headache."
Saxon took the cup and drained it. He wanted the whiskey more than whatever else was mixed in with it. Dammit to hell! What else was in it? His whole body shuddered as he swallowed.
"Yaller root's bitter, but thur ain't nothin' like it fer aches. Cherry bark tastes a sight better, but I'm plumb outen that. I'll make you a cold pack o' catnip leaves to set on yore head too. You can stay on the bed and rest."
"Couldn't I just have plain whiskey?"
"It's the yarbs that chase away the headache. The whiskey's only part o' the tonic."
He ran his hand through his hair, "Just give me a cup of pure whiskey. Better yet, give me the whole jug."
"You a drankin' man?" She handed him the liquor jug.
He uncorked it and took a long swallow. It burned all the way down, but he didn't care. "I am now." He took another taste, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at her. "This kind of whiskey is illegal. Did you make it?"
"Naw, I ain't got time fer thangs like that. George Franklin's got him a likker farm. It's hid real good though. Them fed'ral people's been up here lots o' times a-lookin' fer George Franklin's stills, but they ain't never found 'em. You ain't gwine tell on him, are you?"
"No. The way I feel right now, I may just go help him make more." He was beginning to feel numb.
"Thur ain't no bad likker, Saxon. Some's good, some's better. But you got to be real keerful with that though. It sneaks up on you. One minute yore a-feelin' good, and the next minute yore laid out on the floor."
Unconsciousness. That sounded just fine to him.
"Real strange how that headache come on so fast. Lay and rest or it's gwine git worser." She pushed him into the feather mattress. "I'll lay down with you."
"No!" He jerked out of bed and swayed. Tucking the jug of whiskey beneath his arm, he stepped outside. After sitting awhile on the porch step, he drank more of the corn liquor. It was easier to swallow the potent fluid now.
"Go back in the cabin, Keely," he ordered when she joined him.
"But—"
"Do as I say!"
She sat on the other end of the porch step. "You don't want to be with me no more, huh? You think I'm a bad-un, don't you? What we almost done today... It was wrong, warn't it, Saxon?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted the jug to his mouth, and once again drank deeply.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn'ta let thangs go as fur as they did. But thur warn't no way I could hep it. I didn't have no control over—"
"I don't want to talk about it anymore." She was in no way to blame for what had happened that afternoon. He'd been in control of every feeling she'd felt.
Chickadee watched him carefully. "You didn't have no dang-blasted headache today, did you?"
"No, but I suspect I'll have one in the morning." He staggered into the yard. "That is if this whiskey doesn't kill me before then."
She watched him lurch down the path and felt her eyes sting. Angrily, she swiped at her tears and snapped for her wolf. "He's contrary tonight. Khan, and it'll ill him more iffen I go with him. He'll be gone fer good soon, boy, but he's still here now, so stay with him."
*
Saxon didn't know what was worse. The dirt in his mouth, or Khan's breath blowing in his face. Khan? Dirt? Daylight? Where the hell was he? Damn, how his head pounded! He wondered how he could get to the stream he heard behind him without moving.
"Khan, do me a favor." The wolf gave no indication he'd even heard the request. Nevertheless, Saxon continued. "Get hold of the collar of my shirt. You can do it, boy. Drag me to that water, and I promise I'll pay you back."
Khan's eyes closed to mere slits.
Despite the way he felt, Saxon managed to grin. If his friends could see him now—Lord, how they'd love this. Saxon Blackwell, face in the dirt, bargaining with a wolf. And all because of some freckled slip of a girl.
Groaning, he got to his hands and knees and crawled toward the stream. Stones bruised his knees, but no pain on earth could
Saxon took the cup and drained it. He wanted the whiskey more than whatever else was mixed in with it. Dammit to hell! What else was in it? His whole body shuddered as he swallowed.
"Yaller root's bitter, but thur ain't nothin' like it fer aches. Cherry bark tastes a sight better, but I'm plumb outen that. I'll make you a cold pack o' catnip leaves to set on yore head too. You can stay on the bed and rest."
"Couldn't I just have plain whiskey?"
"It's the yarbs that chase away the headache. The whiskey's only part o' the tonic."
He ran his hand through his hair, "Just give me a cup of pure whiskey. Better yet, give me the whole jug."
"You a drankin' man?" She handed him the liquor jug.
He uncorked it and took a long swallow. It burned all the way down, but he didn't care. "I am now." He took another taste, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked up at her. "This kind of whiskey is illegal. Did you make it?"
"Naw, I ain't got time fer thangs like that. George Franklin's got him a likker farm. It's hid real good though. Them fed'ral people's been up here lots o' times a-lookin' fer George Franklin's stills, but they ain't never found 'em. You ain't gwine tell on him, are you?"
"No. The way I feel right now, I may just go help him make more." He was beginning to feel numb.
"Thur ain't no bad likker, Saxon. Some's good, some's better. But you got to be real keerful with that though. It sneaks up on you. One minute yore a-feelin' good, and the next minute yore laid out on the floor."
Unconsciousness. That sounded just fine to him.
"Real strange how that headache come on so fast. Lay and rest or it's gwine git worser." She pushed him into the feather mattress. "I'll lay down with you."
"No!" He jerked out of bed and swayed. Tucking the jug of whiskey beneath his arm, he stepped outside. After sitting awhile on the porch step, he drank more of the corn liquor. It was easier to swallow the potent fluid now.
"Go back in the cabin, Keely," he ordered when she joined him.
"But—"
"Do as I say!"
She sat on the other end of the porch step. "You don't want to be with me no more, huh? You think I'm a bad-un, don't you? What we almost done today... It was wrong, warn't it, Saxon?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he lifted the jug to his mouth, and once again drank deeply.
"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn'ta let thangs go as fur as they did. But thur warn't no way I could hep it. I didn't have no control over—"
"I don't want to talk about it anymore." She was in no way to blame for what had happened that afternoon. He'd been in control of every feeling she'd felt.
Chickadee watched him carefully. "You didn't have no dang-blasted headache today, did you?"
"No, but I suspect I'll have one in the morning." He staggered into the yard. "That is if this whiskey doesn't kill me before then."
She watched him lurch down the path and felt her eyes sting. Angrily, she swiped at her tears and snapped for her wolf. "He's contrary tonight. Khan, and it'll ill him more iffen I go with him. He'll be gone fer good soon, boy, but he's still here now, so stay with him."
*
Saxon didn't know what was worse. The dirt in his mouth, or Khan's breath blowing in his face. Khan? Dirt? Daylight? Where the hell was he? Damn, how his head pounded! He wondered how he could get to the stream he heard behind him without moving.
"Khan, do me a favor." The wolf gave no indication he'd even heard the request. Nevertheless, Saxon continued. "Get hold of the collar of my shirt. You can do it, boy. Drag me to that water, and I promise I'll pay you back."
Khan's eyes closed to mere slits.
Despite the way he felt, Saxon managed to grin. If his friends could see him now—Lord, how they'd love this. Saxon Blackwell, face in the dirt, bargaining with a wolf. And all because of some freckled slip of a girl.
Groaning, he got to his hands and knees and crawled toward the stream. Stones bruised his knees, but no pain on earth could
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