watch, Patrick? Why didn’t you stop me? Her chest was tight with suppressed tears. “It’s not the men I need to worry about; it’s you!” Before he could reply, she stalked away, leaving a stunned Patrick.
----
P atrick raised himself in his saddle, stretching his tired muscles. His body ached—and not just from muscular fatigue. No, it was more than physical. Sleep had been elusive the last few nights. Every time he shut his eyes, a blond-haired, blue-eyed vixen appeared in his dreams and informed him it was their leader she had to worry about.
Could she be right? Was he more concerned about the men or himself? The men had been told before she arrived that anyone who touched her would be shot. The reason didn’t matter; he’d kill them.
But what about himself? He ached to touch her. He wanted to feel her lips under his, feel her satin skin, and touch her soft breasts. When she was around, he felt like a tightly strung guitar. Touch the strings the wrong way and he’d snap.
He hadn’t meant to be so cruel the night he caught her reading and saw her bathing. He hadn’t meant to kiss her that night by the fire, but she drove him crazy. Al1 rational thought had fled when he saw her sitting around the campfire, and he had behaved like a madman.
Watching the silhouette of her luscious body on the canvass had almost pushed him over the edge. He knew she was innocent, but that shadow had stirred up all kinds of images, thoughts that made him hard. Hard enough that, since that night, he had taken to sleeping under her wagon. Knowing she slept above him, knowing he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t be with her. He wanted to protect her, but who would defend her from him?
Unless he got control of his emotions, this was going to be a long trip. Soon they would reach the Red River. When they crossed the river at Doan’s Crossing, they would be entering the Oklahoma territory. Indian territory.
If they were lucky, the worst that would happen was a greeting party, who would politely request cattle as payment for crossing their land.
Sabrina was bound to be seen. There was only one thing to do. She wasn’t going to like it. She probably would end up hating him more for it, but her safety depended on it. She would have to pretend to be his wife.
For days he had pondered what to do. And this was the only solution that had come to mind. Even that might not be enough, if some brave decided he wanted her.
On a small rise overlooking the valley below, he reined in his big roan. The cattle plodded down the trail like a slow winding train. A cloud of dust hovered over the cows like an unwelcome umbrella.
Patrick spotted Sabrina riding point with Tom. As much as he hated to admit it, she had guts. Real determination. There had been no complaining, no whining. She had worked hard, and even the men were starting to admire her for her efforts.
As long as he stayed away from her, she got along with everyone. It was only when he provoked her that her temper flared and she showed her claws. Maybe she was right. She should be worried more about him than the men. Maybe he was the most likely one to touch her, to break his own rules. But then again, he’d made the rules. He was the boss.
Chapter 7
S abrina guided her sorrel mare closer to the bank of the Red River. Mesquite and cottonwood trees sparsely dotted the steep embankment. All week long, she had dreaded this crossing. Talk of water moccasins and quicksand had left her uneasy. She hated snakes and had never seen quicksand. Both sounded dreadful.
The russet-tinted river moved slower than the cattle, and didn’t look deep enough for the apprehension expressed in camp. Sandbars peeked through the brackish water, ebbing the flow, changing its course. Why all the fuss? The men had grumbled about this river for days, yet they had crossed streams deeper than this in the last few weeks. Maybe they were exaggerating the situation, treating her like a green kid or a dumb
----
P atrick raised himself in his saddle, stretching his tired muscles. His body ached—and not just from muscular fatigue. No, it was more than physical. Sleep had been elusive the last few nights. Every time he shut his eyes, a blond-haired, blue-eyed vixen appeared in his dreams and informed him it was their leader she had to worry about.
Could she be right? Was he more concerned about the men or himself? The men had been told before she arrived that anyone who touched her would be shot. The reason didn’t matter; he’d kill them.
But what about himself? He ached to touch her. He wanted to feel her lips under his, feel her satin skin, and touch her soft breasts. When she was around, he felt like a tightly strung guitar. Touch the strings the wrong way and he’d snap.
He hadn’t meant to be so cruel the night he caught her reading and saw her bathing. He hadn’t meant to kiss her that night by the fire, but she drove him crazy. Al1 rational thought had fled when he saw her sitting around the campfire, and he had behaved like a madman.
Watching the silhouette of her luscious body on the canvass had almost pushed him over the edge. He knew she was innocent, but that shadow had stirred up all kinds of images, thoughts that made him hard. Hard enough that, since that night, he had taken to sleeping under her wagon. Knowing she slept above him, knowing he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t be with her. He wanted to protect her, but who would defend her from him?
Unless he got control of his emotions, this was going to be a long trip. Soon they would reach the Red River. When they crossed the river at Doan’s Crossing, they would be entering the Oklahoma territory. Indian territory.
If they were lucky, the worst that would happen was a greeting party, who would politely request cattle as payment for crossing their land.
Sabrina was bound to be seen. There was only one thing to do. She wasn’t going to like it. She probably would end up hating him more for it, but her safety depended on it. She would have to pretend to be his wife.
For days he had pondered what to do. And this was the only solution that had come to mind. Even that might not be enough, if some brave decided he wanted her.
On a small rise overlooking the valley below, he reined in his big roan. The cattle plodded down the trail like a slow winding train. A cloud of dust hovered over the cows like an unwelcome umbrella.
Patrick spotted Sabrina riding point with Tom. As much as he hated to admit it, she had guts. Real determination. There had been no complaining, no whining. She had worked hard, and even the men were starting to admire her for her efforts.
As long as he stayed away from her, she got along with everyone. It was only when he provoked her that her temper flared and she showed her claws. Maybe she was right. She should be worried more about him than the men. Maybe he was the most likely one to touch her, to break his own rules. But then again, he’d made the rules. He was the boss.
Chapter 7
S abrina guided her sorrel mare closer to the bank of the Red River. Mesquite and cottonwood trees sparsely dotted the steep embankment. All week long, she had dreaded this crossing. Talk of water moccasins and quicksand had left her uneasy. She hated snakes and had never seen quicksand. Both sounded dreadful.
The russet-tinted river moved slower than the cattle, and didn’t look deep enough for the apprehension expressed in camp. Sandbars peeked through the brackish water, ebbing the flow, changing its course. Why all the fuss? The men had grumbled about this river for days, yet they had crossed streams deeper than this in the last few weeks. Maybe they were exaggerating the situation, treating her like a green kid or a dumb
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