Snowbound With the Sheriff Page 3

  Having already carried her plate to the sink, she turned and—still smiling, still looking pretty and feminine and sweet—said, “I do have one other small request.”

  He gulped. “What’s that?”

  “The use of your bathtub,” she said. “It’s been over a week, and I—”

  Spinning around did not stop the vision of her sitting in water up to her chin from leaping into his head. “I’ll see you in the morning, then,” Chayston said firmly, closing the door separating the office from the living quarters with a solid thud. Living at the ranch would be hard, but tonight, being snowed in with a death-defying blizzard stopping any chances of leaving, was going to be hell.

  He struggled for a breath of air, but his body was recalling how she’d plastered those sweet little curves of hers against him. Things had spiked then and were now throbbing. Painfully.

  Honeysuckle and spring. That’s what she smelled like, and it was damn near impossible not to envision her all warm and slick, stepping out of the bathwater.

  Disgusted by his thoughts, Chayston crossed the room to add a log to the stove, only to be thwarted again. Violet had stoked the fire there as well, and he wondered how she’d found the time to accomplish everything she had in the short time he’d been gone. The wind was so strong he’d barely made it up and down the boardwalks on both sides of Main Street. Everything had been locked up tight; folks had hunkered down to wait out a storm that could last several days.

  Days.

  Aw, hell.

  Lifting the lamp off the desk, Chayston made his way into the narrow room holding two cells. Even with the stove going, the area was cold. Nothing like the living quarters. ’Course, it never seemed quite as welcoming as it had tonight, all toasty warm and smelling of fresh-baked biscuits.

  John Lassiter’s daughter—if that didn’t beat all. An eerie sensation tickled his spine, and Chayston turned back around. That couldn’t be. He crossed the room and waited until she bid entrance before he pushed the door open. “How old are you?”

  At the sink, she continued washing dishes, looking his way over one shoulder. “Nineteen. Why?”

  “I remember John talking about his daughter, but—” He stopped. John had claimed his daughter was close to Chayston’s age. He’d been about ten then, twenty-five now.

  “That would be my stepsister, Eleanor. John’s first wife, Eleanor’s mother, died shortly after he returned to Ohio. A few years later, when I was eight, he and my mother married.”

  “Eleanor. That does sound familiar.” And made more sense.

  “Did you ever meet her?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She grinned, but it was more of a grimace, and turned back to the dishes.

  “What’s that look for?” he asked.

  “What look?”

  “The one that makes me glad I’ve never met Eleanor,” he replied.

  Her laugh was musical, and although he knew he shouldn’t, he crossed the room.

  “I’m right, aren’t I?” he asked.

  “Eleanor is Eleanor,” she answered.

  “The two of you don’t always see eye to eye?”

  With a groan, she answered, “The two of us have never seen eye to eye.” She glanced at the towel he picked up. “I can do this. You don’t need to help.”

  “I normally do it,” he said. “And the cooking. It comes with the job.”

  “One you don’t like,” she said.

  “How would you know that?”

  She bowed her head slightly. “The same way you figured out how I feel about Eleanor, I suspect.”

  He let that settle for a moment, or tried to. Trouble was, his mind had moved on. Thoughts of kissing her now danced like fireflies in his head. He’d bet his last coin her lips were softer than flower petals and sweeter than maple syrup. Cutting off that thought, he answered, “I suspect so. It’s not a bad job, though, as far as jobs go.”

  Lifting one finely shaped brow, she nodded. “And Eleanor’s not a bad person. She just didn’t like sharing her father, and I can’t really blame her for that.”

  “Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

  “You tell me first.” When he frowned, she added, “Were you trying to convince me it’s not a bad job, as far as jobs go?”

  He dried the last cup, but rather than putting it in the cupboard, he filled it with coffee. It was a little like playing with fire, being this close to her, and that was rather enticing. “A little of both, I guess,” he said after taking a drink. “I miss ranching. One of those things you don’t know how much you like it until it’s gone.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” She turned around and leaned her backside against the counter. “I don’t remember my father, he died when I was little, but we lived with my grandmother then, and I remember her. We were a family.”

  He sensed melancholy and asked, “Were?”

  She nodded. “Gran became ill. My father and John were cousins, and Gran arranged for my mother and John to marry so we wouldn’t be alone after she died.”

  “And now your mother and John are both dead, too.”

  She nodded again. “Yes, they are.” Letting out a sigh, she said, “John was ill for the last year, but I still wasn’t ready to lose him.”

  “We never are,” he said honestly. “Never really ready for most things life throws at us.”

  “Isn’t that the truth,” Violet said, blinking at the tears the conversation had caused.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, but then, unable to stop herself, shook her head. However, the next moment, when his arms pulled her close, sadness was not what overcame her.

