Free Only Love by Elizabeth Lowell

vulnerability when she left the cabin as surely as he must have known it.
    And the Culpeppers. She feared they knew it as well.
    Shannon wondered if Whip, too, had come across the tracks of four saddle mules just two miles below the cabin. Seeing the tracks, Shannon had been relieved to know that Whip was just beyond reach in the forest somewhere, watching out for her.
    Protecting her.
    The thought made Shannon smile, though the smile quickly turned upside down. She knew Whip’s protection wouldn’t last very long. As soon as he realized that she wasn’t his for the asking, he would ride on until he found a more willing woman.
    But until then, Shannon welcomed the knowledge that she wasn’t wholly alone.
    Slowly Shannon bent down and picked up the flowers Whip had left for her. It was like holding a handful of butterflies. She looked at the glorious colors, brushed her lips against the smooth petals,and tried to remember when someone had given her anything that wasn’t needed for sheer survival.
    She couldn’t think of one time. Even Cherokee’s unexpected gift had been meant to further Shannon’s survival, like a box of shotgun shells or a haunch of venison.
    With a ragged sound, Shannon put her face into the soft, fragrant flowers and wept.
    When she looked up, she saw Whip silhouetted against the burning blue of the sky. She blinked away tears, trying to see him better.
    She saw only empty sky.
     
    W HIP walked down the far side of the rise to the place where his horse was tied. The sight of Shannon crying disturbed him in ways he couldn’t name.
    Why would she cry over a handful of flowers?
    There was no answer.
    Whip muttered a curse and swung into the saddle. Then he cursed again and shifted his weight in the stirrups. Seeing Shannon walk through the clearing to the cabin had drawn a pronounced response from his body. She had a way of moving that could set fire to stone, and Whip was a long way from stone.
    He was both annoyed and amused by his own arousal. He hadn’t been this hot and bothered over a woman since West Virginia, when Savannah Marie had set out to tease one of the Moran brothers into marrying her. Whip had known precisely what she was doing, but the scented sighs and rustling silk petticoats and peekaboo glimpses of her nipples still had made his body as hard as an ax handle.
    But Shannon wasn’t wearing silk petticoats, andher breasts were hidden unless the wind blew hard enough to press cloth against the surprisingly lush curves of her body. Whip hadn’t gotten close enough to discover whether Shannon’s breath was scented, but he had discovered the spearmint someone had planted by the creek, and he had seen her pick springs and take them to the cabin.
    Whip wondered if Shannon would taste of cream and mint when he dipped his tongue into her.
    Then he wondered again why she had cried over the flowers.
    Maybe she’s just lonely.
    He considered that possibility as he began casting for sign on the trail that led away from Shannon’s cabin to Holler Creek. He knew that widows were often lonely, especially if they had no children or nearby family or friends.
    Hell, any woman would be lonely in those circumstances.
    Of course, there’s that old shaman in the cabin on the north fork of Avalanche Creek. Shannon visits him often enough. That’s company, of a sort.
    Whip had been surprised the first time he had tracked Shannon to the tiny, remote shack where the shaman lived. Then Whip had seen the old man’s crooked stance and realized that Shannon was helping him out.
    She must be used to taking care of old men. If gossip can be trusted, Silent John is no spring chicken.
    Or was.
    Is he dead like the Culpeppers think, or did he take a bead on the wrong man and find himself ambushed in turn and is lying low until the other man gives up?
    The only answer Whip could think of was another question.
    Maybe Silent John is like that half-breed shaman,bunged up and waiting to heal before he comes back.