Winter's Touch (22 page)

The wind howled and the storm raged for more than twenty-four hours. Outside the cabin, snow piled in drifts, and the supply of firewood dwindled.

Inside, the cabin retained a meager warmth. Their clothes dried. The buffalo robe also dried, allowing Carson and Winter Fawn to keep at least the semblance of distance between them.

But when they slept, their bodies ignored the restraints Carson placed upon them. In sleep, Winter Fawn instinctively sought his warmth and nearness. Carson shifted closer to her softness. More than once they woke in each other’s arms.

Each time, Carson quickly retreated. And each time, it grew progressively more difficult to remember why he should. Constantly he had to remind himself that she was Innes’s daughter; Innes trusted him. She was innocent, and Carson felt duty-bound to see that she remained that way.

There wasn’t much to do in the cabin but eat, sleep, pace the dirt floor, and brave the blizzard for more firewood. Whenever he had to go out for wood, Carson also checked on the horse and mule. He took them water they’d got from melting snow, and gave them more grain.

Their second morning in the cabin they woke, as usual, in each other’s arms. But this time something dragged Carson’s attention from the heat in his loins and the woman in his arms. Something was different. Something…

Frowning, he raised his head and stared at the door.

In his arms, Winter Fawn stiffened. “What is it?” she whispered.

“Shh. Listen.”

Winter Fawn half rose, barely registering that for once, Carson held on to her rather than turning her loose. Were they out there? Had Crooked Oak somehow managed to find them? She strained for a sound that would tell her. All she heard was the pounding of her own heart. “I hear nothing,” she whispered.

A slow, wide grin curved Carson’s lips. “That’s because there’s nothing to hear.”

“Wha— No wind! The storm has stopped!”

“Sounds like it.” With a laugh, Carson stood and swooped her up in his arms. In one stride he was at the door and flinging it open.

Dazzling sunlight reflected off the snow-covered landscape and nearly blinded them. Icy air stung their nostrils. Winter Fawn’s eyes stung from both. She looped her arms around Carson’s neck and hoped he wouldn’t realize he was holding her. She liked being in his arms. “It’s beautiful,” she said, looking out at the fantastic shapes the wind carved into the snow.

“And dangerous,” Carson added lightly. “Never forget that beauty can be dangerous.” He looked down at her, his blue eyes as bright and dazzling as the sky. His head lowered toward hers.

Winter Fawn’s breath backed up in her lungs.

“Beautiful.” His breath brushed her lips. “And dangerous.” Closer, closer he leaned. “Like you.”

She forgot all about the cold and the blinding snow. Her fingers flexed against his neck. “I am not dangerous.”

“Aren’t you?” came his husky question. Then his lips took hers softly.

Winter Fawn felt her breath glide smoothly out of her body. She felt her bones weaken and turn to water. Had she been on her feet, she knew she would have felt the earth tilt beneath her. She felt his mouth, warm and firm against hers, and it was glorious. Never could she have imagined the dark taste of him, the way her heart would race, the way her mind would empty until there was only him, only his lips, his tongue, his teeth gently nibbling on her.

She understood so much in those moments when he kissed her. She now thought she knew what had put that look in her mother’s eyes, the one that made her smile as though she had swallowed the sun. That look of secret happiness whenever Smiling Woman had looked at Red Beard.

Winter Fawn also understood that this kiss, though it had yet to end and she prayed that it might never end, had already changed her life. She would never be the same again, never look at Carson the same, as a stranger she was coming to know. He was inside her now, a part of her she would carry with her forever. Her life was no longer solely her own.

Nor was her body her own any longer. Every time he looked at her now, she would remember this kiss, and her bones would melt. And she would want him to kiss her again.

How could she miss his warmth and kiss when he had yet to release her? She tightened her arms around his neck and kissed him back, determined to take all he would give her, fearing this was all there would be from this reluctant white man.