  Chapter Four

  Violet, heart racing, sprang free from Chayston’s arms. Fighting for every breath, she spun around. Tramp. Jezebel. Eleanor’s screeches invaded her mind. It wasn’t true— she’d never encouraged Eleanor’s husband in any way—but her stepsister had insisted she had. And Eleanor hadn’t stopped there, she’d spread rumors throughout town, and men had come calling, hoping to sample what Violet supposedly gave away freely.

  Gaining control of her breathing, Violet lifted her chin, but a lump had formed in her throat. The sensations Chayston ignited inside her were the exact opposite of the ones she’d experienced when other men had touched her. Such feelings should only come about with a husband.

  “I’d like to take a bath now,” she said without turning to face him. “Please leave.”

  “I’ll get the tub for you,” he said. “Don’t bother trying to dump it. Not with the wind blowing like it is.”

  She moved to the sink, to pump water into a kettle, and when the door to the office closed, a flock of butterflies let loose in her stomach at the thought of his being just in the other room.

  It wasn’t proper, taking a bath with a man so close. Staying with one wasn’t, either, but what choice did she have? Not to think about him. That was a choice she had. She would soon be marrying his father and John had promised her the General was a gentleman. One that would treat her well, and grow to love her. Her stepfather had loved her, just as she’d loved him. He’d known, too, how hard she’d tried to please Eleanor, and he’d stood up for her, against Eleanor’s lies and assaults, and the men who’d come calling. Not once in all the years since she and her mother had gone to live with John had he let her down, and Violet wouldn’t let him down, either.

  Especially not this time.

  By
the time several kettles of water had been heated, she’d regained control, and soon lowered herself into the warm bath to soothe away the last of her frustration and soak sore muscles left from the many days of sitting on coal dust—covered train benches and hard stagecoach seats. She washed her hair, too, and when her head started bobbing, she regretted the fact she had to climb out of the water. The idea of sleeping in a nightgown rather than the same clothes she’d worn for the better part of a week had her toweling dry and tugging on her nightdress in record time. Knowing a man was on the other side of the door may also have had something to do with her swiftness.

  Chayston was still on her mind. How his touch had turned her feverish and left her yearning for more. Even if she’d had a mind to blame that on Eleanor, she couldn’t. One isn’t called a Jezebel without knowing what it means. She had friends, married ones, who explained things. Marriage didn’t scare her, nor the act of love. She wanted it. To be special to one person. A husband. Not one like Albert, though, Eleanor’s husband. He was the reason she’d readily agreed to marry the General. She hadn’t felt safe around him, not even in her own house, and she had known it would get worse after John died.

  Heaving out a sigh, Violet crossed the room and knelt to open her second trunk. She’d gathered her night things out of the first one before her bath, but this was the one she’d packed her mother’s comb and mirror in.

  She’d barely hoisted the lid when her gaze landed on the contents of the trunk. Stunned, she didn’t react fast enough. The heavy lid caught three of her fingers as it slammed shut. Screeching at the pain, she tried to unhook the latch, but it wouldn’t release.

  “Are you all right in there?”

  “No,” she answered Chayston’s question through gritted teeth. The intense pain of her fingers had her eyes watering. “Please help me. The latch is stuck.”

  Seconds later the lid lifted, freeing her fingers. Rocking back on her heels, she clutched the throbbing fingers with her other hand.

  “Let me see.”

  “No, they’ll be fine in a minute,” she argued, completely doubting her words. In truth, she was afraid to look. The ends could very well be missing from three of her fingers.

  “Let me see, Violet.”

  His tone was firm but coaxing. She gave in, but looked the other way as he peeled her hands apart and gently uncurled her throbbing fingers. The warmth of his touch caught her off guard, too, when it sent some sort of invisible fire up her arm.

  “Ouch,” he said softly. “That had to hurt.”

  The pain momentarily disappeared. “Ouch?”

  He grinned.

  She pulled her hand out of his. “Yes, it hurt. It still does.”

  “You still have all four fingers.” He stood and crossed the room.

  “Thank you for noticing,” she said, shaking her head at how he made light of the situation. Her fingers were all intact, and though still stinging, she moved them gingerly.

  Chayston returned with a wet cloth and took her hand again. “Here, this will help take away the sting.”

  The cool dampness did help, and Violet held it on her fingers with her other hand. “Thank you.”

  “What happened?”

  “I opened the trunk to get my comb, and—” She shook her head, still not believing what she’d seen.

  “And?”

  Violet shifted slightly, to peer around him. He twisted and lifted the trunk lid. Sure enough, there sat her boots. The sight made her gasp again, just as it had the first time.

  The gaze in his brown eyes became reminiscent of when they’d first met. “I thought you said you didn’t have any shoes.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then whose are these?” he asked accusingly.

  “Mine,” she answered.

  He pushed the lid all the way open, where it couldn’t fall shut again, and stood. “What kind of game are you playing here?”

  “What kind of game?” she repeated, mainly for her own clarification.

