Malachi didn't reply. He turned around to pack up his bedroll, setting his greatcoat and jacket in with his blanket. His trousers were gray, but his shirt was plain blue cotton.
He couldn't quite part with his hat yet, so he set it atop his head, and stared at Shannon, waiting. When she had buttoned her shirt, she dug into her bag for a comb. She started trying to untangle the long strands of her hair.
Malachi saddled the horses, and she was still struggling. He walked over to her impatiently, snatching the comb from her fingers. "Get down on your knees," he told her gruffly.
"I won't—"
"It's the only way that I can handle this mane!"
She complied in silence. He quickly found the tangles, and eased them out. When he was done, he thrust the comb back to her. "May we go now, Miss McCahy?"
She nodded, lowering her head. They mounted and started out.
Malachi rode ahead of her, silent as death, wrapped up with his own demons. He felt as if they had been on the road for hours when she finally tried to catch up with him, calling to him softly.
"Malachi?"
"What?"
"I—I want to explain."
"Explain what?"
"What I said. I didn't mean to deny—"
"That's good. Because I won't let you deny the truth."
"That's not what I meant I want to explain—"
She was still behind him. He couldn't see her face, and he was glad. It was easier to be cynical and cool that way. "Shannon," he said, with a grate to his voice, "you don't have to explain anything."
"But you don't understand—"
"Yes, I know. I never do."
"Malachi, before the war, I was always a lady—"
"Shannon, before, during and after the war, you always were a hellion."
"Malachi, damn you! I just meant that…I never would have done…what I did. I shouldn't have…"
He hesitated, listening to her fumbling for words. He could sense tears in her voice again, and though he ached for her, he was bitter, too. He didn't like playing substitute for a ghost. He might have forced her to admit that she had desired him, but the thought of her Yankee fiance enraged him.
The ghost had never had what he had had, he reminded himself. He cooled slightly. "The war has changed lots of people," he said softly to her. "And you are a lady, brat. Still, I'm sorry."
"I don't want you to be sorry, Malachi. I just—it shouldn't have happened. Not now. Not between us."
"A Yank and a Reb. It would never do," he said bitterly.
She cantered up beside him, veering into his horse so that he was forced to look at her. She was soft and feminine now, her beautiful features and golden hair just brushed and kissed by the pale dusky moonlight.
"Malachi, please, I didn't mean that."
"I hope you meant something," he told her earnestly. "Shannon, you changed yourself tonight. Forever. You cast away something that some men deem very precious. You can't just pretend this didn't happen."
Even in the dim light he saw her flush. She lowered her face. "I know that. But that's not at all what I meant. What I meant is that…" She hesitated.
"Shannon, I did not drag you down, I did not force you into my arms. I seduced, maybe, but not without your ready cooperation."
He thought she might hit him. She didn't move. Only the breeze stirred her hair. They had both stopped, he realized.
She looked up at him, smiling painfully. Tears glazed her eyes. "I did want you, Malachi. I shouldn't have. I knew it was you, and I wanted you…and I shouldn't have. Because I did love Robert, with all of my heart. And it hasn't even been a year. I…" She shook her head. "I…I'm the one who is sorry."
She moved ahead of him. He suddenly felt exhausted, tired and torn to shreds.
He had never imagined, never, through hellfire, war and his meager taste of peace, that Shannon McCahy could come to brew this tempest in him. Anger, yes, she had always elicited his anger…
But maybe, just maybe, she had always aroused this fever in his loins, too. And maybe he was just beginning to see it now.
She was searing swiftly into his heart, too.
Maybe they could be friends. Maybe every war deserved a truce now and then.
"Shannon."
She reined in and looked to him.
"Let's camp here and get some sleep. We'll move more westerly tomorrow night, away from the water, so let's take advantage of it now."
He thought she raised her eyebrows, and he remembered clearly just what advantages the water had given them. "To drink and bathe," he told her dryly.
She nodded and dismounted, removing her saddle. He would have helped her, but she had grown up on a ranch and knew what she was doing, so he decided to leave her alone. They both needed some privacy right now.
He unsaddled his horse, set her to graze, and hesitated. At last he decided it was safe, and he moved close to the water to build a small fire. Shannon watched him as the flames caught. He looked at her. "I need some small rocks. I've got a pan; we'll have coffee." And brandy, he added to himself. Lots of it.
He was the one who needed to keep away from her. This was going to be hard, damned hard now. He couldn't look at her, have her near, and not imagine her in his arms again. Maybe if she hadn't known how to move and arch and undulate and please a man, all by instinct…
She came back with the rocks, and he arranged them around his fire and set the pan so that the water would boil without putting out the flame. He stared at the water while she undid the bedrolls, setting them up for the remainder of the night.
The coffee was soon done; Shannon laid out bread and cheese and smoked meat. They barely spoke to one another as they ate, and when they were done, silence fell around them again.
"Why don't you go to bed," he told her.
She nodded. "Yes. I guess that I will." She rose and started for their bedrolls, then paused, looking at him.
She seemed angelic then. Soft and slim and wistfully and painfully feminine. She smiled at him awkwardly. "Malachi?"
"What?"
"Does it matter to you?"
"Does what matter to me?"
"A—er—a woman's…"
"Virginity?" He offered.
She flushed, and shook her head. "Never mind—"
"Shannon—"
"Never mind. Forget it. Sometimes I forget consequences and…"
He took a long sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of his cup. "Have you forgotten them this time?"
"What?" she murmured. It was her turn to be confused.
He stood and walked over to her. Malachi was irritated by the touch of malicious mischief in his own heart. He would set her to thinking and worrying for days, he thought.
But then he had spent these last hours in a type of hell, and he would surely spend all their moments together in torment from this day forth.
"Consequences. Procreation. Infants. Sweet little people growing inside a woman's body…"
Her eyes widened. She hadn't thought about it at all, he saw, and he was right—now she would worry for days.
He kissed her on the forehead. "Good night."
She was still standing there when he walked back to the fire.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"What do you think?" Shannon murmured. It was late the next afternoon, and they had spent the day riding westward, avoiding the major roads, and had slipped quietly through the countryside.
"I think it's Kansas," Malachi replied flatly, turning toward her.
They sat on their horses looking down a cliff to a small, dusty town. On the distant rolling plains they could see farmhouses and ranches. Before them they could see a livery and a barbershop and a saloon. A sign stretching across the top of a long building advertised Mr. Haywood's Dry Goods and Mercantile, and next to it was a smaller sign, advertising Mrs. Haywood's Haywood Inn, Rooms to Let by the Day, Month, Year.