But reluctance was the farthest thing from Carson’s mind just then. He was lost. Lost in the kiss, in her warmth, her open responsiveness. Lord, but she was responsive. He wanted to take her down right then and there on the snow and find out how she would respond to something more than a kiss. He wanted all of her. Wanted to simply gobble her up.

“Oh, yeah,” he whispered against her lips. “I was right, honey, you are dangerous.”

“I think,” she said breathlessly, staring up at him, “that you are dangerous, too.”

Carson might have kissed her again. He wanted to, badly. But something else drew his attention away, and hers, too.

The wind was rising. But this was not the icy wind from the north, bringing another blizzard. This was a warm, moist wind, strong from the west.

Winter Fawn raised her face into it and sniffed. “Chinook.”

“What?”

“The wind. It is called a Chinook wind. It will melt the snow.”

Carson glanced around at the four-foot drifts against the side of the cabin, and others blocking the trail that had led them there. “In a few days, if it keeps up,” he said skeptically.

Winter Fawn shook her head. “Today. It has already begun. Look.” She pointed toward the roof of the cabin.

Carson followed her gesture, amazed to see water dripping from the eaves. Amazed further that he had been so wrapped up in her, in kissing her, that he hadn’t heard the rushing plops.

With Winter Fawn still in his arms, he stepped back into the cabin and put her down. If the snow was going to melt, they would need to leave.

The snow melted so rapidly that bare patches of ground appeared across the valley before noon, growing larger each passing minute. Drifts shrank. Water stood in low lying areas, and trickled downhill wherever it could.

Carson and Winter Fawn left the cabin shortly after midday and headed north for Hardscrabble Creek and the wide pass that led through the Wet Mountains to Wet Mountain Valley. The warm Chinook wind had swept the pass clean of all but the deepest drifts by the time they reached it that afternoon.

Winter Fawn had started the trip the same way she had the day the blizzard had struck, by holding on to the cantle rather than Carson as she rode behind him. Her wounds were much better now, and she was stronger. But that was not why she tried to sit up straight and manage without him.

It was the kiss.

Or rather, the way Carson had been able to put the kiss out of his mind the instant he stood her on her feet. He had kissed her until her head had spun, then simply walked away and started packing their gear. She had been breathless. Her entire life had been altered. Yet he appeared to be completely unaffected. Because of that, she was reluctant to hold on to him.

The first steep incline disabused her of that idea rapidly. She had to wrap her arms tightly around his waist to keep from slipping off the back end of the horse.

“How long will it take us to reach your ranch?” she asked him.

He turned his head slightly to answer. “We should get there tomorrow afternoon.”

Tomorrow afternoon. “Do you think my father and the others will be there?”

“I hope so. I expect they got there before the blizzard hit, if it even hit there.”

The sun was going down. She would spend this one last night on the trail with him, then they would reach her father. And after that? She had no idea what would happen.

Her life should have been predictable. Or as predictable as that of any of Our People. Her family should have found a good man for her husband, a man she could respect and love. She should have lived with him and borne his children. Every spring she would have taken down her lodge, packed her belongings, and gone with her band to join the rest of the tribe to follow the buffalo for the summer. Every fall she and her children and husband, should he still be living, would have come back to the foothills for the winter.

From season to season, she would have known what to expect.

Now she knew nothing about her own future.

Her father had ridden into camp, and Winter Fawn had helped free his friend. She did not know if she would ever be welcomed back. What was her grandmother thinking about her leaving? What would Crooked Oak and Two Feathers say when they returned to camp empty-handed?

So many questions, and no answers. She didn’t even know if she would go with her father, wherever he might go. He had not wanted her before. Why should he want her with him now?

Besides, she was a grown woman and should not be clinging to her father or counting on him to take care of her.

And what of Hunter? Was he asking himself these same questions?

But it was not the same for a man, even one as young as her brother.

By the time Carson stopped for the night, Winter Fawn still had no answers.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” he said, pouring the last of the coffee into their cups.

Her only answer was a soft murmur.

“Is something wrong?” Carson gave a short laugh. “You’ve been forced to leave your people, your friends, your home, because you helped a stranger.”

