Elizabeth Lowell - Only Love

Sudden, heavy rain drenched the clearing, dousing all the colors of sunset. Within moments cold water was dripping from Whip’s dark Stetson and beading up on the heavy wool of his jacket.

Shannon had the shelter of the cabin’s eaves, but it wasn’t enough to turn the cutting wind. She shivered as the first raw blast of rain pelted her.

«Be sensible,» Whip said, forcing his voice to be even.

«I am. You’re the one who’s been puffing on the dream-pipe.»

«Murphy has been cheating you for years,» Whip said, ignoring Shannon’s retort. «When I pointed that out, he decided he could fatten up your supplies some. That’s all there was to it. No obligation on your part at all.»

Shannon opened her mouth.

Whip just kept talking. «You don’t need to worry about being obligated to me for bringing the supplies, either. I was going to check out the Avalanche Creek gold fields and your cabin was on the way.»

«That’s a nice story,» Shannon said, wishing she could believe it. «But I’ve heard it before. I’m not looking for help from women-hungry men.»

Whip’s hold on his temper slipped as the cold rain lashed one side of his face and the truth lashed the other.

«I’m not like the others,» Whip said through his teeth.

«Do tell,» Shannon said coolly. «Does that mean you don’t want me?»

Whip opened his mouth, then closed it. Lying simply wasn’t his style.

«I want you,» he said flatly.

Shannon couldn’t control the shiver that went through her at Whip’s blunt words.

«But I’d never force you, Shannon,» he said gently. «That’s a promise.»

«I’ll make that promise easy for you to keep. Mount up and ride.»

«Listen,» Whip began.

«No, you listen,» Shannon said tightly. «You’re just like all the others. You want my body and not one other damned thing. No offers of marriage and kids and sharing good times and bad for the rest of our lives. All you want is a few minutes in the dark with the ‘poor little dear’ who might or might not be a widow.»

«It’s not just that,» Whip said angrily.

«Oh? Does that mean you’re offering marriage along with the rutting?»

The look on Whip’s face told Shannon more than she wanted to know. Her short laugh was as bitterly cold as the rain.

«That’s what I thought,» she said. «Thank you, but no thank you. I’ve got everything I need until Silent John gets back.»

«What if he never gets back? Damn it, what if he’s dead? What then?»

Shannon’s finger tightened on the shotgun’s double trigger. Hearing her own fears spoken by Whip’s deep, angry voice reinforced them.

And undermined her.

Don’t argue with him, Shannon warned herself. You’ll lose. Then you’ll be like those two sad whores in Whiskey Flat, with every man in Colorado Territory knowing the color of your nipples.

«You earned the name Whip,» Shannon said harshly, «but even you aren’t faster than a shotgun shell. So take your supplies and your hungry silver eyes and ride out.»

To Shannon it seemed like a week before Whip finally turned around and began loading supplies back onto his skinny black packhorse.

Lightning split the rainy twilight, turning the world to burning silver. Thunder followed instantly, loud enough to drown out all other sounds. Rain came down harder and then harder still, a torrent fit to put out the fires of hell.

Though Whip was only twelve feet away, Shannon had to strain to see him. She blinked her eyes fiercely, knowing she must see through tears and rain alike.

When lightning came again, the clearing was empty.

Whip was gone.

Shannon bit her lip against the urge to scream Whip’s name into the teeth of the storm, calling him back, offering him whatever he wanted in return for food and safety.

And she knew exactly what he wanted.

The Culpeppers had made what men wanted savagely clear to Shannon on more than one occasion. What men wanted was to bend her over a chair and rut on her until she begged and bled and begged some more.

The thought of it made her stomach clench, sending bile into her throat.

Maybe Whip wouldn’t ask that of me. Maybe he did just want to help and wouldn’t have asked for anything more than thanks and a home-cooked meal.

Then Shannon remembered Whip’s words and the heat in his silver glance. She gave up trying to fool herself.

Whip wants me, all right. Just like the Culpeppers want me.

Shannon shuddered and felt cold all the way to her soul. Nothing in her experience had led her to believe that women did more than endure men’s brutal rutting in exchange for shelter and food and safety.

And children. Sweet-faced little bits of humanity to sing to and cuddle and love.

Prettyface whined and set his teeth gently around Shannon’s hand, reminding her of his presence. It also reminded Shannon that she was standing in the icy evening rain, feeling as empty as the clearing had become when Whip rode out.

Stop dreaming, Shannon told herself savagely. Mother dreamed, and what did she get? A no-account traveling man who left her flat.

And she got me. I loved her, but all she loved was laudanum.

Cherokee is right. Love is a fairy tale spun to keep women from setting off on their own and leaving men to take care of themselves.

Slowly Shannon turned and went into the cabin that was little warmer than the rain itself.

When Shannon awoke before dawn, the storm had spent itself. Night was slowly draining from the sky, leaving it a transparent silver that reminded her all too much of Whip’s hungry eyes.

Prettyface made a low sound in his throat and nudged Shannon’s cheek again.

«Brrrrrr,» she muttered. «Your nose is as cold as the floor will be.»

But Shannon ruffled Prettyface’s fur anyway. He was the only living thing that had ever returned her love. If it hadn’t been for Prettyface, she didn’t know what she would have done when Silent John disappeared in the winter of ’65.

Not that her great-uncle had ever been much company. He had fully earned the nickname «Silent John.» But Shannon was grateful to him just the same. No matter how remote, no matter how lonely, no matter how hard life was in Echo Basin, she much preferred it to the life she had left behind in Virginia.

In the Colorado Territory, Shannon was free.

In Virginia, she had been little more than a slave.

«Good morning, my beautiful monster,» Shannon said to the dog, stretching. «Do you think summer will ever truly come? Sometimes I feel so cold even the hot spring can’t warm me.»

At the words «hot spring,» Prettyface’s ears came up. He cocked his head, whined, and looked toward the back of the cabin, where a cupboard door opened onto a narrow tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a cave with a hot spring that was sweet rather than sulfurous.

Silent John had used the healing waters when his arthritis bothered him too much. Shannon simply liked the steamy warmth of the hidden cave. It saved having to chop wood to heat water in order to wash clothes — and herself. The hot spring meant that the secondhand clothes she wore were clean, as was the skin beneath them. In such a remote place, where the soft comforts of civilization were almost entirely lacking, the hot spring was a delicious luxury.

And during Shannon’s first winters alone, when she had neither the strength nor the skill to bring down trees big enough to heat the cabin, the hot spring had saved her life. She was better with ax and maul and saw, now, yet far from good. There was barely a few days’ worth of stove wood stacked outside the cabin right now.

Thank the Lord for the hot spring. Otherwise I might get as dirty as Murphy or those Culpeppers.