Harris Channing (9 page)

He slipped his tongue into the
warmth of her precious mouth, and when her arms slipped around his neck, he
savored the delicious feel of her complete submission. Oh, how he wanted to
give and take comfort. Oh, how he needed to find the ultimate release.

Sickening guilt collided with his
passion and he ceased his kiss. "David," she whispered against his
lips. "You are such a wonderful man."

He pulled away, shame washing over
him. What sort of man would take advantage of someone so completely vulnerable?
He was not wonderful, he was a randy beast, undeserving of the compliment.
"If you knew what I was contemplating, you would know that I'm not
wonderful. Dear lady, you arouse me to the point of selfishness."

He pulled away from the tangle of
her arms, feeling every bit the villain. "Where are you going?" she
cried out. "I need you, David."

Yet instead of looking into her
face, he averted his eyes, too ashamed. "I'm sorry," he said and
stood, presenting her with his back. He had to get away, needed to compose
himself. His anger surged, what had come over him and what made him think
making love to her would help anyone but him?

He marched toward the door,
determined to put more distance between them.

"I like it when you kiss me. I
want to feel something other than sadness and for a moment I did, "she
said, her words coming out on a quiver.

Remorse added another layer of
self-loathing to the already insurmountable pile and the heaviness in his soul
weighed on him like a blacksmith's anvil.

"I enjoy it too," he
admitted. "Too much."

"But--"

"I'm going to get
Alfred," he interrupted, realizing a change in subject was what this very
uncomfortable moment called for. "Poor fellow took one look at Crocker and
ran into the stable." He grunted and set his hand on the door handle.
"Don't suppose he likes it out there much. Besides, Ned may need some
water that's not frozen."

"You're leaving? Now? When all
this has happened and I need a friend?"

He bit back his frustration. Didn't
she understand he had to get away from her? "Bobbie, I can't do this…I am
not the man you want."

"But you are." He glanced
back at her. She sat up in the bed, her hair hanging across her shoulders, her
large gray eyes glistening in the midday light and her jaw bouncing with
emotion.

"Why? I'm irreparably damaged.
My heart is cut off from everything in this world…and that includes you. You
must understand, I will see to your food, shelter and warmth. Everything else
has to be off limits."

"I have enough love for both
of us," she replied, her hand flying to her mouth as if her declaration
horrified her.

A wistful smile touched his lips
even though his stomach spiraled into the black abyss of despair. "Then
share that precious gift with someone more deserving."

"More deserving than
you?" She clutched the blanket to her breast. "I-I can think of no
one else."

"That will change once I
introduce you to my family in Tennessee. You will have no shortage of
suitors." Despite his assertion, the thought of any man touching her had
him clenching his jaw.

"Marry me off? Is that truly
your plan?"

Damnation he'd said the wrong
thing. But didn't he always when fighting with a woman? He'd never, ever know
how to deal with their shrill outbursts and nonsensical thoughts. "Yes.
Safe, happy, loved and cared for. Isn't that what all women want?"

"Well then, what of Reg
Crocker? Wouldn't he be more convenient?"

His gaze narrowed, his passions
surging, his hatred for the man damn near overpowering. "If
he
is what you want, I can see to that
as well. He wants you, it was written all over his despicable face."

"I know he wants me, every
chance he could, he touched me, tried to ease my pain." She pressed him
further, her words more irritating than any he'd heard in near five years.
"I don't suppose he'd turn away from me as you do."

"No, of course you're right.
He'd definitely take you without consideration for anyone but himself…if that's
what you want, perhaps you should pack your things and stay with him after I
take you to view your family!"

"You're right!" she shouted.
"I can't believe how much I've misjudged you. You call Reg callous and
selfish…you are no better."

He balled his fists at his sides.
Damn her for her words. Damn her for comparing him to Crocker! "No. Miss
Shallcross, the truth is I have given you everything I can and it's not enough.
It is you who needs to rethink. You are greedy. You believe I should give you
what you want and for the life of me I cannot fathom why you would want
me."

Instead of offering an explanation,
she just stared at him, her expression one of pained surprise.

