Carolyn Davidson - The Wedding Promise

The men had made short work of her fried ham and mashed potatoes, scraping every last smidgen from the bowl. Jay and Henry had eaten their share, silent for a change as they attempted to follow the fast-paced conversation. Rachel had only held her breath in hopes that the men’s monstrous appetites would be satisfied before the food ran out.

“Rachel?” Cord waited, hands on hips as his lowvoiced reminder prodded her into action. “The shirt?”

She nodded, feeling a flush paint her cheeks as she dropped her gaze, hurrying from the room. He’d think she was foolish, gawking at him that way. As if she’d never seen a man’s chest before! Pa had often stripped to the waist to wash up before a meal, in front of the sink in the kitchen.

But he’d never looked like Cord McPherson, she admitted to herself, her feet flying up the stairway as she hurried to do his bidding.

Matter of fact, she’d never seen a sight anywhere to match the man downstairs.

She opened his bedroom door and paused for a moment. It was a man’s room, no doubt about it, with no frills to be seen. A huge bureau sat against the far wall, between the two windows. She slid open the first drawer, only to find short stacks of undergarments. Her cheeks ablaze, she slid the drawer shut and opened the second.

Success. His shirts were folded neatly, four altogether, still bearing iron marks where the hot sad iron had imprinted itself.

Even fresh from the ironing board, they bore his scent, an aroma lye soap could not overcome. She’d noticed it on the shirt she held in her hand, that smell of leather and fresh air, the faintly musky odor that had caught her nostrils at the supper table as she served the food.

Snatching at a neatly folded shirt, she closed his bureau drawer and scurried toward the doorway. If he should see her standing like a dolt, staring at his belongings, he’d likely send her packing. The man had offered her a job in his house, not the right to moon over him like a…

She shook her head against the thought Whether or not she admired the sight of Cord McPherson’s body, he was her employer, and she’d do well to remember it.

Her feet skimmed the stairs as she hurried to where he waited and then she slammed to a full stop as she caught sight of him once more.

He was facing the sink, his back to where she watched at the kitchen door. His hands were occupied with wringing out the cloth he’d held against his reddened flesh and his skin stretched tightly across his back as he lifted his hands to apply the cooling towel once more.

Rachel’s gaze was caught by the exposed flesh, her eyes widening as she viewed the pale stripes crisscrossing his body. A sound of despair she could not recall slipped from her lips and she lifted one hand quickly to cover the lapse.

He spun to face her, his eyes dark and threatening as he scanned her wary stance. “You might have let me know you were there,” he said, lowering the towel he held in one hand. “Give me the shirt.” He reached for it, his palm outstretched, and she moved to obey.

He clasped the soft fabric and in the doing managed to grasp her fingertips. She’d gripped the fabric tightly, so stunned by the sight of his scarred flesh she’d been unable to release her hold. And then the warmth of his palm enclosing her fingers brought her to her senses and she murmured a soft sound of protest as she freed herself from his grasp.

He slid his arms into the sleeves and rolled them up, an automatic gesture that bespoke his usual mode of dress. His fingers worked the buttons rapidly, and then his mouth twisted in a dark, mocking grin that brought a flush to ride her cheeks.

“Would you like to turn your back while I tuck it in?” His hesitation gave her the moment’s grace she required and she spun to face the doorway, aware of the sound of his denim pants being opened, the brushing of his hands against fabric as he completed the donning of his shirt.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she managed, aware of his gaze upon her, straightening her shoulders as if she must assume a cloak of dignity before she turned to face him again.

He cleared his throat. “No, I’m the sorry one, Rachel. I embarrassed you, and I apologize.” His hands rested on her shoulders and he turned her to face him.

The vee of his neckline was before her eyes, a few strands of dark hair curling against the gray cotton and she felt stunned by the intimacy of it. He held her inches from his body, just a finger’s touch from his flesh, and from his skin rose that faintly musky scent she yearned to inhale.

“You’ve been hurt.” The whispered words were all she could manage.

His shrug was a mute dismissal of her concern, even as his fingers slid to tighten against her upper arms.

She trembled in his grasp and rued the emotions that ran riot throughout her. Sorrow, that he had been hurt. Anger, at the culprit who had damaged him so badly.

And most of all, fear, for herself, for the woman she’d become in these few short moments.

Cord McPherson held it within his power to ruin her, her mind proclaimed, the knowledge quickening her heartbeat. His strong hands could tug her against his body and she would go, willingly. His mouth could lower to hers and she, who had never known a man’s caress, would welcome the touch of his lips.

She’d made an unwise choice, coming here. An even graver error in judgment, pledging her presence in his home until springtime next year. With only the weight of his hands against her shoulders, he’d been able to melt her store of resistance to his greater strength.

With just a look from those dark eyes, he could send her insides churning in a whirlwind of emotion she had no ability to guard against

From girl to woman, she had turned the corner in these few minutes of time, and her heart ached with the knowledge of her own vulnerability to this man.

“Rachel? Are you all right?” His hands shook her, clasping her firmly as if he would support her entire body by the hold he had taken on her upper arms.

She blinked, roused from her soul-searching, and met his gaze with what she grimly hoped was a sensible smile of accord.

“I’m fine, Mr. McPherson. Just fine.” Her spine held her erect as she stepped back from him, her flesh cooling as his hands slid to his sides.

She was too tempting by far, this piece of womanhood he’d brought into his home. Cord’s mouth tightened as he considered his folly, not to mention his carelessness in shedding his shirt in her presence. And so his measuring glance was harsh, his words a warning.

“They’re old scars, Rachel. Too old to worry about now, and none of your concern.”

She lowered her lashes until she could no longer see his upper body, and she concentrated on his words, as if unwilling to meet his gaze any longer. “You’re right. I made a fuss over nothing. I’ll tend to my own business from now on.”

She watched his hand clench into a fist, there at his side, and then his fingers flexed and he rested his palm flat against his thigh.

“You’d better soak that shirt or the coffee will stain it,” he said, grumbling the order as he turned away.

“Yes…” Her whisper followed him, as did her bewildered glance, looking up from the clean, wide boards of the kitchen floor as he allowed the screen door to slam behind himself.

A clod of dirt received a swift kick, his hat was mercilessly swatted against his thigh, and words his mama had never taught him spewed forth from Cord’s mouth in a muttered litany. Each stride was a thudding release of the anger he directed at himself, jarring his teeth as he clenched his jaw.

“Shamus!” The roar was almost enough to rattle the rafters in the big barn. From inside, a growling reply met Cord’s ears and he halted in the wide doorway.