Proving Herself Page 18

  He was doing what wild stallions did—stealing mares. And yet he was beautiful.

  "What the hell?" asked Collier, over their horses' protests as the paint stallion cleared the lower rail into their midst. Large for a mustang, he had a long, shaggy coat, and his mane flowed brown in some places, white in others. When he stretched his neck to trumpet again, Laurel felt his power.

  Any rancher worth her salt would have shot the bandit horse. She could get a twenty-five dollar reward. Worse, he was after her stock! And yet she couldn't.

  Laurel dropped her rifle and ran to the corral for her lariat. She shook out the loop and swung it over her head, once, twice, praying she would not miss—and sent it neatly sailing over Snapper's head, just in case. "Whoa, boy!" she called to her panicked gelding. "Whoa! You stay here, boy. You hear me? Whoa!"

  In barely a minute it was over. The stallion bullied the mare into a beautiful leap over the lower rail, then galloped back into the snowy woods, pushing the thoroughbred ahead of him with the borrowed jenny kicking after for good measure.

  For a moment the ground seemed to tremble as the rest of the ghostly band of horses followed this new plunder.

  The other mule, a jack, brayed his indignation after them.

  "Whoa," called Laurel to her panicked gelding. She walked along the rope, burning her cold, bare palms. The wild horses hadn't paid her any never mind since she'd been here, but Snapper wasn't a mare. Laurel didn't think he would run off. But she'd had him since she turned twelve. The idea of losing him made her ill.

  She could have wept in relief when he came to the fence rail to blow a distressed greeting at her. She lifted the loop from his head.

  Only then did the full weight of her selfishness hit her, and Laurel turned to face Collier.

  He stood there where she had left him, his rifle pointing toward the dirt, staring after his vanished thoroughbred. She considered riding after it, but that would be useless, foolish. The wild horses knew this mountain. They could get where Snapper and the mule never could, and faster.

  Collier finally turned from the woods to her, and his bright eyes reflected far more at her than she wanted to see.

  Betrayal. Confusion. Helplessness.

  But he said none of it. He was a gentleman, after all.

  Instead Collier turned and went back into their cabin.

  Chapter Sixteen

  This was not Collier's home.

  He did what he could to make it so. Over the next weeks, he and Laurel made two more trips into town before steady snow created too many drifts and sinkholes to risk more. It was enough to pay for the jenny they'd lost and replace Col­lier's lost saddle horse with a gelding. And it was enough to pack in more essentials... even if Laurel implied they were luxuries.

  They now had ladder-back chairs and lumber for shelves. A tarpaulin covered the dirt floor—except where they'd cut out a large circle around the stove—to protect new rugs. And they owned a proper feather bed... or Collier did. No amount of arguing or pleading convinced Laurel to try it, even alone.

  But even these fundamentals of civilization hardly made the twelve-by-twelve claim shack into a home. Certainly not for a man who had once dreamed of inheriting a three-hundred-year-old Tudor manor.

  A wife did not make a home, either. Not a pretend wife.

  As beautiful as Laurel had looked in her bridal gown, and as glorious as waking in her arms had once been, their union was still a charade. And as one week became two, then four, he felt growing relief that neither of them had forgotten it to the point of doing anything irreversible.

  At least, no less reversible than the marriage itself.

  Because this wasn’t his home.

  And he would do well not to forget that.

  Collier woke slowly to darkness, the wind creaking against the shack's walls, and water being poured near his head.

  During his bachelor days, very little woke him until well after dawn. But this sound, he recognized. He rolled over in his soft bed and pillowed his head on his elbow, to better watch the curtain they'd hung to surround Laurel's little stove-let. When pulled, it allowed several feet of privacy—enough for a person to get dressed or wash in the warmest part of the house.

  Except it hung barely a foot from Coller's bed, and Laurel tended to light a lamp on the table, also within the curtain's circle, creating an unintentional shadow-play every morning.

  Collier had been waking early quite a bit.

