Shannon left the bed in a rush and ran to one of the cabin’s two windows. Neither window had glass. Instead, they were covered with shutters that were solid but for a gun slit plugged by a rag. Despite the plug, cold air came through the slit in a ceaseless, invisible flow.
Removing the rag, Shannon eased the shutters apart just a bit and peeked out.
Whip was standing just fifteen feet away. Despite the cold, sleet-streaked dawn, he had taken off his thick jacket. The red of his wool shirt burned like wildfire in the gray light and heat lifted from his big body in tongues of mist.
Legs braced slightly apart, sleet lashing across his body, Whip lifted the heavy maul and brought it swiftly down on a round of fir. The wood split cleanly into half circles. He bent, set one of the halves on end, and brought the maul down again, splitting the wood once more.
The grace and power of Whip’s movements sent an add, glittering sensation from Shannon’s breastbone to her thighs. For a long time she stood motionless, watching the measured, masculine dance of maul and wood, strength and balance.
Finally a stray piece of sleet stung Shannon’s nose, breaking her trance. Shivering, stiff from not moving, she stepped back and eased the shutter closed, sealing out the icy dawn.
But there was no way Shannon could seal out the memory of Whip’s male beauty, the elegance and easy power of his body, and the heat rising like smoke from him s he warmed to the work.
Feeling almost light-headed, Shannon went about her morning tasks. Because she wouldn’t have to spend hours gathering downed wood in the forest to replace whatever she burned, she decided to make a hot breakfast.
Humming softly, not realizing that she was singing one of the tunes Whip played on his haunting flute, Shannon raked the coals in the wood stove to new life. She added wood and dipped up a bucket of steaming hot spring water, smiling in anticipation of breakfast.
One of Whip’s gifts to Shannon had been coffee beans. It had been two years since she had ground beans and made coffee, but she hadn’t forgotten how.
It wasn’t long before the smell of biscuits, bacon, coffee and a wood fire filled the cabin. When the coffee had brewed, Shannon carefully poured some from the battered kettle into an equally battered tin mug. Then she let herself out of the cabin and walked toward the man whose presence no longer alarmed her.
When Whip bent down to stand another log on end, he saw Shannon standing quietly a few feet from him. Sleet was tangled in her shiny chestnut hair. In her hands was a steaming cup of coffee.
She was holding the cup out to him.
Whip took it, careful not to touch Shannon as he did, even though he was wearing leather work gloves. He didn’t want to do anything to spook his shy mustang.
Not now.
Not when she was so close to eating from his hand.
«Thank you,» Whip said, his voice deep.
Shannon’s breath caught.
«You’re welcome, Whip.»
Her voice was as sweet and husky as Whip had remembered. Smoke and honey combined. Hearing him name on her lips was like being licked by a tender flame.
And looking at Shannon was like breathing pure fire.
Her eyes were sapphire gems gleaming in the midst of the colorless dawn. Her silky chestnut hair had refused to be completely confined by braids. Soft tendrils escaped to brush against her cheeks and curl against her vulnerable neck.
When the breath Shannon exhaled touched Whip in a silver rush, he breathed in deeply, hungry to touch her in even so small a way.
A color that had nothing to do with the cold dawn appeared on Shannon’s cheeks. Belatedly Whip realized he was staring at her. He lifted the tin cup to his mouth, silently cursing himself for acting like a boy who had never seen a pretty girl before.
«Careful!» Shannon said quickly, reaching out to prevent Whip from lifting the cup any farther.
Whip froze, but not because of the warning. Shannon’s fingers had slipped from his glove to rest on bare skin just above his wrist. Her fingers were warm, amazingly delicate, and smelled of spearmint. Her breath was the same.
The realization that Shannon had eaten mint so that she would smell sweet to him made Whip want to pull her into his arms and show her just how much he liked the taste of spearmint.
But he didn’t do it. He had come too far to lose his sweet, silky mustang by startling her into flight.
«The coffee is devilish hot,» Shannon explained.
Whip smiled, revealing teeth as clean and white as her own.
«It’s best that way,» he said slowly. «Hot. Steaming hot. And sweet.»
Shannon’s smile was a little shaky, but then, so was her heartbeat. Whip radiated heat like a big stove, only nicer, because she didn’t have to worry about burning herself.
«I’m sorry,» Shannon said. «I didn’t think to put sugar in your coffee.»
«No need. I like it black.»
«But you just said it was best when it was steaming hot and sweet.»
«Did I?»
Shannon nodded.
Whip smiled slightly. «I must have been thinking of something else.»
He took a sip from the battered metal cup, closed his eyes, and savored the heat and taste of the fragrant brew.
«Now that’s fine. Really fine,» Whip said. «And no sugar on earth could be sweeter than having you bring me coffee.»
Color burned on Shannon’s cheeks, but she almost smiled before she looked shyly away.
«Breakfast will be ready soon,» she said, turning back toward the cabin. «I’ll leave warm water by the door so you can wash up.»
«I’ll eat out here.»
Shannon turned around, surprise clear in her extraordinary eyes. She pushed a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear and frowned at Whip.
«There’s no need to eat in the cold,» she said. «I may be poor as a church mouse, but I have two chairs for the table.»
«It’s not that. I just don’t want to make you nervous by coming inside.»
Shannon’s glance went to the bullwhip that lay neatly coiled on a log, easily within reach of Whip’s long arm.
«My cabin isn’t as big as Murphy’s mercantile. Once you’re inside, that bullwhip of yours won’t be much use,» she said dryly. «Prettyface is quicker, anyway.»
Whip looked back down at his coffee, not wanting Shannon to see the light of amusement in his eyes. There were more ways to fight than with a bullwhip, as his travels in the Far East had taught him. As for Prettyface, the dog was quick enough — and big enough — to kill a careless man.
Whip wasn’t a careless man.
But it would be stupid to point that out to Shannon. Whip didn’t want to disturb her peace of mind. It was pure pleasure to see a smile on her mouth rather than the grim lines of a girl trying to do work that would have taxed many a man.
«Then I’ll be honored to share breakfast with you,» Whip said. «Call me when you’re ready.»
He took another deep drink of coffee, set the tin cup aside, and picked up the maul once more.
«I’ll do that,» Shannon said.
She lingered for a moment longer, hoping to catch another glimpse of Whip’s unusual, quicksilver eyes, but he didn’t look in her direction again. He simply braced his legs slightly apart, lifted the heavy maul, and brought it down with an easy motion.
The fir split cleanly, but Shannon hardly noticed. She had eyes only for the casual, purely male grace of the man called Whip. She Wondered what it would be like to be that skilled, that sure, to feel power flowing through her with every motion of her body.
Then Shannon realized she was staring at Whip as though she had never seen a man before. Cheeks bright, she turned and hurried back into the cabin as though pursued.
Whip split four more round logs into eights before he trusted himself to look over his shoulder.