13

Fifteen minutes later, Shepard sunk his naked, weary body into a steaming hot bath with a sigh, thinking it was more than worth its price of thirty-five cents. He soaked as long as he dared, not wanting to leave Hazel alone, before grabbing the bar of pine-scented soap he'd paid an additional fifteen cents for.

Whistling along with the faint melody played on the piano, Shepard worked up a thick lather and soaped his entire body, paying extra attention to his hair. It took four washes to get all the mud out, and the water held only a faint memory of warmth once he rinsed the last of the suds. His soiled pants were next to take a soapy plunge.

Quickly, he wrung them out, toweled off with a clean threadbare length of cloth, and dressed, stuffing his feet into his boots as he shuffled and hopped toward the door.

With his wet trousers in his left hand and his right hand settling atop his holstered revolver as he walked through the saloon and up the stairs to his room, he was pleased to find Hazel still sound asleep after unlocking the door.

He spread his trousers in front of the fire to dry and flipped Hazel's clothing. That chore complete, he added two more logs to the fire and covered a yawn as he removed his boots, double-checked the lock on the door, and then settled his weary frame in the wingback chair near the bed.

Shepard fought against the heavy exhaustion settling deep in his bones and concentrated on the piano music below and the patter of rain against the window as another storm rolled through town.

When Hazel grew restless, whimpering as though she were in the grips of a nightmare, he reached over and held her hand, murmuring tender nothings until she settled and her soft snores drifted on the air once more.

After attempting to extract it from Hazel's grip for a third time without success, he kept her hand in his and adjusted his position in the chair before slowly succumbing to the pull of sleep.

Hours later, the brilliant oranges, violets, and pinks of dawn painted the sky and spilled into the room, waking Hazel. She opened her eyes with some reluctance, wincing from the pain beating like a drum in her skull, and found Shepard sound asleep in the chair beside the bed.

She studied him in silence, her gaze lovingly caressing him from head to stockinged toe. His hand held hers in a loose grip atop the bedcovers as though it were the most natural place for it to be. His feet were perched on the bed and crossed at the ankle in a look of relaxed repose.

Snores rumbled past his parted lips, mixing with Jeremiah's coughs in the other room and the clock on the mantel chiming the hour.

She slipped her hand free of his grasp, careful not to wake him, and clenched her teeth against a groan of pain as she rolled to her opposite side and sat up. Her toes curled against the cold and gritty floorboards. Tossing the covers aside, Hazel pressed a hand to her throbbing head and squinted against the brightness of the morning as she stood on trembling legs.

The shirt she wore reached mid-thigh and bore several faint blood stains and puckered, frayed attempts at mending that should have consigned it to a rag-bin.

Spying her underthings draped in front of the embers in the fireplace, Hazel tiptoed across the floor, cringing with each squeaky floorboard and glancing over her shoulder to ensure Shepard still slept. The last thing she wanted right then was for him to get an eyeful of her bare backside while she got dressed—the embarrassment would be more than she could endure.

Guilt pierced her heart at knowing he'd spent the night in such an uncomfortable position after risking his life to save her. Resolved to find a way to make it up to him, Hazel discarded the borrowed shirt and quickly donned her bloomers and camisole, taking a mental inventory of all the bruises marring the left side of her body. The one on her hip, angry purple and painfully swollen, covered an area larger than the span of her hand.

She picked up her corset, expecting it to be damp but wearable, and gasped at finding the back laces severed. Hazel muttered a curse and finished dressing in her petticoat and borrowed shirt. It was definitely not how she preferred to be seen around town and had the potential to damage the reputation she was struggling to build as a serious businesswoman. But hopefully, it would only be for a few minutes.

Spying her mud-covered shoes at the foot of the bed, she quietly laced them on and left the room, unaware Shepard awoke with a jerk at the sound of the door clicking shut.

He stood, his body tense, right hand automatically settling on his gun at his hip as he scanned the room for threats to Hazel's safety.

When none materialized, and his sleepy mind realized she no longer slept but was, in fact, walking across the street toward her shop, Shepard cursed and pulled on his boots, watching as she stopped mid-road, her gaze directed toward the burned portion of the building.

Stumbling toward the door, Shepard shoved his hat on his head and ran from the room.

"Dagblasted female," he grumbled under his breath as he burst through the batwing doors and raced to catch up with Hazel. "JONESY," he called out, his heavy footsteps echoing on the boardwalk as he turned at the corner.

The back door stood ajar, making Shepard mutter another curse as he entered her shop. Did the fool woman not understand the seriousness of her situation? Wandering around town practically naked, leaving doors open for anybody to walk in and take advantage of her. "Jonesy?"

Silence and then, "I'm up-upstairs," she replied brokenly.

He'd have to tie her to his side from now on. It was the only way he was guaranteed to know she would be protected from her own—his thoughts scattered like leaves in a brisk wind when he came to the top of the stairs.

Hazel stood in the blackened bedroom doorway, her soot-streaked hands covering her mouth as she stared at him over her shoulder with tears pouring down her face.

Shepard's heart broke upon sight of the naked anguish in her gaze. He'd never seen her this way, so wholly stricken with grief.

Propelled by an unknown force, he crossed the short distance separating them and came face to face with the damage as he stood beside her.

His stomach dropped to the floor, and his mouth fell agape. From the safe distance of his hotel room, he'd viewed the space and believed the destruction could have been worse. After all, the fire had only ruined a small area instead of Hazel's entire shop and livelihood.

However, watching her take tentative steps toward the crumbling burnt remains of a dresser, he knew for a certainty he couldn't have been more wrong.

