Free Wild Innocence by Candace McCarthy Page B

chore.
    As she struggled to lift the pot, Rachel no longer thought of the Indian, except to assume that he had left, having grown tired of her lack of conversation.
    She managed to raise the pot a few inches in the air, before her strength gave way and the pot started to slip from her grasp. She shrieked as it started to fall and she fought to recover it. In a quick mental flash of foresight, she saw the pot hit the table edge, spill, and hot water scald her hands and her body. She cried out. Suddenly someone was there to help her, a cloth wrapped around his hand to protect it.
    Black-Hawk-Who-Hunts-at-Dawn saved the pot from falling and Rachel from being burned. Unfortunately, he couldn’t save Rachel the humiliation of feeling like a failure again. Rachel fought an onslaught of silent tears.
    He set the pot back onto the table. Then, without a word, he set down the cloth he’d used to shield himself from the heat. He took Rachel’s mitt from her shaking hands, placed it on the table next to pile of dirty dishes, and pulled softly sobbing Rachel into his strong arms.
    She didn’t protest. She was aware of little but her own misery. The fact of her self-pity bothered her, and it made her cry even harder.
    She wasn’t conscious that an Indian held her. She was aware only of the comfort of a pair of masculine muscular arms. It didn’t matter whose arms they were. Just as it didn’t matter whose warm, male chest supported her cheek and allowed her tears to fall and dampen sleek, smooth skin.
    The strength, the power of the one who held her eased her pain, made her think of Jordan, and for a moment, it was another time when things had been better ... when she’d looked with happiness toward the future as Jordan’s bride.
    Her sobs quieted. She rested peacefully, silently, within the arms. As her misery eased, her awareness of her surroundings and the man who held her increased. She grew attuned to the pleasant scent that filled her nostrils, the scent of the outdoors, of the forest ... of fresh leaves and damp earth ... of clear spring water, and the richness of clean, summer air intermingled with the smell of washed and freshly aired linen. She became totally aware of the texture and tautness of the muscled chest beneath her cheek. She moved her head and stiffened when she realized that she felt a male nipple pebbled against fabric, then the bare skin that was exposed by an unbuttoned linen shirt.
    As her brain began to function clearly again and her senses came alive, she stood for a moment without moving ... even as she realized who held her. She should have pulled away immediately. She moved back, but slowly and easily, not swiftly like a frightened deer.
    Her heart hammered in her chest. Her pulse raced.
    She eased back, waiting a heartbeat before lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. He watched her without speaking, his face unreadable. Rachel felt her heart begin to pound as she studied him. His eyes glistened under the oil lamp in the kitchen. His features appeared darker, yet softer in the golden light.
    Her gaze fell on his mouth, and she wondered with strange fascination what it would be like to kiss him ... if he’d kiss like in her dream ... if he’d kiss as well as Jordan ... or better.
    As she shifted her attention back toward his gaze, Rachel felt warmth pool in her stomach. Then a sudden ice fill her veins as his expression changed, grew darker, harder, more frightening ... less like a man she might want to kiss ... more like the savage that he was.
    â€œI—I’m sorry,” she said, turning away abruptly, back to the worktable and the dishes that needed to be washed.
    She gasped when he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him. His grip wasn’t rough, but his expression was savage. “Why are you sorry, white woman?” He said white woman as if he wanted to remind her of their differences.
    She trembled as she looked up at him. “You nearly got