«Good morning to you, too, you evil-tempered son of a bitch,» Whip said pleasantly.

«Prettyface, stop that!» Shannon called from inside.

The dog’s snarling increased.

Shannon rushed to the cabin door. Half-braided hair spilled out of her hands and fanned over the faded blue flannel of her shirt. The contrast between the worn fabric and the lustrous silk of her hair tempted Whip almost beyond endurance.

«Stop that!» Shannon commanded, staring right at the dog’s yellow eyes.

Prettyface gave Whip a predatory look. Then, reluctantly, the dog obeyed his mistress.

Whip gave the look back with interest before he turned to the basin of steaming water Shannon had put out for him. His folding razor lay by the basin, along with soap and the faded, flower-printed rag. As he bent over the water, the familiar scent of mint floated up to him.

Without warning, desire raked Whip, tightening every muscle in his body. He drew a deep, careful breath, then another, until his body slowly began to relax. The ease and intensity of his arousal around Shannon was a warning to him.

And an incredible lure. Whip had never wanted a woman the way he wanted Shannon Conner Smith.

The sensible part of Whip’s mind told him that his growing obsession with Shannon was the best reason in the world for him to pack up and ride on. Only heartbreak could come of an affair between a yondering man and a young widow who watched him with dreams in her eyes.

But Whip wasn’t listening to caution or conscience anymore. He sensed too clearly the unspeakable ecstasy that awaited him within Shannon’s body. Until he drank the dark wine of her sensuality to the last, lush drop, he wouldn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

I need her.

Come heaven, come hell, I have to have her.

The intensity of his own thoughts shocked Whip. Some time in the past ten days he had gone from straightforward masculine desire to a more complex passion — darker, more intense, a fierce hunger that had no beginning and no possible end other than shimmering oblivion deep inside Shannon’s body.

Whip’s thoughts had an inevitable reaction on his body, increasing the ache of flesh that was already pulsing with need. Cursing silently, he rubbed soap into lather between his big palms and applied it to his face. He began shaving, using an exquisite sense of touch as well as his small shaving mirror.

Shannon watched, fascinated.

«You act like you’ve never seen a man shave,» Whip said, flattered and irritated at the same time. The feminine approval in her dark blue glance aroused him all over again.

«Silent John just wore a beard,» Shannon said.

Whip grunted, stroked, and flicked lather off the blade.

«You always speak of him in the past tense,» Whip said after a few more strokes.

«Who?»

«Your husband.»

Shannon opened her mouth, closed it, and hugged herself as though suddenly cold.

«I’ll be more careful,» she promised. «Those Culpeppers are brazen enough as it is.»

«You think Silent John is dead.»

Although it wasn’t quite a question, Shannon sensed Whip’s intense interest in her answer.

«I don’t think I’ll see Silent John again,» she admitted in a low voice. Then, anxiously, «But please don’t say anything about it in Holler Creek. Murphy isn’t much more polite to me than the Culpeppers. If they thought Silent John wasn’t ever coming back…»

Shannon’s voice died.

But she didn’t have to finish the sentence. Whip knew exactly what she meant.

«Maybe you better plan on leaving Echo Basin,» he said flatly.

For an instant hope flared in Shannon that Whip was asking her to go with him when he left.

«Where would I go?» she asked softly.

«I don’t know, but I do know that at least one of those Culpeppers is always camped about two miles down the road.»

«Why?»

«Waiting for me to leave. When —»

«But —» she interrupted.

Whip talked over Shannon. «When I leave, they’ll start bothering you again.»

Quickly Shannon looked away, not wanting Whip to see the hurt in her eyes.

When I leave.

Not if.

When.

Until that moment Shannon hadn’t known how much part of her had counted on having Whip stay. Each day he watched her more intently, wanted her more obviously. Yet despite his urgent male hunger, he cared enough for her not to speak crudely to her of his need or to back her up against a wall and buck against her the way she once had seen a man do with Clementine.

«I’ll manage,» Shannon said in a low voice. «I always have.»

«Not without Silent John.»

«Prettyface protects me now.»

«That’s not good enough and you know it.»

«It isn’t your concern,» she said tightly. «It’s mine. Breakfast is ready.»

With a muttered word, Whip bent and splashed more water on his face, rinsing it. Then he held his hand out for the rag.

His hand remained empty.

Whip looked up, ignoring the water running down his face. Through narrowed eyes he saw that Shannon had gone back into the cabin.

There would be no mint-scented cloth given to him by her hands. There would be no careful dabbing at his face by minty fingers. Worst of all, there would be no sapphire eyes going over his face like loving hands, transparently admiring him, blushing when he caught her watching him.

Whip said something harsh beneath his breath, groped for the rag, and wiped himself with more irritation than care. He hadn’t realized how much the morning shaving ritual pleased him until the moment when he found himself with empty hands and water running down his neck.

You’re a damn fool to be arguing with that girl instead of petting her like a Christmas puppy, Whip told himself sardonically.

So I’m a damn fool. But not a total damn fool. It isn’t safe for Shannon here. Not when I’m gone.

When you’re gone, it will be just like she said — not your concern.

That answer didn’t appeal to Whip, but he didn’t have any other one to put in its place.

Maybe I’ll just have to sidle up to those Culpepper boys and read to them from the Good Book — chapter, verse, and line — until they see the error of their ways.

That thought appealed to Whip. A lot.

Smiling like a wolf, Whip resettled his bullwhip over his shoulder and went into the cabin. He was looking forward to a hot breakfast and Shannon sitting catty-corner from him at the small table, close enough to rub against his leg with every small shift of her body.

Prettyface growled at Whip from his preferred place in the coldest corner of the cabin. The dog’s thick fur kept him warmer than any stove. His teeth gleamed like ice beneath his raised upper lip.

«Whatever made you decide to save that misbegotten cur?» Whip asked, irritated all over again.

«Could you have ridden past him and done nothing about his pain?» Shannon asked.

Whip looked at Prettyface through narrowed eyes. The scars the dog bore showed as pale patches against the brindle of his fur. There were a lot of marks.

«No,» Whip admitted. «At the very least I’d have put him out of his misery.»

«You’re a yondering man,» Shannon said. «I’m the settled type. There was room in my life for something else.»

«Most women would have wanted a baby instead of a savage mongrel with the eyes of a wolf.»

The oven door closed with a metallic clang.

«Be careful, the pan is hot,» Shannon said as she put it down near Whip.

«Didn’t you?»

«Didn’t I what?»

«Want a baby.»

«Silent John was hard put just keeping two souls alive,» Shannon said evasively, sitting down again. «There was nothing left over for a baby.»

Whip took several biscuits from the pan.

«Babies have a way of coming whether you want them or not,» he said.

«Do tell. How many do you have?»

Whip choked on the biscuit he was trying to swallow. He took a gulp of searing coffee, swallowed hard, and looked at Shannon with disbelieving eyes.