Chapter 6
MARA
Off-key singing and the clanging of dishes serenade me as I nurse Emmaline the next morning.
The room—and the bed—feels much bigger with just the two of us in it.
Bigger than any room I’ve had before. But why is Warren still in the house instead of out working the farm?
Maybe he’ll finish eating and leave us alone so I can wash up.
Through the closed door, words from his song trickle in.
I’ve never heard this one, but I don’t think it goes this way.
“A kiss like silk, and skin like...like...somethingthatrhymeswithsilk...but not milk. Maybe satin? And then she touched my kneee...” The deep voice raises to a girlishly high note before fading into a hum.
A tiny fist—the one with the birthmark—rubs against the valley of my chest as my baby suckles from me.
“What do you think about him, Emmaline? I’ve never met a man like him.
One that’s silly and serious and seems to want to take care of me instead of using me.
And to think he’s taken such a shine to you.
Even calling you Little Bit instead of your full name.
” The memory of last night’s dream steals two heartbeats from me, and I run a hesitant finger over her damning mark, fierce resolve filling me.
“I’ll never let him take you. I swear it. ”
As if she understands, Emmaline fights her dark blue eyes open and stares into mine.
She’s so innocent, this child of mine who blindly trusts me to take care of her in all ways when I can barely care for myself.
Her mouth quivers around my nipple before resuming a sporadic and light sucking.
We’re both still getting the hang of this nursing thing, and it’s not as easy as it would seem.
The first few seconds of my milk coming down always takes her—and me—by surprise.
Sometimes she even chokes on the stream.
But she always settles into a rhythm, one that twists my stomach into achy cramps before smoothing out.
The door opens noisily, startling me enough that Emmaline’s mouth loses contact. Only a few seconds pass, but it’s still enough to have my heart pounding with a familiar dread that swiftly fades into irritated relief when I see it’s not another man paying for time with me.
“Sorry! Sorry...just me.” Warren balances a tray filled with food and a glass of juice that is sure to tip over if he’s not careful.
“Tripped after I turned the doorknob. Hope I didn’t wake you.
I wanted to have breakfast ready for you in bed on your first morning ho—ly shit.
” The murmured curse barely reaches my ears.
Stupefied, he stops in his tracks and swallows hard.
“What?” Taken aback by his intention of feeding me, I follow his gaze to the slick, darkened peak of my exposed breast. I shift uncomfortably, even more aware of the fact that I’m halfway dressed in a borrowed nightgown while he’s fully clothed in a red plaid shirt and denim pants.
“Sorry.” Warren’s voice is even deeper as he kicks the door closed behind him. “I didn’t know she was, umm, eating. You just, uh, have something right....” His chin dips towards a creamy droplet of milk beaded above my nipple. “Right there.”
Lust of the eyes, Mara.
Mrs. Overstreet is correct. The best thing would be to cover myself, because if he sees my body, he may want to touch it. But the cynical part of me insists I need to tempt him and make him want me. To give him a reason to protect me like he said he would.
Seems by now you’d have learned that men’ll say anything to make a woman happy.
Even with Joe dead, I can’t escape him. And he’s right, the damn bastard. I press a grim kiss to Emmaline’s hair and settle her squirming form beside me. She was done anyway, so I may as well do this now.
Eyes are better than hands.
But that doesn’t mean I have to look at the leer that will inevitably spread over his face.
Locking my gaze on the dried, tan patches of mud that lighten his black boots, I grit my teeth and wipe the wetness from my breast. His feet don’t move, but the sudden tension in his thighs tells me I have his complete attention.
Ugh. Men.
Show them a hint of bare skin, and suddenly they can only think with what’s between their legs.
Why should I think this man would be any different?
Just because of his fancy talk of protection and a bit of softness for a baby?
Hardly. I force my fingers to slowly fasten the bottom button of my nightgown instead of rushing through them all, but by the time the second is secured, disgust for every man living and dead simmers on a slow boil.
I’m tired of my body belonging to everyone except for me.
How foolish I was to think his words held any truth.
Orange liquid spills onto the floor, and I freeze, fingers faltering at the fourth button. A quick glance shows his trousers are still flat and fastened, and a look further up reveals long fingers strangling the handles of the tray as juice steadily drizzles over the edge.