His words only served to remind her of the uncertainty of her life.

“You’ve been shot, shot at, hailed on, frozen half to death, had nothing to eat for days but a little poor food. That ought to be enough, but why do I get the impression there’s more?”

All Winter Fawn could offer him was a slight smile and a shake of her head. “You are right. That is enough. I’m just tired.”

“Is your wound bothering you?”

She shook her head again. “No more than it should. Not much, really.”

He took a sip of his coffee and looked up at the night sky. “I’ve never seen wounds heal as fast as mine have. And yours. Must be the mountain air.”

She ducked her head. “Aye. That must be it.”

They spoke no more as they finished their coffee. Carson wondered at her pensive expression, the frown line between her eyes. But then, she had plenty to frown about. On top of everything he had named earlier, she had to worry about a man, a virtual stranger, who couldn’t keep his hands or his lips to himself.

Was that what concerned her tonight?

It concerned the hell out of him. He hadn’t wanted to stop kissing her this morning. That realization rocked him. Yet, with the way he’d been reacting to her from the beginning, he supposed it shouldn’t. He wanted her. It was as simple and as complicated as that.

Had he upset her, scared her this morning when he’d kissed her? She hadn’t looked scared or upset. She had looked like he had felt—like she wanted more.

Damn. He didn’t even want to think about that.

He was going to have to sleep beside her one more night. It would be too cold to sleep apart. They would have to share the blankets and buffalo robe. Not to mention the ground sheet; melting snow made for downright wet ground.

As he put out the fire, he steeled himself for the amazingly enjoyable torture of lying next to her one last time. Tomorrow they would reach his ranch. Her father would be there, and even if he wasn’t, there were beds in the house, beds in separate rooms. No more need to sleep beside her. No more excuse.

When he had delayed as long as he reasonably could, he crawled beneath the blankets and found her lying with her back to him. Tension seemed to radiate from her.

“Winter Fawn?” he called softly.

After a pause, she answered. “Aye?”

Carson lay on his back, not touching her. “Have I done something to upset you?”

The soft sound of the blanket shifting accompanied her movement as she turned onto her back. “Of course not.”

“Good,” he said. He was quiet for a long moment, waiting for her to turn her back against him again. When she didn’t, he started to wonder about things he shouldn’t be wondering about. Things like, had she liked his kiss as much as the look on her face that morning had led him to believe? Or had he misread her. Did she like lying next to him as much as he liked lying next to her?

Around and around the questions went, and all the answers he came up with told him she would welcome his touch, and more.

There couldn’t be any “more.” But he could hold her this one last night, couldn’t he? Deliberately hold her, rather than waiting for it to happen in their sleep.

“Are you cold?”
Say yes,
he silently urged.
Say yes and give me an excuse.

“No,” she whispered.

Carson swallowed. Disappointment tasted sharp on his tongue. She wasn’t cold. He’d given her the perfect opportunity to snuggle up next to him if she wanted, and she hadn’t taken it.

“Not too much,” she finally added.

Oh, God.
“Come here,” he said, slipping his arm around her and gently inviting her closer.

With a breathy sound that might have been a sigh, she rolled to her side and scooted closer, until she pressed flush against his side. Her head nestled into his shoulder as if the spot had been made specifically for that purpose. Her small, bruised hand rested on his chest.

Carson let out the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He tightened his arm around her and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Sleep warm.”

“Aye, I will, now.”

If he wasn’t mistaken, that was a smile he heard in her voice.

He went to sleep with a smile of his own, and a nice, warm tingling in his loins.

He woke in the grayness of predawn with Winter Fawn’s knee pressed against his hard-on, and the rest of her sprawled across his chest. When she arched her neck and opened her eyes to look at him, he forgot all the reasons why he should not pleasure them both with a kiss.

What reasons?

It was only a kiss. That’s all he wanted. Just a quiet, good-morning kiss.

With one hand at the back of her head, he pulled her lips closer to his. With his other arm, he held her firmly against his chest. And then he kissed her.