling away she shook her head in refusal.

“Now, Sam . . .” His voice was soft and persuasive, but the hands that descended to her hips were firm. “You wouldn't send a man out in the cold without something warm to remember, would you?”

Insistently, he brought her closer, molding her hips, exploring the soft roundness until she was pressed against him with exciting intimacy. His mouth closed over her protest, his tongue moving with slow devastation to tease hers until she felt the room spinning as wildly as it had the day before. Slowly, his hands ascended, his thumbs circling the side of her breasts while his mouth and tongue destroyed all resistance. She was straining against him, moving against him, reason forgotten. Her body heated urgently at his touch. Her sigh was a moan as his mouth descended to her throat. His lips tasted, lingered, traveled to new territories, the tip of his tongue moist and warm against her skin, erotic and devastating against her ear, until her mouth was desperate for its return to hers.

Her mouth was to go unsatisfied. He pulled her away with the same arrogance as he had pulled her to him. Dazed and limp, she could do no more than stare up at him as her body throbbed with a myriad of newly discovered desires.

“You're learning fast, Sam. That was enough to keep any man moving through a six-foot snowdrift.”

Furious, and humiliated by her own response, she drew back her hand.

“Now, Sam.” He caught her wrist easily, holding it aloft, ignoring her efforts to escape. “You're not strong enough yet for wrestling. Give yourself a couple more days.” Turning her hand over, his lips brushed her palm, causing her struggles to cease abruptly. “I'm going to bring in Wolfgang to keep an eye on you. Take it easy today, and try to remember, you're not as tough as you'd like to think.”

Ruffling her hair as though she were a child, he disappeared into the adjoing mudroom.

***

Later Samantha indulged in a hot, steaming shower, attempting to forget, as she soaped her skin, the feel of Jake's hands running over her. In the bedroom, she noticed her clothes piled neatly on the spoon-back chair. She slipped them on and wandered through the house in aimless exploration, the Saint Bernard lumbering at her heels.

The house abounded in small, delightful treasures, an oak rolltop desk, a wall box with Friesian carving, a Windsor cradle. With a small sigh, she wondered if the latter had rocked the baby Jake. Opening yet another door, she found Jake's library.

It smelled of leather and age, and her fingers ran over volume after volume. She pulled out a small volume of love poetry and opened the cover. Light, feminine handwriting adorned the top corner, and her mouth turned down at the inscription.

Darling Jake . . . To remind you.

Love, Lesley

Shutting the book with a snap, Samantha held it for one heat-blinded movement over the wastebasket, then, grinding her teeth, stuck it firmly back in place.

“It makes no difference to me,” she informed Wolfgang. “She can give him a hundred books of poetry, she can give him a thousand books of poetry. It's her privilege.”

She nudged the big dog with her toe. “Come on, Wolfgang, let's get moving.”

She returned to the living room and built up the fire, which had burned down to a hissing pile of embers. She curled up beside it.

***

One hour slipped into two, two slipped into three. Surely, Jake should be home by now, she told the silent clock as the hands crept past six. It was getting dark. Rising, Samantha stared out into the diminishing light.

What if something had happened to Jake? Her throat went dry, fear creeping along her skin. Nothing could happen to him, she told herself, running her hands over her arms to combat the sudden chill. He's strong and self-reliant.

But why am I so worried about him?

“Because,” she said aloud, slowly,
“I love him. I've lost my mind and fallen in love with him.”
Her hands lifted to cover her eyes as the weight of the knowledge crushed down on her. “Oh, how could I be so stupid? Of all the men in the world, I had to fall in love with this one.”

A man
, she remembered,
who had chosen Lesley Marshall to be his wife.
Is that why I've felt pulled in two? Is that why I responded to him when I've never responded to anyone else? Looking out into the darkness, she shuddered. I might as well admit that I don't care about anything except his getting home. . . .

When finally the sound of the outside door slamming reached her ears, she ran into the mudroom and threw herself at an astonished, snow-covered Jake.

