grunted his agreement and opened the door on the stove to gauge what he was dealing with. A moment later, he slipped off his jacket and tugged his T-shirt over his head.
“What are you doing?” Merritt gasped.
“These are the only clothes I own at the moment. I’d like to avoid ruining them.”
The last man she’d seen in this state of undress had been her stepbrother, Dennis, whose skin was as pale as a corpse with a beer belly that hung so far over his jeans he resembled cupcake batter overflowing a pan. In comparison, there wasn’t an ounce of flesh on Cain Paxton’s bronze body that wasn’t hard muscle.
“But you’ll burn yourself.”
Testing the side of the stove with his hand, Cain shrugged. “It’s cooled down quite a bit. It shouldn’t be too bad. I’ll need you to help, though.” He pulled the stem from the outside of the flue and the subsequent rattle and thud was indication enough that the old damper fell into the remaining few coals. “See this?” He showed her the steel pin with its twisted end designed for control by hand of the level of airflow. “When I stick the new damper up into the stack, you watch through that hole. When these slots are aligned to the opening, you stick this pin back through. You have to slip it all the way and make it come out the other side of the stack. Understood?”
“Is that even possible?” The slots weren’t half the width of her pinky nail—and she’d heard too often than she had the hands of a preteen.
“It better be, or you’ll freeze tonight as all of the heat rushes up and out of here through the stack.” After opening the stove door, he nodded. “The buildup of ashes over the remaining coals will help suppress the heat,” he said, lowering himself to his knees. “I’ll leave them until I’m done.”
Merritt didn’t think he would get so much as his head and a shoulder into the opening, but he managed. Nevertheless, it took several tries to get the damper replaced, partly because Merritt’s hands were shaking from nervousness, partly because Cain had difficulty maintaining the correct position. But—after several muffled curses from him—suddenly the pin slid all the way through and out the opposite hole.
“Thank God,” she whispered, almost weak with relief.
“As soon as I clean up, I’ll get rid of those ashes and get you that wood,” Cain said, trying not to touch his jeans as he rose to his feet.
Merritt saw how filthy he had indeed gotten on her behalf. “Please, the bathroom is to the left just before you go out the back door.” She pointed through the kitchen. “Help yourself to soap and towels. Whatever you need. I really am grateful for your help, Mr. Paxton.”
“The name is Cain. The only Mr. Paxton in these parts wouldn’t take kindly to hearing you using his name in reference to me.” Cain grimaced at his hands and the soot smeared over his arms and chest. “Do you have a couple of old rags? I don’t want to ruin any frilly lady things. This creosote won’t wash out easily.”
As she wiped at a miniscule streak of soot on her hands, Merritt felt another blush threaten. “I don’t own any frilly things. You use what you need to, and I’ll put on a kettle for tea. You’ll welcome that after being out in the wind again.”
Chapter Two
As he headed for the bathroom, Cain’s mood soured anew. He didn’t want any tea, he wanted a beer … or better yet something stronger. But he doubted Miss Merritt Miller had ever tasted anything more potent than Communion grape juice, let alone allowed anything alcoholic in her house. That was yet another reason to get out of here, he thought, shutting the door behind himself.
It was ironic that he’d arrived in town early this morning with a deep-seated fire in his belly for justice; however, he’d barely begun digesting breakfast, and this scrawny, ghost-pale woman had succeeded in resurrecting the last two or three ounces of human compassion left in him and thrown him off his plan. He’d had no choice but to help her; there was no way she could have managed to repair the stove herself. Hell, he thought, gingerly checking the spots on his inner right arm and abdomen, he’d gotten burned himself a couple of times on the still-hot metal.
No telling what all needed attention around the place, he mused as he turned on the hot water tap and started soaping his hands. He remembered the house being old when he was a kid. Alvie and her first, then second, husband were living there then. And a baby. To the best of his recollection, the child had died in infancy—some influenza that had wreaked havoc on the area.
The Miller girl was keeping things spotless, he would give her that. As he noted the neatly folded, dark blue towel on the rack, which would do nicely for drying off, he figured she would get all puffed if she knew he was thinking of her as a girl—she was probably in her mid-twenties. But she didn’t need him thinking of her as a woman. Having been deprived of female company for over three years—counting the months he’d gone crazy sitting in the county jail while his worthless public defender was bulldozed by Paxton money and influence—his fingers itched to bury themselves in Merritt Miller’s lush brown hair. She wore it in a loose braid down her back, and not once did it sweep saucily across her cute butt. She was that quiet and steady of a mover. Everything moderated and even, despite the hip—maybe because of it.
Her scent was here, which made sense—it was the soap. Simple, clean. On her body it became feminine and delicate. Surrounded by it again, he breathed in deeply and almost groaned with pleasure. To regain his equilibrium, he leaned into the sink and scrubbed his face and hair. The amount of work it took reminded him that he needed a haircut. Badly.
He ended up having to use the hand towel as a washrag to get the soot off. By the time he was done, the burn on his belly and arm were seeping, so he checked the medicine cabinet for antibiotic ointment. He found it and a gauze pad for the worst one on his abdomen. He also found a package of throwaway razors. He’d inherited the Native American sparseness of body hair, but there was enough to get his attention, so he reached for one of the razors, too.
While there wasn’t much room to maneuver in the small confines, Cain took a small pleasure in the privacy of the closed door. That’s the one thing he had been most offended and affected by in prison. He was tempted to strip and step into the tub under the hot shower spray, but the little waitress didn’t deserve to be thrown into another tailspin. He did, however, let himself imagine her behind that clear plastic shower curtain, naked and sleek from the water sluicing down her body. Her head would be tilted way back, her wet hair cupping her sweet bottom the way he wanted to.
What is her story? he wondered as he hung the soaked towels over the shower rod. While hardly beautiful by today’s commercial standards, she had a child’s flawless skin and pleasant enough, though not remarkable, features. Her serious eyes were a shade lighter than her mahogany hair. When she wasn’t studying him like a dubious owl, there had been a sadness in their depths, and secrets. Those eyes would probably make heads turn if she used a little makeup, as would her mouth. It was small, but formed like a bud. Hell, he thought, if she just licked them moist, she could make a man lose his train of thought. If she would lick him—
A spasm in his groin reminded him that he’d been successful in the weight room and needed to look into getting a size larger jeans. He hissed as he adjusted his clothing, then slid on his T-shirt.
Get the damned wood for her and get out of here.
Yes, he had to go. Word would spread quickly that he was back, and he needed to move on to the reservation and see his grandmother. With the storm about to make driving
