Free The Trail Master's Bride by Maddie Taylor

planning to go somewhere?”
    “No, though what if I’m out scouting or on watch, and it becomes necessary to defend yourself?”
    She reached up and rubbed her shoulder. “I’m not sure I can do this. It really hurts.”
    He moved behind her, curled his fingers around her shoulder, and began massaging the tight muscles underneath. “Maybe we should try a shotgun. You only have to get close with buckshot.”
    “That’s even heavier, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, but I can adjust the load to diminish the recoil.”
    “All that sounds like Greek to me. In English, what does it mean?”
    He chuckled. “We can get into the details tomorrow. Since you’re hurting, shooting lessons are over for today,” he agreed. “You can go on back and start supper. You’ll need to collect fuel for the fire first. Make sure you get enough for breakfast, too. We got a late start since you had to fetch it this morning.”
    He couldn’t see her face as she stomped away, but imagined it was the same one she made yesterday when he explained the newest chore added to her daily routine. They were days past Fort Kearney, heading north along the Platte River, which was a murky, muddy shallow river with water too foul too drink and bathe in. The prairie here was arid, the earth dusty and dry, which meant the grasses were shorter and trees scarce. That also meant firewood was scarce. Thus, she was charged with collecting buffalo dung to fuel their cook fires.
    The look of disgust on her face when he’d told her was unsurpassed and she’d gone about her task wearing a similar expression. As the memory replayed in his head, he couldn’t keep from laughing now, thoroughly amused by the little soft-horn. Unfortunately, she heard and apparently mistook the source of his humor because Weston was sure she was grumbling to herself; words like bossy, high-handed, arrogant, and one, if he’d been one hundred percent certain that she’d said it, would have earned her a talking to or more. A word not fit for a lady’s lips, one that he’d used in a fit of anger growing up that had earned him a cake of soap in his mouth.
    She was a spitfire, all right, and amused him no end. He was growing fond of her, despite her being a pain in his ass. She had a temper and lacked any sort of pioneer skills, but he found it a pleasure sparring with her and teaching her new tasks, because it meant he got to spend time with her. Mina wasn’t stupid, as her husband had implied. She’d already conquered coffee, which wasn’t really genius skill level, and moved on to bacon without added salt, as well as corncakes and bison stew. In addition to being bright, she had a quick wit, when her acerbic tongue didn’t take control of what came out of her beautiful mouth. Her husband just hadn’t appreciated her, or taken the time to explain how things were done—the horse’s ass.
    Looking after her as she stomped away, his body tightened when his eyes dipped to her rounded bottom, which in her agitation made her skirts swish back and forth. She seemed to sashay rather than stomp across the field to their wagon. He longed to have it under his hand again, yet not for a paddling, but for something much more enjoyable. He also yearned to kiss her again, but not as chastely. He wanted to dip his tongue inside and taste her, to see if she was as sweet as the promise of her berry pink lips.
    He groaned, bending to pick up his satchel of extra ammunition while trying to put thoughts of kissing Mina Hobart and holding her sweet backside in his hands from his mind. The tightness in his groin expressed what he knew to be true since he’d met her. Forgetting the pretty little easterner was easier said than done.
     
    * * *
     
    The next day before dark, he led her away from the wagon circle, yet again, to the targets he’d set up for another lesson. With brows drawn close and her usually full, soft lips compressed into a tight line, she eyed the much larger gun skeptically. She