Mystic Cowboy(31)

“Did she come with you?”

“For about three days. Then she left. And I never did.” For eight months, Anna had treated him like he was the Indian, the noble savage she was personally educating. And then she’d see Albert’s shack, seen the wasteland that was his home, and in a heartbeat, everything had changed. The noble devotion had sunk under the weight of disgust. Horror. Sheer shock that he would even consider coming home to a bunch of Indians too drunk to do anything but drink some more. Which is how the other half of the white world treated him. A thing to be feared. A thing to be contained. A thing.

The divorce had been quick and uncontested. He’d signed the papers by mail.

Her hand was back on his chest, like she was checking his heartbeat. “Did she ever see this place?”

“No.” This place stayed pure, unfouled. And now Madeline was here. “The only people who come here are people looking for a medicine man.”

“Really?” Suddenly, she was leaning up against him, her mouth as close to his ear as she could get and stay covered by the water. “I came here looking for you.”

Her voice trickled down his neck, down his chest, until its warmth overpowered the cold water. “You found me.”

While he looked down at her, hoping to kiss those lips, to finally taste that mouth, she was grinning at him. She was toying with him. Maybe he had a little of that coming his way.

“But you wear cowboy boots now, not moccasins or loafers.”

Don’t push it. But he didn’t know how much longer he could not push it, because she was pushing him. He laughed. It felt good. “True. Visions are always open to interpretation, you know.”

She stretched out, her skin moving under his until he was afraid he would have to let her go, just to keep from touching her in all the wrong, right ways. “You have visions too?”

Her body—her body was begging him to come on in, the water was fine. But her brain was still tap-dancing around things, like it was some sort of test he had to pass. She was going to drive him mad.

“I had to learn how to see them. It took a lot of practice. I have to be patient and completely still.”

Now she laughed, throwing her arms wide into the water. If he looked down... Mad. He was absolutely mad. For her.

“How much practice?”

He wasn’t looking, but he couldn’t help touching. He moved his hands over her ribs, half-stroking, half-tickling. And she responded by splashing him.

“Years,” he said, finding a belly button that was a surprising outie. His fingers moved over it with something that was far less tickling and far more something else. “Years of practice.”

Her breath caught in her throat as he rubbed her belly. A nice belly, gently rounded out under smooth skin. Firm, but soft. His fingers itched to find out if the rest of her was just as soft, just as firm. He’d touched so much, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to make up for the last six years of no one to touch.

And then she was gone, twisted right out of his arms and moving toward his side where he couldn’t see her. She moved slowly, testing her footing. She was in no mood to be rescued again. Damn. He stood there, surprised by how cold her sudden absence left him.

“I think I’ve cooled off enough now. I’d better get out of this river before I catch something. I’d like another drink of water.”

She sounded like she was trying to convince herself.

Rebel sighed and closed his eyes. He’d pushed instead of letting her pull, and Madeline had slipped right through his hands.

She’d come here looking for him, but what would she take with her when she left?





Chapter Seven

What was she doing? “I’d like another drink of water.” Really? That was really what she’d like? She wanted a damn drink of water more than she wanted him to keep touching her, his hands moving over her body with something that was close to reverence? She’d come pitifully close to marrying a doctor—a man who’d performed delicate surgeries on delicate areas—and she’d never, ever been touched by a man who was as good with his hands as Rebel was.

The confusion on his face just made it worse. Damn it all, his arms were still stretched out in her direction, which made him look like he was nigh onto begging to get her back.

This should be a victory. Once again, she’d completely, totally outflanked him. She’d won this round, fair and square.

Funny how winning felt like losing.

Slowly, his arms drifted back to his sides at the same speed his eyes closed and his face went blank. “The stew should be done,” he said, his voice as blank as his face. “I’ve got a clean towel in the tent. I’ll bring it down for you.” He turned to go, but then paused. “Will you be okay in the water?”