Free Caress of Fire by Martha Hix

woman who would. Let’s give this marriage scheme a try. And on my oath, I’ll respect your chastity.” Winking boldly, seductively, he grinned. “Unless you don’t want me to. Then we’ll have a real marriage. Till death parts us.”
    If only she could give him the one thing he expected. She couldn’t; it wasn’t there.
    â€œYou asked what I want in return,” he said. “I’d expect you to cook for the Four Aces outfit. My men have a right to the best I can give them, and honey, they’re dreamy-eyed over your cooking skills. I’m dreamy-eyed over it. That supper you fixed was the best I’ve ever eaten. If you’ll help me, I’ll help you.”
    Chewing her lip, she stared downward. Just as when he’d told her not to be frightened of Tecumseh Billy, she trusted his word. Matthias trusted his word, too. “He’s a good man, Lise,” he’d said. He was a good man, this Gil McLoughlin. And she drew comfort from giving her trust . . . without fearing it was misplaced.
    And he did need her.
    Evidently he took her hesitation as an affront, because he asked, “Why are you stalling? Would you rather not sully your name with mine, since I’ve got the taint of a first marriage attached to it?”
    â€œThe stigma of divorce? I do not hold that against you, rest assured. I–”
    â€œThank God.”
    She’d started to confess everything, but his interruption lowered her courage. In no way could his disgrace match hers, for Monika had been right. She would need chicken blood to fool a husband into thinking her pure. To deceive this wonderful man thus would be a sin she couldn’t live with.
    But it would be a marriage of convenience.
    How long would that last? She wanted him–wanted the comfort of his companionship, needed his arms around her, yearned to explore the passions he roused. If she allowed her heart to rule her head, though, he would know her dreadful secret.
    Maybe he’d accept her as she was. Maybe he wouldn’t. She turned; she ran–toward Willensstark, and away from facing up to her lack of judgment in 1865.
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    Women. Gil McLoughlin had never understood them. Probably never would. He had offered Lisette all he thought she wanted, but she had turned him down flat. Scratching his jaw, he took a look at her. She was fitting that damned old mule for her sashay into the wilds.
    All and all, Gil’s mood was black. Beyond the Lisette debacle, three good men had lost their lives to the frigging Comanches. This was not a good day.
    He gave himself a mental kick for trying to bend this willful German girl. He had had to try, nonetheless. His grandmother used to say, “The worst someone can say is ‘no.’ ” Lisette had said no. Then another of Maisie McLoughlin’s pearls came to her grandson’s mind: If they don’t answer the front door, knock on the back one.
    As Lisette continued to load her pitiable traveling companion, Gil checked the harnesses on the draught horses. He called to her, “Ready to go?”
    â€œYes.” She didn’t appear any too ready or eager, yet she yanked on the mule’s lead-rope; Willensstark dug in his hooves.
    Gil ambled over to them, gave the beast of burden a pat. Thank you, old lad. I need all the help I can get .
    â€œMy men near about cleaned out your food supply,” Gil said. “What are you planning to eat along the way? Dandelions?”
    â€œYou could compensate me for my stores.”
    He tsked. “Lisette Keller, that would make you an Indian giver, taking back what you gave of your own free will. Now tell me, what are you planning to eat?”
    â€œNone of your business.”
    â€œFunny, I never heard of such a dish. Is it a German specialty, like sauerkraut?”
    She shoved an empty canning jar into the mule’s packs. “Mister McLoughlin, if you keep talking like that, I’ll