Only Love (9 page)

“Like, love, hate…” He shrugged. “Those words have no real meaning when it comes to China.”

“I don’t understand.”

Whip lifted his cup of coffee, sipped, and tried to find words to explain to Shannon what he had never explained to himself.

“Once,” he said slowly, “I stood on the banks of a river at midnight and watched men fish with lanterns and black birds instead of hooks and nets.”

Shannon made a startled sound.

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Oh, yes. It had been working like that for thousands of years, golden lantern light swirling with each dive the birds made, the fluting whistles of the fishermen as they called to their birds, midnight and the ebony river flowing by…. It was like breathing time itself to be there. China is old, older than I had ever imagined anything could be.”

A shiver coursed through Shannon as she watched Whip’s eyes. They were hazed with memory and distance and a black river flowing.

It was like breathing time itself.

“Are there other places like this?” Shannon asked when she no longer could bear Whip’s silence and distance.

“Echo Basin?” he asked.

“The Colorado Territory.”

Frowning, Whip ran his hand through his hair.

“I haven’t seen one to beat it,” he admitted finally.

“In all the world?”

“Oh, Ireland is green enough, but it lacks towering mountains like these. Burma and Switzerland have huge mountain ranges, but they’re stone and ice with little place in them for man.”

Shannon leaned forward, her eyes brilliant, fascinated.

“South America has a long, muscular chain of mountains with green lands in between clusters of high peaks,” Whip said, “but the high plains are so high that it makes a man weary just to walk a mile. Australia has green mountains with some
snowy peaks. They’re pretty enough, but they aren’t real high. And the smell of the gum forest never appealed to me as much as the evergreen scent of the Rockies does.”

“Then it sounds like the best place on earth for you is right here,” Shannon said.

Whip laughed and shook his head, but when he looked at Shannon, his expression became very serious. He sensed the question buried within her words:
Are you going to stay in the mountains that are like nowhere else on earth?

“The Rockies have held me longer than any other place,” Whip said softly, “but someday a distant sunrise will call to me, promising me everything I’ve ever wanted and have never been able to name. Then I’ll set out again, because there’s nothing as grand as the sunrise I haven’t seen. Nothing.”

Shannon fought against a sorrow so sharp it made her breath break. There was no reason for her to feel such grief. Whip was barely more than a stranger to her. She shouldn’t care if he stayed forever or left in the next hour.

But she cared so much it was a knife turning deep inside her. She closed her eyes and fought the unexpected pain.

“Like I said, honey girl,” Whip said gently, “I’m a yondering man.”

Shannon’s eyes opened. She looked at the man she knew only as Whip. Then she looked at his savagely clear eyes, eyes that had seen so much and yet moved on to another view, a different place, one more distant sunrise, for there was always more to see.

Always.

I hear your warning, yondering man. Don’t try to hold you. Don’t dream on you.

Don’t love you.

Yet Shannon had the uneasy feeling Whip’s warning had come too late. Somewhere deep inside her, something she had never felt before had awakened.

She prayed that it was only desire.

A
WEEK
later Shannon awoke just after dawn to the sound of an ax taking big bites from a tree. Relief washed through her.

Nothing changed while I slept. He’s still here.

If the Culpeppers came skulking around, they would find Shannon with a shotgun in her hands, a snarling dog at her heels…and a man called Whip by her side.

“See?” Shannon whispered to herself. “I told you he would still be here in the morning.”

This time.

When Shannon hadn’t heard Whip’s panpipes last night, she wondered if he had saddled up and left Echo Basin, never to return again. But he hadn’t. He was still here, still doing all the chores that had been difficult for Shannon to do alone.

Whip had repaired the lean-to where the old mule spent the worst of the winter, then he had trimmed and shod the beast’s hooves with horse-shoes Silent John never had gotten around to using. Whip had rehung the cabin door so that it closed evenly without being shoved or leaned on or kicked. Then Whip had rammed caulking so tightly between the cabin’s logs that the wind couldn’t get
past to steal the fire’s warmth. He had chopped down eight trees and was working on a ninth.

Not only would Shannon have firewood curing for winter, with those trees gone there would be enough sun on the south side of the cabin for her to have a small kitchen garden. It was something she had always wanted, but she had given up on the idea four years ago. It had taken six days for her to gnaw through a tree with an ax, and then the tree had knocked her silly by falling the wrong way.

Silent John had laughed when she told him the story about the tree falling on her. But when she told Whip about it a few days ago, he hadn’t laughed at all. He had said something under his breath and then told her in very plain English that if he ever caught her trying to chop down a tree, they would both regret it—but she would regret it more.

Then, yesterday morning, the trees on the south side of the cabin had started to come down one by one, felled by a man who attacked each tree as though it was an enemy.

Humming quietly to herself, Shannon got out of bed and started the breakfast fire. As she worked, anticipation swirled through her like heat through flame. Soon Whip would call out and she would bring a pan of warm water to the bench at the side of the cabin. Then she would watch while he washed and shaved.

