An odd impulse made her lift one of his soft flannel work shirts to her face and press the material to her cheek, then to her nose where she inhaled the exotic male scent of him. Bath soap. Shaving soap. A whiff of perspiration. A hint of cigar smoke. The earthy outdoors scent that was Sam: partly sunshine, partly pine, partly wood shavings and roof tar.
A wave of dizziness overcame her and she stumbled, almost pulling down the clothes tree. Heat infused her face and her stomach tightened abruptly. She would have sat down but the only place to sit was on his cot. Where he slept.
Good heavens, what was happening to her? Steadying herself against the clothes tree, she blinked hard. A minute ago she’d been standing in the high mountain sunshine thinking lofty thoughts about the sisterhood of women and being connected to past generations through family tasks. Now she suddenly felt strange and shaky. Sam’s scent lingered in her nostrils and a slow-burning fire had kindled between her thighs.
Appalled, she backed out of his tent and threw down the flap, shutting out the sight of his clothing and his pillow. Skirts billowing, she spun on her heels and fled to the kitchen. After pouring coffee into her mother’s teacup, she dropped into a chair at the table.
This was so peculiar. Her fingers shook. Simply touching Sam’s clothing and examining his bed had made her hands shake. She couldn’t believe it.
That settled her indecision about doing his wash. Grimly she concluded if merely sniffing his shirt and inspecting his cot sent her into a near swoon like some silly yearning spinster, heaven knew what scrubbing his underwear would do to her. She didn’t want to find out.
“Angie?”
The unexpected sound of Sam’s voice made her twitch and guiltily thank her stars that he hadn’t appeared five minutes ago to catch her inside his tent.
Jumping to her feet, she glared at him, instantly furious for no good reason. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here, remember? This used to be my house.” After glancing at her pinned-up skirts and wet apron, he walked to the stove, dodging the laundry tubs. “I forgot my lunch bucket this morning.”
“I am not going to do your laundry!”
Seething, her eyes snapping with resentment, she suddenly felt very sorry for herself. She hadn’t come here to be Sam’s drudge. Hadn’t asked to feed, wash, and worry about the children he’d had while she was withering on the vine in her parents’ house. While she’d remained as chaste as a nun, he’d explored, probably reveled in pleasures that were still a mystery to her. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair.
Sam paused at the sink and frowned. “Did something happen that I should know about?”
She planted her fists on her hips and ground her teeth. “How could you! We were married! Damn you, Sam.” The fire that had started between her legs flamed up to her throat. Whirling, she paced to the front door, then back to the table. “You just set up housekeeping as if I didn’t exist! Created a cozy little nest for yourself and someone who wasn’t me. And you had children! I wanted children. Did you ever think of that?”
He watched her kick the bluing tub, sending a slosh of liquid over the side and onto the floor. She didn’t care. She wanted to kick things, throw things, and scream at the injustice of her life.
“No woman should have to wash a man’s underwear unless he’s a real husband! And hankies! Underwear and hankies are not things a woman should have to scrub unless she’s utterly destitute, insane, or crazy in love!”
“Excuse me, would it be out of line to ask what brought this on?” He watched her with narrowed, wary eyes, the way a man would watch a burning fuse.
“Isn’t it obvious? Here I am taking care of some other woman’s children!” Heat pulsed in her face, choked her. “Another woman that you loved and held and . . . and while you were doing all that I was embroidering hundreds of stupid pillowcases, remembering three kisses and wondering if I’d go to my grave without ever . . . without ever . . .” She threw a hand past her face. “You know what I mean. Of course you know. Being married to me didn’t stop you from—”
He crossed between the laundry tubs so swiftly that she had no time to grasp his intention. She wouldn’t have guessed his intent anyway.
His hands caught her waist and pulled her hard against his body, and the good male scents she’d smelled in his tent enveloped her and reeled through her senses. The heat of his hands and the hard, muscular power of his body stopped the words in her mouth and the breath in her chest.
A gasp broke from her lips. “What are you—”