Jessica delighted in the camaraderie of their kinship as women.
A call from one of the men broke the air, interrupting the soft chatter, and they hushed as a male voice bespoke impatience at keeping watch.
“That’s my David,” Arlois confided. “I think he’s getting anxious to crawl under the wagon with me. I told him last night he smelled like a warthog.”
Jessica joined in the wash of laughter, and with the others completed her ablutions in haste. Another such occasion might not present itself for several days, possibly not even before they arrived in Council Grove, and they would not ruin another opportunity by lingering overlong in the water.
Quickly they donned their nightwear and together they trooped up the rise to where two of the men waited. David Bates motioned them to walk ahead, ready to escort them back to the circle of wagons. The other men hastened to the water, and within seconds Jessica heard the splashing of bodies in the stream as the men sought the depths at the middle of the expanse in which to bathe.
David whispered a quick word in Arlois’s ear before he loped back to the stream, and she laughed aloud, leading the way between two wagons into the light of the campfires. Seeking their wagons, the women were the object of male eyes from every corner, the men obviously enjoying the sight of females in various styles of robes and wrappers, their hair falling damply down their backs.
Jessica sat on her chunk of wood beside her dying fire, toweling her hair, then drawing her comb through its length, a process that involved long moments of unsnarling the waves that resisted her attempts to curb their tendency to corkscrew. Her fingers tamed it finally, and she worked hastily to form a long braid, aware of watching eyes. Then, with awkward movements, she arose and began the process of climbing into her wagon bed.
Her knee became tangled in her gown and she teetered for a few seconds, almost falling before she managed to gain the inside. Her wrapper slid off and she folded it, then tugged her feather tick to the floor, where it covered almost half the available space. Four feet wide, the wagon held all she owned, most of her belongings stacked along the sides, only leaving enough room for her to make her way from one end to the other.
Even with the chairs Lyle had tied on the outside and the heavy objects dangling beneath, the contents would barely make enough furnishings for one room once she arrived in Colorado.
Her quilt sailed wide and settled on the feather tick, and once more she was thankful she’d dug in her heels and insisted on bringing it along, even over Lyle’s protests. It was her only luxury, comforting her body each night. From the river, she could still hear the men’s voices, raised in laughter. Perhaps another night one of them might make his way to her wagon, might climb in to join her on her bed.
The stark memory of Lyle sharing her bed caused her to tremble, and for a moment she wondered if ever she would welcome a male presence beside her. The blessing was that she no longer had to fear a cuff from a closed fist or a slap from his narrow, gambler’s hand. The sound of Dave’s low voice, speaking teasingly in masculine tones caught her ear and she thought of Arlois, waiting for him to join her beneath their wagon.
The thought that she might one day welcome a man lured her beyond her fear and she envisioned golden hair and blue eyes that smiled on her with approval.
Without a moment’s regret for the loss of the husband she’d buried only yesterday, she recognized the depth of the attraction to Finn Carson that had gripped her so quickly. Refusing to allow the burden of guilt to weigh on her shoulders, she thumped her pillow and nestled it beneath her head as she spread a sheet over herself.
She’d done her best to be a good wife to Lyle, and had only years of neglect and abuse to show for it. The blame for her unhappiness rested on the gambler she’d spent four years trying to please, and now she was free from the millstone her marriage had become. Her sigh was deep as she settled herself to sleep.
But in only moments she heard her name spoken in an undertone, and at the sound her eyelids flew open. “Jessica? Are you awake?”
“Yes.” It was all she could manage to whisper as she crawled from beneath the sheet and made her way to where he stood, the wooden rear panel of the wagon rising between them. She knelt, leaning her forearms on the barrier, and looked up at him. He was in the shadow of the wagon, but his hair glimmered silver, and she could barely resist the urge to touch its damp length as he looked down at her.
“What do you want?” Her voice was a hushed whisper, and Finn swallowed the answer that begged to be spoken aloud.
You. Just you. Instead, he murmured quiet words of concern. Did she need anything? Was she all right?
His hand brushed against strands of hair waving about her face, and he rued the braid she’d formed to tame the heavy fall, wishing with all his heart that he might see it undone in the moonlight, might wrap his fingers in its length. He watched as her slender hands moved to settle on the piece of wood that separated them, noted how she clutched at it, and dropped his own hand to rest beside hers.
If he bent just a little, he thought…if she tilted her head just so…if only there weren’t others nearby.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, drawing him from his fanciful meandering. “Thank you for planning the jaunt to the stream. The women were all so pleased, and I haven’t been clean all over at the same time for longer than I want to think about.”
It was silent for a moment, only the sound of fractured breathing apparent as Jessica inhaled and then allowed her breath to pass through soft lips that opened as if she would speak again.
And then she tilted her head—just so—and he bent, just a bit.
Without a twinge of regret, his lips touched hers, lingered for a moment and then retreated. “Good night,” he said, aware that his voice was rough, his breathing rapid, and his arousal apparent. He turned aside to walk in the darkness outside the circle of wagons. His horse was tied to the wagon he normally slept beneath, and he quickly exchanged halter for bridle and reins, and then with one leap was astride the animal.
He wouldn’t be gone more than twenty minutes or so, he figured—just long enough for his body to resume its usual condition—before he sought his bed. Although his normal condition these days was one of longing for a woman who was patently still off-limits to him, at least until he could get a ring on her finger.
A woman who held a deed to property he’d vowed to retrieve the day he’d stood by his brother’s grave. A woman whose husband had fired a bullet into Aaron Carson and then set off to claim his gold strike and the property surrounding it.
A woman who was unaware of Finn’s dual purpose in courting her.
Jessica Beaumont. The woman he intended to claim as his own.
Chapter Four
Laundry was the order of the day, with rope lines strung between wagons, where a motley assortment of clothing was hung to dry in the hot sun. Men carried baskets of trousers and shirts, dresses and undergarments up from the stream, and their womenfolk reached high to drape them higgledy-piggledy over the lines. Those men without wives did their own or paid out good cash money to willing ladies who were not averse to accepting their coins.
The children ran wild, as if it were a holiday, and even though they were ever under the watchful eyes of their parents, they splashed downstream in the water and played tag beneath the trees. The noon meal was taken together, the womenfolk carrying food from their
