Free Christine Dorsey by The Rebel's Kiss

he’d pulled loose over a week ago. It still hung from the one nail that held it. Jake jammed it back against the support with the heel of his hand, but it swung down again. Shrugging, wincing from the pain in his chest, Jake reached for his saddlebag. His pants were no longer draped over the stall divider.
    “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
    Jerking around, Jake knocked against the loose board. “Ouch! Damnit, woman, what are you doing sneaking up on me like that?”
    “I wasn’t sneaking.”
    Her voice sounded strange and Jake glanced at her face, noticing the crimson blush that colored her to the roots of her honey-gold hair. Just as quickly he realized why and felt an unfamiliar warmth creep up his neck as he swept the blanket off the floor and wrapped it around himself.
    He couldn’t believe he’d stood there naked, and he couldn’t believe it was making him blush. It wasn’t as if he had anything to be embarrassed about. She’d walked in on him. It had just been a long time since he’d been undressed before a woman—hell, it had been a long time since he’d done anything with a woman—and this one seemed to constantly remind him of that fact.
    Not that she did or said anything provocative. Her manner of dress lent itself to working a farm, not exciting the baser instincts in a man. And though she was pretty enough, she wasn’t a great beauty. But more often than he liked, Jake found himself thinking about the line of her jaw when she cocked her head to listen to her brother, or the clear, serene radiance of her blue eyes.
    Jake didn’t want that. Feelings like the ones she unwittingly provoked were long buried beneath the cocoon he’d wrapped about his emotions—and better off remaining there.
    And she made him angry too. Another vulnerable crack in his defenses. He hadn’t seen her in days, but that didn’t mean he forgot her accusing words—or that she’d tied him up. Just seeing her riled him.
    She stood, hands on hips, watching him as he fumbled with the blanket.
    “What are you trying to do?” she asked again.
    “Get myself covered if it’s all right with you.” Jake tucked the blanket end around his waist, ignoring the straw that scratched at his skin.
    “It makes no difference to me,” Samantha said, hoping she sounded convincing. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you before.” True enough, but it was one thing to see him sick and feverish—and even that had left her flustered—and quite another thing to get a look at him standing, tall, broad shouldered and—
    Samantha’s face grew hotter, and she looked around for something to do. Last night’s dishes lay in a neat stack in the straw. She busied herself gathering them up. “What are you doing up?”
    “I’m sick and tired of lying down,” Jake growled. He’d done more than his share of doctoring, but this was the first time he could remember being the one in need of mending. He didn’t much like it either.
    Dragging clothes from his saddlebag with one hand, Jake tried to keep the blanket up with the other. “I want some answers. Every time I ask a question around here, somebody makes themselves scarce.” He looked up from his search, anger stamped on the masculine lines of his face. “And where in the hell are my pants?”
    “Hung on the clothesline. I brushed them up for you.” That, at least, she could answer with relative ease.
    “So who asked you to?” Damn, he hated talking to her wearing nothing but a dusty old blanket. And the thoughts of her taking care of him when he’d been sick didn’t do much to calm his state of mind either.
    “No one that I recall.” Samantha grabbed the saddlebag from his hands, startling him so much that he didn’t resist. He just stood there, his expression shocked, groping for the blanket when it slipped. “Of course no one asked me to doctor your wound or feed you either, as I recall.” She yanked a clean pair of butternut pants from the leather pocket.