"I want to know why you think
me worthwhile. I drink, I smoke, until you insisted I bathe, I lived a slovenly
life. The only reason I can think is pity or gratitude. I don't want you like
that…and I can't want you at all."

She tilted her head, her gaze
softening from anger to sweetness in the blink of his eye. "Don't you
understand? I see a good man when I look at you. I see someone hurt by
circumstances beyond his control and yet he finds it in his heart to take me in,
to heal my wounds, to offer comfort."

No, she had to know the truth. That
he was a bastard…an unworthy jack ass. "I am not a
good
man. I don't want to make love to you Bobbie. I want to fuck
you."

She set her hand to her breast, her
shock quite apparent by the way her mouth dropped open.

"I will never marry you, never
tell you I love you, and never be able to give you more than my cock and
possibly a bastard child. Is that what you want? Are you willing to take a
gamble that I'll change my ways?"

He knew he had gone too far, but
the words were out and he hoped they would push her just far enough away to
keep her sweet scent from his nostrils, her glorious mouth from his, and the
desire to lay her down at bay.

"Of course I don't want
that," she said on a sob. "W-What woman would?"

"Not a woman of your caliber.
Please both our sakes, don't let me any deeper into your heart. For if I kiss
you again, I don't know if I can stop. I may very well take you without thought
of anything but what I want. And make no mistake Bobbie, I want nothing more
than to bury myself in your warmth."

He pulled open the door and
stepping out slammed it behind him. The bright sun stung his eyes as it
reflected the overpowering white of the snow. Swallowing his angst, he stumbled
down the short path and into the stable, wondering the entire distance why he
regretted his words and actions.
 
Hell,
he regretted everything that happened since Reg left. After all, didn't his
honest admission prove to her what a foul creature he truly was?

Leaning against the stable wall, he
dragged in a deep breath. The sweet summer scent of hay filled his senses,
sending him back in time. A time of warmth and sunshine and love. Not this
desolate cold world that offered no comfort save silver…icy, lifeless silver.
All the bits and pieces he had gathered and sold made him a rich man. A rich
man with nothing.

Ned stuck his head from over the
stall door, a strand of hay dangling from his mottled lips. He blew out a foggy
breath and nudged David.

"I know fella, you'll be glad
to get out of here too. Tennessee will offer you enough grass to get fat."
He rubbed the white star beneath Ned's forelock. "Now, where is that ugly
dog?"

He looked around the cramped barn,
bags of grain, hay, his saddle and the dusty sledge all sat right where he left
them. No sign of the mangy cur. "Wonderful. I break her heart and lose her
dog."

Pulling up his hood he marched out
in the early afternoon. Thankfully, clouds now covered the sun easing the
blinding light on snow. Surely, the brindle beast would be easily spotted.

"Alfred!" he shouted,
certain the dog would come bounding toward him, more than ready to come in for
a beef jerky and Bobbie's warm embrace.

Frustration rose and pressed
manically against his chest. He didn't need to be looking for the mutt. He
needed to be drunk. "Damnation," he mumbled. There was a half a
bottle of booze left. How was that minute amount supposed to quench his thirst?

Spotting the dog's tracks in the
snow, he followed them into the wooded area just beyond the cabin. The wind
whipped fiercely, freezing his nose. He pulled his scarf over his face, leaving
nothing exposed but his eyes. Christ but they felt as though they could freeze
in their sockets.

Warily, he looked heavenward. The
once sunny sky was now being lambasted by ominous clouds. He should be rushing
to the trading post rather than scouting around the countryside for Alfred…but
the idea of more bad news for Bobbie had him momentarily forgetting the drink
and thinking only of the hideous dog.

With the snow crunching beneath his
boots, he followed the dog's zigzagged trail. Thankfully, the beast had large
feet…stout legs and large feet. The creature was a walking anomaly. It was just
like Roberta to pick the sorriest of animals to give her heart to.

He growled before again calling to
the dog. Straining to hear for anything unusual, he cursed the wind for
obliterating any sound beyond its own insidious whisper.

