Jane Bonander (5 page)

“I’m sorry you’re here alone, ma’am. I would think something like this would bring the two of you closer.”

Julia wanted to tell him that ever since Frank Barnes had played one sister against the other, things had not been good between her and Josette, but it would serve no purpose other than to make her sound peevish and churlish. “Josette is better off away from here.”

“And you’re left to deal with everything?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” She tried not to sound bitter. “Josette wasn’t very helpful even when she was here.”

“I guess what surprises me is that she hasn’t come back to help you now, considering—”

“She probably doesn’t know, Mr. McCloud. But I’m not sure she’d come back even if she found out.”

His jacket was dripping water onto the floor. She had to either tell him to leave or ask him to stay. Her mind had been made up before she moved toward him.

“Here,” she said, “give me your jacket. I’ll hang it by the fire. Did you take care of your horse?”

“Afraid not. He’s hitched up outside.”

She moved away, toward the fire. “Take care of him, then come inside. I’ll fix you some coffee and something to eat. Lord knows I have enough food,” she added with a wry twist of her mouth.

When he left, she took the candle, hurried into her room and checked herself in the mirror. Dark smudges lay beneath the thin skin under her eyes, announcing her grief and her inability to sleep. Her face was pale, her lips cracked and dry. Her hair was whisked back into a loose braid. Except for her eyes, which looked too big and too dark to be hers, she was completely void of color.

She sucked in a resigned breath and went into the kitchen. Nothing could be done about her appearance now, and what did it matter? If he had come because of Josette, then he would leave. If he had come because he truly wanted to help, then he would stay. But did she want him to?

W
olf hung his jacket by the fire, then stepped into the kitchen. Heat radiated from a cast-iron stove that sat against the wall, and a kerosene lamp on the table fanned light into the room.

“There’s warm water in the basin on the back stoop,” she offered.

He went outside onto the small porch, rolled up his sleeves and washed, wondering when he’d had warm water last, and realizing he couldn’t remember.

As he wiped his hands and face, he mulled over Miss Julia’s reaction to him being there. It worried him that Amos hadn’t told her of their agreement, and Wolf was sure he hadn’t, for she would not be so accommodating if he had. He also remembered the talk when he’d stopped in Martinez on his way back from Sacramento.

Earl Williams had given him two envelopes, neither of which he looked at. One, he assumed, was his and Amos’s agreement, and the other was for Miss Julia. Earl had suggested that Amos, depressed over his illness and his bills, had killed himself. Wolf didn’t believe it. He didn’t think it was an accident, either. Many things had been bothering the old man. Possibly his concern that someone wanted his land was well-founded. That was another reason Wolf intended to stay. He wanted to discover whether or not Amos’s suspicions had been justified. Justified enough to warrant fearing for his life.

But Miss Julia had to be told of their agreement. He didn’t have a clue as to how to go about it. It was the first time in his life he felt like a coward.

Returning inside, he found a plate of cold chicken on the table, along with hard-cooked eggs, cucumber pickles, and bread. A piece of pie nearly filled another plate. It was a feast, and even though his mouth watered, his stomach rebelled. He was actually afraid of this woman.

As he ate, he watched her, shifting his gaze to the side when she looked at him. She was different tonight, the death of her father notwithstanding. There wasn’t that hard, angry edge she’d used with him before. And would no doubt use again, once she found out what her father had done to her.

The sight of her in her nightclothes stirred something inside him. She was a slim woman, sweetly curved where it counted. He wondered what she looked like beneath the layers of flannel. Skin, smooth and creamy everywhere, if the skin at her neck was any indication. A tiny waist. High, firm breasts—with pale, pink nipples, he mused. Long, shapely legs, tightly muscled, strong enough to grip the sides of Baptiste’s black belly—or his own thighs. Hadn’t he wondered about that the day she’d taken the stallion out for a run? And at the juncture of her thighs, a thatch of thick, wheat-colored hair …

He looked at his plate and mouthed an oath, for thinking of her body did wild things to his own. A lot of good it would do him. Once she heard his news, his hide wouldn’t be worth a loose shithouse brick in a wind storm.

“I … I suppose you’ll be moving on.” Her voice disrupted his troubled thoughts.

He took a slurp of coffee and washed down the mouthful of pie, then stopped eating and waited. He had to tell her. Oh, God, he had to tell her!
Well, life
’
s been good, Wolf, old man. Pity it has to end.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Julia—”

“No,” she interrupted, waving her hand at him. “Wait. I know I’ve never given you any reason to stay. I was less than hospitable, and my attitude toward you was inexcusable.”

