Page 8 of Taming Elijah


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He released her throat, and instantly missing the soft feel of her skin beneath his fingers. He drew his poncho over his head. “Put this on,” he commanded. “We will finish this at the cabin.”

“Thank you.”

He wanted to snap at the relief that lightened her eyes. She thought him capable of leaving her on the mountain path to fend for herself in the cold and without a horse. He sank into that bleak place he normally lived, trying to douse the heat and the need she roused in him. If only he didn’t crave her damned touch, taste, and scent so much. She was the only one that had ever been able to ignite such a yearning in him. Even the wife he had lost—Emma—had never inspired such turbulent need.

In the weeks he and Sheridan had spent together just after they’d met, he had wanted to claim her, and make her irrevocably his, despite his fears. After Thomas died Elijah had fought long and hard with that same urge. He knew it was a foolish desire, but he had still wondered, so great was Sheridan’s pull. Then his nightmares of blood and loss had tormented him, centering him as he imagined her broken, and dead. He had hardened himself completely against her. He had resisted all her lures, and the memories of the need that had stabbed at him from her big blues. The West was not for her, and before he had been an idiot to even think of taking a woman like her, a woman like Emma—gentle, sweet, and ladylike. A woman who had been pampered all her life and was not prepared emotionally and physically for harshness of the west. A woman he could not have faith in to be strong in the face of inevitable adversity?.

The West was a harsh terrain, the land savage and uncompromising. A woman as sweet and gentle as Sheridan would need a man to survive the land. He had told her he would buy her shares in the ranch at Thomas’s funeral. Elijah had not given much thought to where she would go. But he knew staying was not a safe option for her.

And now she was here.

Gritting his teeth, Elijah did not acknowledge her further. He moved silently, not wanting to draw the predators of the forest attention to them. He gave up after she trampled behind him, loud enough to warn anyone that waited for them miles out.

In the cold silent trek his thoughts turned to Jericho. Elijah knew the Sullivan outfit, and his ambitious move for business and political power in these parts. But Elijah was more familiar with Jericho’s brother, Vincent Sullivan, having served with him in the army. Vincent was now the town’s sheriff, and Elijah nodded to him whenever he went into town for supplies. The last time had been almost a week ago. When not in town, he holed up in his mountain cabin contented to seclude himself from the world.

Thomas Galloway had been his friend. When he’d approached him about investing in his ranch, Elijah had taken up his offer, wanting to be a part of something other than his family legacy of Triple K. His father had made the Triple K ranch the powerhouse that it was, and Elijah wanted to start something for himself and worked to see it flourish. He’d signed on to be equal partner in their venture, and he and Thomas had defended the land with their blood. They had slowly built an empire that had started before the war, but flourished after it ended. The need for beef had exploded, and they had been there to fill the gap. They had held the ranch during war, protected it from Comanche and Arapaho raids. The Creek had been a haven for Elijah when he had lost his wife and son—Nathan, and returning to Triple K where the memories lingered had been too much. And now a man that fancied he wanted to own the valley thought he could just waltz in and claim Whispering Creek?

Elijah would be fair. Jericho Sullivan could not have known that Elijah was equal owner in the Whispering Creek spread. Before taking any action, he would assess where the man stood with his new knowledge. But Sheridan was right. Despite her objections, Jericho would still force her to his will. A woman without the protection of a man had a rough time of it. Instinctively Elijah knew he himself would never marry her. Once upon a time he would have done so, but that had been a moment of weakness he would carefully guard himself against from ever happening again.

He strode into the clearing that led to the cabin nestled deep into the mountain. It was a two-story wood and stone structure with three bedrooms up top, a wide-open living room, a large indoor kitchen, and a bathing area on the ground floor. He entered and with quick efficiency lit the tinder set for a log fire.

“Elijah.”

He glanced at her lingering in the doorway. “The bath chamber is to your left. Get the blood and grime off you. The water is piped directly from the spring around the back, so it will be cold. When you are through, your bedroom is the first door up the stairway. I will prepare something to eat. Then we will talk.”

She nodded mutely and with jerky steps she disappeared.

Within minutes, the fireplace roared, shaving off the chill in the cabin. He took cheese and bread from the pantry, blanking his mind to the fact that she was stripping in the next room. With sharp movements he lit the earthen stove, put on a pot of coffee to brew, and sliced the bread. He paused in slicing up the cheese. He should wait until she came out, but the need to know if she had been the one to borne a child crawled over his skin and burrowed deep. In their time together, his need had been so fierce and all consuming; there had been no thoughts of protecting against a child. He strode to the bath chamber and flung the door open.

“Elijah, wha—” She inhaled sharply when he pulled the bloodied shirt she held in front of her as a shield and drew her to him.

She twisted her body in an attempt to gain her freedom, but his arms only tightened as he dragged her to him, unzipping the buckskin pants that clung to her like a second skin. She jerked and stumbled and he caug

ht her. The cold of her skin shocked him and he ignored the burn of desire and righted her.

“What are you doing?”

“You know what I am doing, Sheridan.”

He crouched in front of her, his hands spanning the width of her belly. He splayed his hand over her belly, spreading his fingers wide. She stilled under his touch and he ignored the quivering of her stomach. She felt like liquid silk in his arms. He shifted her, looking at her hips and thighs, noting the smooth, unblemished skin. A blush covered her entire body. Her hands hugged her breasts in a cross motion in some attempt to protect her modesty. His lips quirked, finding the action ludicrous. He had seen and tasted every inch of her alabaster skin. She turned her back and he froze. Three perfect scars marred her beautiful skin. Whip lashes. His jaw clenched. He remembered how she’d gotten them, agony swept through him because he had not been there for her despite her betrayal.

“The baby is not mine,” she said softly. “I would have told you.”

He pushed aside the puzzling disappointment mixing with the abject relief. He rose from his crouch. “Then how is he of my blood?”

She arched a delicate brow. “You do have brothers. I suspect one of them is the father.”

“You do not know for sure?”

“Beth is very secretive, but I am certain he is a Kincaid,” she insisted with a stubborn tilt of her head.

Then she dropped her hands. Elijah froze, his gaze unable to tear itself from the lush pertness of her breasts. The minx. What the hell was she doing?

He jerked away from her, then stomped to the porch and lowered his frame into the rocker. The coldness soothed the flare hunger for her and grounded him. The wind whipped at him, punching him with jarring fists of cold. He remained seated, fighting the temptation to enter the cabin and take her. He lowered his head to shield his face from the chilly gusts.

Memories swirled and he gritted his teeth, biting back an oath. He had been so dissolute when he’d met Sheridan, and she had been a breath of fresh air, spicy, witty, and too soft for the savagery of the West, but, somehow enough for him. The hard, vicious way he had lived before and after the war had left no room for trust. But he had trusted her.

As a sergeant in the union Army he had seen too much death, and too much loss. He was broken after losing all he held dear, in a retaliation attack after the Sand Creek massacre. But being with Sheridan had made everything seem right. The sense of being broken, the displacement had been fixed somehow. He’d believed her when she said she was unattached, she had no man, had no one that she loved.

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