He could sense her uneasiness, almost feel her eyes boring into his back. Did she truly expect him to scrub the places where he needed it most with her looking on? Was she so shameless?
His battered pride stung at being seen in this condition by an enemy, he wanted to strike out. To see her grovel, this miserable woman with her pale hair and her pale, sun-speckled face and her damned rifle. Clearly, she trusted him no more than he trusted her, but there was not one thing he could do about it for the moment.
Still standing only ankle-deep, he turned to face her. Crossing his arms, he smiled. It was not a nice smile. He watched her face grow red with anger. Saw her lift the heavy rifle and brace her feet apart as she tried to balance the barrel across her forearm. Jonah knew the woman was afraid of him. The thought pleased him enormously. Without lowering his gaze, he slowly uncrossed his arms, caught the back of his shirt in both hands and tugged it over his head.
Her eyes widened. The rifle barrel wavered. Still holding her wary gaze, he dropped his hands to the buttons of his canvas trousers. Deftly unfastening the top three, he allowed his trousers to slip over his narrow hips.
The barrel of the gun struck the dirt a moment before his trousers crumpled about his ankles. Jonah felt like laughing aloud. Didn’t the foolish woman realize that he could not remove them as long as his legs were bound together by this damnable iron bracelet?
She gasped and turned her back, but not before he had seen her eyes widen on his body. He might have enjoyed the small triumph even more had it not been for his burning ankles and various itches that made him want to shed his skin like a snake.
Bending, he scooped a handful of mud and gravel from the creek bottom and began to scour his belly. The woman had quickly turned away after one horrified look at his nakedness. Now, enjoying his brief moment of privacy, he scrubbed and scratched and nearly purred with the pleasurable sensations.
“Hurry up, you’re taking too long,” she called without turning around.
He had taken as long as he dared, but nowhere near as long as he wished. Reluctant to dress in the same filthy clothing, Jonah grunted to gain her attention. When she cast a quick glance over her shoulder, he held his bundled shirt in front of his privates and gestured with the remnant of soap that was left.
Grudgingly, Carrie nodded. There was no point in putting buggy clothes on a clean body, so she told him to go ahead and scrub his clothing, but to be damned quick about it. She added the swear word to be sure he knew she meant business, the same as she did with the mule.
Turning away to avoid catching another glimpse, she pretended a great interest in the few remaining blossoms on a honeysuckle vine, but she couldn’t dispel the image of that magnificent male body. Merciful heavens, the man was a—he looked like a—and his skin wasn’t red, it was sort of almond-colored. Or maybe butternut.
He was so taut, not flabby like Darther. What would it be like to—
Stop it, Carrie Adams, don’t even think about such things!
Sensing when it was safe to turn around, she noted that he was fully dressed again, although the wet clothing clung to his body in a way that looked uncomfortable. Realizing that she was staring, she nodded abruptly toward the path and they set out once more, the prisoner going first, Carrie and the Springfield marching along behind. She tried to concentrate on a mental list of all the things she intended to accomplish before day’s end, but her gaze kept lingering on his wet hair, glistening like coal under the early morning sun. Even in chains the man was arrogant. The way he moved—the way he held his head. Those wet clothes…
He’s just another mule, Carrie, no more, no less! Five stumps. Think about those, not about the way he looked standing there in his bare skin.
And she tried, she really did. All the way back from the creek she focused her mind on the task ahead. At the rate of five stumps a day, the field would soon be cleared, and once the stumps were gone, her hand would be healed, and she could hitch up the plow and turn under the brush, allowing the roots and grubs to die over the winter months.
Think about that, Carrie, not about—
But oh, my mercy, he was so pretty to look at. It wasn’t the first time she had seen a man’s body. She had seen her uncle once when she’d barged into the kitchen while he was in the tub. At least she’d seen his knees, his bald head and his bony shoulders.
And Darther, she thought with a shudder, who was pale as whey, with rolls of flab, with his little bitty thing hanging down like a dead worm.
She shifted the rifle to a more comfortable position, wishing she could trade it for something smaller, and tried not to think about male bodies, naked or clothed.
Back at the barn, she gestured to the mule, and then to the harness she had devised for pulling stumps from the ground. Her prisoner nodded, made a few minor adjustments, and then hitched up the mule. Sorry, the miserable traitor, didn’t once attempt to kick or bite, and Sorry purely hated being hitched up to anything.
At least he did when it was Carrie doing the hitching.
Damn-blasted mule. Damn-blasted sneaky Indian.
She glared at her prisoner, and because she was later than usual getting started—or because she hadn’t taken time to eat her usual breakfast of black coffee and cold biscuits, her mind began to wander once more.
Behave yourself, Carrie! He’s a prisoner, a thief and probably worse. You need him because with only one good hand, there’s no way you’re going to get that field cleared, so don’t even think about his—about the way—about his thing!
Pointing to the lane that led off behind the cabin to the cut-over field, she gestured for him and the mule to go first. Without a word spoken, the blasted mule picked up and walked, sweet as pie, trailing the makeshift harness behind. Carrie kept her gaze focussed on the distant trees and forced herself to concentrate on how to direct a man who didn’t speak English. Didn’t speak anything, so far as she could tell.
Even if he wasn’t all that bright, he probably understood a few words, a few simple commands. So she took a deep breath and spoke aloud, hoping the sound of her voice could drown out the image of a beautiful naked man standing ankle-deep in her creek. “Best way I know is to dig out under the spreading roots enough to saw through the biggest ones,” she said gruffly. “Once Sorry pulls the thing over, we can saw off the taproot and haul the stump out of the ground. Oh, lordy, you don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you?”
Shaking her head in frustration, she pointed to the biggest of the five stumps she intended to tackle today. “Dig,” she commanded, and pointed at the spade she had left in the field the last day she’d worked, too weary even to drag her tools back to the barn.
They were so late getting started that the heat was already miserable, making her think longingly of the cool, clear creek. The one thing she truly liked about summer was that the days were long enough to include a soak in the creek. With no close neighbors, it was safe enough as long as she kept an eye out for snakes. It was a chance to scrub all over without having to haul and heat water, bail out the washtub and then mop up the kitchen floor afterward. A chance to sit and dream for a few peaceful moments—to try to remember the stories she had read when she’d gone to the missionary school. She did like reading stories. Over those early years she’d been well schooled, although she’d since forgotten most of what she’d been taught.
Now even the pleasure of sitting in the creek and trying to remember her favorite stories was ruined. She wouldn’t dare linger knowing her prisoner was nearby, even if he was locked in the barn. From now on, she wouldn’t even be able to go near the place without picturing him standing in the edge of the water, with his smooth, muscular body, his mocking gray eyes, and those dark, mysterious places that made her bones feel weak as tallow.
And damn-blast it all, her hand ached! Every three days she poured turpentine on it and packed it with sugar again, the