“Sam, what's going on?” He tried to pull her away from his cold, wet jacket.

“I was afraid something had happened to you.” Her voice was muffled against his chest, her cheek oblivious to the frigid dampness.

“Nothing's happened, except I'm half-frozen and soaked to the skin.” Firmly now, he took her shoulders, disentangling himself from her arms. “You're getting covered with snow.” His grip was gentle. She stared up at him with huge, swimming eyes. “I'm sorry I was gone so long, but things were piled up, and it's slow working in a mess like this.”

Embarrassed by her outburst, she backed away. “You must be exhausted. I'm sorry, it was stupid to go on like that. It must come from being alone in the house all day.” As she babbled, she was backing purposefully toward the door. “You probably want a shower and something hot to drink. I—I've got dinner on.”

“Something smells good,” he commented. His eyes roamed over her flushed face, and a smile spread over his features.

“S-Spaghetti,” she stammered and despised herself. “I'll go finish it up.”

Retreating into the kitchen, Samantha kept her back toward him when he emerged and announced casually that he would have a hot shower before dinner. She mumbled a vague reply, pretending a complete involvement with her dinner preparation. Listening to his receding footsteps, she let out a long, pent-up breath.

“Oh, idiot that I am,” she sighed, and pushed her hair from her face in an angry gesture. The type of behavior she had displayed in the mudroom would only lead to trouble. She took a solemn oath to keep her emotions on a tight leash as long as Jake Tanner was around.

Tomorrow, she remembered, with a mixture of relief and disappointment, she would be back with her sister, and avoiding Jake would be a great deal easier. She had only to get through one more evening without making a fool of herself, and then she would sort out her thinking.

She was setting the table when Jake returned.

“If that tastes as good as it smells, I'll die a happy man.” He lifted the lid on the pot and gave a sigh of approval. Grinning, he disappeared for a moment, then returned with a bottle of wine just as she was placing the pot on the table.

“A nice Burgundy,” he said, opening the bottle and setting out two glasses.

“Samantha, this is fantastic.” He broke off eating long enough to give her a smile. “Where'd you learn to cook like this?”

“More of my mother's famous lessons.”

“What else can you do?”

“Well, let's see. I do a rather superb swan dive, a very graceful arabesque, I can walk on my hands as easily as some walk on their feet, whip up an incredible quiche and waltz without counting the time.”

“I am suitably impressed. How did a woman of your talents spend the day?”

She sighed and grimaced and began to toy with her spaghetti. “Sleeping, mostly.”

“Hmm.” His cough did not quite cover his laugh.

After dinner, Samantha insisted on seeing to the washing up herself. She wanted to avoid the intimacy of working side by side with him in the confines of the kitchen.

When the last signs of the man had vanished, she walked down the hall to the living room. Jake was adding another log to the low, shifting blaze. As she entered, he turned to smile at her. “Want some brandy?”

“No, no, thank you.” She took a deep breath and willed her legs to carry her to the sofa.

“Not in training, are you?” He moved from the hearth to join her on the sofa.

Smiling, she shook her head. “The fire's wonderful.” Grasping the first topic that came to mind, she riveted her eyes on the flames. “I always wanted one in my apartment. We had one at home, and Bree and I used to pop corn over it. We'd always burn it, and . . .”

The rest of her rush of words was lost as Jake placed his finger under her chin and turned her face to his. His face moved closer, and when she jerked back in defense, his brow lifted in amusement. He bent toward her again, and again she started.

“I'm only going to kiss you, Samantha.” His grip tightened on her chin. Sliding from her chin, his hand framed her face as his lips moved over hers, soft as a whisper. In spite of herself, she relaxed against him. Her lips parted, inviting him to explore, begging him to take.

“Samantha.” Her name was a sigh.

“Kiss me again,” she whispered slowly as she lifted her mouth to his.

With a low groan, he brought his lips down on hers. She clung to him, her body throbbing with heat, her heart desperate against his, while a part of her looked on, aghast, as she answered his kiss.