  “Yes, game,” he said. “Did you want everyone to feel sorry for you by pretending you’d been robbed?”

  Indignation flared from the pit of her stomach. “I wasn’t pretending. I had been robbed.”

  “Are you even John’s stepdaughter?”

  “Yes.” She leaped to her feet. “I don’t know how my boots got in there, but they were taken from me on the train, along with my money.”

  He shot her a nasty glare before picking up one of her boots. Digging his hand in the top, he pulled out a roll of bills. “This money?”

  Shock spiraled inside her so hard she nearly lost her balance. “How’d that get there?”

  “I’d guess by the same person who put the boots there.” The bits of gold in his eyes glowed like flames. “You.”

  “Me?”

  “Who else?” He dropped the money in the boot and the boot into the trunk. “You made me carry you all over this town—”

  “I didn’t make you do anything.” Furious, she continued, “Do you really think I wanted you to carry me?”

  “Like I was going to make you walk through two feet of snow in socks?”

  “That would have been fine by me.”

  “It would have been fine by me, too,” he said, storming toward the door. “Except you had your arms locked around my neck.”

  Flustered by an unusual fit of anger, Violet pulled the rag from her hand and threw it at him. It hit the back of his head and hung there for a moment before dropping to his shoulder and then the floor.

  He turned slowly. “Why, you little—”

  “Me?” she interrupted, stomping toward him. “You’re a brute. The furthest thing I’ve ever seen from a gentleman.”

  His eyes narrowed as her steps brought them closer. “I told you I’m not a gentleman.”

  “I believe that now.”

  “Good.” He grabbed one of her shoulders and spun around, propelling her toward the open doorway. “Enjoy your jail cell.”

  Violet flattened her bare toes onto the floor. “I am not sleeping in a jail cell.”

  “Oh, yes, you are.”

  His swiftness startled her all over again. With little more than a single fluid movement, he’d hoisted her into his arms again and started marching toward the doorway. Violet stuck her legs out and leaned her head back, stiffening her entire body, so no matter which way he turned, she wouldn’t fit through the door frame.

  “Damn you,” he growled, jostling her about.

  Fearing she was about to hit the floor, she grabbed his neck but kept her head back, her body stiff, which caused particular body parts to leap to life as if she’d never imagined they could. The peak of her left breast brushed the bottom of his chin, and the result sent a flash of fire shooting through her.

  He made a deep growling sound and withdrew the arm beneath her knees, causing her legs to drop toward the floor. His other arm, still around her waist, pulled her up against him. Her breasts flattened against his chest and the thinness of her gown had every inch of her body feeling the intense heat of his.

  A brief bout of good sense told her to push away, but a feral heat coiling in the pit of her very being was far stronger. His other hand grasped her head, and when his lips landed on hers, hard and demanding, she met them. Just as forceful, just as challenging.

  The entire room started to spin, and she grabbed the sides of his face, just to keep upright. It was as if she’d waited for this very moment in time to come to life. Not
hing inside her was quiet. Everything was flushed and rushing, and excited.

  Rather dazzled by it all, she offered no protest when the tip of his tongue teased the seam of her lips. Instead, she parted them.

  A sweet, riveting shiver raced all the way to her toes and back up again as his tongue swept inside her mouth. She clutched him tighter, holding on for all she was worth as her nipples tightened, stinging as they turned hard and sensitive.

  All sorts of wild, new and stirring vibrations swarmed her body. Yearnings and desires that had her feverish all over again.

  Chayston had never known such perfection. Her curves fit against him like a glove and the taste of her was enough to make him lose his mind. Which is exactly what must have happened. He’d lost his mind.

  Grasping her chin, he tried to break away from the kiss, but she stretched onto her toes.

  Torn between all that was right and wrong, he growled and pushed harder, tearing his lips off hers. Gasping, she looked up at him with those sky-blue eyes that could make a man lose more than just his mind.

  “If you weren’t my father’s soon-to-be bride,” he snapped, “I’d show you just how much of a gentleman I’m not.” He headed for the door then, before he did something he’d really regret.

  Chapter Five

  Cursing himself up one side and down the other hadn’t done any good, and the blizzard still howling outside offered no immediate relief to his present circumstance. Chayston’s entire being was rigid and parts of him felt downright raw. He’d barely slept a wink last night, and the muffled sounds coming from the other room said Violet hadn’t either.

  How the hell had he let that kiss happen? Seeing her in nothing but her thin nightgown had shot his desire to an entirely new level, but her haughty little attitude—that had cut him to the quick. Those long golden curls, wet and hanging down her back, her sky-blue eyes sparking like miniature flames, and her breasts...The gown hadn’t hid them from view, not nearly enough, and when that little nub touched his chin, a dozen rough riders wouldn’t have been able to stop him from reacting to the hot jolt of desire that had overtaken him.