The Next Mrs. Blackthorne (Bitter Creek Book 6) (7 page)

Shit. He should have known she was a virgin. The truth had been there all along, staring him in the face. Her hair pinned up to within an inch of its life against her head. Her clothes tying her up like a package not to be opened before Christmas.

Tonight he’d discovered the real woman she’d kept so carefully hidden. With her amazing copper hair. And her delicate tatt. And her incredibly arousing lingerie. All of which only made him want her more. And made him even more determined not to let her get under his skin.

His body tightened as he remembered how Joss had looked at him when he’d touched her. In wonder. And delight. And passion. She’d been aroused. He was sure of it.

But she’d only offered herself as a virgin sacrifice for the sake of the man she loved.
Damn her!
He was a fool to let her stay. A fool to go through with this lopsided bargain.

But if he let Joss leave, she would go back to Clay. And Libby would never have the chance to make amends with the man she’d always loved. Kate would be disappointed. And Libby would be devastated. He owed it to both of them to keep Jocelyn here.

So, even though he might want to throw her out on her exquisite fanny, Joss couldn’t leave. He had to keep the virgin temptress here with him. At least until after her June 4 wedding date to Clay had come and gone.

He might as well take advantage of the opportunity he’d been given to scratch the irritating itch she’d become. Maybe if he could quench this unendurable physical hunger, he could rid himself once and for all of this unwelcome yearning for…her.

She must have some fatal flaws, personality quirks that would reveal her for the conniving Jezebel she was. What kind of woman could do—would do—what she’d done tonight? Who was Jocelyn Montrose, really?

North didn’t know. But starting tomorrow morning, he intended to find out.

Jocelyn felt nauseated. For the better part of the day, she’d endured the panicked bawling of cattle as they were castrated and a red-hot brand was pressed against their hides. The sickening smell of blood and burning flesh had become overwhelming in the heat of the day.

She was grateful not to have been asked to perform either of those jobs, but she’d been posted at a cattle chute to inoculate cows with a vaccinating gun. Her back ached and her feet hurt. She was sweaty and dirty. And starving.

Which was her own fault.

She’d cried half the night and tossed and turned the other half, so she’d been less than happy when North flipped on the guest bedroom light while it was still dark outside. He’d
ordered
her out of bed, insisting she had to work to earn her keep, and gave her
five minutes
to get to the breakfast table.

She’d taken a very quick shower and then put on the “costume” she’d brought with her, a beautiful tailored white western shirt with a blue yoke and pearl snaps, designer jeans, a black belt decorated with silver conchas, and expensive black ostrich cowboy boots. She’d put her hair up in an elegant French twist and swiped on some lipstick.

When she’d arrived
twelve minutes
later in the kitchen, she discovered North had already fed her breakfast to a couple of dogs loitering at the screen door.

“Breakfast is over and done,” he said. “You want to stay, you do a full day’s work. That’s the deal.”

Six hours later, Jocelyn was still seething at North’s arrogant behavior that morning, but hell would freeze over before she’d complain to that
brute
!

She squinted at the afternoon sun, then pulled off the battered felt cowboy hat North had lent her and dabbed delicately at the sweat on her forehead with the already dirty cuff of her yoked western shirt. Her brand-new boots had been stepped on by cows and were coated with a fine layer of dust. Her designer jeans were dotted with cow slobber.

She needed a long, cool bath. The sooner, the better.

“Put your hat back on. Your nose is pink.”

She jerked at the sound of North’s voice and nearly dropped the vaccinating gun. She looked up with narrowed eyes into the stony face of her nemesis. “It’s my nose.”

“Just don’t come crying to me later.”

Before they’d left the house, she’d asked North for sunscreen. Instead, he’d tossed her the brown felt hat, with its grimy sweat stains along the band. Not only was it dirty, it didn’t match her outfit.

“You expect me to wear this?” she’d asked.

“Your choice. But we’re going to be outside most of the day.”

Without sunblock, her pale complexion would roast in the hot Texas sun. “I’ll have to take my hair down,” she’d protested.

He’d shrugged and said, “Day’s wasting.” A moment later she was staring at his back, as the screen door slammed behind him.

She’d yanked the pins from her hair and tossed them onto the kitchen table where she could find them later, then hurried after him.

