From chapter 19
A lantern hung from the center post,
shedding smoky light that didn’t reach the gloomy corners of the tent. Diana
brushed snarls out of her hair and pulled down the wool sleeves of her
underwear. Outside a rising wind stirred the pines, sawing branches together,
scattering needles onto the canvas roof.
She shivered and hugged her arms. Her
bedding, blankets arranged on a thin mattress, looked cold and uninviting. Why
hadn't she asked one of the cowhands to bring some heated rocks from the
campfire? Where was her brain? Still listening to Del as he chided her for
skimming the surface of the ocean he called life?
A chilly draft swept her back. She
whirled. As if she had conjured him up, Del stood in shadows at the entrance,
one hand holding his hat, the other clasping the neck of a bottle.
"Del--" Tremors in her
voice betrayed her excited dread. "You have no right to be here."
Her dread increased as he let his hat
fall and stepped forward, his face emerging in the light. There was something
predatory in his half-closed eyes. Something hungry.
"Why?" The soft-spoken word
seemed fraught with danger. His gaze moved over her in a slow sweep and he
swayed, groping for the center post to steady himself. The lantern swung and
grotesque shadows careened across the canvas walls. He raised the bottle to his
lips.
She shook her head. Drunk.
Disgusting.
"See, the men got a wager. Some
say you wear black to bed. Reckon they’re wrong. Man's clothes, man's red
underwear. An' I was hoping to see the flawless design."
No sense to his words. No reason for
heat forming in her cheeks, spreading to her neck and down. She said, "You
can make your report and leave me to myself."
“C’mon, Miz Russell, don't you want
some of this good whiskey?" He lifted the bottle and shook his head. A
grin twitched his mouth. "Sorry. None left to warm you--"
The bottle slid from his hand. He
took several steps, stumbled, and half fell against her. She grabbed his
shoulders, strained to stabilize him. At once locked in a ponderous embrace,
she stared into glazed silver eyes mere inches from hers. He bunched her hair
to one side and dragged his fingers down the center of her back, igniting all
her senses.
And she was the one sliding, falling,
and he was supporting her. He lowered his face to hers. She averted her head
and his lips brushed her cheek.
“I’ll warm you myself, China
Doll." He squeezed her chin and turned her face to his.
She opened her mouth, whispered,
"Don't--" but her protest was crushed by the stubborn press of his
lips. He tasted like whiskey and she herself was intoxicated. She clutched at
his jacket collar. It was fur, maybe wolf, thick and shaggy like his hair.
--Cat
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