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It seemed as if he'd been gone hours before she spotted his familiar form coming toward her with an armful of timber and the coffeepot somehow anchored to his gun belt. He dropped the load at the tent's opening, gave her the pot, then crawled inside.
She handed him the blanket. He barely draped it over his shoulders. His arms were thick with muscles, the sleeves of his shirt torn out. He had a penchant for this particular style, which she'd thought slovenly… until now—when her eyes could see every bulge and swell of bicep as he ruffled the moisture from his hair with the blanket.
Isabel marveled, watching him dry off. She liked the play of splayed fingers as they wove through dark brown hair to tame the waves. She studied the planes of his face: the angle of his chin in comparison to his forehead, his straight nose. It had been a long time since she'd felt the stirrings of desire, the want of a man in a physical sense. She felt that now… and the pull that had grabbed hold of her with a fierce grip scared her.
She wasn't a loose woman by any means. But if John Wolcott had come into the Blossom right this minute and she'd still been one of the girls, she would have gone through with the hour he'd paid for.
He caught her staring and she forced away a blush. "I'll get the coffee ready."
His gaze lingered on her, as if he knew what she'd been thinking. Then he moved into action and assembled the wood beneath the canvas canopy at the tent's front. The flames from a small fire soon burned and they set the pot to simmer.
The space was confining. Their knees bumped because they both sat in the same manner. Her dress felt clammy against her hot skin. She wasn't cold, far from it. Even so, she couldn't dispel the shiver that ran down her arms when he reached over to poke the fire and coax it higher.
"Cold?" he asked once more.
She shook her head. "You?"
"No. But my boots are full of water. Mind if I take them off?"
"It's all right with me." She suspected he rarely asked if anyone minded anything he did.
First one then the other boot shucked free and she looked at his stockings. He had a hole in one of them at the toe. She kept a smile at bay.
"Yeah, well," he muttered self-consciously and tugged the end of his sock over his toes so she couldn't see the hole. "I was meaning to get to that. But a spool of thread is fifteen berries and I was tapped out."
"You don't have to explain."
"I sure as hell do. You think I'm a pig."
"I never said that."
"Tramp. Pig. Same thing."
This time she couldn't fend off the blush. "I'm sorry… I didn't know you then."
"Now you do?"
"Kind of."
"Well, Isabel Burche," he said leaning back on his elbow and extending his feet to the fire. "What do you kind of know about me?"
Taking in a breath, knitting her fingers together in her lap, and biting her lip she said, "You're lonely."
"Is that so?"
"I think you are."
"And why's that?"
"Because." She lowered her lashes, then lifted them to see his face expectant and waiting for her reply. "Because… I'm lonely, too, and I know how you feel."
He didn't move. Nothing in his eyes revealed how he felt. Then in a voice that was as deep as midnight velvet, he asked, "Do you ever want to get married again?"
She grew flustered. "I… I haven't ruled it out. But…"
"But what?"
"But I haven't found anyone I'd care to marry." Hastily she added, "What about you? Do you want to get married—for real? Legal, that is?"