Hungry as she’d become during the endless morning, she’d never said a word about food. But her stomach was growling, it was so empty. “When do we eat?” she asked, cringing as she eased the sweat-wet hat back on, tugging it down low on her forehead, the way North wore his.

“You quitting already?” North said.

“I’m not quitting,” she said. “I’m just hungry.”

“We’ll stop when the job’s done.”

“When will that be?”

“Another half hour.”

By then it would be one o’clock. They’d trailered horses here, which was another half-hour drive. By the time they got back to the house, she’d be famished.

At that moment her stomach made a loud, undignified cry for sustenance.

“Chuck wagon’s on the far side of the corral. If you can’t wait, ask Cookie to give you something now.”

“I’m fine,” she said. Her arm might fall off from holding the vaccinating gun, and she might never walk again after she got out of these high-heeled boots, but as far as North Grayhawk was concerned, she was just dandy. Especially if all she had to do to find food was make it to the other side of the corral.

“What I really need is a bath,” she said, as she laid down the vaccinating gun, pulled off the too-large, sweaty buckskin gloves North had also lent her and looked at her blistered hands.

“There’s a pond not far from here. We can take a swim when we’re done.”

“I prefer a bath. Alone.”

“The swim you can have after lunch. The bath would have to wait until dark.”

She wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t wait until dark. She needed to rinse off this sweat and dust, and the offer of cool water sounded too inviting to resist. There was only one problem.

“What am I supposed to wear for a bathing suit?”

He grinned and said, “Who needs a suit?”

“Where are you going to be while I’m taking this swim?”

“It’s a big pond.”

At that moment, one of North’s cowhands called to him. He turned away, as though the matter were settled, and headed back to the branding fire.

It took another forty-five minutes to finish the job, and for the last fifteen, Jocelyn was functioning on sheer grit. She handed the vaccinating gun over to one of the cowhands when the triangle at the chuck wagon clanged, signaling everyone to come and eat.

She was surprised at how courteous the cowboys were, each one tipping his hat to her and saying “Ma’am” as though she were the Queen of Sheba. All except North, who handed her a tin plate and said, “Food’s being served for the next fifteen minutes.”

She realized it was a warning, and she hastened to the dutch oven simmering over the fire, where Cookie had created a hearty beef stew and added dumplings on top. She found a seat on one of the logs that had been situated around the fire, set her plate in her lap and concentrated on the meal until it was gone. Nothing Jocelyn had ever eaten had tasted so good.

When the late lunch was over, she stood by as North sent his cowhands off to do other chores around the ranch. She waited, her shoulders aching, to see what he expected from her next.

“You ready for that swim?” he said.

“I told you, I don’t have a suit.”

He shrugged. “Your choice. There’s some barbed wire fence needs to be—”

“I’ll go for the swim,” she interrupted. She wouldn’t put it past North to force her to spend the afternoon manhandling barbed wire.

“Fine. Can you ride?” he asked.

“Of course.” She’d starting riding almost as soon as she could walk.

“Then we’ll ride to the pond,” he said.

Jocelyn would have ridden all the way to Connecticut if that’s what it took to remove the smug look from North Grayhawk’s face. “No problem,” she replied.

Except she hadn’t been on a horse since she was fourteen and had broken her leg in a fall while jumping a high stone wall. Her father had taken the family to Paris before she was well again, and the opportunity hadn’t arisen for more than a year for her to get back on a horse. When the opportunity had come, for some reason she couldn’t explain, she hadn’t taken advantage of it. Then her mother had died, and spending all her free time on the back of a horse had no longer been an option.

As she followed North to where two saddled horses were tethered, she realized her heart was pounding and her palms were damp. She couldn’t possibly be afraid. That was ridiculous. She’d spent most of her youth on a horse.

North gestured to a fat white gelding and said, “Whitey’s friendly. Mount up and I’ll check the stirrups.”

Whitey was a far cry from the sleek thoroughbred hunters she’d ridden as a child. Even so, she shivered as she contemplated getting back on a horse, even one as tame as this. “Whitey looks like he should have retired a few years ago,” she muttered.

“You say something?” North asked.

She patted the docile gelding. “Whitey and I will get along just fine.” Jocelyn grimaced at the western saddle, with its horn in front and high cantle in back. It was far more bulky than the English saddles on which she’d ridden in her youth.

“Problem?” North said.

“No problem,” she said, as she placed her foot in the stirrup and mounted. Even if there was, she would never admit it to him.