“Shit.” Warren’s curse is muffled as he rights the glass and passes me the tray. “I mean sorry. Stay there, okay? Lemme get this cleaned up right quick.”
Mixed emotions run through me as I watch him yank something from the wardrobe to throw onto the floor. I don’t know what to make of him. Is he an intimidating man or a fumbling schoolboy?
Instead of a leer, he offers me a sheepish grin as his dirty boot drags what was once a clean shirt back and forth. “I, uh…I didn’t know what you like most, so I kinda did it all. Breakfast, I mean.”
The fullness of the tray tells me that’s at least one thing he didn’t lie about.
I hurriedly fasten the rest of my nightgown, compelled by the delicious scent of hot food.
And there certainly is a lot of it. More than I know what to do with.
A mountain of ham and sausage to the left, eggs and flapjacks to the right, and one cathead biscuit at the top of the plate.
He did all this for me? There’s only one plate and one fork, so unless he’s keen on sharing, this must all be mine.
Right on cue, my stomach grumbles, so I push my conflicted feelings aside and quietly thank him.
Satisfied with his efforts to sop up the liquid, Warren kicks the shirt aside and points at the biscuit. “If you don’t want butter, I can get you some jam. Got all kinds of jams. Strawberry, fig, blueberry...”
“Butter’s fine.” My mouth waters at the thought of jam, though.
Especially the blueberry. It’s been years since I’ve had the fresh, sweet spread.
And if I’d told him yes, then I would have had a bit more time to compose myself without him around.
But if he knows even something as simple as my preference of jam, he might use it as punishment later.
So no jam.
He runs a big hand through his hair, mussing the dark brown locks. “You sure? I meant to bring some up with me, but I ran out of room on the tray. Didn’t want you to have to move too much in case you were still sore from…from the birthing and all.”
A hint of red darkens his cheeks as he rubs the back of his neck, but Emmaline’s grunted cry rescues me from wondering whether he meant the birth or what came before.
With her scrunched eyes and flattened rosy lips, her unhappiness at being put down is clear to see.
I shove one more bite of savory ham into my mouth before her snort turns into a sharp wail.
I’ll just have to hold her. That’s what a good mother would do, and I do want to be a good one to her.
“I’ll get her,” he offers as Emmaline’s legs draw up beneath her dress and her fists wave in infantile fury. “You need to eat.”
“No, I—”
We both reach for her but Warren’s quicker. Swallowing down my distrust, I watch with sharp eyes as he carefully picks her up and eases beside me. “Come here, sweet baby,” he croons over her fussing and gently bounces her. “Tell Papa all about it.”
My brow twitches. Wait just a damn minute. “Papa? You’re not her papa.”
Any awkwardness he felt from only moments before dissipates with his roguish wink.
“Oh, but I am. Just ask the sheriff and everyone else who saw us leaving town yesterday.” He shrugs.
“I’ll be the only papa she ever knows, so may as well teach her to call me that from the start.
Isn’t that right, Little Bit? You’re Papa’s good little baby, aren’t you? ”
The damn man has a point. Looking at the two of them together, her skin is almost the same shade as his.
So is mine, actually, because of how tanned he is.
And as much as I hate to admit it, if he comes to care about her, then he’ll have a reason for wanting to protect her, too.
There’s nothing in the world I want more than for her to grow up safe, happy, and loved. All the things I never knew.
When the unwanted warmth of his arm brushes against me, I push down a flinch and hold a cloth out by one corner. “Here. She needs to be burped.” If he really wants to be a papa, this is a good start. But I’ll bet he won’t take it. Not when she might spit up onto him.
Once again, Warren surprises me when he takes the cloth.
“I can do that. One burp, coming right up.” Tossing it over his shoulder, he curls Emmaline over his chest and pats her tiny back as she slowly rubs her face into him.
Good Christ, his hand almost completely swallows her.
“Come on, Emmaline,” he coaxes. “Don’t go to sleep just yet.
You have to show Papa how big you can burp. ”
Relieved to have his focus off of me, I scoop up some eggs with my sausage and try to understand him a little more.
“That was it? One tiny little push of air? Oh, Little Bit, you can do better than that.”
“You sound so disappointed.” He looks it, too.