Mystic Cowboy(57)

My love.

She lay there a long time, feeling him twitch through dreams of God-only-knew-what, repeating those two words over and over.

My love.

His.



Rebel stood in the shower. Well, it was supposed to be a shower, he guessed. He remembered that the British had once called the first bathrooms water closets, back when he cared enough about British art to take three whole classes on it. That’s what her bathroom was, a water closet. The concrete shower floor was a step down from the bathroom floor, which led him to suspect someone had cut a hole in the floor to wedge this thing in here. He had no idea what kept her pipes from freezing in the winter—but then, she probably didn’t know either. He had just about a foot and a half of elbow room, front and back, so he kept banging into the caddy full of smoothing shampoos and taming conditioners Madeline had hung over the showerhead.

But the water was hot, so he had nothing to complain about. It was a piss-poor shower, but it beat the hell out of the one he didn’t have. And, after all, he thought with a shake of his head, his hair would be smooth after this.

He grinned again. Maybe he should have awoken her before the shower. He’d thought about it for a long time this morning after the birds started singing. But, frankly, he probably needed a day or two to recover from last night. His groin muscles felt like they’d run 26.2 miles by themselves, although his dick was not complaining. Well, maybe just a little. Besides, she’d been too pretty to wake up.

Madeline liked to sleep on her back. When he’d woken up this morning, the sheet had been down around her hips, leaving the canvas of her flesh bare for him to study. She had faint tan lines around her wrist and neck, but not on her face, which was most likely explained by the different lotions with various SPFs she had crammed around the bar sink in the bathroom. The hair below her belly and on her arms was pale and faint, just catching the morning light that filtered through the window above the kitchen sink, giving her a little bit of an ethereal glow.

Her mouth had been open, just a little, and the corners had curved up with a delicateness that seemed at odds with the toughness with which she normally carried herself. Add in that natural blush that gave her cheeks a hint of rose, and she looked like a woman who had gotten exactly what she wanted in bed.

He hadn’t picked up a paint brush in a long time, not since he’d left New Mexico, but he was unexpectedly itching to paint her, nude like this, something between Titian and Marilyn Monroe. A beauty for the ages.

He found himself staring at that sink of lotions and makeup. Maybe a third of what Anna had constantly cluttered up their apartment bathroom with. The bathroom said low-maintenance.

But it didn’t say no maintenance.

Wrapping himself in the only towel he could find, he tiptoed out. She was on her side now, but her eyes were still closed and, after a minute of watching her, her chest still rose and fell evenly. So she wasn’t a top-of-the morning kind of person. Or maybe, he thought with proud grin, she’s just a little more tired than normal.

Nothing some coffee couldn’t fix.

Except that meant he’d have to make some coffee. He stood in front of the contraption and tried to remember how to make coffee in something that didn’t involve an open fire. Well, first, a man had to locate the various parts.

He had his head poked under the sink, trying to find a filter or something, when the coffeemaker above him beeped, startling him so that he hit the back of his head on the counter. The coffee was brewing automatically. How about that, he thought, staring at the darn thing. Who knew? Coffeemakers that made their own coffee.

Sure, this cabin was cramped, but really, it wasn’t too bad. Hot water, automatic coffee pots, soft bed with a soft woman in it. It was the kind of thing a man could get used to, especially when the winter winds began to blow.

But if he got too used to this, then that would mean no more tents, no more rivers, no more forests. And, as low maintenance as Madeline seemed, she didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who would give up automatic coffee, hot showers and soft beds on a permanent basis.

His gut sank a little.

He heard the bed squeak at the same time she said, “Good morning.”

Yeah, it had been good, right up until reality smacked him in the face. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around and see her right now, because an ethereal beauty like her was just that, ethereal. So light and delicate that she would float away on the breeze.

“Your coffee makes itself.”

She giggled. “You didn’t know that?” The bed squeaked again. Sounded like she was standing now. “Coffee does that now. I’m beginning to think you have a predilection for towels.”