  He was proper enough to let her know he'd woken, the first time. He'd cleared his throat, even sleepily greeted her, and she'd merely gone still, then whispered, "Go back to sleep."

  "Aren't you cold?" he'd asked that first time. Her silhouette, floating within arm's reach, looked cold.

  "And now I'm self-conscious. Be quiet and go to sleep."

  He'd obeyed one of those two injunctions, in any case.

  Every morning, after stoking the fire, Laurel set their wash-tub on the floor and put water on the stove to heat, then pulled the curtain. And every morning Collier leaned slightly off his bed to sleepily watch one trim, stockinged foot vanish upward to where her silhouette unrolled it off a shapely thigh, then return bare. Then the other. He watched the hem of her nightgown slowly rise, showing naked ankles, until all he

  could see of it was in silhouette as Laurel lifted it over her head.

  At this point, her silhouette became a work of art. Collier lay back and watched, deliciously frustrated, as she stepped into the empty tub, then dipped her washcloth into the heat­ing water and began to clean herself, letting the tub catch the drips.

  The water swished in its pot and dripped off the rag with a plunking noise into the tub. Collier could smell the pine and soap on its steam—the smell of her.

  Laurel's silhouette ran the washcloth over her arms, then up and down her legs, across her belly and other places. Sometimes her elbow or hip hit the curtain, emphasizing just how close she really stood.

  And Collier watched, telling himself, we have an agree­ment, we have an agreement, and aching with his desire to drag her into bed with him. Finally her silhouette would towel itself dry, step from the tub, and dress for the day. By the time she drew the curtain again, hooking it away from the stove, Collier had closed his eyes so that she would not suspect him of such ungentlemanly behavior. At least, he hoped she did not suspect. Sometimes she stood near his bed, as if watching for signs of wakefulness, for what seemed like several minutes.

  Then she would wrap up and go outside, and sometimes that brief wash of cold through the door was the only thing that kept him from resorting to vulgarity for his relief. Soon Collier would either get up to wash and shave while she was out, or he would sink back into sleep, just as she'd instructed him.

  But when he did, he usually dreamed of a marriage that was complete in every way... with neither of them sleeping on straw.

  Laurel welcomed the chance to get up and out before Collier woke. Not that she particularly admired a man for sleeping in! But...

  Clearly she could admire a man as he slept in.

  She wouldn't have guessed herself to be such a terrible voyeur until marriage presented her with the regular temp­tation of Collier in his nightshirt, lying in bed, every morning. He was her husband, if a pretend one, which somehow made it more permissible to look, if not touch. Didn't it?

  So most mornings she did.

  He looked so very fine for mountain life, and Laurel felt guilty. When she tried to apologize for not doing more to save his mare, he'd told her not to martyr herself and replaced Foolish Pride with an ordinary, dapple-gray gelding. When she said she'd not meant to mislead him about the cabin, he insisted that the cabin was fine, though his eyes said different.

  Now Collier's hair fell over his face when he slept, giving him a boyish look she rather liked; it made her fingers, which knew only too well how soft that burnished golden hair felt, itch to smooth it back. His solid jaw and the dusting of whis­kers across his normally smooth cheeks reminded her of
just how manly he could be, beautiful or not. His lashes fanned thick across those high cheeks—oh, what some women would give for such lashes—and his full lips parted slightly as he breathed.

  She knew what those lips tasted like, too, and her longing to test those memories could also be called an itch. At such moments, standing barely a foot from him, his bed surely softer and warmer than hers, his arms even warmer than that...

  Well, Laurel sometimes wanted to ignore their agreement of celibacy as much as she guessed Collier did. So she fled that longing, hurrying outside into the cold to do her morning chores.

  Reminding herself that he wasn't outside doing them with her provided a more sour kind of deterrent. Oh, he offered to help now and then. She turned him down, same as she'd rejected his suggestion that they hire help—on a homestead! He had argued harder for the hired help than to do the work himself.

