The Lover by Genell Dellin Page B

fingers and the feel of the impervious line of his jaw. That hard jaw was one more thing about him that was so at odds with the mischief in his eye and the silliness in his banter.
    But she wasn’t going to think about him anymore. She would sleep, and when she woke in the morning, she’d be herself again. He would be her trail boss instead of the fascinating, mysterious man who’d barged into her bedroom, and as business associates, they would start north with her cattle.
    And his remuda.
    To put a fine point on it, the horses that would be supporting all their lives, human and bovine alike, belonged to Eagle Jack.
    While she spread a layer of the salve on the circle of cloth, she thought about that. It didn’t worry her the way it should—the way it would if, say, Mr. Adams still owned them and was going along for the ride. Somehow, deep inside, although he’d barged into her room and talked about bothering her, she still trusted Eagle Jack implicitly.
    He wouldn’t hold the horses over her as leverage to demand sex or anything like that.
    She stopped and took a deep breath, plus a firm handle on her wild thoughts. Hadn’t she alreadydecided that she wasn’t going to let herself think about him anymore?
    Desperately she forced her mind to everyday details and their place in the fight for survival. Yes, she had put an extra bedroll in the wagon in case one of their drovers lost his in a river crossing or some other disaster. Yes, she had her box of medical supplies ready to go. Yes, she had two spare sets of clothes for herself, plus a dress—her only good dress—for when they got to Abilene. It was for the meeting with the cattle buyer.
    A vision of herself in the dress, dancing with Eagle Jack in the street in Abilene, flashed across her mind.
    Foolishness. She didn’t even know how to dance.
    She scraped the residue off the broad knife and twisted the lid onto the jar.
    This would teach Eagle Jack to come barging into her room for the night. He’d get poulticed whether he wanted to or not.
    She carried the patch, sticky side up, into the bedroom through the moonlight, which seemed to be growing stronger by the minute. Eagle Jack seemed still asleep, although his breathing wasn’t as deep. Thank goodness, he’d turned more to his side so it’d be easier to get to the wound.
    Susanna knelt and used her free hand to hold his hair to one side. She bent over to study theswollen wound in the moonlight, centered the patch on her fingertips, and brought it forward carefully, so as not to get it stuck in his hair.
    A hand caught her arm, she screamed, and the patch went flying. Eagle Jack sat up, narrowly missing bumping heads with her as he turned and she tried to pull away.
    â€œWhat do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
    He looked so angry that it scared her for an instant.
    â€œD-doctoring your wound,” she said, forcing the air back into her lungs so she could speak. “What I should’ve done the minute we got here.”
    â€œWith what?”
    â€œAntipholgistine.”
    That widened his eyes again.
    â€œWhy don’t you just shave my head? Or, better yet, you might scalp me.”
    â€œI was being careful not to get it in your hair,” she said.
    â€œExcept that the wound is in my hair.”
    â€œIt’s at the edge,” she said. “Sort of.”
    He gave her a narrow-eyed look that forced her to defend herself.
    â€œOnce the poultice dried out, in a day or two, it would come off without too much damage,” she said.
    â€œYou hoped.”
    â€œI know it,” she said.
    â€œSusanna,” he said, speaking slowly in a hard tone, “nobody touches my hair. My hair is my power.”
    She held his fierce gaze. The moonlight was streaming in now, yellow and wild, bringing out the copper lights in his skin.
    â€œI didn’t know the Cherokee believed that,” she said.
    â€œMost do. We of