Sandra Steffen - The Bounty Hunter's Bride

“...She’s seventy-three, and she’s never set foot off this mountain.”

Pacing to the bed, he reached for what was left of his sheepskin coat and groused, “You call this a mountain?”

Josie went perfectly still. In her efforts to win Kane over, she’d tried being nice. Kane Slater was not an easy man to be nice to. He wasn’t an easy man, period. She’d just about used up the last of her patience.

With a toss of her head that sent her hair cascading down her back and around her shoulders, she planted her hands, hairbrush and all, on her hips, and glared at him. “I’m sick and dam tired of all your disparaging comments about my mountain. I don’t know what you have against the Blue Ridge Mountains, but they are so mountains. It says so in the encyclopedia. And there’s nothing wrong with Tennessee, either. Why, Davy Crockett grew up here, and three United States presidents lived in Tennessee. Don’t ’spose you know which ones.”

Feeling her blood pressure starting to climb, she took a step toward him. “James Polk and the two Andrews—Jackson and Johnson. I’ve never seen the mountains in Montana, but if they’re anywhere near as big as the chip on your shoulder, they must be huge.”

She stared at him across the ensuing silence. Nostrils flaring, he glared back at her, and then, out of the blue, he turned his back on her. She did not understand him. Worse, she simply couldn’t seem to get a handle on what made him tick. He never reacted to the same situation the same way twice. He yelled, swore or withdrew, in no particular order.

Crossing her arms, she sighed. “What makes the mountains in Montana so special, Kane?”

Kane felt a jolt run through him, yet his feet seemed to be frozen to the floor. Staring at the rough-sawn walls and the bed and the age-old cupboard nearby, he found himself saying, “It’s not just the mountains. It’s the sky and the air and the way the land stretches toward the horizon as far as the eye can see. Some mornings, it’s quiet enough to hear the break of day.”

He hadn’t been aware that he’d turned around until he saw her lips part and her chest rise with the deep breath she took. She smiled, and his body reacted all over again. In a voice gone soft and gentle, she said, “Quietude isn’t something people around me get a lot of.”

It took him a full five seconds to drag his gaze away from her smile, but it was the desire thrumming through him that finally brought him to his senses. Heart pounding, he jerked around and tried to put on his coat.

She was there all of a sudden, reaching out with a helping hand, tsk, tsk, tsking about his language. She smelled like shampoo and soap and woman. Placing an iron grip on his resolve, he moved out of her reach. “I can do it myself.”

Josie watched him struggle to get the coat over his sore shoulder. He reminded her of a raccoon she’d come across years ago during one of her treks up to Witches Peak. The animal had been stuck in a trap fifteen feet off the beaten path. He was in agony, and would have chewed his own leg off in order to be free, and yet he’d snapped and snarled every time she’d tried to get close enough to help. She’d ended up covering him with her thick coat until she’d managed to open the trap. Free, he’d growled at her until he’d disappeared into the bushes.

Turning on her heel, she strode to the corner where she kept her father’s twelve-gauge, thinking, Some creatures simply didn’t have it in them to be appreciative.

“What are you doing?”

Gun in hand, she glanced at Kane, who was watching her, obviously unnerved and uncertain of what she was going to do. She pulled a face and sputtered, “I’ve spent the last five days nursing you back to health. I’ve put up with your cussing and your grumbling and your ornery tendencies. Do you really think I’d shoot you now? Not that you don’t deserve it.”

Kane glanced from the long barreled shotgun in Josie’s hand to the anger flashing in her eyes. “Then what are you going to do with that gun?”

He heard her loud sigh all the way from the other side of the room. “I brought enough food with me to last me three weeks, at least, but I wasn’t expecting company. For an injured man, you eat like a horse.”

Trusty shotgun in hand, she stomped out into the snow to try to rustle up something to eat for supper.

Josie dropped a handful of baby onions into the pot then leaned over to add wood to the fire. She might have closed the door with a little more force than was necessary, but she couldn’t help it. She considered herself a reasonable woman, but she was close to reaching the end of her rope. She’d spent two and a half hours outside. A person would think all the energy she’d exerted trudging through snowdrifts would have alleviated her anger a little.

Very little.

She’d done a lot of walking and she’d done a lot of thinking, which had led to a lot of soul-searching. She didn’t question her feelings for Kane. She questioned her good sense. Adding potatoes and carrots to the bubbling stew, she muttered under her breath. “I’ve tried everything I could think of to bring out that man’s gentler side and what does he do? Practically accuses me of wantin’ to shoot him. Why, if I wanted to shoot him I woulda done it by now. If he wasn’t so thickheaded and stubborn he’d know that all I want is to get to know him. I’ve tried being nice. The nicer I am, the grouchier he gets.”

She was still sputtering an hour later. Huffing, she reminded herself that she didn’t have to take this kind of abuse. Not from her father and brothers. Not from the man she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with. Until he gave her a sign, she was done being nice to him. That decided, she carried two chipped bowls and mismatched cups to the table.

On the other side of the room, Kane grimaced and ducked his head slightly. Amazed that neither of the shallow bowls had broken beneath the force with which Josie had clanked them onto the worn wooden table, he measured her with a long, appraising look.

She’d stomped the snow off her boots and had come inside almost two hours ago. Although she hadn’t said a word to him, she’d talked to herself pretty much nonstop. She was wearing another flannel shirt, this one yellow and green. Instead of buttoning it, she’d left it open, revealing a plain white shirt that clung to her thin body.

Ambling closer, he said, “My mother used to sputter like that under her breath, too. I’d forgotten until now.”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Something tells me you gave your mother a lot to sputter about.”

Kane shrugged his good shoulder. “What’s for supper?”

She waited a good, long time before answering. “Rabbit stew.”

Kane strode a little closer. Stomach rumbling, he sniffed the air. She’d been gone two hours before he’d heard the first shot. The second shot had come from someplace closer half an hour later. He’d tried not to watch the clock, he’d tried to sleep and he’d tried to tell himself that the reason he couldn’t seem to do either had nothing to do with a guilty conscience.

Kane Slater may have been a lot of things, but he was no liar. He’d screwed up, plain and simple. He’d been ornery, mean and inconsiderate. She’d nursed him back to health, sharing her warm cabin and her food. And what had he done? Treated her unkindly.

“I’m sorry, Josie.”

Josie turned around slowly. Kane was looking at her, one arm cradled in the makeshift sling, the other hanging limply at his side. He seemed as surprised by his apology as she was.

“I should have thought. I should have realized. And I should have thanked you,” he said, hesitating as if he’d had to dredge the words from a place deep inside him.