  No, this wasn't his world, no matter how he tried to gussy it up to look that way. He dressed fancy every day, despite that they saw only each other and she was hardly impressed by his suits. He wrote letters for eventual post and read books, while she was out feeding and watering their horses or drag­ging home dead branches for firewood. When he did go rid­ing, in the woods near the cabin where the ground was more even and the snow not too heavy, it was for pleasure, and he still used that silly saddle of his. He usually took his Scottish rifle and his binoculars, and twice he brought home game. He'd even cooked it when she refused—though she'd had to show him how. But darned if only an hour after being up to his elbows in rabbit guts, Collier did not set their table with china on top of a white linen cloth and ask if she did not mean to dress for dinner.

  And he would have thrown out the rabbit skins if Laurel hadn't kept them to cure for herself.

  Maybe that, too, was part of the problem. Not only was Collier unsuited to her world, but Laurel couldn't forget how unsuited she was to his. All the more reason not to amend their original agreement of celibacy. He'd told her of the "French letters," both annoying and impressing her with his preparation. She also knew how to keep track of her cycles with the calendar. But though the marriage was legal, Laurel had to keep it pretend in her home. She had to know they could end it in a few years.

  A baby would trap them into worlds where they did not belong. And even if there was no baby, if she grew too fond of her ornamental Englishman her heart might do the same thing.

  "Hello, the camp!" called a familiar voice from outside.

  Collier put down his copy of Dante's Inferno, eager to greet Benjamin Cooper, of all people. After only a month of mar­riage, he felt eager to greet practically anybody, even Laurel's father, who'd come by a week before to make sure their cabin was weather-tight... and to glare at him.

  Laurel, outside already, welcomed her uncle Benj first. But that gave Collier time to put a pot of water on the stove before they came inside with a wash of late-November cold.

  "Figured I'd see if you two could still be reached up here," Cooper said as he put a full flour sack on the floor.

  "You shouldn't have risked it," Laurel protested. But her "uncle" interrupted her by pulling down his muffler and whis­tling through his teeth.

  "Whoo-ee! Well, will you look at this place. Jacob told me Lord Collier here had been doin' the local merchants a good turn, lately. Howdy, son."

  "Cooper," greeted Collier, shaking the man's mittened hand in honest welcome. "Let me help you with your coat."

  Cooper arched an eyebrow. "Your bride has a coat on, too." But Laurel, beside him, was already shedding her wrap­pings.

  "I have learned," said Collier, trying to keep his tone pleas­ant, "that my bride is a remarkably self-sufficient woman."

  He sensed Laurel's searching gaze on him, but he dared not try to decipher it. Did she want him to take her coat? Or would that, like so many of his offers, insult her with impli­cations of feebleness?

  "That she is," agreed Cooper. "But it doesn't mean she couldn't use some pamperin'. Now let's see what you've done with this place." He turned slowly around to catalog the changes.

  "It's a little crowded," said Laurel. Was that his fault?

  "Some might call it snug," drawled Cooper, but paused when he noticed her bed still sitting in its corner.

  "We use that one as a sofa," said Laurel quickly.

  "Yes," added Collier. "It's a comfortable place to read. Good window light."

  "I would be loath to think that either of you was strainin' your eyesight, trying to read mail with poor lighting." But Coo­per had that same sharp look of intelligence in his gaze that had first warned Collier never to underestimate him. "Espe­cially since I brought a load of it up with me."

  Reaching into his coat, he produced a large packet of newspapers, magazines, and letters, tied with string.

  "Collier subscribed to some magazines," explained Laurel. Did she think him overextravagant again? Or were cowboys not great readers, what with all the time they spent breaking broncs and branding beeves?

  "Well, it looks like some of 'em are subscribing back," said Cooper. "I feared I would have to strap bits of it all over that Appaloosa of mine, to get it all through the snow, which, by the way, I do not recommend. It took more shovelin' than an educated fellow like myself or Collier here—or a lady—ought to face."

  Collier's "Thank you" was more heartfelt than polite. To have news of the world outside this snowy wilderness meant more to him than he ever once would have guessed.

