she could see that. They were stuck here, possibly for several days—she refused to think it could be any longer than that!—and to argue about such a trivial matter when their lives could ultimately be in jeopardy was fruitless. ‘This is stupid.’ She stood up with impatient movements, the blanket securely in place. ‘We're alone out here, and somehow we have to survive, any unpleasantness between us is pointless.'
For a moment he seemed to hesitate, then he too stood up. ‘I'll put something on your forehead.'
‘It doesn't really hurt—–'
‘No senseless arguments, remember?’ he mocked, as he opened the full medicine cabinet kept in the kitchen area.
She stood perfectly still while he administered to the cuts on her forehead, doing her best not to look up at him, although it wasn't easy in the circumstances. A faint aroma of male aftershave clung to his skin, and with this came the realisation that he already had more than just a five o'clock shadow. Obviously he was one of those men who needed to shave twice a day.
‘You'll have to grow a beard,’ she said inconsequentially, blushing as he looked down at her with taunting grey eyes. And for someone who rarely blushed she was doing it a lot lately. Somehow this man had the power to make her feel incredibly young, gauche almost. It wasn't a pleasant sensation.
‘I guess I can stand that if you can,’ he drawled.
‘What do you mean?’ she frowned.
He finished putting the adhesive tape in place. ‘I've been told that a beard doesn't suit me.'
She felt sure that it wasn't so much that it wouldn't suit him; it would just cover too much of that ruggedly handsome face, would make him look almost demonic. ‘I can stand it,’ she muttered, turning away. ‘I'll get our dinner now.'
She was aware of those watchful grey eyes on her as she worked, was unaware of how attractive she looked with her hair soft about her makeupless face, the blanket revealing more of the perfection of her body than she realised—or would have wanted had she known.
Now that they had decided not to argue they seemed to have little to say to each other, the impromptu stew she had made from the tinned meat and dried vegetables eaten in silence.
‘You really can cook,’ Kyle said appreciatively after downing two platefuls. ‘We could do with you out here at branding time, Charlie is the worst cook I know.'
She gave the ghost of a smile at his attempt at light conversation, exhaustion making her slow to react to what she knew was a standard joke at the Double K. Everyone made derogatory remarks about Charlie Peterson's cooking, but Shelby had a feeling it was done more out of affection for the old man than from any real truth. ‘Your aunt told me she taught him herself,’ she said as she cleared the table of their crockery, putting it in the soapy water she had boiled.
Kyle grimaced. ‘That statement should speak for itself.'
Helen Whitney was one of the best cooks she had ever met; now she knew the jokes were only teasing. Kenny's mother ran the ranch-house with an iron will that matched that of her nephew, and Shelby had come to like her very much.
‘Let me do this,’ Kyle gently moved her away from the sink, his expression searching. ‘You look as if you're about all in. Get some sleep now, everything will seem different in the morning.'
She certainly hoped so, because everything seemed very bleak right now! Maybe tomorrow she would have the strength and mental capacity to ask him exactly what he had meant about Kenny. Right now she just wanted to sleep.
She did exactly that as soon as her head touched the pillow, heavily at first, and then the dreams began to intrude, dark frightening dreams of the snow falling in on her and burying her, bringing her to startled wakefulness. She looked about her dazedly for several minutes, despair washing over her as she realised where she was.
One of the lamps still burnt low in the cabin, and glancing at the man who slept across the room from her Shelby knew it wasn't for Kyle's benefit. He lay on his back, the face that could often be harsh and derisive smoothed out to look incredibly handsome, although the darkness of the beard that was already forming gave him a rugged look. His quilt had fallen back almost to his waist, his deeply tanned chest covered with dark wiry hair. It was a long time since she had seen a man even partially naked, and it was even more disturbing that Kyle Whitney should now be that man.
She turned away abruptly, feeling almost guilty for noticing the hard planes of his body, the skin a deep mahogany colour. She was in love with Kenny, and the attraction of his cynical cousin didn't matter to her!
And yet her gaze was drawn again and again to him, sleep eluding her. It sounded as if it were snowing again outside, and her heart sank at this further obstacle to them getting away from here, a closed-in feeling enveloping her until she began to move about restlessly.
‘Can't you sleep?'
She turned sharply at the sound of that soft rasp, blinking as she saw Kyle Whitney was now turned on his side as he leaned on his elbow looking across at her. She moistened her lips nervously. ‘I'm sorry if I woke you,’ her own voice came out in a whisper too.
‘You didn't,’ he dismissed. ‘Does your head ache?'
‘My head…?'
‘Where you fell and knocked it earlier,’ he explained patiently.
‘Oh. No,’ she shook her head. ‘I—It feels fine.'
‘Then why aren't you asleep?'
How could she tell him it was because the sight of his nakedness had disturbed her! God, she must be going insane, or snow-crazy! She disliked Kyle Whitney, and he despised her, so how could she possibly be physically disturbed by him?
‘Shelby?'
She shivered as she turned to find narrowed grey eyes on her. ‘I—It was the storm outside,’ she invented.
‘Was it?’ He clearly wasn't convinced.
She gave him a startled look. Surely he hadn't been able to guess the intimacy of her thoughts a few minutes ago? ‘I don't know what you mean?’ she frowned.
Kyle sat up completely, wrapping a blanket around his waist as he moved to throw more logs on the fire, his expression harsh as he stared down into the leaping flames.
‘Kyle?’ she prompted at his prolonged silence.
The eyes he turned on her were flinty with contempt. ‘Are you finding it lonely already?’ he rasped.
All colour left her face as he once again verbally attacked her. ‘I told you,’ she was breathing erratically, ‘I'm used to sleeping alone.'
‘But you aren't alone, are you,’ he pointed out as he crossed the room towards her.
She blinked as his meaning became crystal clear, realising how dangerous he could be in this frame of mind. ‘We don't even like each other—–'
‘Does that matter?’ he scorned.
‘To me, yes!’ she answered indignantly.
‘Why?’ He sat on the edge