Her heartbeat immediately ratcheted up a notch.
I’m not afraid,
she told herself. Nevertheless, her hands began to tremble. She took a deep breath and blew it out, trying to expel the anxiety she felt.

She jerked when North removed her left foot from the stirrup and stared down at him. “What are you doing?”

“Your stirrups are too short,” he said.

By the time he’d lengthened both stirrups, Jocelyn was feeling decidedly uneasy. She’d seen enough western movies to know that cowboys didn’t post—that is, rise in the stirrups and sit in the saddle in rhythm with a trotting horse—the way English riders did. The stirrups were now too long to do that, anyway. She felt awkward and out-of-place, which was unusual for a diplomat’s daughter like herself.

“You okay?” North asked.

She stared at the hand he’d placed on her thigh and tensed as her flesh warmed beneath his touch. She was sure the gesture was intended to comfort her, but it was only making things worse. “I’m fine,” she said, pulling her knee away.

A moment later he was on his horse, a big black stallion, and kicked him into a canter. She watched in admiration as the man and the horse moved in one fluid motion, before she kicked Whitey in the ribs and said, “Let’s go.”

To her surprise, the placid animal went from standing still to a lope in a matter of seconds. Instead of feeling joy at the sensation of the wind in her hair once again, she felt scared. She grabbed the horn and tugged on the reins to slow her horse down. The animal was so responsive, he sat back on his haunches, bringing him to a sudden stop. She slid up onto Whitey’s neck, grabbing hold with both hands to keep from going over his head.

It reminded her vividly of her long-ago accident, when her horse had refused a fence, and she’d taken such a terrible fall. She was breathing heavily and trembling horribly and wanted
off
this horse.
Now.
But she couldn’t move. She was clinging to Whitey’s neck for dear life and frozen with fear.

She heard hooves thundering back in her direction and looked up to see North pull his horse to a stop and frown at her.

“I thought you said you could ride.”

“I can. I…”

Before she could say another word, a powerful arm circled her waist, and North lifted her off Whitey and held her tight against his side. His voice was right in her ear as he said, “Do you think you could swing your leg over my horse’s back and sit behind me?”

Jocelyn would have done anything that got her left breast out of contact with North’s chest. She took a deep breath to gather herself and said, “Sure.”

North wrapped the reins around the horn and used both hands to help her make the transition. She whimpered when the stallion sidestepped, but he gripped her tighter and said, “I’ve got you.”

After a little maneuvering, Jocelyn found herself sitting comfortably on the stallion’s back behind North. Once she was in place, he pulled her hands around his waist and said, “Hang on.”

She was afraid he’d kick his horse into a lope, so she grabbed hold of his waist. But her fears were groundless, because he gathered the reins and his mount stepped out in an easy walk. She couldn’t let go even then, because it would have been obvious that she was afraid of him.

Jocelyn cringed as he whistled sharply, calling to one of his cowhands, “Take Whitey. We won’t be needing him.”

She waited for North to chastise or criticize her, but he remained silent. Jocelyn was grateful for the slow tempo of the ride, but she had too much time to be aware of the play of muscle and sinew under her hands and the not unpleasant hardworking-man smell of North’s shirt.

“We’re here,” he announced at last, halting his stallion. “You ready to get down?”

She was more than ready, but still embarrassed by the whole incident with Whitey. “Yes,” she mumbled to his back.

She watched from the corner of her eye as he wrapped the reins around the saddle horn, lifted one leg over the saddle, and slid to the ground. Then he turned and grabbed her waist with both hands and pulled her off the horse, letting her slide down his body.

She backed up so quickly she stumbled, and he reached out and steadied her. Jocelyn wished she’d never agreed to a stupid swim. As she stood there, embarrassed by her gaucheness, he turned away and ground-tied his horse, which was already lipping the tall, green grass.

Jocelyn turned her back on him and found herself suddenly entranced by the idyllic setting. Tall cotton-woods surrounded the pond and the branch of an enormous live oak extended out over the water with a rope attached to it that was obviously used as a swing from which to drop into the water.

“This is beautiful,” she said.

“I’ve always thought so,” he replied.

The water was surprisingly clear, and Jocelyn could see small fish swimming in it. Large flat rocks edged the pond, making a convenient place to lie in the sun, and a turtle was sunning itself on the bank.