She wouldn’t look at him, keeping her gaze on her lap. “Things are pretty bad around here, Mr. McCloud. I mean, since the drought, we no longer have a cash crop. Only a few walnut trees and too many fruit trees. There’s little money coming in … Oh, who am I kidding? There’s
no
money coming in.”

Her vulnerability surprised him. And touched him. He didn’t know how to deal with it.

“Well, aren’t you going to say anything?” Suddenly her voice held the peevishness he’d come to expect from her. It made him more comfortable.

“You want me to stay and work for you for nothing, is that it?”
Tell her, fool.

She lifted a skeptical, tawny eyebrow. “I should have known better than to ask.”

“Then you
are
asking me to stay.” His gaze dropped to her hands, which were spread on top of the table, noting that her nails were short but well cared for. He also saw how roughened and callused her hands were.

A queer feeling of pity dug into his gut, and he remembered how she’d worked this place as hard as any man.

“Surely you wouldn’t. Especially if I can’t pay you.”

“Then you
aren
’
t
asking me to stay.” She was proud and strong, and he didn’t deserve her or anything she had to offer—willingly or otherwise. He should forget the whole idea. Amos obviously hadn’t gotten around to telling her what they’d agreed to do.

She uttered an exasperated sigh, pursing her lips the way she did when she was annoyed. “I know I’ll live to regret it, but yes. At least think about it. No one else has anyone to spare, so I guess you’re it. But why you’d be willing, I’ll never know, especially since Josette isn’t here.”

Her stern demeanor made him smile. “How can I refuse such an enthusiastic offer?”

“Don’t get cocky, Mr. McCloud. I can just as easily change my mind.”

He forced a smile
.
And you will, pretty Julia. You will.

“You can sleep in the barn,” she snapped. “There should be a dry spot in there somewhere, if not with the horses, then maybe with the pigs.”

The tight muscles in his neck loosened up as soon as she began to sound like herself. “Miss Julia, I know you don’t raise pigs. Don’t go getting my hopes up, you hear?”

“You
know
what I mean. Sleep anywhere you please, just don’t expect to sleep in the house.” Her cheeks were pink.

“Well, now, you make it sound mighty appealing. I think that a barn is just the right place to have a friendly toss in the hay, but it’s no fun alone.” He stood and curled his thumbs around his belt loops. “Care to join me?”

She marched to the fireplace, her sweet ass jiggling a tad beneath her robe. If anyone had ever asked him, he’d have said he was an ass man. Breasts were nice, hell, every man liked breasts, but he rarely focused on them. He enjoyed watching a woman walk away from him in her nightclothes, her ass twitching and wiggling ever so slightly, just as Miss Julia’s was now. It was like an open invitation to touch. Well, he thought, his mouth twisting with scorn, maybe not this time, and not with this woman.

She yanked his jacket off the hook and threw it to him. “Good night, Mr. McCloud.”

He shrugged into it and crossed to the door, turning toward her before he opened it. “By the way, don’t get any ideas about getting me up too early. I wouldn’t want you to catch me wearing nothing but a smile.” He watched her eyes widen in horror, then added, “Good night, Miss Julia.”

All the way to the barn, he wondered if he had a death wish and hadn’t known about it. Now, he had to prolong his agony until morning. It would have been so much wiser to take care of things tonight. In some ways, he was thinking of her. By delaying the news, only one of them would be robbed of sleep.

Julia slammed the door and sagged against it, her heart beating wildly against her rib cage. Lord, what had she been thinking? He personified every disgusting example of manhood on the face of the earth. She
knew
that. She’d known it from the first moment she’d laid eyes on him. He was brash, indecent, cocky, disreputable, and, yes, dangerous. Even so, he waltzed in, acted deceptively human for one lousy hour, and she’d forgotten everything she’d hated about him in the first place.

Lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a hard crack of thunder. The rain continued to hammer the windows. She welcomed it. Maybe it would drive him away. The barn roof leaked; she doubted there was a square foot anywhere that didn’t have a hole in it.

No man with an ounce of civilized blood would stay more than one night in a cold, leaky, mouse-infested barn.

She was feeling pretty good about everything as she turned out lamps and closed up for the night. It wasn’t until she’d checked on Marymae and crawled into her own bed that she realized Wolf McCloud’s blood was probably as wild and uncivilized as his stallion’s.

The rooster woke Julia. She hadn’t been asleep very long. She’d lain in bed for hours, listening as Marymae sucked contentedly on her thumb, thinking about Wolf McCloud. As she slid from the bed, she knew there was no way on earth she could let him stay, no matter how much she needed the help. That he was incorrigible was a fact. She would deal with it. That she responded to him on some visceral level was something she could not deal with, nor did she have any intention of trying.

