Only 04 - Only Love

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