Page 57 of I Do, I Do, I Do
“I’ll make a fortune with this idea,” he said in a voice that turned husky when he gazed down at her. She was smiling and her eyes glowed with pleasure. My Lord, this was an amazing woman. “I could kiss you in gratitude,” he said, giving her another opportunity to see his rough edges and stamp away.
Her smile widened, and she tilted her head in a manner that impressed him as almost coquettish. “I think you’re too much of a gentleman to ruin my reputation by kissing me in public where everyone can watch.”
Good Lord. His knees almost buckled. She wasn’t stomping away, and she wasn’t saying no. She was saying: Don’t go kissing me in public.
Immediately his brain exploded in joy then feverishly began sorting through places in camp that might be private. And rejecting them all. Inside his tent was private, but the instant she stepped in there with him, the news would fly through camp, and her good name would be shot to smithereens. If he took her hiking, that, too, would be noticed, and besides, they could be seen on the barren mountainsides. He couldn’t think of anyplace they could go that wouldn’t compromise her.
Standing, she arched an eyebrow and gave him a long speculative look that made his chest tighten and his privates stiffen. What she could do with one lazy look ought to be outlawed. He wanted to grab her, jump on top of her, and roll around in the snow kissing her, among other things.
Finally she lowered her eyes, smiled, and walked away from his campfire without another word.
Some might have glanced at her and seen a ball of clothing with boots at the bottom and a green felt hat on top. But he saw an armful of woman with curves where there ought to be curves and muscle where there ought to be muscle. He saw the only woman who had ever made him feel less than invulnerable. She had bested him twice. That made her the most fascinating creature on earth.
Sinking down on his camp stool, his mind aflame, he studied the ale bottle she had pushed into the snow and thought about her mouth pursed around the lip of the bottle. Lord. Then he forced his thoughts to privacy. Where to find some.
Almost at once, his cabin at Lake Bennett sprang to mind. He made supply runs often enough that he’d built a cabin at the point where the Dyea and the Skagway trails converged. By the time he reached Lake Bennett, he was damned near desperate for a real bed instead of sleeping on the ground or on a camp cot that was too short and too narrow for a man his size.
His cabin would be very private. A wide grin curved his lower face, then he tilted his head back and shouted happily at the sky.
Now all he had to do was wait for Crater Lake to freeze solid, then hurry himself and Clara down to Long Lake and then Deep Lake, then Linderman Lake, and finally to the shore of Lake Bennett. Four weeks from now, five at the latest, he’d be licking strawberry syrup from those sweet lips.
“Has Ben come by recently?”
“You told us to tell him that you didn’t want to see him,” Zoe said, reaching deep for patience.
Juliette dropped back on her cot, her arms swinging off the sides. She stared up at the stovepipe exiting through the vent. “I need to express my gratitude, but I’m too embarrassed to see him. Do you think it would be unforgivably rude and improper if I just sent him a thank-you card? I sent the other two men a card. And there’s a thank-you card on your cot and on Clara’s.”
Only Juliette would pack thank-you cards into the wilderness. “I don’t claim to know the fine points of etiquette, but Ben did save your sorry life. And at great cost to his own. He could have drowned trying to rescue you, or he might have caught pneumonia afterward. It seems to me that he deserves something more personal than a thank-you card.”
Actually the thank-you cards didn’t surprise Zoe, not after watching Juliette dispense little notes of appreciation to anyone who did her a favor or a courtesy. She had delivered thank-you cards to the late Mr. Coleman, who had given her a piece of licorice, to the man who let her cut in front of him during the climb up Chilkoot Pass, to Mrs. Eddington after Mrs. Eddington gave them the dough-cake recipe, and to the Chilkat responsible for transporting her outfit. The Chilkat couldn’t even read.
“In my heart, I know it’s proper to thank him in person,” Juliette said unhappily. “But he saw menaked.” She clapped a hand over her eyes. “How could you and Clara let that happen?”
“Oh, maybe because we were trying to save your life. Or maybe we took a walk, discussed it, and tried to decide what we could do to cause you the worst embarrassment of your life. And we concluded that we wouldn’t let you freeze to death on the shore, but instead we’d tear off your icy clothing and let Ben Dare see you naked while he was trying to warm you and save you. If it’s any comfort, I voted to let you freeze on the shore rather than cause you the tiniest bit of embarrassment.” She made a face and sighed.
When she’d believed Juliette was dying, Zoe had vowed never again to treat her with impatience or bad temper. She’d already broken that vow a dozen times. To be fair, Clara irritated her, too, and there were signs that she annoyed both of them. Being cooped in the tent for almost a week might have something to do with everyone’s short fuse. That’s what her pa and brothers had called a quick temper—having a short fuse.
Sighing again and feeling a long way from home, she stirred the kettle of laundry on top of the camp stove, which they had moved inside the tent. Outside, a storm had pounded the Crater Lake area for almost a week, and the temperature had plummeted to a point well below zero—and that’s where the thermometer stayed. Inside the tent, the camp stove radiated intense heat, forcing them to strip to their shimmies and knickers. Even then, they perspired. And suffered the boredom of confinement with nothing to do.
“I think the storm has ended.” Juliette didn’t sound as if she cared one way or the other. She’d been listless since nearly dying under the ice.
“The snow and wind ended sometime last night,” Zoe agreed, stirring the kettle of laundry. Boiling laundry wasn’t a problem. Drying laundry was the problem, so they didn’t attempt to wash anything larger than hankies, stockings, and undies. They could hang these items on the cot frames to dry, but anything larger would have dragged on the ground and made it too humid and too crowded within the small tent.
“Zoe?” Clara shouted from outside, since they didn’t open the flap unless they had to. “Tom’s here. He wants you to go to the lake with him so he can show you how to drive a sled.”
She stopped stirring and considered the effort involved in getting dressed in cramped quarters. With the stove inside, there was space for only one person to dress at a time, and you had to keep a sharp eye on hems so they didn’t fall against the stove and catch fire. Four tents had burned in as many days.
“Go ahead and go,” Juliette said, flinging an arm over her face. “I don’t need tending anymore.”
Zoe wasn’t thinking about Juliette. She was thinking about Tom. They hadn’t seen much of each other since the day they’d picnicked beside the glacier. In some ways, the day they kissed seemed a hundred years ago. In other ways, it was as immediate as last night’s dream.
Feeling the back of her neck grow hot, Zoe frowned at the suds frothing on top of the laundry water. Tom was dangerous. He made her question long-held beliefs. He confused her. She couldn’t sort out her feelings toward him. One minute he attracted her, the next he repelled her. And as hard as she tried, she couldn’t forget the electric thrill of his lips or the hard length of his body pressed to hers.
“Tell him I’ll be out as soon as I get dressed.” Which wasn’t at all what she wanted to say. Now she had to stand behind her words.
When she finally stepped outside, bundled up to the eyes, she noticed that Clara had swept loose snow away from the tent and she’d chipped the ice off one of the piles of goods so they could get to the foodstuffs. Today, Clara’s energy and relentless good cheer annoyed Zoe half to death. And she didn’t like the way Tom’s eyes twinkled when he scanned the layers of clothing she wore. A heavy corduroy skirt over wool petticoats topped by a winter-weight shirtwaist and a thick sweater. A coat, a muffler, a pair of gloves beneath a pair of mittens, and a wool scarf that went over her hat and tied beneath her chin. She wore so much bulk that she couldn’t see her boots.
“Are you laughing at me?” she said through her muffler.
