Free Defiant by Patricia; Potter Page B

helped. How much?
    The knock came again.
    â€œYes?” he finally said, convinced now that whoever it was—mother or son—was not going away.
    The door opened, and Mary Jo Williams came in. A delicious smell wafted in with her. His stomach grumbled.
    She smiled, that tentative, searching smile that he’d never seen on a woman before. He’d seen the type that lured, that seduced, that was coy. And he’d seen the kind that sought so hard to please. But never this kind that challenged yet showed compassion. The kind that indicated tolerance but not surrender.
    â€œYou look better,” she observed. “And sound better.”
    He was instantly embarrassed but didn’t know what to say so he just waited and watched. She wasn’t beautiful as much as she was interesting. Her eyes were alive with intelligence, spirit, and curiosity and yet she had learned to hold her questions. Her hair, gleaming red in the streaming sunlight, was plaited in a long braid that fell halfway down her back. The part of him that was still very much male wished he had seen more of it last night, and he felt the strongest desire to run his hands through it. No. His hand. One hand. The other was useless. He frowned at the harsh reminder of reality and lowered his gaze.
    She was carrying a tray with a bowl of steaming hot water. He also saw soap and a razor.
    â€œI thought you might like to wash before eating,” she said. She hesitated a moment. “I could shave you if you like.”
    He wasn’t sure he would like that at all. He didn’t like the dependence. And he sure as hell didn’t know if he wanted her hands on him again. They were too soft, too tempting.
    Yet he hated to think how he looked. He had let his beard grow during the war. He had thrown away every semblance of civilization during those years.
    After a Yank had begged him for his life and Wade had turned on a fellow guerilla, he’d wandered off to the mountains and simply existed. He’d understood what he’d become and had nursed his self-hatred, remembering as if it were yesterday the faces of men he’d killed.
    His left hand touched his cheek, feeling the roughness again. Had he reverted to that animal that didn’t deserve to live among decent people?
    And then he became aware once more of the woman’s searching gaze on him. He nodded.
    She moved closer to him, sitting in the chair that touched the bed. He wished she didn’t always smell of flowers. He closed his eyes at her first touch, kept them closed through the washing and soaping of his face, and finally the scraping of the razor against his skin.
    He almost winced at the longing her touch stirred inside him. He felt disloyal to Chivita, because she had never aroused this need in him, had never stirred his heart.
    It was suddenly all he could do to keep from pushing her away. He felt just as naked now as he had without his trousers, as if she were peeling layers of defenses from him, rather than whiskers.
    But he held himself still, tolerating. After what seemed hours, the razor left his face, and he felt a cool towel against it.
    â€œYou can open your eyes now,” she said, her voice carrying a tiny bit of amusement. “I didn’t slit your throat.”
    He opened them. His left hand felt his face. Smooth and clean. It felt good. “I didn’t think you would,” he said.
    â€œThen why …?”
    She’d been honest with him right from the beginning. It was time he was honest with her, as honest as he could be.
    His gaze met hers. “It felt too good. Better than I deserve.”
    She tipped her head slightly, studying him. “It’s an improvement.” Then she hesitated, “Are there wanted posters?”
    â€œI doubt it,” he said. “At least not current ones.”
    Her eyes narrowed in question.
    â€œI don’t think anyone saw me,” he said. “They’re probably just looking