“We’ll be at The Button,” Lyle grumbled as they disappeared in Bart’s wake, with Kyle slamming the door loudly behind them.
“Friendly guys,” Drake said as he took Bart’s plate and scraped the remains of her father’s dinner onto what was left of Kyle’s. Seemingly unfazed by the rude departure, he ladled a goodly portion of the stew onto the plate, then let his eyes settle on Hope.
A tingle of uneasiness rippled through her body, and no matter how she tried to ignore its presence, she was excruciatingly aware it was there. As though it were not bad enough to have his body within touching distance, the muscular length of his thigh was now pressing intimately against her own. All semblance of logical thought abandoned her.
Hope shifted her attention, and was immediately captured by his piercing gaze. It’s after suppertime, those eyes were saying. Was it her imagination, or was there a flicker of frustration in those eyes as well?
“A spoon?” Drake said, his voice deep and cynically husky as his warm breath fanned her upturned cheek.
Hope pulled her gaze away and concentrated on pushing the stew around her plate, segregating the carrots and potatoes. She inclined her head toward the counter that held the utensils. “Get it yourself, you’re not crippled.” God, but she hated the way her voice came out as a throaty whisper!
“I’d rather you got it
for me.”
His voice was thick, dripping with hidden challenge. To Hope, that voice seemed to say, “You didn’t show up when I told you to. Now I intend to see you humiliated for keeping me waiting.”
Taking a deep breath to control her anger, Hope slammed down her spoon and climbed over the bench. Glaring angrily at Frazier, she found a clean spoon. It crashed onto the table next to his plate with enough force to make the handle of the kettle rattle.
Luke kept eating as though nothing had happened. He’d seen his sister’s anger before, and he wanted no part of it. Following the twins to The Brass Button was an idea that looked better by the minute, but he couldn’t let Hope’s stew go to waste; she’d never forgive him.
Old Joe was having a very different reaction to Drake Frazier’s presence. In fact, his bulging eye stared at Hope quite peculiarly.
In all the time he’d been with the Bennetts, never once had he seen her fetch a spoon for one of the men—until now. She’d made it clear from the beginning that she was nobody’s maid, and that if one of the men wanted something he’d best get it himself. Yet here she was fetching a spoon for Frazier like she was... well, like she was his woman. It wasn’t right, he thought. It just wasn’t right.
Hope glared at Frazier for a second, letting a string of curses run temptingly close to her tongue, then plucked the half-finished slice of bread from her plate and retreated to the rocking chair near the fire. The old wood groaned as she plopped onto it, but she barely heard it over the clank of Luke’s spoon scraping up the last mouthfuls of stew from his plate.
Except for a curious glance over his shoulder, Luke ignored his sister’s inexplicably sullen mood as he sent Drake a complimentary smile. “You fought good today,” he said as he folded a slice of bread in half and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.
Drake fingered the bruise swelling on his jaw, partially concealed beneath a coat of fresh stubble, and returned the big man’s smile. The cut on his cheekbone had dried to a thin, jagged line that wasn’t as easily hidden.
“You could have done it yourself,” Drake replied, surprised at how easily the lie sprang to his lips. If it had been Luke fighting this morning, the boy would be dead right now. For some reason, the thought disturbed him.
“You think so?” Luke asked. “You really think I could’a whipped the Swede?” He leaned toward Drake, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I do too,” he added with a wink, nodding over his shoulder. “I told her I could a done it, but she wouldn’t believe me. Said I’d get myself hurt, maybe even killed. But you don’t think I would of gotten killed, do you?”
Drake declined a comment, his gaze drifting over the big man’s shoulder to settle on Hope. She sat with her back ramrod straight, her long legs tucked beneath her. The large, velvet brown eyes were lost in the flickering light of the flames that bathed the girl in a shifting, crackling orange glow that made each copper highlight in her hair dance to life. The braid was still long over her shoulder, much the way it had been that afternoon, but now more hair had escaped the tight plait. It was soft, that hair, shimmering with silky promise as the wavy tresses tickled the long, thin neck.
Feeling his stare, Hope looked up. A surge of color washed over her cheeks before she shifted her weight and turned her back to the table.
A slow smile pulled at Drake’s lips. The girl might try to convey an air of disdain, but she wasn’t as unaffected by his presence as she would like him to think, not by a long shot. And there was still the matter of payment to be discussed. Has she guessed that he wouldn’t leave until the subject had been decided, he wondered? Yes, Drake thought. She knew it, and she wasn’t at all pleased at the prospect. He turned his attention to the crooked old man at the end of the bench, realizing belatedly that Old Joe had been speaking to him, and that he had no idea what the man had said.
“Don’t you think?” Old Joe insisted, knowing Frazier hadn’t heard a word of it, and enjoying the man’s discomfort. Nope, Drake Frazier hadn’t changed a bit. His head could still be turned by a pretty face. “Frazier?”
Drake shrugged, turning his attention to the rapidly cooling stew. To an observer, it would have looked as though he had responded to the question. Only Old Joe knew he hadn’t.
“Come on, Frazier,” Luke cried in innocent delight. The bench scraped the roughly planked floor as he pushed himself to a stand. “It’ll be fun. The twins’re already there. Pa probably is too. You’re coming, ain’t you, Joe?”
The old man shook his head and waved the suggestion away with his spoon. “Getting’ too old for those kind a shenanigans. You two go, with my blessin’s. Leave me outta it.”
“They got girls,” Luke teased. To Hope, he looked like a boy holding a bone just out of a hungry dog’s reach as he anxiously rubbed his big, flat palms together. “Real live girls. How long’s it been since you seen a real live girl, Joe? How long’s it been since you held one?”
Old Joe stifled a groan. How long? Too long, that’s how long!
Luke could see his old friend change his mind. The thought of “real live girls” could do that to a man, any man, stuck out here in the middle of nowhere with nary a skirt in sight. A body could get sick of seeing dusty trousers and sweat-soaked shirts real fast, especially when there wasn’t a whole lot else to look at.
Old Joe wiped his mouth on the napkin, then set it aside and stood up. “You comin’, pal?” he asked Frazier as he climbed over the bench. The bones in his knees cracked with age, but Old Joe hardly noticed. The thought of what was in store for him tonight was enough to take a good ten years off his face. Now, instead of looking ancient, he looked merely old.
Frazier shook his head as he dipped the spoon into his plate and brought it up heaped with vegetables and gravy. “Nope,” he said flatly, his gaze meeting Old Joe’s bulging eye head on. “The lady and I have some talking to do. Don’t mind, do you?”