  And besides, the more it snowed, the more he found him­self stuck inside. With Laurel. Watching the sway of her hips as she worked. Smelling her piney scent when she passed. Picturing the shadow-play she gave him every morning.

  Collier could use every distraction possible. However, since they had the even rarer treat of company, he put the mail aside for later. In fact, he placed it on Laurel's bed, to continue the charade that it was, indeed, a sofa.

  "Please sit down, Uncle Benj," invited Laurel.

  "We could have our tea early," Collier suggested.

  "It doesn't have to just be tea," explained Laurel, but her uncle, sitting, stopped her with a broad grin.

  "I am intimately acquainted with the custom, darlin'. And yes, I would indeed appreciate some coffee for my tea."

  Only getting into each other's way a little, Collier and Lau­rel poured drinks and warmed some of their breakfast bis­cuits to have with precious marmalade. Cooper regaled them with news the whole time. Laurel's sister, Mrs. MacCallum, was expecting a child in the spring. After pleading to attend the local school, Alec Cooper had found acceptance more difficult than he'd expected, although, as his father proudly informed them, "The boy's making a good go of it." Victoria

  Garrison had published another editorial, this time in favor of the eight-hour workday for miners and factory workers— and yes, they had a copy in their mail. Apparently Jacob Garrison's cowboys were now "joshing" him by checking their watches whenever he rode up, pretending that they were counting the minutes until quitting time.

  Not that Collier could imagine anybody joshing his father-in-law—except perhaps the man's partner or wife.

  Cooper looked more sympathetic when he said, "I'm sorry to report that nobody's seen mane nor tail of your mare, son."

  Collier rather enjoyed the rancher's surprise—and Lau­rel's—when he said, "As a matter of fact, I have."

  "You?" asked Laurel. But when her uncle glanced toward her, she fell silent and took a sip of coffee.

  "Often I'll ride as far as the ridge, past the beaver dam," Collier explained. "I've seen the wild horses three times now."

  Wrapped in extra blankets he would sit for some time, watching through his binoculars as the beautiful animals for­aged through the high snow, easily a mile away. He'd noted how the pinto stallion, as well as one of the older females, kept discipline in their ranks with a system of charging, biting, and chasing the miscreants away until their behavior im­proved.

  Even among animals, banishment made a cruel punish­men
t.

  Sometimes something startled the horses and they would gallop away, back toward the shelter of the trees, their flying manes and tails mingling with a spray of white snow.

  "Foolish Pride has survived so far. She's with them."

  "Well, who would have guessed," marveled Cooper.

  Collier, after another sip of tea, added, "For all the good it does me. I've never gotten close enough to get a clean shot."

  "You wouldn't!" protested Laurel.

  Collier only quirked an eyebrow at her. He'd not decided just how far he would go to retrieve his mare. But, as with the topic of seduction, he would not promise never to even try.

  Cooper looked from one of them to the other; then he stood. "Well, now, I'd best not be stayin'. It's an even longer ride home, has been my experience, and the sunlight sure has been fickle of late. And I doubt anyone will get through again until we get a good, hard crust. But you know your daddy's watchin' for your stove smoke every day, don't you? If he don't see it when the day's clear, I reckon he'd reach you if he had to." He snapped his fingers. "He'd pop up here on willpower alone."

  "He shouldn't. I didn't take up homesteading to put other folks in danger!"

  And God forbid you be obliged to anybody, thought Col­lier. But now was certainly not the time for that discussion, either.

  Laurel and Collier put on their coats to stand on the stoop and watch Cooper leave, perhaps their last contact with the outside world until the snow crusted over. When Collier wrapped his arms around Laurel from behind, she stiffened.

  Some days, he wondered if he'd frightened her that morn­ing at the inn. "Just keeping up appearances, darling," he assured her. When Cooper twisted around in his saddle for one last wave, Collier raised his hand in return. "Do smile."

  Whether she did or not, he couldn't see. But he could read her feelings when she pushed back inside.

  Collier followed, latching the door. "May I take your—"

  "No! I can take off my own coat," she insisted.