Page 57 of The Prospector's Only Prospect
“No, I put it back in the cart so Harley wouldn’t get into it. I can’t think where I’ll store it to keep him out of it.”
“The table?” He handed her the basket and took up the crate of wool. “Leave it on my bed when I’m not in it.”
“Your bed isn’t high enough,” she said with exasperation. “He started climbing up there while you were gone. He’s so proud once he’s there, then he cries because he doesn’t know how to get down.”
Virgil snorted. “Story of every man who thinks he’s onto a good idea until he tries it. I’ll ask Emmett to build you a cupboard with doors that latch.”
“Thank you.” She paused as they stood in the dark. “I mean it, Virgil. Thank you.”
“It’s just a sewing basket, Marigold.”
She wasn’t thanking him for that. They both knew it, but she nodded and followed him inside.
Chapter Fifteen
Virgil had been too young to fully understand why his father had come to the small, barren room he had shared with his mother. She had always sent him outside, coming to get him after some time had passed.
After his father had so publicly and brutally denounced him, Virgil had been sent to bunk and work alongside the enslaved men. He couldn’t say whether his mother had welcomed his father to her bed, but she hadn’t had a choice, so Virgil knew what that made him. Not just illegitimate, but the product of something dark and wrong.
Most of the time, he could forget how he came to be. Then he did something stupid that made him see his father showing through his better intentions and loathed himself. He didn’t want to be anything like that man, pressing his attentions on a woman. He wanted to believe that if Marigold had screamed that first morning he’d woken with her in his arms, he would never have touched her again.
He wanted their tacit agreementnotto touch one another to be enough to keep his hands and lips and eyes off her. It was damned hard, though. She was not only comely and capable and smart-mouthed enough to keep him on his toes, she had revealed how passionate she was. Not just in her beliefs, but in every way. And erotically receptive to his stoking of those passions—when she wasn’t breaking her heart with disgrace over it.
Christ, it hurt him that she’d been humiliated over something so natural. Precious even. It made him want toshowher how sweet lovemaking ought to be. To discover with her how far they could take their passions.
Instead, he worked himself nearly to death trying to ignore her, but she didn’t make it easy. Not when she looked for him when she was walking, which he knew because he was looking for her.
Her face lit up when she saw him, especially when he was coming up the path toward the cabin. Then she would make some idle comment to the children and send them running to greet him, but his eyes would meet hers, and he’d fill up with something bright as sunshine.
Most agonizing of all was when he happened to stand close to her. She would drop her lashes and bite her lip but wouldn’t move away. His own feet would root to the ground, and they’d stand for long seconds where he listened to his heartbeat in his ears, holding so still he felt as though he was vibrating, before some noise or other distraction would make him aware of what he was doing.
At night, he lay awake for hours, so aware of her he felt skinless as he fought the temptation to reach down and stroke her calf where her feet were tucked under the overhang of his bunk. His mind was constantly conjuring fantasies of gathering her up and stripping her down, tasting every inch of her and pressing himself deep inside her.
Theyreallyneeded separate bedrooms.
So he asked Emmett to help him peel logs that should have had a year or two to season, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. In fact, he dragged a few more green ones down. They left those for last, taking turns using the spud and the drawknife, enlisting Owen if he showed up, which tended to send him back to the river, checking on the miners instead of jaw-wagging here.
“Looks like hard work for a hot day,” Marigold said as she came out with two cups and a pitcher. “I thought you could both use a cool drink.”
“Thanks.” Virgil drained his in one go, barely tasting the tart berry juice watered down and sweetened with a hint of sugar. He tried not to notice the pretty pink in her cheeks or the button at her throat that was only partially through the hole, as if she had opened it to cool off and closed it before she came out to speak to them.
“Thank you, Marigold,” Emmett said, smiling warmly with appreciation.
“If Levi turns up, will you ask him to help us at the clay patch? Unless you need him?” Marigold refilled both cups, emptying the pitcher before lifting her dark lashes.
Virgil held her dark honey gaze and took another gulp to wet his dry throat, feeling the soft burn all the way to his crotch. This craving for her was going to eat him alive, it really was.
“I’ll send him to help you.” He cleared his throat, trying to shake off his lust so he could talk sense. “Stoney wants to get on with the chimney. We need to fire the rest of the bricks.”
She nodded, sent Emmett a friendly smile, gave Virgil one more glimmer of what he felt inside him as longing, and walked away.
Virgil turned back to his work, checking that Emmett wasn’t watching her walk away.
Emmett knew exactly what Virgil was trying to catch him at. Maybe he saw what was between them, because he snorted as he picked up the draw knife.
“You know there’s deliberation and there’s missing a boat? She’s thoughtful, she works hard, and she’s good with your children. I’m not the only one who’s noticed.”
“See, this is why I haven’t bothered ordering a printing press. We all know what’s what without reading about it in a weekly paper.”
