eyebrow told him just how preposterous she thought his little fable. "Tell me, sir, what an outlaw does with a camera." She looked him square in the eye, wondering what lie he'd concoct.
He couldn't resist. "Take pictures of his dead victims for his scrapbook." His evil grin met her appalled look.
"That, Mr Cameron, isn't even remotely funny!" she snapped, suddenly scrubbing too hard.
"Ouch! Take it easy! I'm a convalescent, you know."
"Please don't remind me," she said sourly.
His tone became conversational. "You wouldn't believe me anyway, about my camera, so I won't bother to tell you. You'd rather think I was merrily robbing trains, then you can feel justified in…" his voice raised a few decibels as he yanked away "… tanning my hide instead of just scrubbing it! Ouch, I said!
Don't you know what ouch means, woman?" He nursed his knuckles. But he could almost hear the bones snap in her neck, she stiffened up so fast.
"Don't call me woman, I said!"
She snatched his hand back and began drying it roughly.
"Why? Aren't you?" Her hands fell still, for he had taken hold of her hand, towel and all, and was holding it prisoner in his long, dark fingers. Panic knifed through her at the flutter of her heart. She looked up at his dark eyes, probing with an intensity that alarmed her.
"Not to you," she answered starchily, and pulled her hand free, then quickly clambered off the bed.
Something indefinable had changed between them in that instant when he grasped her hand. They were now quiet while she proceeded with the washing of his right leg. She soaped the length of it, working gingerly at the area near the wound. Once he arched his chest high and dug his head back into the pillow with a swift sucking breath of pain.
"It's healing, no matter what it might feel like."
But she was still upset about his earlier comments. She was briskly working her way toward his foot with fresh lather when he looked down his chest at her and asked quietly, "Are you to old Melcher?"
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"A woman. Are you a woman to old Melcher?"
But his timing was ill chosen. She had him by the bad leg and was none too gentle about slamming it back down, suds and all. He gritted his teeth and gasped, but she stood there with an outraged expression on her face, hands jammed on the hips of her wet-spotted apron, eyes glaring.
"Haven't you done enough damage where Mr. Melcher is concerned without pushing my nose in it? He's a gentleman… but then you wouldn't know anything about gentlemen, would you? Does it satisfy your ego to know you've managed to lose him for me, too?"
His leg hurt like hell now and a white line appeared around his lips, but she had little sympathy. How much more could she take from him?
"If he's such a gentleman, why did you throw him out?" Jesse retorted.
Her mouth puckered and she flung the cloth into the bowl, sending water splattering onto his face, the floor, and pillow. He recoiled, hollering after her retreating figure, "Hey, where are you going? You haven't finished yet!"
"You have one good hand, sit Use it!" And her skirts disappeared around the door. He looked down at his soapy foot.
"But what'll I do with the soap?"
"Why don't you try washing your mouth out with it, which your mother should have done years ago!"
The soap was beginning to itch. "Don't you leave this soap on me!"
"Feel lucky I've conceded to wash as much of you as I have!"
He drove his good fist into the mattress and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Get back here, you viper!"
But she didn't return, and the soap stayed until the itching became unbearable and he was forced to lean painfully to remove most of it, then dry his foot and calf with the sheets.
As Miss Abigail left the house, she whacked the screen door shut harder than she'd ever done in her life.
She pounded down the back steps like a Hessian soldier, thinking, I have to get out of the same house with that monster ! Nobody she'd ever known had managed to
He couldn't resist. "Take pictures of his dead victims for his scrapbook." His evil grin met her appalled look.
"That, Mr Cameron, isn't even remotely funny!" she snapped, suddenly scrubbing too hard.
"Ouch! Take it easy! I'm a convalescent, you know."
"Please don't remind me," she said sourly.
His tone became conversational. "You wouldn't believe me anyway, about my camera, so I won't bother to tell you. You'd rather think I was merrily robbing trains, then you can feel justified in…" his voice raised a few decibels as he yanked away "… tanning my hide instead of just scrubbing it! Ouch, I said!
Don't you know what ouch means, woman?" He nursed his knuckles. But he could almost hear the bones snap in her neck, she stiffened up so fast.
"Don't call me woman, I said!"
She snatched his hand back and began drying it roughly.
"Why? Aren't you?" Her hands fell still, for he had taken hold of her hand, towel and all, and was holding it prisoner in his long, dark fingers. Panic knifed through her at the flutter of her heart. She looked up at his dark eyes, probing with an intensity that alarmed her.
"Not to you," she answered starchily, and pulled her hand free, then quickly clambered off the bed.
Something indefinable had changed between them in that instant when he grasped her hand. They were now quiet while she proceeded with the washing of his right leg. She soaped the length of it, working gingerly at the area near the wound. Once he arched his chest high and dug his head back into the pillow with a swift sucking breath of pain.
"It's healing, no matter what it might feel like."
But she was still upset about his earlier comments. She was briskly working her way toward his foot with fresh lather when he looked down his chest at her and asked quietly, "Are you to old Melcher?"
Her head snapped up. "What?"
"A woman. Are you a woman to old Melcher?"
But his timing was ill chosen. She had him by the bad leg and was none too gentle about slamming it back down, suds and all. He gritted his teeth and gasped, but she stood there with an outraged expression on her face, hands jammed on the hips of her wet-spotted apron, eyes glaring.
"Haven't you done enough damage where Mr. Melcher is concerned without pushing my nose in it? He's a gentleman… but then you wouldn't know anything about gentlemen, would you? Does it satisfy your ego to know you've managed to lose him for me, too?"
His leg hurt like hell now and a white line appeared around his lips, but she had little sympathy. How much more could she take from him?
"If he's such a gentleman, why did you throw him out?" Jesse retorted.
Her mouth puckered and she flung the cloth into the bowl, sending water splattering onto his face, the floor, and pillow. He recoiled, hollering after her retreating figure, "Hey, where are you going? You haven't finished yet!"
"You have one good hand, sit Use it!" And her skirts disappeared around the door. He looked down at his soapy foot.
"But what'll I do with the soap?"
"Why don't you try washing your mouth out with it, which your mother should have done years ago!"
The soap was beginning to itch. "Don't you leave this soap on me!"
"Feel lucky I've conceded to wash as much of you as I have!"
He drove his good fist into the mattress and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Get back here, you viper!"
But she didn't return, and the soap stayed until the itching became unbearable and he was forced to lean painfully to remove most of it, then dry his foot and calf with the sheets.
As Miss Abigail left the house, she whacked the screen door shut harder than she'd ever done in her life.
She pounded down the back steps like a Hessian soldier, thinking, I have to get out of the same house with that monster ! Nobody she'd ever known had managed to
Similar Books
