The Barefoot Bride Page 3

  Saxon continued to cling to the bedpost, amazed at her strength. He felt thoroughly foolish holding on to the post like some terrified virgin, but there was no way in hell he was going to let her carry him.

  "I don't recall saying I wanted to stay with you, Miss McBride."

  She rolled her eyes. "'Pears to me I'm gwine have to take you outen here a-willin' or not." She took Saxon's wrist and squeezed until his fingers unfurled from around the post. Saxon reached up to yank her hand away, but a wave of pain rolled through his body, weakening his efforts.

  Chickadee took both his hands captive and frowned down at him. "I jist want to hep you, mister. But iffen you'd ruther not have my hep, I'll git shed o' you and leave you outen in the woods to tend to yoresef. One thang fer shore though—you ain't a-stayin' here!"

  Saxon pulled his hands out of her grasp. "It was never my intention to intrude on the Beasleys' hospitality, but I'm perfectly able to walk out of here by myself!"

  "Then git up."

  Saxon started to do just that when he remembered his nakedness. "Mrs. Beasley, would you mind getting my clothes please?" She handed them to him, and he looked at his three observers expectantly. "Well? Do I have to dress with half the world watching me?"

  George Franklin snickered. "You-uns hear what he said? Half the world, and us jist three people."

  "Stay and hep him inter his pants, George Franklin," Chickadee said. She muttered something and then laughed as she and Betty Jane left the cabin.

  Saxon felt indignant. What right did that half-man girl have to treat him this way? She was undoubtedly the crudest, most ill-mannered human being he'd ever met!

  "Reckon you better git into these breeches, son," George Franklin advised. "Chickadee'll come back and git you iffen you ain't out thar soon."

  With much aid from George Franklin, Saxon dressed. He cursed the wave of weakness that engulfed him and resisted the temptation to sit back down on the bed. He was a man, and by God, no mountain chit was going to prove otherwise! He made his way unsteadily out of the cabin.

  "Chickadee, let him stay, least till his fever's gone," Betty Jane said, watching Saxon totter on the porch step. "It ain't fittin' fer you-uns to be a-stayin' in the same cabin no how. That Saxon Blackwell's a man, and yore a girl."

  "He ain't gwine stay here, and that's it. He tries somethin' with me, I'll shoot him. He ain't that bad hurt, and you-uns don't need no outlander to worry over. He's my responsibility, and I aim to—"

  "I am no one's responsibility, Miss McBride." Saxon careened off the rickety porch and staggered to Hagen. He opened one of his saddlebags, pulled out a few bills, and handed the money to Betty Jane. "I'm grateful for the care you gave me, Mrs. Beasley. I hope this will cover the cost of the medicine and shoulder bandage."

  Her eyes caressed the money before she thrust it back at Saxon. "Them yarbs didn't cost me a thang, and I ain't acceptin' no payment fer that rag wrapped around yore shoulder. 'Sides that, them that's friends don't need no thanky."

  "And I am, indeed, honored to have you both as friends," he said to her and her husband. Making a great show of ignoring Chickadee, he turned to Hagen and grabbed the saddle. He lifted his foot to the stirrup, but the pain in his shoulder prevented him from mounting.

  Chickadee's dazzling white grin taunted him. "Want a leg up?"

  He didn't deign to answer. Scanning his surroundings, he spied a tree stump, led Hagen to it, and stood on it to mount. Without so much as a nod to Chickadee, he clicked to Hagen and rode out of the yard.

  He'd only ridden a short way down the flowered path when he shuddered violently. A cold chill, like icy sleet, settled over him before he crashed to the ground.

  *

  He didn't have to open his eyes to know where he was. Chickadee's image burst into his pulsating head, and he knew without a doubt he was in her cabin and in her bed. Naked again. He stifled his groan of embarrassment.

  There was no help for it. He was as weak as hell and knew there was no way he could leave without passing out. Damn that bear! Damn these hills, and damn his cursed body for betraying him at such an inopportune time!

  But most of all, damn Chickadee McBride!

  "Ain't no use a-pretendin' yore asleep, Saxon Blackwell. I can see yore eyeballs a-twitchin', and I know yore awake."

  He opened one eye. She was sitting on the floor atop a bearskin rug, her wolf beside her. He wondered which of the two was the more feral. "Why does everyone keep taking off my pants? My wounds are on my back and shoulder, not my... uh..."

