Jane Bonander (9 page)

“Not so much the offer, Miss Julia, as the possibility of getting frostbite in your bed.”

He left the bedroom, not anxious to see her reaction. He didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d look like a prisoner given a stay of execution.

D
uring the night, the warm, wet air from the marshlands rose to meet the cold night air, and tule fog had blanketed the ground, intensifying Julia’s morose mood. If the presence of guests hadn’t forced her to make breakfast, she might have stayed in her room until noon, just to avoid McCloud. As it was, having his friends around kept her from taking her father’s will and holding it over a hot flame, or tossing it into the blazing fireplace.

Nathan Wolfe left when the fog lifted, promising to return with his wife. Julia hoped it wouldn’t be too soon, for she knew she hadn’t even been able to fool this man; how could she convince another woman that her marriage was anything but a sham?

McCloud had loaded up the wagon with wood and went to his precious corner of land to begin building his cabin. Julia hoped he was a fast worker; a finished cabin couldn’t come soon enough for her.

She forced her hands not to shake as she pieced together quilt squares. What a fool she’d been! Softening toward that buffoon because of a sad story about his childhood that probably wasn’t even true. No doubt he and his friend had cooked up the tale together, hoping it would get just the reaction from her that it had.

And to have him
reject
her. Her hands stilled and she studied the rough edges of the clinker brick fireplace. That had hurt more than she’d never admit to anyone. It shouldn’t have surprised her. After all, she wasn’t Josette, and he obviously hadn’t forgotten that fact.

It wasn’t as if she’d expected him to
do
anything last night. She’d just offered him a warm place to sleep. However, she wasn’t fool enough to ignore the fanciful picture of having him in bed beside her. A big, hard, warm body. She had no idea how it would feel, but she’d been willing to give it a try. Obviously, he’d rather sleep in the barn under a leaky roof and on a bed of straw than be anywhere
near
her.

Frostbite, indeed. Forcing down her hurt, she clutched the quilt top, her fingers automatically making the small, neat stitches needed to keep the pieces together. She’d give him frostbite, all right. More than he ever in his wildest dreams bargained for.

She had no idea how long she’d worked, but when the afternoon sun slanted through the window onto the floor beside her, she knew it was time to wake Marymae from her nap and start supper.

Hearing noises outside, she went to the window. She expelled a gasp of surprise and hurried to the door, flinging it open and stepping out onto the porch.

“Serge!” Her heart lifted at the sight of him, and she gave him an eager wave.

He dismounted and came toward her, his arms outstretched. She went into them with ease. “When did you get back? I’ve missed you, you old shoe.” She returned his hug.

He pulled away and studied her, his thickly lashed dark eyes cautious. “I can’t leave you for a minute, can I?”

Julia’s heart dipped. “What do you mean?”

“I go away for a few months, and when I come home, you’ve got a husband,” he scolded.

She felt the involuntary blush stain her cheeks. “Oh. Oh, that. I’m sorry, Serge, I—”

“I’m disappointed, Julia. I thought it would be you and me.”

Sensing that he was serious, she gave him a wan smile. “So did I.”

He continued to hold her. “Then what happened?”

She examined his handsome features. He had his mother’s looks. Wavy blue-black hair and flawless skin. His cheeks always held a hint of color, which gave him a boyish look, one he’d never lost as he grew into manhood. She was angry that she felt no spark, no sense of heat, nothing.

“Oh, it was Papa.” She gasped, remembering that he’d been gone. “He’s dead, Serge. Did you know?”

He gave her a consoling sigh. “I heard. That’s why I came right over.” He hugged her again. “I’m so sorry, Julia, honey. So sorry. Now,” he added, “what’s this foolishness about Amos being responsible for your marriage?”

She accepted the embrace, for it had been the first she’d had since Papa had died. She refused to count the one McCloud had tried to give her the night he arrived. After all, an embrace was something one returned, and she hadn’t returned his. “In his will, he
ordered
me to marry his last ranch hand, Wolf McCloud.”

He stroked her hair. “Oh, poor lamb. What prompted that? Had he gone around the bend?”

She smiled into his shoulder. “Don’t think I didn’t wonder, but Papa’s lawyer assured me he was as sane as any man.” She wanted Serge to understand. “I tried to get out of it, but the will was binding.”