If she was lucky, he would overlook a bit of lather on his mustache or in the dimple on his chin. She would stand close to dab at the soap…and then she would look up and see the quicksilver of his eyes burning down at her, and the flare of his
nostrils as he caught the scent of spearmint on her hands and breath.

“You’re a fool, Shannon Conner Smith,” she told herself firmly. “You’re letting that yondering man get too close.”

Yet all Shannon truly cared about was getting Whip closer still. She hungered for him in ways that were as old as desire and as new as sunrise.

She struck a match and bent over the open door of the wood stove. The flames caught and entwined with an ease that reminded her of Whip’s masculine grace. Heat filled the stove and radiated out into the room as wood and fire consumed one another.

Is that what it would be like with Whip? Would we feed one another until everything was gone but the memory of heat?

A shiver coursed through Shannon, touching her secret flesh like a match touched tinder; and like tinder, she burned.

Is this what the wood feels like? Does it ache and tremble and cry to be burned to an ash so fine it can fly right up to the sun?

“Lust, that’s all,” Shannon said beneath her breath. “Pure lust.”

Prettyface scratched at the cabin door, distracting Shannon from her study of the fire.

“Oh, all right. But if you snap and snarl at Whip when he comes up to wash, I swear I’m going to get a stick and beat you.”

The dog grinned and waved its long brindle tail. Rows of white, sharp teeth gleamed at her.

“Yeah, I don’t believe me either,” she admitted. “But I have to do something, Prettyface. You watch Whip like you can’t wait for an excuse to jump him.
He’ll go soon enough. Much too soon. You don’t have to drive him away.”

Shannon opened the cabin door. Prettyface bounded out and began casting around for scent. Though Whip had shot more deer, the dog still hunted for himself. Whatever venison wasn’t eaten fresh was cured into jerky. It was the same for the trout. Whip was determined that Shannon have plenty of food for the coming winter.

As Shannon shut the door and headed for the dry goods cupboard, she noticed the fresh bouquet of wildflowers set on the small, scarred table. Very gently she ran her fingertips over the tender, scented petals. She was smiling when she reached into the cupboard and began to measure out flour into a battered tin bowl.

Whip was always bringing something to her, little things to brighten up the cabin’s dark interior. Usually it was flowers. Sometimes it was a pebble that was all smooth and rounded from the creek. Once it was a butterfly freshly come from its cocoon. Watching the wings slowly unfurl and become rich with color had been like having a rainbow gather and dance softly in the palm of her hand.

Shannon would never forget the look on Whip’s face as he watched the butterfly lift from her palm and spiral upward into the aching blue of the sky—pleasure, envy, understanding, satisfaction, yearning, all had been part of Whip’s smile.

I know he’s going to leave someday. But please, God, not today.

Not today.

Shannon’s hands jerked. Flour spilled. Carefully she gathered it with the edge of her hand and coaxed the white powder back into the cup.

Don’t think about Whip leaving,
she told herself firmly.
He will leave today or he won’t, and all I can do is watch him eat and blot lather from his chin and feel his smile like sunlight on my soul.

Instead of worrying about tomorrow, I should thank God for sending me a gentle, generous, decent man to help me. There’s fresh meat in the larder and jerky curing and fish being smoked outside and firewood piled high along the east side of the cabin.

Those are blessings enough for anyone, and a lot more than I had when I sold Mama’s wedding ring to keep from starving while I got better at stalking deer.

Bending down, Shannon felt the air inside the oven. It wasn’t hot enough to make the skin around her nails draw up. She added more wood to the fire, cut several slabs of meat from the ham that hung in the corner, and put the meat in a pan to fry while the biscuits were cooking.

The next time she tested the oven, it was ready. She went to the window and opened the shutters wide. Sunlight spilled in, bringing with it the scent and excitement of an untouched day.

“Biscuits are going in,” Shannon called to Whip. “I’ll bring the water out in a moment.”

The rhythmic chopping sounds ended. Whip stepped back from the tree. A single look told him that it would take him longer to fell the tree than it would take Shannon to cook the biscuits. With an easy, one-handed stroke, he sank the blade of the ax deeply into wood. There the cutting edge would stay safe and dry until he needed it again.

Whip looked over his shoulder and saw Shannon hanging partway out the window, a smile on her face and a comb in her hand. She drew the comb through her hair with swift strokes, as though impatient to be through with the small chore.

Sunlight made her hair an autumn glory, like dark fire shot through with streaks of gold and red.

Someday soon you’re going to let me comb all that beautiful hair for you,
Whip promised silently.
Soon. Real soon.

Your hair will be as soft and hot as fire running through my fingers, but nothing will be as soft or as hot as the dark woman-flower concealed between your thighs.

You’ll bloom for me, honey girl. I’m as sure of it as I’ve ever been of anything.

But first I’ve got to get past that hellhound of yours without scaring you to death.

“I’m on my way,” Whip called.