  "Yore ass?" Chickadee stood and crossed to the fireplace.

  As she opened the lid of her pot, the most nauseating odor Saxon had ever smelled permeated the room. "What are you cooking? Your dirty socks?"

  Chickadee stopped stirring and shook the wooden spoon at him. "I ain't a-takin' no more sass offen you, hear? This ain't socks, you worthless cuss. It's greens!"

  "It smells awful."

  Chickadee sniffed the air. "Smells like pokeweeds to me. And it don't matter how they smell no how. Yer gwine eat 'em."

  Saxon punched his pillow. "I don't want any."

  Chickadee stuck her spoon into the top of her breeches and went to the bed. Staring up at her, muleheadedness written all over his face, was the most aggravating man she'd ever met. Still, with his muscular body, coal-black hair, straight nose, high cheekbones, and sky-blue eyes, it wasn't too much of an effort to look at him.

  She touched the cleft in his chin. "Why ain't you got no beard? I heared about this cure? Well, it says iffen you put cream on yore face and let a cat lick it off, you'll grow a lavish o' hair thar. Ain't you man enough to grow hair withouten no cat to hep you?"

  Saxon managed to squelch a string of profanities. "The question, Miss McBride, is why don't you have a beard? As masculine as you are, surely you have to shave every morning to keep people from guessing your real sex. Perhaps you have a bit on your chest?"

  She slapped her knee and laughed. "Why don't you and me make us a peace? I ain't much fer feudin', and thangs'd be a sight easier betwixt us iffen we could get along whilst yore a-mendin'." She held out her hand.

  Warily, Saxon shook it. "How long do you think it'll be before my wounds heal?"

  "Well, a-seein' as how yore a outlander and you ain't been a-takin' yore pain too good so fur, it'll prob'ly be—"

  "The worst pain I've got right now is you!" Saxon glared at her, his pride hurting more than his injuries. "Good Lord, woman! How the hell would you act if a bear shredded your back to ribbons?"

  "I got more sense'n to leave my gun whar I cain't reach it so's a bahr could git me. And yore back ain't no ribbons. It's got a scratch on it, but it ain't near as bad as yore a-sayin' it is. Yore the complainin'est man I ever—"

  "You—"

  "Jist last year, we was all a-huntin' this bahr, and ole T.J. Howe? Well, that bahr got him good. Lost his leg, T.J. did, but nary a time did I hear him say nothin' about no pain. He tuk it all like a man."

  It was all Saxon could do not to reach up and strangle her. "I am a man, Miss McBride. But I'm made of blood, bone, guts, and nerves. I'm not made of steel like you mountain people are!"

  Chickadee giggled. Her brilliant smile caught him off guard, and despite his tremendous irritation, he couldn't help returning her grin.

  "We ain't made o' steel, Saxon Blackwell. We're the same as you. We jist don't bellyache as much." With that, she turned and went back to the hearth. She filled two bowls with the greens and carried them back to the bed.

  Saxon grimaced at the meal she placed in his hand. "Isn't there anything else to eat?"

  "Sow belly, but it ain't cooked. Want it raw?" She smiled at the look of revulsion on his face and went to sit back down on the rug.

  Tentatively, Saxon tasted a bit of the food. It wasn't unpalatable, but the taste was rather strong for his liking. "If you changed the water several times while you cooked these greens, they probably wouldn't be so... so potent."

  "No, don't reck
on they would. But iffen I was to do that, the pot likker wouldn't be no good."

  "Pot liquor?"

  "The juice. The cookin' water. Richens the blood y'know." She finished her meal, set her bowl aside, and began to ruffle through her wolf's fur. "Khan's prone to fleas. Ever' now and then I pick 'em offen him. Gits ticks too. You ever shooted ticks offen a wall?"

  Saxon placed his bowl on the table by the bed. "No, I've never had the thrill."

  "Well, you wait till thur nice and fat, and then you pick 'em offen the animule. Rub 'em in a little sap and they stick real good to the side o' a wall. Once thur up thar, you shoot 'em. Iffen you hit 'em, they splatter all over. Me and T.J. Howe used to have contests up yonder at Misery's ole place, but we shooted up his walls so bad, he got riled. He didn't have no call to git so riled, neither. He warn't even a-livin' at that place no more. Builded hissef a new cabin, but he still guards that ole one jist like he did when he lived in it. Ain't no more'n a broken-down shack, but to hear him tell it, it's a castle."

