Only 04 - Only Love

that skilled, that sure, to feel power flowing through her with every motion of her body.
    Then Shannon realized she was staring at Whip as though she had never seen a man before. Cheeks bright, she turned and hurried back into the cabin as though pursued.
    Whip split four more round logs into eights before he trusted himself to look over his shoulder.
    Shannon was gone.
    He let out a long, whistling breath. He was aching from his forehead to his heels, and the knowledge that she liked watching him move hadn’t helped to cool him off one bit.
    But he had to cool off.
    The closer Whip got to Shannon, the more he realized that she wasn’t like the windows he had met from time to time and shared a few days or weeks with. She blushed when she looked at him. She glanced away an instant after she met his eyes. Yet it wasn’t flirting. She no more knew how to flirt than she knew how to stalk deer.
    Silent John mustn’t have been any great shakes when it came to making a girl feel like a woman , Whip thought as he slammed the maul into a big log. Shannon acts more like a nervous bridge fresh from the church than a window who’s done it all a thousand times before.
    Damnation. I wonder just how green she is when it comes to being a woman with her man?
    The thought was unnerving.
    Whip shifted his grip and brought the maul down so hard it whistled through the air. The wood broke apart violently and leaped beyond his reach.
    With a muttered curse at his own clumsiness, Whip grabbed one of the chunks and set it on the chopping block once more.
    “It’s hot and waiting for you,” Shannon called from the window.
    The maul missed its target completely.
    “Well, son of a bitch,” Whip muttered softly. “Looks like I’m no more use than a broken handle.”
    He lifted the maul over his head again and swung down, using less force. The log obediently fell into two pieces and lay within easy reach.
    Let that be a lesson, Whip told himself sardonically. Whether it’s logs or women, finesse beats raw strength any day of the week.
    Whip split the log again for good measure before he set aside the maul, removed his leather work gloves, and stuffed the gloves into the back pocket of his pants. From long habit he picked up and settled the bullwhip on his shoulder.
    As he went to the cabin, sleet fell against his face and lodged in his clothes. When he removed his hat to wash up, sleet mixed into his hair. He bentdown over the washbasin, then stopped, sniffing the steam that rose from the water. Through it was mint rather than Willow’s favorite lavender scent rising from the basin, the smell of the water kindled a memory in him.
    Willow’s bathhouse. All full of warmth from the hot spring water Wolfe and Reno piped in for them. No real sulfur to it, just a richness of minerals.
    Whip scooped up steaming water and lowered his face into his palms. He made a sound of pleasure as the water spilled over him, washing away sweat and sleet alike.
    Wish I’d had this when I shaved this morning. Cold water is pure hell, no matter how sharp the razor is.
    Whip paused as a though struck him. He looked at the surrounding forest and the clearing itself. No telltale plumes of white rose into the cold, clear air.
    I haven’t seen sign of a hot spring around here for miles in any direction, either. It must be in a cave somewhere.
    “Come and get it before I feet it to Prettyface,” Shannon said from the window.
    “Don’t you dare, woman!”
    Quickly Whip splashed hot water over his face and hands. He followed it up with the morsel of soap that was balanced on the basin’s wide rim. Then he rinsed again, making certain he was clean. When he lifted his head, dripping, the cabin door was closed and Shannon was standing very close.
    “Here,” she said softly.
    Whip looked at the piece of cloth Shannon was holding out to him. It was faded and threadbare, but enough remained for him to see that the fabric once had held a vivid pattern of flowers and birds. It was a very feminine design, as clean and graceful as the hand that held it.
    Looking at the rag, Whip guessed that it was the remainder of a favorite dress. Or perhaps Shannon’s only dress. Certainly he had seen her in nothing but secondhand men’s clothing that had been cut down to fit her slender frame.
    “Thank you,” he said huskily.
    When Whip took the towel, he thought he felt the silky brush of Shannon’s fingers against his own, but he couldn’t be certain.
    Yet Shannon