Free Rainbows and Rapture by Rebecca Paisley Page A

her heavy sigh. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he saw her get up and go to her cart. She rummaged through the back of it for a moment before pulling forth a wad of white cloth. He wondered what it was, but refused to ask. He continued to watch her, however, and was puzzled when she slipped behind a tangle of thick brash.
    He frowned when her boots came flying through the air. One hit the side of the cart and bounced to the ground. The other got caught in a branch of a scrub oak. Following the boots, her dress came sailing out, snagging on a yucca. Her undergarments were next. They floated all around, her panties landing directly in Santiago’s lap. He picked them up, noticing the word “Sunday” stitched on them.
    Holding the bit of silkiness within his callused palm, he realized they were still warm from the heat of Russia’s body. Desire stirred, bringing his fantasies back to mind. “Russia,” he called softly. “What are you …”
    His voice faded when she stepped out from behind the thicket, dressed in a diaphanous sleeping gown. Though her long, thick hair shielded much of her body from his hungry gaze, what he could see was sufficient to make him forget to take a breath. “…doing?” he finally finished.
    She returned to her cart. “I was puttin’ on my nightgown. Y’don’t ’spect me to sleep in my clothes, do you?”
    Words defied him; he shook his head instead.
    From the back of her cart Russia dragged a small feather tick, a tiny pillow, and a bright patchwork quilt. Unaware that Santiago was watching every move she made, she arranged her sleeping equipment near the fire, then snuggled into her bed.
    He felt extreme disappointment when she pulled the quilt up under her chin. Absently, he stroked his thumb across her lacy panties.
    Russia turned her head and saw her underwear in his hand. “What are you doin’ with my panties?”
    He looked down and saw how tenderly he was caressing them. “You threw them at me,” he explained, crushing them into a tight ball.
    “Purty, ain’t they? Most underdrawers is made o’ plain cotton, but not mine. Silky ones cost a lot more since I git ’em special maked, but I like somethin’ soft next to my— Uh…well, you know.”
    He did, indeed, know. The thought was highly arousing.
    Russia saw the slight tilt of his lips and blushed. “Gimme back my panties. I only got one pair that says Sunday, y’know.”
    He tossed them into her cart and tried to take his mind off the fact that she was almost naked. “Where were you before Rock Springs?” he asked, desire building steadily.
    She noticed a slight tremor in his voice. Maybe he was cold. There was a gusty wind blowing tonight, and he’d let the fire die down to only a few glowing embers.
    She got out of her bed, retrieved a thin blanket from her cart, and returned to Santiago. Wrapping it around his shoulders, she made sure it was tucked in well all around him.
    As she circled him, he couldn’t help but look at her body. As if the gown were made of fine mist, he could see straight through it. Her legs brushed against his arms, her hips against his cheeks. When she leaned down behind him, her breasts rubbed across his back.
    And her extraordinary hair swept past his face, barely touching him. It smelled of sunbeams and breeze and whispers. Silk and splendor. It smelled like everything soft he could think of.
    He burned. He longed to catch her in his arms, lower her to the ground, and feel the beat of her heart against his chest. He yearned to claim her, to know every part of her body. “Russia—”
    “Your voice was shakin’,” she explained, adjusting the blanket around his neck. “I figgered you was cold, so you can use this here blanket.”
    Her explanation aroused in him a feeling that transcended desire. She’d thought he was cold. Was she concerned about him? Why? What difference did it make to her whether or not he was cold?
    Her consideration made him more than uncomfortable.