  Rather than being harsh to his ears, her mountain dialect was curiously soothing to Saxon. And her voice had a pleasing lilt to it, almost as if she were singing.

  "Saxon? You hear what I said?" She fixed her green eyes on him.

  Saxon was hard-pressed to escape their hypnotic spell. "What? Oh. Yes, I heard every word. Who's Misery?"

  "Orneriest man ever lived. Ole Misery's jist about as a-grouchin' as you are. His real name's Caleb Brown, but we call him Misery on account o' no one's ever met up with him when he warn't a-totin' some misery or another."

  "I thought mountain people didn't complain."

  "Most of 'em don't. Course, thur's allus a bad apple. Misery's the bad-un around here."

  "So where do you do your tick shooting now?" He rolled to his side so his view of her was better.

  "Ain't done none since T.J. Howe lost his leg. Reckon I could do it by mysef, but it ain't fun withouten no lay."

  "A lay? So you gamble?" Maybe she really was half man, he chuckled to himself.

  "Not fer money. Ain't none o' us got too much o' that up here. Afore T.J. Howe lost his leg, the loser'd have to chop the winner's wood. 'Course, now that he ain't got but one leg, I chop his wood fer him fer nothin'. Brang him and his sister, Liza, meat too."

  "That's a kind thing for you to do."

  "T.J.'d do the same fer me. Folks up here take keer o' one another. Ain't it the same whar yore from?"

  "Being neighborly has no specific place in this world."

  She cocked her head sideways, her red hair falling over her breast. "Then why'd you act so dang-blasted hotheaded today when I was a-tryin' to hep you?"

  "I'm not used to women like you. I apologize."

  Satisfied with his answer, Chickadee nodded and went to the bed. "It's a-gittin' late. Move over."

  Saxon's eyebrow rose rakishly. Things were moving right along, it seemed. Was this how he was to repay her? Well, she was a pretty bit of female, he mused. And they were alone in a secluded cabin. And it had been weeks since he'd bedded a woman.

  He started to move over for her. But as he did, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder. If he could barely slide over in the bed without his wound aching, how could he perform in it?

  Chickadee sighed impatiently. "I said move—"

  "I heard you!"

  "Then git over so's I can git in too!"

  His shoulder throbbed painfully. What if he tried making love to her and couldn't do it? Weighing the risks, he decided a wound to his pride would be infinitely worse than the one to his shoulder. "I thought you were going to sleep on the rug," he finally said.

  Chickadee turned and looked at the bearskin. "That's a skin, and I ain't a-sleepin' on it when I got this bed right here."

  Saxon bunched up the quilt around him and proceeded to get out of the bed. Chickadee pushed him back. "Whar you gwine?"

  "The bearskin looks comfortable enough to me. This is your bed, and you've every right to it."

  Chickadee wrinkled her nose. "We can share the bed."

  As soon as I'm able, he promised her silently and stood, his head reeling. Chickadee allowed him to go, a mischievous grin on her face as she slipped into bed. Propping herself up on her elbow, she watched Saxon shuffle to the bearskin.

  As Saxon neared it, Khan's head went up. When he came closer, the wolf eyed him warily, and when his toes touched the edge of the rug, the animal bared his teeth. Saxon jumped back immediately. As he did, he stepped on the quilt and accidentally yanked it out of his hands.

  The sight of his bare backside brought a peal of laughter from Chickadee. When Saxon bent to retrieve the blanket, Khan snapped at his hand, and Chickadee could barely control herself. She laughed so hard, the bed shook.

  Saxon never took his eyes off Khan. He wanted nothing more than to turn around and beat what little sense she possessed out of Chickadee, but he didn't dare. The wolf was snarling, and nude or not, Saxon wouldn't have moved a muscle if the Queen of England herself had been behind him.

  Speaking quietly, he asked, "You knew he was going to do that, didn't you?"

  "Yep."

  "Why didn't you warn me?"

  "Some thangs are better larnt by yoresef. Now you know that thar skin belongs to Khan. He don't mind you a-settin' on it durin' the day, but he don't share it at night."

  Saxon let out a slow breath. "Well, now that you've belatedly informed me of that fact and had your laugh for the day, would you mind helping me out of this predicament?"

  "Git yoresef outen it. Yore a man, ain't you?"

