Then common sense returned in a cold rush. No matter how angry and unsettled she was, it would be plain foolish to bait a man as dangerous as Whip, especially after she had received the clearest kind of warning about the state of his temper.

With a stifled curse Shannon let go of the pan and stepped back.

«Two,» Whip said.

He hesitated for a time before he spoke the next number. Motionless, he listened. He heard no sounds of Shannon’s retreat. He heard nothing at all but the muted noises of lantern and hot spring.

«Three.»

Whip opened his eyes and discovered that Shannon had gone as silently as steam rising from the hot spring’s gently seething surface.

Damn.

I was hoping she’d lose her temper and sling that pan of water at me. It would have been fun using every stitch of her clothing to dry myself off.

It would have been even more fun getting her wet in return.

Whip took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to release the aggressive, coiled hunger of his body.

It’s better this way. She’s too naive.

Whip kept repeating that bit of wisdom all the way to the pan of water, but it didn’t convince him worth a damn. He still wanted Shannon like hell burning.

He plunged his hands into the hot water, hoping pain would take his mind off the hunger that was knotting his guts.

It didn’t.

Swearing, Whip began to work soap into the ragged cuts on his hands. As he did, he remembered what Jessi, Wolfe’s wife, had told him about keeping wounds clean so that they would heal quickly.

Silently he wondered if soap would wash away desire as well as blood and dirt.

Somehow, I doubt it, Whip thought sourly.

He was right.

For the rest of the day, Whip and Shannon were as polite to one another as well-bred strangers. She cooked for him; he split wood and replaced a rotten log in the cabin wall. She washed his clothes; he picketed the old mule in a fresh section of meadow and caught a half dozen trout for dinner. She mended his clothes; he began tanning buckskin for moccasins for her.

The subject of passion and naive little eggs never came up. Nor was there any discussion of death and Silent John or of widows and safety.

The weather was a favorite topic for what little conversation Whip and Shannon had.

Prettyface was the only creature in the cabin that was fully at ease. He begged scraps from Whip and Shannon equally, offered his head to both people to be petted, and looked to man and woman alike as a source of open doors and romps in the meadow.

Shannon should have been pleased by Prettyface’s acceptance of Whip. Most of her was, but a part of her wondered acidly if the dog would leave her when Whip did.

The following morning Shannon slept later than usual. She had spent a restless night filled with dreams and yearnings she couldn’t express in words. She woke up to a familiar sound. Whip was splitting wood.

«Good,» Shannon said beneath her breath. «Maybe he can work out his bad temper on the woodpile instead of on me. Besides, what did I ever do to him except…»

Sensual memories licked through Shannon with tiny tongues of fire. Her nipples tightened to aching peaks.

Oh, no. Why won’t it go away?

Shannon threw back the blankets and shot out of bed as though it were on fire.

But it wasn’t the bed. It was her body.

No wonder Whip is giving the wood such a going over. He must feel as edgy-achey-strange as I do.

Hurriedly Shannon went about the familiar chores of making breakfast and putting the cabin back in order. When she was finished, she went to the cabin window, unlatched the shutters, and let the crisp air wash over her.

A glance told her that Whip had split an impressive amount of stove wood since she had first heard him at work shortly after dawn. She had meant to get up then, but instead had rolled over and slid back into the subtly fevered dreams that had claimed her for most of the night.

With a hunger Shannon didn’t understand, she watched the taut strength of Whip’s body while he transformed lengths of fir logs into clean pieces of stove wood. Never once did he look up to see if she was standing in the window. He simply kept working as though his strength was truly limitless.

«At this rate, I’m going to be buried alive in wood,» Shannon muttered to herself.

When she realized that watching Whip was only increasing the restless fever of her body, she turned her back on the open window.

«His hands will never heal if he keeps that up.»

Shannon frowned. That was another topic Whip had refused to discuss. The one time she had asked Whip how his hands felt, he shot her a narrow-eyed look and changed the subject.

To the weather, of course.

Both of them agreed it was just lovely, from sleet to sunshine and back again.

Shannon sighed. She hadn’t felt quite so alone since her mother died and left her to the mercy of a step-aunt who had no mercy in her. The odd thing was that Shannon had never felt particularly lonesome in Echo Basin before now, but remembering how much fun it had been to share the days with Whip made her feel the present distance from him all the more keenly.

Without warning, Shannon had a vivid, tactile memory of what it had been like to be kissed and petted by Whip. In the wake of memory, a primitive kind of heat blossomed in her. She couldn’t help hoping that once his anger was past, he would kiss her again, and touch her, and…

«What do you think, Prettyface? Is Whip’s temper going to give out before the logs do?»

Prettyface yawned.

«You’re right. His surly mood will outlast the whole blasted forest.»

«Count on it.»

Shannon jumped at the sound of Whip’s voice just behind her at the open window. She spun around, blushing at having been caught thinking aloud.

Whip was standing with his forearms crossed on the windowsill, smiling at her. Then he laughed.

Shannon’s answering smile was as beautiful as an unexpected sunrise.

Honey girl, don’t smile at me like that. All my good intentions will burn to ash.

«Does this mean you’ve forgiven me?» Whip asked softly, knowing he shouldn’t, unable to stop himself.

«Forgiven you? For what?»

«Teaching Prettyface a few manners, and then forgetting my own.»

«I wasn’t angry about Prettyface.»

«Could have fooled me. I saw you holding a fully loaded, fully cocked shotgun on me.»

At first Shannon believed Whip was teasing her. But there was no deviltry in his quicksilver eyes. Abruptly her good humor turned to anger.

«I was going to shoot Prettyface,» she said starkly.

Whip looked shocked. «What?»

«I thought he was killing you. You weren’t moving and there was blood and it looked like his jaws were locked on your throat.»

The horror of that moment came back all too forcefully. Shannon turned her back on Whip again.

«So I got down the shotgun,» she said distinctly.

«To save my life?»

«You needn’t sound so shocked,» Shannon said through her teeth.

But Whip was shocked. He knew how much Shannon loved her dangerous mongrel. He also know how much she depended on Prettyface for companionship and safety.

Yet she had been ready to kill Prettyface in order to save a man who had made no promises to her.

Not one.

«I see,» Whip said.

«Do you? That would be a first.»

The irritability in her own voice surprised Shannon.

«Sorry,» she muttered. «I don’t know why I’m so touchy lately.»

«I do. It comes from wanting someone and going to bed aching and alone.»

«Then it’s a pure blue wonder that couples survive courtship,» Shannon retorted.

Whip tried not to laugh. He didn’t succeed.

He tried not to touch the buried fire in Shannon’s hair. He didn’t succeed in that, either. Slowly he reached through the open window and stroked down between her braids to the graceful nape of her neck.