Page 8 of Rough Hands on the Prairie
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to,” he smirks.
That smirk—the same one he wore when he first saw me in the river. Like he’s imagining stripping me down all over again.
I change the subject.
“You think I’d show up here with no idea where I was?”
“Seems like it.”
“You don’t know anything?—”
Another rumble cuts me off. He rises, peering out the window.
“It’s going to snow tonight,” he says.
I frown. “It’s been sunny all day?—”
“I know this place. It’s going to snow.”
His eyes lock on mine.
“You’ll have to stay.”
“Oh, will I now?” I stand, arms crossed, thinking how what I really want is to get out of here. And get back home. “Because I’m not going to?—”
“No other cabins for miles,” he cuts in, gaze dropping to my bare feet. “Unless you feel like hikin’ through the forest shoeless, I’d advise you stay put.”
“Here? With you?”
He smirks. “Unless there’s some other bathing girls you want to come join us.”
I shift, uncomfortable.
I don’t know him.
I don’t knowanything.
But he clothed me. Fed me. Gave me shelter.
And if I reallyamin 1853… I don’t exactly have options.
“There’s only one bed,” I say.
“You can have it. I’ll take the floor.”
No hesitation. Like it should’ve been obvious.
I fake a yawn. “Then I’m going to bed.”
He nods, heading toward the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” I follow him. “I thought you said you’d sleep on the floor.”
“I will. In here. Snow gets in around the edges of the doors—I can’t sleep in the cold.”
It’s said plainly. No room for debate.