  Her challenge narrowed his eyes. Hesitantly, he bent for the quilt, and once again Khan growled. "Chickadee, come over here and help me before I've got his teeth marks on me as well as those of the bear."

  "Say please. Don't you got no manners?"

  He gritted his teeth. "Please."

  Chickadee snapped her fingers, and Khan laid his head back down and closed his eyes. Saxon reached to the floor and jerked up the quilt. He whirled on Chickadee and started toward her, but another low growl from Khan warned him that what he had in mind would be a grave mistake. So angry he could barely see straight, he searched the room for any other place he could possibly sleep. There was none. The bed, with Chickadee, was his only choice.

  "You afeared I'll rape you? Is that why you don't want to sleep with me?"

  His jaw dropped. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever—"

  "Don't think I could do it, do you?"

  "I've no doubt at all you could, were the circumstances right, but there are other factors to be considered."

  "Y'mean yore wounds?"

  He swallowed his impatience. He'd never imagined he'd one day be standing naked in some mountain cabin with a brute of a girl talking about her raping him. And the addle-brained little thing didn't even realize why it was impossible! For someone who was obviously well-acquainted with the sight of male anatomy, she sure didn't understand much about how it worked.

  "Since you're taking great pleasure in trying to embarrass me, Miss McBride, allow me the same pleasure. Could it be that under that experienced exterior of yours there lurks a virgin?"

  She smiled at him, not at all flustered. "I ain't never laid with a man afore. T.J. Howe kissed me once, but I didn't like it much so I never let him do it agin. Buck Hawkins tried to touch my tit last year whilst we was a-pickin' blackberries, but I hauled off and let him have it. He ain't never bothered me agin."

  "Then why did you bring up the subject of rape? If you don't know what lovemaking is all about, how do you think it possible to violate me?"

  This was the most ludicrous conversation he'd ever had with anyone in his whole life. But as absurd as it was, he was determined to see it through and back Chickadee into a corner out of which she couldn't escape. Surely with the Harvard education he had, he could beat this little mountain twit at her own game.

  And the best way to do it would be to call her bluff.

  "Well?" he pressed.


  She watched the mellow reflection of firelight sway through the ice-blue of his eyes, and a funny little feeling jumped around inside her. "I seed animules a-doin' it. Don't look to me like thur's much to it."

  He raised his eyebrow. "Oh, really? Would you care to try it then?"

  She laid back down and stared at the ceiling.

  Saxon sported a triumphant grin, sure he'd bested her. He walked-to the bed, but just before he got into it, she answered his question.

  "I'm gwine on eighteen. Ain't old, but I reckon it's old enough. Shore, I'll try it with you."

  Saxon's knee slid off the bed. Without a word, he went to the farthest corner of the room and spent a long, uncomfortable night there.

  *

  The aroma of simmering meat woke him. His fever was gone, his back felt fine, and his shoulder didn't hurt as much as he expected it would. What sort of mysterious medicine was in Betty Jane's puffballs?

  Her back to him, Chickadee didn't realize he was awake, and he was content to watch her move about. She was humming some happy tune, her red curls bouncing on her slight shoulders. Her arms were as slender as the branches of a young tree, her waist was about as big as his thigh, and her bottom was small and firm. That amazing strength she possessed was apparently in her legs, he decided. Though she was doing nothing but ambling from corner to corner, he could see the ropes of muscle beneath her breeches.

  Chickadee heaped meat onto a plate and carried it to a small hickory table that already held a platter of eggs and bread. This done, she wiped her hands on the sides of her breeches and turned toward Saxon.

  "How long you been a-gawkin' at me?" She looked away from his penetrating, robin's-egg-blue gaze, finding it strangely disturbing.

  "Awhile," he answered lazily.

  His voice, like a fresh mountain breeze, cooled her despite the warmth of the cabin. Unaccustomed to the shivery feelings, she shrugged them off. "Well, come on and git yore mouth greased up. Once these vittles is cold, that's the way you'll eat 'em. I ain't gwine keep 'em hotted fer you."

  Saxon dressed quickly, no easy task since he held on to the quilt at the same time. Then he joined Chickadee at the table and helped himself to a generous portion of the meal. Cool, delicious water accompanied it, and Saxon couldn't remember ever enjoying a breakfast as much. As they ate, he tried to draw Chickadee into conversation, but she only muttered short answers and never once looked up from her plate.