He pulled her close again. “Poor, poor, honey lamb.”

As she clung to him, she had the absurd feeling that she was going to fall apart. Tears stung her eyes and the aching void in her stomach, the one she’d fended off since her papa’s death, came back full force, and she began to cry.

He patted her back. “There, there. Let it out.”

It wasn’t the embrace she wanted, but she was grateful, just the same. “Oh, Serge,” she said between sobs, “I hate to even consider it, but I think Papa killed himself.”

He continued to rub her back. “That isn’t what I heard, Julia. Word is that it was an accident.”

“I know, I know. But he’d been so depressed about the ranch, and Josette running off. He wasn’t well, Serge. He’d gotten thin and frail; he was so sick.”

“Don’t worry yourself like this, Julia, honey. I’m here now. I’ll make things better.”

There was a noise behind her, and she turned—and stared into the dark, dangerous eyes of her husband. A tremor ran through her, an involuntary thing that sent shivers along her spine. He stood before them, removing his work gloves with all the grace of a gentleman removing a pair of white gloves in a San Francisco drawing room.

“If anyone’s going to make things better for my wife, it’ll be me.” There was a tightness to his jaw that Julia found fascinating.

Serge didn’t appear to want to let her go, so she extricated herself from his embrace.

“Serge, this is Wolf McCloud. “My … my husband.” She dug into her apron pocket, fished out her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes before facing the man she’d married.

“Serge Henley is a very old and dear friend, McCloud.” She’d emphasized “old” and “dear,” hoping to somehow pacify her husband, but she didn’t understand why she would want to, or even why she would have to.

Neither man made an attempt to shake hands. Serge’s expression was closed. McCloud’s appeared stormy. It was almost as if he actually
cared
that someone else was holding his wife, which was ludicrous, of course.

McCloud went to the pump and poured himself a dipper of water. Julia watched him drink, captivated by the water that tracked both sides of his mouth, dripping off his chin onto his shirt. When he finished, he said, “You have business here, Mr. Henley?”

Serge approached him, his chest puffed out. “I don’t need to have business to see Julia. She and I have been friends for years. I don’t need your approval to be here, Mr. McCloud.”

Julia watched as an odd change came over her husband. One side of his mouth lifted into a smile, and his eyes became expressively clear.

“No. I can see that you don’t, Mr. Henley. Please. Come by as often as you like. I’m sorry if I appeared rude, but I’m new at being a husband, and I get just a bit crazy when I see my wife in some stranger’s arms.”

Julia noted that Serge’s stunned expression certainly mirrored her own.

Serge removed his hat and stepped from one foot to the other. “I will, Mr. McCloud. Make no mistake about that.” He turned to Julia. “I’ve got to get back, Julia, honey. Mother is expecting me.” As he mounted his horse he threw McCloud a threatening glance. “If you ever need anything, just let me know, Julia.”

“I will. Thanks for stopping by.” She waved as he rode away. When he was gone, she turned on McCloud.

“Just what was that all about?”

He wiped his chin with his sleeve. “What was what all about?”

“You know very well what I mean, McCloud.” She couldn’t understand her anger. He’d turned civil; for that she should have been grateful. But truth to tell, she’d preferred the possessiveness he’d exhibited when he first saw her in Serge’s arms. Suddenly it was clear to her: he hadn’t found Serge the least bit threatening. The clarity made her emotions tumble around inside her. She’d wanted him to be jealous, but of course he wasn’t. He’d even invited Serge back again.

He shook his head. “Tsk tsk, Miss Julia. You shouldn’t think so much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can almost see the wheels turning in your head.” A small smile tugged at his lips.

She walked toward the house and he followed. “So I think. So what? Are you that unfamiliar with women who do?”

He chuckled as he fell into step beside her. “I have to say I find it a refreshing change from most women I know.”

Whores and nitwits like Josette, she thought, but didn’t say.

He held the door for her, and she walked through, grazing his chest with her arm. It tingled, and she found it difficult to breathe. Damn! Why couldn’t she feel those things with Serge?

McCloud washed up on the stoop, then came into the kitchen; “So, I gather this Henley fellow was a paramour of yours?”

She went into the dark pantry and retrieved some potatoes, slamming the door harder than was necessary on her way out. “And if he was?”

McCloud laughed. He actually laughed!

