Free Deborah Camp by Blazing Embers

trap.”
    “Oh, doc,” he said, laughing lightly. “You have such a pleasant bedside manner.”
    She marched past him, resolutely keeping her eyes away from his naked upper torso. “Come on. Careful you don’tget that sheet dirty. I won’t be washing up things for a few more days.”
    “Yes, ma’am! If you’d kindly tell me where you’ve hidden my clothes, I’d be most happy to wear them instead of your sheet.”
    “You got to get back into bed,” she ordered, entering the cabin and removing her bonnet. “You’re a long ways from being fit.”
    “Yes, but I’d like to sit at the table and have my stew, and I’d be more comfortable in my clothes.”
    “They’re over there,” she said, pointing toward the cot and the small bundle of clothing resting on the floor near it. “I washed ’em up for you.”
    “Well, that’s mighty kind of you, doc.”
    “My name ain’t doc,” she informed him, freezing him with a cold glare. “It’s—”
    “Cassandra Potter,” he finished for her. “I remember.” He picked up his clothes and started for the bedroom. “What have you been forcing down my throat? It left a godawful taste in my mouth.”
    “Medicine,” she said, grabbing up the skinned squirrels. “Don’t know what’s in it. It’s some kinda Indian potion.”
    He stopped at the bedroom door. “Did you kill those squirrels by popping off their heads with your whip?”
    She frowned to keep from smiling at the image he’d put in her head. “No, I shot ’em.” She glanced up in time to see his dark eyes widen and his throat move as he swallowed hard. “Three shots is all it took.”
    “Amazing,” he murmured before leaving her to her cooking.
    By the light of the afternoon sun, her hair looked golden, but Rook knew that it was a light color—almost white. She kept her eyes away from him, preferring to stare at the squirrel stew in the wooden bowl before her. She’d changed from the gray skirt and blouse she’d worn earlier to a moss green skirt and loose, brown blouse. Her clothes were serviceable and frayed, all of dark colors and rough fabric. She wore boots that had seen better days. She’d tamed herhair into a braid that she’d wound around the crown of her head. But with all these obstructions, her femininity was revealed in the thickness of her lashes, in the long curve of her neck, and in the way she moved—with a liquid grace that was all the more attractive because it was totally natural and completely unintentional.
    Rook scooped up a piece of squirrel meat and chewed on the tender, tasty morsel as he continued his uninterrupted perusal. Cassandra Potter mystified him. For all her cockiness, there was an undercurrent of desperation running through her that was growing stronger with each passing hour. She ate silently, stoically ignoring his company across the table from her. A drop of juice fell on her lower lip and the pink tip of her tongue darted out to absorb it. A bolt of sexuality zigzagged through him.
    Holy moley, he must be desperate for female company! he chided himself. When a bad-tempered, surly girl like this one could make his loins tingle, he was in dire straits.
    “Where’s your mother?” he asked, and she jerked all over at the sound of his voice, giving credence to his evaluation of her inner turmoil.
    Her throat moved in a long, vertical flex as she swallowed. “Dead. Buried in St. Louis.”
    “You don’t mince words, do you, doc?” He wedged a short, clean fingernail between his front two teeth and released a particle of meat. He saw her looking at him from behind the curtain of her lashes, and he smiled to himself as he spooned more of the savory stew into his mouth. One thing he had to say for her: she could make tasty meals out of virtually nothing. She must have a knack for seasoning, he decided.
    “You’re all alone out here now?” he asked, unable to keep the quick grin from his lips. He loved to tease women. Loved to see their eyes sparkle