Despite the fur-lined hood and
scarf, his ears ached with the cold. How long could he stand it out in this
mess before giving up and returning home with more traumatic news?

Consciously avoiding eye contact
with the small, fenced graveyard on the edge of the trees, he realized once
again that Sarah had been right, this was no place to live. Of course she
hadn't lived here, had she? No. She had died here.

Approaching the woods he scanned
beneath the scraggly pine canopy hoping to catch a glimpse of Alfred. Instead
of the awkward blacks and browns of the dog's fur coat, bright red blood marred
the white snow that clung to half a dozen narrow tree trunks.

"Damnation," he mumbled.
This was bad. It was very bad indeed.

Chapter 8

Lying in bed wasn't what Roberta
wanted to do. But neither was sitting before the fire or pacing the length of
the small cabin. Ten steps from wall to wall, ten steps that had her feeling as
if she were a prisoner.

Swallowing the lump in her throat,
she grudgingly admitted that was just what she was. For hadn't the elements
locked her in? Hadn't the loss of her parent's thrown away the key?

Wringing her hands she sailed
toward the window. White snow and bruised skies for as far as the eye could see
met her somber gaze. Even the mountains seemed to be hiding in the distance,
encircled by gray mist.

She pressed her forehead to the
cold glass. Where in the name of the Lord was David? How long did it take the
man to fetch a dog and bring in a bucket of water to thaw?

She stifled a curse. The man was no
doubt hiding from her.
I don't want to
make love to you. I want to fuck you.

His admission had been ugly. His
promise of nothing but the physical crushed her and had her wishing she had
never seen the light from his solitary window. She would be in peaceful repose
with her parents and brother and none of this would matter. Nothing would matter.
Everything would be so much easier had she just not gotten up that day by the
creek.

Turning from the window, she made
her way back to her discarded winter clothes, determined to see what was
keeping her miserable host. He needed to come in before he caught his death.
Before she lost someone else who meant something to her. For despite her upset,
she did care about him, irregardless of how he felt for her.

Fresh tears gathered in her already
sore, burning eyes and she let them fall as the reality of her situation sank
in and rooted deep in her roiling stomach. If what Reg Crocker said, what David
said, what the locket proved to be true, she was the only living Shallcross
left in her line. Certainly there were others, but none that carried her
father's blood mixed with her mothers.

"Oh, Lord, this is so
bad," she wailed and although tempted by the bed, tempted by the desire to
curl up and die, she grabbed her coat, needing to set her eyes on the man that
had saved, needing to bury her face in the scruff of her dog's neck.

Just as she slid her arm into the
sleeve of Sarah's coat, she frowned. She sniffled, and tried to focus her
attention on something, anything else. Yes, the coat. She ran her fingers over
the crimson wool. It was a lovely, stylish garment, nothing like she owned. It
spoke of quality and high living and did not match the poverty of the lowly
cabin. The gown too was fine and warm and sewn by an expert hand.

She gazed down upon the gray wool
of her skirt, the hem adorned with black lace. Fine clothes in the wilderness
made no sense to her practical mind. But who was she to question Sarah? The
woman must have been a model wife, perfect in everyway to keep David pining for
her.

Bobbie focused on her own clothes
that now lay in a neatly folded pile atop Sarah's traveling chest. They were
nothing to compare to the simplest of Sarah's gowns. Tatty, old, sewn by her
mother's loving hands. She recalled how her sweet mother had fashioned the
gingham dress from a pattern. The woman was so proud of her work, so happy to
present her daughter with a gown of new fabric. The recollection sent her mind
spinning. How was she supposed to cope with this overwhelming blow? How?

She stumbled toward the traveling
chest and stared down at the gown. Three years she had worn happily worn that
dress and her heart broke at the realization that it was no longer beautiful,
but rustic and poor…"Ma," she whimpered. "It's no wonder David
doesn't want me. He's had a true lady. To him I am little more than a prairie
rat." She ran her fingers over the gingham and lifting it from the pile
held it close to her cheek. "But Ma, I come from the most loving of
parents. No things are more important than you, Pa and Robert."