If she was lucky, he would overlook a bit of lather on his mustache or in the dimple on his chin. She would stand close to dab at the soap…and then she would look up and see the quicksilver of his eyes burning down at her, and the flare of his nostrils as he caught the scent of spearmint on her hands and breath.

«You’re a fool, Shannon Conner Smith,» she told herself firmly. «You’re letting that yondering man get too close.»

Yet all Shannon truly cared about was getting Whip closer still. She hungered for him in ways that were as old as desire and as new as sunrise.

She struck a match and bent over the open door of the wood stove. The flames caught and entwined with an ease that reminded her of Whip’s masculine grace. Heat filled the stove and radiated out into the room as wood and fire consumed one another.

Is that what it would be like with Whip? Would we feed one another until everything was gone but the memory of heat?

A shiver coursed through Shannon, touching her secret flesh like a match touched tinder; and like tinder, she burned.

Is this what the wood feels like? Does it ache and tremble and cry to be burned to an ash so fine it can fly right up to the sun?

«Lust, that’s all,» Shannon said beneath her breath. «Pure lust.»

Prettyface scratched at the cabin door, distracting Shannon from her study of the fire.

«Oh, all right. But if you snap and snarl at Whip when he comes up to wash, I swear I’m going to get a stick and beat you.»

The dog grinned and waved its long brindle tail. Rows of white, sharp teeth gleamed at her.

«Yeah, I don’t believe me either,» she admitted. «But I have to do something, Prettyface. You watch Whip like you can’t wait for an excuse to jump him. He’ll go soon enough. Much too soon. You don’t have to drive him away.»

Shannon opened the cabin door. Prettyface bounded out and began casting around for scent. Though Whip had shot more deer, the dog still hunted for himself. Whatever venison wasn’t eaten fresh was cured into jerky. It was the same for the trout. Whip was determined that Shannon have plenty of food for the coming winter.

As Shannon shut the door and headed for the dry goods cupboard, she noticed the fresh bouquet of wildflowers set on the small, scarred table. Very gently she ran her fingertips over the tender, scented petals. She was smiling when she reached into the cupboard and began to measure out flour into a battered tin bowl.

Whip was always bringing something to her, little things to brighten up the cabin’s dark interior. Usually it was flowers. Sometimes it was a pebble that was all smooth and rounded from the creek. Once it was a butterfly freshly come from its cocoon. Watching the wings slowly unfurl and become rich with color had been like having a rainbow gather and dance softly in the palm of her hand.

Shannon would never forget the look on Whip’s face as he watched the butterfly lift from her palm and spiral upward into the aching blue of the sky — pleasure, envy, understanding, satisfaction, yearning, all had been part of Whip’s smile.

I know he’s going to leave someday. But please, God, not today.

Not today.

Shannon’s hands jerked. Flour spilled. Carefully she gathered it with the edge of her hand and coaxed the white powder back into the cup.

Don’t think about Whip leaving, she told herself firmly. He will leave today or he won’t, and all I can do is watch him eat and blot lather from his chin and feel his smile like sunlight on my soul.

Instead of worrying about tomorrow, I should thank God for sending me a gentle, generous, decent man to help me. There’s fresh meat in the larder and jerky curing and fish being smoked outside and firewood piled high along the east side of the cabin.

Those are blessings enough for anyone, and a lot more than I had when I sold Mama’s wedding ring to keep from starving while I got better at stalking deer.

Bending down, Shannon felt the air inside the oven. It wasn’t hot enough to make the skin around her nails draw up. She added more wood to the fire, cut several slabs of meat from the ham that hung in the corner, and put the meat in a pan to fry while the biscuits were cooking.

The next time she tested the oven, it was ready. She went to the window and opened the shutters wide. Sunlight spilled in, bringing with it the scent and excitement of an untouched day.

«Biscuits are going in,» Shannon called to Whip. «I’ll bring the water out in a moment.»

The rhythmic chopping sounds ended. Whip stepped back from the tree. A single look told him that it would take him longer to fell the tree than it would take Shannon to cook the biscuits. With an easy, one-handed stroke, he sank the blade of the ax deeply into wood. There the cutting edge would stay safe and dry until he needed it again.

Whip looked over his shoulder and saw Shannon hanging partway out the window, a smile on her face and a comb in her hand. She drew the comb through her hair with swift strokes, as though impatient to be through with the small chore.

Sunlight made her hair an autumn glory, like dark fire shot through with streaks of gold and red.

Someday soon you’re going to let me comb all that beautiful hair for you, Whip promised silently. Soon. Real soon.

Your hair will be as soft and hot as fire running through my fingers, but nothing will be as soft or as hot as the dark woman-flower concealed between your thighs.

You’ll bloom for me, honey girl. I’m as sure of it as I’ve ever been of anything.

But first I’ve got to get past that hellhound of yours without scaring you to death.

«I’m on my way,» Whip called.

His voice was curt. Prettyface was a whole row of thorns in Whip’s side. Though only partly wolf in his body, the dog was mostly wolf in his temperament. Despite Whip’s best efforts, the animal refused to treat Whip as anything but a dangerous intruder. Several times Whip had found himself on the edge of reaching for the snarling dog to teach it the only kind of lesson it seemed capable of learning from a man.

Fear, pure and simple.

Whip knew it was the wolf’s nature to give way only to superior strength. After Whip’s strength was established, respect would come, and then, finally, he could begin teaching Prettyface that not all men took pleasure in abusing a mongrel with the eyes of a wild wolf.

Given time, Prettyface would not only accept Whip, the dog would give Whip the same trust and loyalty he gave to the girl who had found him beaten nearly to death on the trail from Holler Creek.

All Whip needed was time.

How much time do I have before that sunrise calls my name?

There was no answer to Whip’s silent question. There never had been. When the wanderlust took him, he packed up and left. Nor did he ever come back to the same place again.

Sunrise called to him only once from each new land.

Before he left Echo Basin, Whip planned to see that Shannon’s cabin was in good repair, the larder was overflowing, and the firewood was stacked to the eaves on three sides of the cabin. It was what he had always done for the openhearted widows whose paths he crossed, even if the women did no more than cook his meals and mend his shirts and share the warmth of their kitchens with a yondering man.

The world was a difficult place for a woman alone, a fact that Whip understood better than most men. That was why he was haunted by the vision of Shannon lying beneath a fallen tree…Shannon injured and alone, no one to help her, no one even to know that she needed help.

She’s a widow whether she admits it or not. She’s got to be. Hell, she doesn’t even act married. She keeps watching me like she’s never seen a man before.

And I watch her like she’s the first woman I’ve ever seen.

Frowning, Whip pulled off his leather work gloves, stuffed them into his back pocket, and picked up the bullwhip that always lay within easy reach. As he walked toward the house, Prettyface appeared from the surrounding forest and snarled viciously at him.