She went to the window and looked outside, noting that the storm had blown on, leaving the air wet and clean. The sky was clear and so blue it looked like something out of a painting. Her gaze moved toward the barn, and she saw no movement whatsoever. She narrowed her eyes, drawing on her anger toward him and the ease with which he was able to embarrass her.

The slug would probably sleep until noon, she thought.
In nothing but a smile.

In spite of herself, she started to imagine him that way, comparing his long, hard lines to those of his stallion’s, then rolled her eyes and cursed. A war was going on inside her. There wasn’t a person who knew her who would believe that beneath her prim, aloof exterior lay a heart thirsting for danger. Fortunately, she’d been able to control it before, and she could now, too. Lord help her, if there was ever a time for control, it was now.

She pulled off her nightgown, shivering in the cold room, and dressed while Marymae gurgled and cooed, kicking her legs against the sides of her bunting.

She gazed down at the child. Five months. It had been over five months since Josette’s birthing shrieks and screams riddled the air. If every woman carried on as Josette had, surely the population of the world would be lessened considerably, for not one of them would choose to go through it again. Josette had sounded as though she were being skinned alive.

Julia wasn’t unaware of the pain of childbirth. She’d heard other women talking about it often enough. Even now, when she was so angry with her sister she wanted to throttle her, she felt a rush of pity for her. Poor, poor Josette, whose life had been made easy, but for whom no one and nothing could relieve the pain of delivering a child.

Marymae looked up at her and gave her a wide, dimpled, smile. She’d been surprisingly sweet-tempered, in spite of the fact that she was teething. All of Julia’s anxiety fled when she looked at the babe.

“Good morning, love,” she murmured. “You’re such a good girl.” She picked her up, cuddling her close, ignoring the fact that Marymae had grabbed her braid and tugged.

After changing her, Julia carried her into the kitchen and fastened her into the special seat her father had made. She left Marymae to play with a string of beads while she fired up the stove, put on a pot of coffee, and made some oatmeal.

She was mixing hotcake batter when she heard Wolf McCloud outside. Thinking he was going to enter, she waited. When he didn’t, she went to the back door, looking out the small window. Her heart fluttered when she saw him.

In spite of the cold, he’d taken off his shirt. The rounded muscles in his chest and the straplike muscles under his arms bunched against his brown skin as he forked hay into the corral for the horses. He stopped, leaned on the pitchfork and looked at the house. Julia moved away from the door, yet allowed herself the luxury of memorizing each and every ridge in his hard, flat stomach. Sunlight glanced off his sleek, sweaty skin.

She’d never touched a man anywhere but his hands and face. Wolf McCloud looked smooth and hard, as if he were a living statue with muscles of stone, covered with the finest quality of flesh.

It was just unfortunate, she thought, dredging up her anger, that his perfect body had to be the vessel for such a depraved, degenerate soul.

He rested the pitchfork against the barn wall, picked up a bucket, and strode to the horse trough, where he filled it with water. She watched as he carried the bucket to the overturned crate used as a washstand by the help during harvest, and sloshed water over his face and chest. She shivered, knowing the water was cold.

He turned away briefly, exposing his back, and Julia gasped, shrinking from the window. He’d been lashed. She took a deep, shaky breath and peered out the window again. He stood there, gazing at the barn, his back to her. There was barely an area of his skin that hadn’t been carved by the angry end of a whip. Though the marks did not look new, Julia felt a thrust of sympathetic pain.

When he put his shirt on over his wet skin and started toward the house, Julia scurried into the kitchen, her face warm and her heart thumping hard. There was so much she didn’t know about him.

In spite of wishing it were so, she knew he wasn’t a slugabed. She wasn’t surprised to find him up and working. It didn’t matter. There were other chores to do, chores that he probably wasn’t aware of. Feeding the horses had been just one of them.

She heard his footsteps on the stoop again, then he knocked. Moving to the door, she held it while he stepped inside. His hair was wet; he smelled like fresh air. Although it was cold outside, his body exuded a warmth that made Julia breathless. The memory of his arm around her shoulders the night before bloomed in her mind, and her labored breathing continued. She looked away, down past the healthy bulge in his jeans to the safety of his knees. She realized then that he was carrying the pails.

“What have you been doing?” she asked, raising her eyes to his.

His lopsided smile tunneled into her chest, further shortening her breath. “What does it look like?”

“You … you’ve done the milking and gathered the eggs?” Her heart sank, for she’d hoped he hadn’t been that industrious.

“And fed the chickens and the horses. Anything I’ve missed?” There was a sarcastic quality in his voice, as though he’d read her thoughts.

She turned away and went into the kitchen, anxious to busy herself with breakfast. She pulled out a slab of ham left for her by one of the neighbors and dropped it into a skillet. It hissed, sending steam into the air.