over the fire. "I thought we were eating with the Langstons." The greeting sounded cross and critical, but he couldn't help it. The domesticity of the scene before him—the supper cooking, and Lee sleeping contentedly, and her taking the trouble to look nice for him—made him unreasonably angry.
"We are, but I'd been soaking these beans all day and it seemed a shame not to cook them. I sent word to Ma that we'd be bringing them for our part of the supper."
He didn't like the way she said "we" and "our" either, like they were a pair. "You can take the beans for your part. For my part, I'm helping Zeke reshoe one of his horses after dinner."
"Very well, Mr. Coleman," she snapped. "I was heating this water for you to wash in, but I think I'll use it to start washing out Lees things instead." She swished past him, moving her skirt out of the way as though not to dirty its hem on his dusty boots.
He had a good mind to yank her around by the hair on her head and tell her that just because she was taking care of his boy, it didn't mean she had anything to do with him. But she had already stepped up into the wagon before the right words arranged themselves on his tongue. Besides, if he ever put his hand in her hair, he wasn't sure what he would do.
He turned away angrily, not wanting to think about how good it would feel to wash in warm water. He cursed viciously as he stepped behind the wagon where he was provided some privacy and peeled off his shirt.
Lydia, with the soiled clothes piled beside her, lifted the pot away from the fire before the water got too hot. Then, rubbing a bar of soap over each garment, she dropped it into the water. When all were in, she swished them with a stick.
Her shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh of irritation. He had been hateful again, but then it would be silly for her not to offer to wash his shirt too. Drawing in another deep breath, she rounded the end of the wagon to the far side.
Ross was standing in pants and boots. His arms and chest were lathered white. For the few moments before he saw her, Lydia watched his hands sliding over the wet soapy flesh of his wide shoulders and under his arms. His chest was matted with dark, crinkly hair that twined around his fingers as he washed. The muscles of his upper arms bunched and knotted with each economic movement. His ribs were as evenly corrugated as a washboard. His stomach was flat and tapering.
When he saw her standing there watching him, he became stock-still. Soap bubbles dripped from fingers gone suddenly lifeless. For a long moment they stared at each other, each stunned by the sight of the other.
"I'll wash your shirt," Lydia said at last.
Rather than argue and prolong her standing there, Ross picked up his shirt and handed it to her.
Her eyes averted, she whisked it from his hand and disappeared quickly around the end of the wagon. Ross rinsed and dunked his head in the water. Only after he had dried off did he realize that he didn't have a shirt to put on. He went to the tailgate and vaulted up into the wagon, nearly stepping on Lee where he slept in his crate. He cursed as he bumped his head on one of the slats, then grew more agitated when he couldn't locate any of his clothes.
He stuck his head through the open canvas flaps. "Uh . . ."he said, hoping to get her attention as she wrung the clothes out. She turned around, brushing back a strand of willful hair with a damp hand. "I can't find my clothes," he stated simply.
"Oh. I straightened up this morning. I'll get a shirt for you."
Nervously Ross's eyes scanned the campsite, hoping to God no one was watching her climb into the wagon with him shirtless. Damn! There stood Mrs. Watkins, glaring at them across the grassy expanse, her mouth drawn up like a rotten apple, looking for all the world like a witch-hunter. Her daughter Priscilla was standing behind her with a knowing, smug look on her petulant face. Ross had seen her wear that expression before. It made him damned
"We are, but I'd been soaking these beans all day and it seemed a shame not to cook them. I sent word to Ma that we'd be bringing them for our part of the supper."
He didn't like the way she said "we" and "our" either, like they were a pair. "You can take the beans for your part. For my part, I'm helping Zeke reshoe one of his horses after dinner."
"Very well, Mr. Coleman," she snapped. "I was heating this water for you to wash in, but I think I'll use it to start washing out Lees things instead." She swished past him, moving her skirt out of the way as though not to dirty its hem on his dusty boots.
He had a good mind to yank her around by the hair on her head and tell her that just because she was taking care of his boy, it didn't mean she had anything to do with him. But she had already stepped up into the wagon before the right words arranged themselves on his tongue. Besides, if he ever put his hand in her hair, he wasn't sure what he would do.
He turned away angrily, not wanting to think about how good it would feel to wash in warm water. He cursed viciously as he stepped behind the wagon where he was provided some privacy and peeled off his shirt.
Lydia, with the soiled clothes piled beside her, lifted the pot away from the fire before the water got too hot. Then, rubbing a bar of soap over each garment, she dropped it into the water. When all were in, she swished them with a stick.
Her shoulders lifted and fell in a sigh of irritation. He had been hateful again, but then it would be silly for her not to offer to wash his shirt too. Drawing in another deep breath, she rounded the end of the wagon to the far side.
Ross was standing in pants and boots. His arms and chest were lathered white. For the few moments before he saw her, Lydia watched his hands sliding over the wet soapy flesh of his wide shoulders and under his arms. His chest was matted with dark, crinkly hair that twined around his fingers as he washed. The muscles of his upper arms bunched and knotted with each economic movement. His ribs were as evenly corrugated as a washboard. His stomach was flat and tapering.
When he saw her standing there watching him, he became stock-still. Soap bubbles dripped from fingers gone suddenly lifeless. For a long moment they stared at each other, each stunned by the sight of the other.
"I'll wash your shirt," Lydia said at last.
Rather than argue and prolong her standing there, Ross picked up his shirt and handed it to her.
Her eyes averted, she whisked it from his hand and disappeared quickly around the end of the wagon. Ross rinsed and dunked his head in the water. Only after he had dried off did he realize that he didn't have a shirt to put on. He went to the tailgate and vaulted up into the wagon, nearly stepping on Lee where he slept in his crate. He cursed as he bumped his head on one of the slats, then grew more agitated when he couldn't locate any of his clothes.
He stuck his head through the open canvas flaps. "Uh . . ."he said, hoping to get her attention as she wrung the clothes out. She turned around, brushing back a strand of willful hair with a damp hand. "I can't find my clothes," he stated simply.
"Oh. I straightened up this morning. I'll get a shirt for you."
Nervously Ross's eyes scanned the campsite, hoping to God no one was watching her climb into the wagon with him shirtless. Damn! There stood Mrs. Watkins, glaring at them across the grassy expanse, her mouth drawn up like a rotten apple, looking for all the world like a witch-hunter. Her daughter Priscilla was standing behind her with a knowing, smug look on her petulant face. Ross had seen her wear that expression before. It made him damned
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