He holds up his hand in warning. “Best not saysafeout loud ’round me.” The fire cracks and he brings the cigarette to his lips, drawing hard. “Attracts bad weather,” he says, words mixed with smoke as he exhales.
The stars are in their familiar places. All the preparation, the setting aside of coin and tinned rations—would I have had the nerve to venture out alone? All I needed was a pistol. Yet, Gideon easily provided one. They were not hard to come by if I’d ever truly put my mind to it. Perhaps it is time to fortify myself. If he leaves me, I cannot languish.
“I suppose I would find a way to manage if I must continue alone.”
“I ain’t gettin’ rid of ya. I just can’t make no promises. Ain’t my nature. But for now?” He leans closer, elbows on his knees, the stars and fire alive in his eyes. “For now, I ain’t goin’ nowhere without you.”
For nowdoesn’t offer me much confidence. The stars twinkle above us, and perhaps I ought to pray for guidance. But no prayer comes, only the thrum of his words in my chest and the ghosts of what I’ve done.
As night stretches on, the subject of sleeping arrangements can no longer be ignored. There’s but one tent. One bedroll. The carriage is an option, I suppose, though it doesn’t offer much shelter unless one sleeps beneath it. The prospect is rather unpleasant.
I clear my throat. “I’ve readied a tent.”
“See that.”
We drift off into weary silence. Nocturnal creatures sing their songs in darkness, the firelight dancing on Kodiak’s rugged face.
“Perhaps we can take turns. I will sleep on the bedroll one night, and you?—”
He chuckles. “Ah, I see what you’re gettin’ at. You’re a proper lady and all that. Suppose stealin’ a kiss don’t give me license to lay beside you.”
The reminder of our brief intimacy sends a shiver rippling through me.
“I done without plenty’a times. Go ahead and take the tent; I’ll be fine by the fire.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
We speak of little things after—the road, the weather, how long the rations might last. His voice is low, almost gentle now, and I find myself wishing the night could stretch on forever. But weariness presses on me, heavy as the blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “Here,” I say, offering it to him. “The bedroll will be enough.”
“Thank you, lamb.”
The name he’s chosen for me makes me smile. “You’re quite welcome.”
I slip into the tent, lying back on the bedroll. Through the flap, I watch him stretch by the fire, the glow outlining the breadth of his shoulders, the long lines of his body as he settles down in the grass.
The fire pops and cracks. The wind stirs the leaves. And there he is, just a few paces away—so close I can almost feel his warmth. My breath quickens against my will. Foolish, improper thoughts churn in me, and I wonder if I was too hasty in insisting he stay outside. What harm would it be, really, to let him lie beside me? Yet I press my lips tight, willing myself still. Better to guard my virtue, even as my body aches for the opposite.
In the gray wash of dawn, I wake before him. Kodiak lies on his back, hat tipped low, one arm flung across his chest. The blanket has slid aside, leaving him half uncovered. My breath catches. Even at rest, the sight of him is indecent. The fabricstretched over a shape so large it makes my thoughts scatter. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I spin away, as if God himself had caught me sinning from the heavens.
To notice him is sin enough. To wonder is worse. And still, a treacherous thought rises in me, whispering how it might feel to have him pressed to me, inside me. My body answers with a quickening I cannot will away.
Horrified, I whisper a prayer.
Perhaps it was only the trousers. A poor fit, that was all. Yet the seams strained as though ready to give way. Had I packed needle and thread?
I busy myself with the kettle, pouring water over the last of the coffee grounds just to keep my hands from trembling. When I glance back, Kodiak stirs, dragging in a long breath. He stretches slowly before pushing himself up on an elbow. His hazel eyes catch me quick, sharp even in half sleep.
“You’re up early.” His voice is rough with sleep.
I keep my back turned, fussing over the tin cups. “Couldn’t rest.”
He hums, the sound deep in his chest, and I hear the shift of fabric as he sits straighter. The sound alone brings back the indecent image. How could a man so sinful be made so perfectly?
He takes the cup I hand him, his fingers brushing mine. Warmth flashes, traitorous, through me.
“Well,” he says, blowing steam from the rim, “ain’t every day a man wakes under open sky with coffee waitin’—and a pretty face makin’ it for him.”
Curse the way his compliment tingles on my skin. I duck my head, pretending to mind the fire.
