Rafe's Redemption (17 page)

Not take away what little peace he had.

The door creaked opened, then softly closed. Cold air circled the room. Maggie shivered and pulled the blanket high under her chin. Thud. Thud. Each of Rafe’s boots dropped to the floor. She watched through her lashes as he found the supper plate she’d left and slid a biscuit into his mouth. He shivered, then poured a cup of coffee and swallowed another biscuit.

She should get out of bed and apologize. If she promised no more questions about his past, maybe he could relax enough to stay inside. He yawned and stretched, then tugged off his coat, his lean body silhouetted against the fire. Then he unbuttoned his shirt.

Oh, God. He was going to undress. She should roll over and go to sleep. He probably intended to wash before bed. Washing meant naked. Naked. Rafe naked.

A ll those glorious muscles glistening with water, every beautiful inch—Oh, God. He turned toward her.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but his footsteps padded closer. Her heart pounded with each step. Maybe he wasn’t going to wash. Maybe he wanted to sleep in the bed. Together. Her mouth went dry with eager anticipation.

He pulled something from the shelves and shuffled away.

She cracked open one eye. Clean clothes dangled from his hand. He was going to wash.

So close your eyes and go to sleep. Stop torturing yourself with what you can’t have.

She couldn’t.

He placed the bundle on the hearth, then pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. Next he worked the buttons on his long underwear and shrugged his arms free.

Roll over. Now.

She couldn’t. The light danced over his gorgeous back. The waistband drooped enough to see a tan line, hinting he worked summers without a shirt. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to trail her tongue down his spine, to find out where he was tanned and where he wasn’t.

He took the rag and soaped his bare chest and neck.

The low light played over his skin presenting him in shadows and angles. Muscles rippled as he washed and rinsed each strong arm, water drops glistened on his chest. A thin line of dark hair trailed from his stomach into the waistband of his pants making her want to see where the trail would lead.

Maggie sucked a shallow breath and squeezed her eyes closed again. It was wrong to spy on him.

One eye popped open. A pparently she had no sense of right and wrong.

He turned his back, then hesitated and glanced over his shoulder to the bed. He must have made a decision because he turned back to the water and dropped the rag into the bucket.

She watched in awe as he worked the buttons on his pants. The heavy material slipped lower on his hips exposing smooth skin and more than a hint of his cleft.

Inch by delicious inch his firm buttocks were revealed, tight, muscled. The shadow of his furry balls hung between muscled thighs, making her want to see him from the front, making her swell, making liquid pool between her legs. Each shallow breath she stole seemed to pull a string of desire from her cunny to her lungs, the ache throbbing, painful.

He struggled, washing his privates, holding his pants, then, “A w, hell.” Turning, he let the fabric fall to his feet.

She stuffed the pillow into her mouth to hide her gasp of pleasure.

He was beautiful. His penis jutted from a nest of dark hair, the head large, dark, the sac beneath heavy. Good Lord, she’d never imagined a man could be so…big. Or hard. So red and swollen, it looked almost angry. With quick strokes he washed, his jaw tight each time he stretched the length, scraped the plum head. Her fingers itched to draw him. To touch him. She could sketch his body in long strokes. Touch him with long strokes.

She bit her lip and looked away. This had to stop.

They agreed no more kissing or touching. Well, he agreed. She lied. Still, this could lead to nothing but heartache. He intended to leave her in St. Louis. So the smartest thing to do was—

Oh, dear God! He was walking toward the bed again.

Dressed, yes, or her heart would have stopped, but still, she didn’t want him to know she’d been spying.

She closed her eyes and tried to relax. He stopped beside the bed. She felt him tower above her. Felt his warm, sweet breath on her skin. His knuckles skimmed her cheek, then he smoothed her hair.

“Good night,” he whispered, straightening her blankets. His footsteps echoed away.

By the time he lay on his pallet, she trembled. Her body ached to feel his. Her heart just ached. Rafe was the one man she might risk her freedom for.

A nd she couldn’t have him.

Rafe burst through the door, juggling the eggs wrapped in his shirttail. The damn coffee boiled over, and the bacon smoked in the pan. How the hell could Maggie sleep through this?

“Shit.” He jerked the coffee pot onto the hearth and yanked the bacon from the grate.

“What’s wrong?” Her sleepy voice drifted from the bed.

Rafe glanced over his shoulder. She sat up and stretched like a cat. Her thin shirt tightened over her breasts as she extended both arms over her head.

He dropped two eggs.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just really wanted bacon this morning, but I burned it.”

Maggie chuckled.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny. I smelled burnt bacon the first night I was here. Makes me think this must be a regular morning occurrence for you.”

He shot her a thin smile. “Your slice is burned, too, you know.”

She unfolded her long legs from the blanket and walked to the fire. “How about if I fry some more?” He shrugged. “I can eat mine burned.” The last thing he wanted was her taking care of him.

“I could chop some bacon into gravy and pour it over last night’s biscuits. Maybe fry some eggs?” He looked down at the black pork. “Well, if you’re cooking yours anyway, I guess I’d eat some.” She smiled, like he hadn’t fooled her at all. He probably hadn’t.

Rafe poured himself some coffee, then leaned against the table to watch her cook. He should just go back to the barn and wait. It would be less torturous. But then he’d never had the sense God gave a rock. If he had, he wouldn’t know what her mouth tasted like, what her breasts felt like.

“I’m going to the barn.” He slapped his cup into the table and ran like the coward he was.