“I don’t think it’s funny, McCloud,” she said, fuming inside. “You might not find me all that desirable, but believe it or not, other men do.” Which was an absurd exaggeration.

He stopped laughing, but his smile lingered. “You would never have married Serge Henley, Miss Julia, and if you had, you’d have been miserable.”

She rounded on him, her fists on her hips. “And what makes you say that?”

He studied her, still smiling. “Because Serge Henley isn’t the marrying kind.”

She turned away and started peeling potatoes. “What a stupid thing to say,” she scoffed.

“You’ve never noticed anything peculiar about him?”

This conversation was ridiculous. “Certainly not. Serge is the most kind, gentle man in the world.”

“And unthreatening, Miss Julia. Don’t forget unthreatening.”

That was exactly the word she’d used to describe Serge herself, in a conversation she’d had with her papa before he died. “Yes. He’s unthreatening. What of it?”

“Your Serge Henley is a queer bird, Miss Julia.”

She clutched the potato in her fist. “A what?”

“He’s light in the heels. A Nancy-boy.”

Julia frowned and shook her head. “You aren’t making any sense, McCloud.”

“Serge Henley doesn’t like women, Julia.” He paused then added, “He likes men.”

Julia turned and hurled the potato at him. “How
dare
you imply such a thing!”

McCloud caught the wet, slippery vegetable as though he’d been expecting it. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Julia. It wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“Oh, it wasn’t? How does one take something like that? As a
compliment?”

He hefted the potato, tossing it into the air and catching it. “It was just an observation.” He threw the potato at her, and she caught it, fumbling to keep it from hitting the floor. Oh, but she wanted to fling the thing at his head!

“How dare you say something like that about Serge. And … and what makes you such an expert, anyway?”

She turned and began peeling another potato. In her haste and her anger, she sliced her thumb with the potato peeler. Sucking in a breath, she dropped the potato into the sink and clutched her hand.

He was beside her immediately. She tried to pull away, but he took her hand firmly in his and pressed the cut together. As angry as she was with him, his touch still unnerved her.

Taking a dipper of water from the pail on the counter, he poured it into a dish and forced her hand into it. “I didn’t mean to make you lose your concentration.”

His nearness was a bane to her sanity. “You made me angry, that’s all. What makes you an expert on such things, anyway?” she repeated.

“I’ve upset you. I thought you might know.” He continued to hold her hand in the water.

“Me? How in the name of heaven would
I
know?”

“I thought you might have guessed.” His fingers were massaging hers, and it was very disconcerting.

“Oddly enough,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm, “I’m not in the habit of wondering about a person’s inclinations. It’s not one of those things I give much thought to.” She had, however, had brief questions about Serge’s lack of interest in her sexually, but had shoved them into the attic of her mind.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true, Miss Julia. A clever girl like you? I’ll just bet you wondered why he never took you out behind the barn to have his way with you.”

What was he, a mind reader? “What you think is of no interest to me. And Serge is too much of a gentleman to try such coarse things. Break the word up, McCloud. He’s a gentle man. Something you can’t comprehend.” She tried to sound blasé, but noted the tremor in her voice.

“I think,” he went on, ignoring her barb, “that when Serge Henley kissed you, you felt nothing.”

“Serge’s kisses are none of your concern, McCloud.”

“And all the coaxing in the world,” he went on, as if she hadn’t even spoken, “even from you, wouldn’t get Serge Henley to make a serious pass at you.”

His shoulder was pressed against hers at the sink, and she felt the tattletale quivering low in her belly. “You’re inferring again that I’m not desirable, McCloud. It’s unkind of you to keep hammering away on that point. I may not be pretty, like Josette—”

He turned her toward him and reached into her apron pocket. His hand grazed her stomach, and she gasped and pulled away. “What are you doing?”

“Searching for your handkerchief.” His eyes danced.

She took a deep breath, expelling it slowly. “You might have asked me for it.”

“I wanted to find it myself,” he said, his smile devilish.

With a fierce scowl, she gave him the linen square. He pulled her hand from the water and wiped it. Before she knew what was happening, he’d brought her hand to his mouth and turned it over, kissing her palm. The touch of his lips on her skin was like water drops on a skillet, and she gasped, attempting to pull away. He held her hand and wrapped her thumb.