Bride Of Shadow Canyon. Stacey Kayne

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СКАЧАТЬ small fire started. He picked up his saddlebags as she walked into camp.

      “I’m gonna go down to the river and see about catching some trout. Make yourself useful by whipping up some biscuits and coffee while I’m gone. There’s supplies in my pack.” He motioned to a large canvas sack.

      “Biscuits?” Rachell looked back to tell him she didn’t know the first thing about cooking, but he had disappeared into the trees.

      How does he do that? The man had to weigh a good two hundred pounds. Her gaze moved between the fire and Jed’s supplies. “Biscuits?”

      She’d never attempted such a feat, but how hard could it be?

      “Oh, fiddle!”

      Rachell’s mouth twisted into an unhappy curve as she stared into the cast-iron skillet. She had used flour, salt and water, and though the white lumps were in the shape of biscuits, they didn’t have that fluffy feel. Again she tapped her fork against the rocklike surface. Should I try again? She had already tossed two batches of stones into the bushes and had used up most of the flour. Why wouldn’t they stay soft?

       “What the hell is that?”

      Rachell jumped at the sound of Jed’s hard voice directly above her. “Biscuits?” she ventured, glancing up at the man who was peering over her shoulder.

      Lord! She stared up at the dark hair of his muscular chest. As her eyes roved his exposed body, she discovered she wasn’t the first person who’d been aggravated enough to shoot the man, for someone had done just that. His body bore two scars from bullet wounds. One in his left shoulder, the other above his right hip.

      She felt slightly dizzied as her eyes followed the narrowing trail of dark hair across the sculpted muscles of his abdomen before the thin dark strip disappeared beneath the low waistband of his buckskin britches. Never in her life had she seen such a magnificent—

      “You can’t even cook?”

      Rachell’s gaze darted up from the staggering view of Jed’s muscular torso. She shook her head. Anger crept across his face, tightening his sharp features.

      “Then why did you waste my supplies?”

      “I tried—”

      “What type of woman can’t cook a damn biscuit?” he shouted as he grabbed the skillet, tossing the petrified clumps into the fire. “Didn’t they teach you anything useful in that goddamned ladies’ academy? Of course not!”

      He turned away from her and stormed toward his supplies. “That’s what servants and slaves are for, isn’t that right, Mrs. Carlson? Well I’ll be damned to the deepest, darkest regions of hell before I’ll be your servant. You got that, Mrs. Carlson? So you better figure out how to do something besides sit there and look pretty.” He crouched beside his pack and began rummaging through his supplies.

       Oh, goodness. He’s not going to be happy when he finds the near-empty sack.

      To her surprise, he closed the bag and sat back on his heels, not saying a word. He rolled his broad shoulders, flexing the tight muscles beneath the bronze, scarred skin of his back.

       He’s mad.

      His gaze snapped toward her, his narrowed eyes seething with anger.

       No, he’s furious.

      She didn’t understand the foreign language that fell from his mouth as he stood and dropped the skillet into the dirt, but she was certain he wasn’t spouting sonnets. He shrugged on an ivory shirt. Then, grabbing his rifle, he stomped toward the woods.

      Rachell didn’t draw an easy breath until he was gone from view. She sat back, pushing her hair away from her face. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest.

      She hadn’t actually comprehended his words as he shouted over her, she’d been too stunned by the sheer power she saw in his flexing muscles. But as she sat in the silent tranquility of the woods, his words echoed back in her mind with crystal clarity, and she was quite offended by his insults.

      She could cook…meat…maybe. If she tried, she was sure she could! Biscuits were just fickle little things. Plenty of women couldn’t cook biscuits, she assured herself. Why, some people didn’t even eat biscuits!

      Her eyes were drawn to his saddlebags. While looking for cooking supplies, she’d found his soap. Not just one, but three full bars. She glanced at the trees Jed had disappeared through then looked around their campsite. No sense in sitting about like a lump when she could be scrubbing off two weeks’ worth of grime.

      Returning from the river, Rachell felt a pang of guilt as she followed a mouthwatering aroma back to camp and spotted Jed crouched beside the low-burning fire, preparing his breakfast.

      Needing to warm herself after the freezing cold but worthwhile bath, she continued toward the fire.

      “All primped up?” Jed asked in a cool tone, keeping his eyes on the skillet he held over the flames as she sat across from him.

      “You can use those powerful legs to take a long leap straight to hell, Mr. Jed,” she snapped before she could restrain her flippant tongue.

      Heavens. She was regressing into the belligerent tomboy of her youth.

      “Too much longer with you, and I’ll go willingly, just to be free of your worthless hide.” He didn’t spare her a glance as he flipped the flat bread he was cooking over the fire.

      A moment later he dropped a plate in front of her. Rachell’s mouth watered and she looked at the tin plate filled with chunks of meat and two steaming pieces of a strange flat bread. She closed her eyes, trying not to breathe in the heavenly scent.

      She wouldn’t accept his food. She’d eaten a large supper. Surely she could hold out until later, when she could hunt for something herself.

      Jed ate most of his breakfast before he glanced up. He was surprised to find Rachell sitting with her eyes closed and her plate still on the ground, exactly where he’d dropped it.

      Her stubbornness was going to drive him insane.

      “Why aren’t you eating?” he asked in a deceptively even tone.

      “I’m not hungry,” she said, meeting his gaze for only a moment.

      “Lady, you can eat enough to fill a full-grown cowpuncher, and I don’t care to listen to the roar of your stomach all afternoon. Swallow some of that stubborn pride and eat.”

      “I’m not hungry,” she repeated, crossing her arms and staring into the fire.

      “The hell you’re not!” Thunderation, the woman was impossible. “You’re just mad because I stormed at you for wasting a week’s worth of supplies to sculpt stones.”

      She didn’t respond.

      “I’m sorry for shouting at you,” he said, biting out each word. “Is that better?”

      Narrowed green eyes met his gaze. “No, you’re СКАЧАТЬ