Running away from a problem was what he did best, what he did in St. Louis after the war. Yes, Mother had disowned him, had thrown him out, but a real man would have stood his ground, faced his stepfather, faced the accusations. The fact that he left like a whipped dog burned his gut with shame. Even more so now that a respectable woman looked at him as if he was still a good man. He wasn’t good enough for Maggie. Maybe he hadn’t been before the war, but too much killing, too much guilt had changed him for the worst. The best thing he could do for her was leave her alone. Get her to St. Louis untouched.

A half hour later, he plodded back to the cabin. She was filling their plates when he walked through the door.

He accepted his, then settled in the rocker. A way from temptation.

“Will we leave for Fort Craig this morning?” Maggie set her plate on the table.

“No.”

“Why? Is it snowing again?” She glanced at the door.

“No, but Moses is favoring his front foot. His fetlock is swollen.” No matter how much Rafe wanted to travel, crippling Moses was out of the question.

“Will he be all right?” Her brow wrinkled.

“Yeah, but I want him to rest for a day. Maybe two.

But we’ll leave as soon as possible.”

She nodded and chewed her lip, a sure sign she was thinking. “What are you going to do today then?”

“Why?” He didn’t it like when she got ideas. It led to no good.

“Well, I’d like to do the wash. If we’re leaving tomorrow, I want clean clothes. Do you have a wash tub?”

“In the barn.”

“Would you be willing to help me fill it?” His shoulders relaxed. She couldn’t cause trouble just doing the wash. “Of course. I’ll bring it inside after breakfast and start carrying the water.”

“Fine. Whatever dirty clothing you have, just leave here by the fireplace.”

He shook his head. “You’re not my servant.”

“I never thought I was. But if I’m washing my clothes, I might as well wash yours, too.”

“Maggie—”

“You said no arguing, Rafe. If I’m not allowed, you’re not allowed.”

He closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. “I’m going to check my traps along the creek today. Want me to leave Wolf with you?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to be afraid—being alone and all.” She chewed her lip again. “No. He’s used to going with you.”

Rafe finished his food and carried his plate to the wash bucket. “Open the door for me, all right? I’ll get the tub first, then the water.”

By the time the last buckets were heating, he had his pack ready. Maggie stuffed two wrapped biscuits into his pocket and handed him his canteen.

“Don’t expect me back before supper.” Suddenly that seemed a long time to be away from her.

“I’ll be fine.” She smiled. “I have plenty to do. A nd I want to draw.”

“A ll right.” He nodded, trying to dispel the uneasy feeling in his gut. “I’ll see you tonight.”

****

He clutched his arm and fell into the door, slamming it against the wall.

Maggie shrieked.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, then turned his back to her. “I thought you were doing laundry.” But Christ, no. Instead she sat squeezed into the tiny washtub, her long legs hanging over the side, her lush breasts gleaming and slick and puckered and…

Rafe groaned and glanced over his shoulder. A mistake. She was climbing from the tub.

Water dripped from her dark nipples, streamed down her stomach, caught in the black curls between her pale thighs.

“I—I thought you’d be gone longer,” she stammered, pulling her loose shirt over her wet body. “You said tonight. Why are you—?”

Blood spattered onto his boot. A nd at the moment, he didn’t give a damn. If he was going to die, this was a hell of a send-off party.

“Your arm is bleeding!”

He nodded. “I know.” He gritted his teeth to keep from yelping as he pressed a handkerchief against his arm.

She rushed to his side and tugged him to the dining table. “What happened?” She pushed him into a chair and stripped off his coat.

“One of the traps was jammed. When I tried to reset it, the damn thing nearly took off my arm.” He cursed when she pulled his bloody shirt free.

“I’m sorry. Just one more.” She eased his arm from his union suit. Blood ran from the jagged gash and dripped onto the floor. The deep wound stretched from his forearm to his wrist.

“God, Rafe.” She paled.

“Don’t swoon! I can doctor it myself if you can’t.” She swallowed hard. “No. I’ll do it. Do you keep a needle and thread?”

He shook his head. “Just cauterize it. It’s faster.” Maggie cringed. “Do you know how bad that will hurt?”

He scoffed. “Worse than repeatedly sticking me with a needle?” He held up a hand before she could argue.

“Fine. There’s sewing supplies on the shelves beside my books. Just bring me the whiskey from the larder. I’m going to need it.”

She nodded and stood, then gaped at her clothing as if she just realized what she wore. The damp material stuck to her curves, her nipples, the shadow between her legs. Christ. She might as well have been naked again.

Her gaze flew to Rafe’s. No doubt she could see the lust in his eyes. He hurt too badly to disguise it.

“I’ll get the supplies,” she whispered, then ran into the larder. Despite the pain that radiated from his arm, his cock hardened at the sight of her round ass, her long slick legs.

He groaned and closed his eyes, concentrating on his arm. That pain was much more bearable than the one in his groin. He didn’t open his eyes until he sensed her beside him, heard her pour whiskey into a cup.

“Fill it up,” he said when she stopped at half.

She lifted her eyebrow but did as he asked. While she gathered the supplies, he drained the cup and let the burn take his mind off her. Turning up the lantern wick, her eyes held an apology as she picked up the jug. “I have to do this. I’m sorry.”

He cursed, then gritted his teeth as the whiskey burned into his arm. Tears filled her eyes as she set the jug down. Giving her a tight smile, he held out his cup.

“I’m fine. But I think I deserve a second cup.” She nodded and leaned to pour. Her breasts swayed close to his face, so close he could turn his head and suck the nipple. A ll he had to do was open and—

“Ready?” The needle twinkled between her fingers.

He sipped the whiskey. “A s I’ll ever be.” Perching on the edge of the hearth, she placed his arm on the table. He gulped a large drink and closed his eyes again. A fter a few minutes—and several sips—he looked at Maggie. Head bent, she took small, neat stitches. Her damp hair fanned over her shoulder and hung between her full breasts.