Chapter 11 #2
We drift off into weary silence. Nocturnal creatures sing their songs in darkness, the firelight dancing on Kodiak’s rugged face.
“Perhaps we can take turns. I will sleep on the bedroll one night, and you—”
He chuckles. “Ah, I see what you’re gettin’ at. You’re a proper lady and all that. Suppose stealin’ a kiss don’t give me license to lay beside you.”
The reminder of our brief intimacy sends a shiver rippling through me.
“I done without plenty’a times. Go ahead and take the tent; I’ll be fine by the fire.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
We speak of little things after—the road, the weather, how long the rations might last. His voice is low, almost gentle now, and I find myself wishing the night could stretch on forever.
But weariness presses on me, heavy as the blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
“Here,” I say, offering it to him. “The bedroll will be enough.”
“Thank you, lamb.”
The name he’s chosen for me makes me smile. “You’re quite welcome.”
I slip into the tent, lying back on the bedroll. Through the flap, I watch him stretch by the fire, the glow outlining the breadth of his shoulders, the long lines of his body as he settles down in the grass.
The fire pops and cracks. The wind stirs the leaves.
And there he is, just a few paces away—so close I can almost feel his warmth.
My breath quickens against my will. Foolish, improper thoughts churn in me, and I wonder if I was too hasty in insisting he stay outside.
What harm would it be, really, to let him lie beside me?
Yet I press my lips tight, willing myself still.
Better to guard my virtue, even as my body aches for the opposite.
In the gray wash of dawn, I wake before him.
Kodiak lies on his back, hat tipped low, one arm flung across his chest. The blanket has slid aside, leaving him half uncovered.
My breath catches. Even at rest, the sight of him is indecent.
The fabric stretched over a shape so large it makes my thoughts scatter.
Heat rises to my cheeks, and I spin away, as if God himself had caught me sinning from the heavens.
To notice him is sin enough. To wonder is worse. And still, a treacherous thought rises in me, whispering how it might feel to have him pressed to me, inside me. My body answers with a quickening I cannot will away.
Horrified, I whisper a prayer.
Perhaps it was only the trousers. A poor fit, that was all. Yet the seams strained as though ready to give way. Had I packed needle and thread?
I busy myself with the kettle, pouring water over the last of the coffee grounds just to keep my hands from trembling. When I glance back, Kodiak stirs, dragging in a long breath. He stretches slowly before pushing himself up on an elbow. His hazel eyes catch me quick, sharp even in half sleep.
“You’re up early.” His voice is rough with sleep.
I keep my back turned, fussing over the tin cups. “Couldn’t rest.”
He hums, the sound deep in his chest, and I hear the shift of fabric as he sits straighter. The sound alone brings back the indecent image. How could a man so sinful be made so perfectly?
He takes the cup I hand him, his fingers brushing mine. Warmth flashes, traitorous, through me.
“Well,” he says, blowing steam from the rim, “ain’t every day a man wakes under open sky with coffee waitin’—and a pretty face makin’ it for him.”
Curse the way his compliment tingles on my skin. I duck my head, pretending to mind the fire.
He takes a long swallow, sigh content, then tilts the cup toward me. “Next place we come to, I’ll see about gettin’ us more beans. Maybe somethin’ sweet too.”
“Where is that?” I ask.
“Little town down in Kentucky—Salt Lick. Place don’t look like much, just a mill, a store, and a saloon where the whiskey’s cheap. We’ll stock up, fill our bellies proper. Maybe even see what kind of mischief we can stir.”
I grin without thinking, an unexpected giggle bubbling to my lips.
I’ve never imagined playing cards in some dusty town saloon.
I scarcely let myself imagine being outside the confines of the inn.
If I was in anyone else’s company, perhaps I would feel frightened by the unknown, but there’s something about Kodiak that makes me feel safe.
“Sweet mercy. Never reckoned I’d sit across from a smile so pretty. Careful, you smile at me like that in Salt Lick, you’ll give folks the idea I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
My chest swells, and I shake my head, a flush consuming my cheeks. “You exaggerate.” I busy my hands with the kettle, but I can hardly think, my heart fluttering as if it’s poised to take flight.
“That husband never told you how beautiful you are?”
His father had. It was the way he explained why accepting me in lieu of monetary repayment of my father’s debt was a fair exchange.
“You mustn’t say such things.” My voice quivers, fragile as a strand of silk. “It isn’t proper.”
Kodiak tilts his head, studying me. “Proper’s a cage, little lamb. Ain’t you glad to be free of it?”
His words strike deep, and my breath stutters. I should rebuke him, I know I should, yet the wild, unbidden pull of him won’t allow it.
He reaches out—not to seize me, not rough like before, but slow, deliberate. The back of his finger grazes the curve of my wrist where it rests in my lap. It’s fleeting, no more than a ghost of a touch, yet that small moment of contact sends a shiver sparking up my arm.
“You can call me liar, sinner, thief,” he says, reaching for Joseph’s tobacco pouch, “but don’t tell me I don’t see what’s right in front of me.
You’re beautiful, Alice. You smile like that, and all I can think on is how to keep it there.
Might spend every mile south dreamin’ up ways to coax another one. ”
I swallow hard, and suddenly the fire, the cups—anything but him—become unbearably interesting. He rolls a cigarette, and the flames smear into a warm blur, my thoughts tripping over themselves. “You’ll ruin me…words like that.”
He chuckles softly, licking his cigarette shut, his tongue dragging across the paper with his eyes on me. My toes curl in my boots. Oh my word.
“Then you’d better stop smilin’ so sweet.”
I start to smile again but force it back. How cruel of him to sexualize something as innocent as a smile. Now with every expression of joy I’ll wonder if I’m exciting him, if his trousers strain with it. “You are a shameless flirt, Mr. Randolph.”
He leans back on his hand, cigarette smoldering between two fingers.
The wind lifts a strand of my hair, and before I can tuck it away, he reaches out. His hand brushes the hair from my cheek. A touch that lingers—not possessive, but something tender, perilous.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I murmur, heart thudding.
His thumb grazes the edge of my jaw. “Ain’t lookin’ at you like that ’cause I’m a flirt. Lookin’ at you ’cause I can’t help it.”
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
His gaze drops to my mouth, but then he seems to think better of it and draws his hand back. “Best we get movin’ soon,” he says finally, rubbing a hand over his stubbled jaw. “Salt Lick’s a ride yet, and the trail don’t wait for folks to finish breakfast.”