His voice was curt. Prettyface was a whole row of thorns in Whip’s side. Though only partly wolf in his body, the dog was mostly wolf in his temperament. Despite Whip’s best efforts, the animal refused to treat Whip as anything but a dangerous intruder. Several times Whip had found himself on the edge of reaching for the snarling dog to teach it the only kind of lesson it seemed capable of learning from a man.

Fear, pure and simple.

Whip knew it was the wolf’s nature to give way only to superior strength. After Whip’s strength was established, respect would come, and then, finally, he could begin teaching Prettyface that not all men took pleasure in abusing a mongrel with the eyes of a wild wolf.

Given time, Prettyface would not only accept Whip, the dog would give Whip the same trust and loyalty he gave to the girl who had found him beaten nearly to death on the trail from Holler Creek.

All Whip needed was time.

How much time do I have before that sunrise calls my name?

There was no answer to Whip’s silent question. There never had been. When the wanderlust took him, he packed up and left. Nor did he ever come back to the same place again.

Sunrise called to him only once from each new land.

Before he left Echo Basin, Whip planned to see that Shannon’s cabin was in good repair, the larder was overflowing, and the firewood was stacked to the eaves on three sides of the cabin. It was what he had always done for the openhearted widows whose paths he crossed, even if the women did no more than cook his meals and mend his shirts and share the warmth of their kitchens with a yondering man.

The world was a difficult place for a woman alone, a fact that Whip understood better than most men. That was why he was haunted by the vision of Shannon lying beneath a fallen tree…Shannon injured and alone, no one to help her, no one even to know that she needed help.

She’s a widow whether she admits it or not. She’s got to be. Hell, she doesn’t even act married. She keeps watching me like she’s never seen a man before.

And I watch her like she’s the first woman I’ve ever seen.

Frowning, Whip pulled off his leather work gloves, stuffed them into his back pocket, and picked up the bullwhip that always lay within easy reach. As he walked toward the house, Prettyface appeared from the surrounding forest and snarled viciously at him.

“Good morning to you, too, you evil-tempered son of a bitch,” Whip said pleasantly.

“Prettyface, stop that!” Shannon called from inside.

The dog’s snarling increased.

Shannon rushed to the cabin door. Half-braided hair spilled out of her hands and fanned over the faded blue flannel of her shirt. The contrast between the worn fabric and the lustrous silk of her hair tempted Whip almost beyond endurance.

“Stop that!” Shannon commanded, staring right at the dog’s yellow eyes.

Prettyface gave Whip a predatory look. Then, reluctantly, the dog obeyed his mistress.

Whip gave the look back with interest before he turned to the basin of steaming water Shannon had put out for him. His folding razor lay by the basin, along with soap and the faded, flower-printed rag. As he bent over the water, the familiar scent of mint floated up to him.

Without warning, desire raked Whip, tightening every muscle in his body. He drew a deep, careful breath, then another, until his body slowly began to relax. The ease and intensity of his arousal around Shannon was a warning to him.

And an incredible lure. Whip had never wanted a woman the way he wanted Shannon Conner Smith.

The sensible part of Whip’s mind told him that his growing obsession with Shannon was the best reason in the world for him to pack up and ride on. Only heartbreak could come of an affair between a yondering man and a young widow who watched him with dreams in her eyes.

But Whip wasn’t listening to caution or conscience anymore. He sensed too clearly the unspeakable ecstasy that awaited him within Shannon’s body. Until he drank the dark wine of
her sensuality to the last, lush drop, he wouldn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

I need her.

Come heaven, come hell, I have to have her.

The intensity of his own thoughts shocked Whip. Some time in the past ten days he had gone from straightforward masculine desire to a more complex passion—darker, more intense, a fierce hunger that had no beginning and no possible end other than shimmering oblivion deep inside Shannon’s body.

Whip’s thoughts had an inevitable reaction on his body, increasing the ache of flesh that was already pulsing with need. Cursing silently, he rubbed soap into lather between his big palms and applied it to his face. He began shaving, using an exquisite sense of touch as well as his small shaving mirror.

Shannon watched, fascinated.

“You act like you’ve never seen a man shave,” Whip said, flattered and irritated at the same time. The feminine approval in her dark blue glance aroused him all over again.

“Silent John just wore a beard,” Shannon said.

Whip grunted, stroked, and flicked lather off the blade.

“You always speak of him in the past tense,” Whip said after a few more strokes.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

Shannon opened her mouth, closed it, and hugged herself as though suddenly cold.

“I’ll be more careful,” she promised. “Those Culpeppers are brazen enough as it is.”

“You think Silent John is dead.”

Although it wasn’t quite a question, Shannon sensed Whip’s intense interest in her answer.

“I don’t think I’ll see Silent John again,” she admitted in a low voice. Then, anxiously, “But please don’t say anything about it in Holler Creek. Murphy isn’t much more polite to me than the Culpeppers. If they thought Silent John wasn’t ever coming back…”

Shannon’s voice died.

But she didn’t have to finish the sentence. Whip knew exactly what she meant.

“Maybe you better plan on leaving Echo Basin,” he said flatly.