Crouching, Hazel sifted through charcoal and ashes, coating her hands in soot. Tears blurred her vision. Panic and a desperate sense of urgency made her limbs tremble. Her heart pounded dully within her chest, and blood rushed in her ears.

'Please let it be here,' she inwardly chanted, trying to ignore the sense of doom settling in her gut until she latched onto a chunk of wood, feeling as though the fire had destroyed her entire world.

Her chin wobbled.

A mournful cry built in her throat and escaped as she sank to her knees and searched through the pile of debris once more. But there was nothing except cinders and broken shards of glass. She stared at the chunk of burnt wood held in her dirty hands and blinked, causing the tears to fall unheeded. "It's gone."

Hazel clutched the piece of decorative charcoal to her chest—all that remained of the frame that once housed her mother's picture—and wept. Grief, akin to the night Amalia Jones was murdered, pierced Hazel's heart as though she'd been lost to her all over again.

Shepard stared at her, unsure of what he should do—or say, for that matter—but feeling deep in his soul that he must do something. Removing his hat, he raked a hand through his hair and settled it back atop his head, watching where he placed his feet as he cautiously approached Hazel. For all he knew, she might prefer to be left alone and refuse any comfort he wished to give.

He knelt on one knee beside her and wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, tucking her against his side.

Hazel froze for the briefest of moments, hating that he was a witness to her vulnerability. But in the next breath, she knew he was exactly the person she needed most and rested her head on his shoulder, snaking her arms around his waist while weeping into his shirt.

She didn't know how long he held her, but she vaguely remembered him adjusting his position to sit on the floor and pull her onto his lap.

It was strange how comfortable she felt with him after having him absent from her life for so long. The longer he cradled her against his chest, the more she wanted to sink into him, bury herself against the warmth of Shepard's body until all of the pain and heartache wreaking havoc inside her had disappeared. With Shepard, she was safe—a precious feeling she'd known very little of throughout her life.

Aware that she was treading on dangerous territory where her heart and emotions were concerned, she straightened, wiping the evidence from her cheeks and unknowingly leaving thick streaks of soot on her face.

Shepard's lips twitched at the sight, but he held quiet, not wanting to further upset her.

"What?" Hazel mumbled, blushing when he continued to stare at her with a mix of warm emotions swirling in his eyes that set her heart racing. "What?" She said slightly louder in growing agitation with a soft punch to his left shoulder. "Why are you looking at me that way?"

"You have a little something on your face." Shepard shook his head and smiled as he grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped the dirt from her cheeks. He pursed his lips after a moment and quietly admitted, "It's safe to say I've only succeeded in making it worse."

Hazel glanced at the black streaks on his shirt and chuckled in sudden realization. "How bad is it?"

Cradling her face in both his dirty hands, he tilted her jaw as though attempting to catch the light better—a relatively easy feat considering the roof was gone. "Looks like you could use a shave, Jonesy. Good thing I've got my razor just across the street."

Shepard chuckled and winked, and Hazel's heart kicked against her ribs, sending a swarm of butterflies loose in her gut. He was tantalizingly close, their faces mere inches apart, and his body heat seeped through her meager clothing.

She knew he only held her to offer comfort, not to seduce, but it didn't quell the frantic pounding of her heart.

"Don't look so worried," He tucked a dirty lock of hair behind her left ear and brushed his thumb against her jaw. "It's nothing a little soap and water won't fix," he mumbled, unable to tear his gaze away.

She swallowed convulsively, watching his eyes dart down to follow the movement and then caress their way up to land on her mouth before meeting her eyes once more.

Despite the heavy scent of smoke and burnt wood around them, each tiny breath she took brought with it the intoxicating smell of him. Soap and pine and masculine heat.

His touch against her skin as his fingers stroked the column of her throat was achingly gentle, as though he believed her to be made of delicate porcelain and feared she might shatter. Her body's reaction to him was powerful; her lungs inhaled and exhaled when he did, as though he had total control over her every movement.

Hazel sat there, wanting to melt into him as she watched him look at her with a boyish, crooked grin curling his lips, and couldn't deny the truth of what she felt for him any longer. She wanted him with fierce desperation that left her trembling and breathless—had wanted him to be hers from the moment she first saw him years ago—regardless of not understanding the full scope of the word back then.

She'd tried not to set her heart on him and somehow managed to convince herself she was infatuated with different boys or men through the years. But Shepard was always the one she compared them to in the end and the reason she found all would-be suitors lacking.

"Shepard?" She whispered, unconsciously leaning forward, her hands resting on his chest, inching up toward his neck.

The air changed between them, swirling with attraction and electric awareness of one another. It stole her breath and danced across her skin in delicious shivers.

His gaze fell to her lips. His hand at her neck threaded through the hair at her nape, the other cradled her face while his thumb softly brushed back and forth against her chin. Hazel's heart thumped, and her mouth flooded with moisture for want of pressing her lips to his in a kiss.

Fearful she would do something foolish if he continued to look at her in such a burning, intense way, Hazel whispered the first thing that came to mind, "Why did you leave without saying goodbye?"

Her eyes flew wide at realizing what she'd just asked, and she clapped her hands over her mouth.

Hazel wanted to kick herself, would have too if she hadn't been sitting on his lap. Wishing the floor would cave in—which, in its current condition, seemed extremely plausible—she clamped her mouth shut to keep from saying anything else embarrassing and scrambled off his lap.

"I wanted to," he murmured as he helped Hazel stand.

She stared at him, waiting for Shepard to elaborate further.

When a full minute passed without him doing so, she decided it would be best for her peace of mind to change the subject. "Do you have a sweetheart somewhere waiting for you?"

"No."

"You don't?" She whispered, trying to keep the delight out of her voice. "Why not?"

His shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug, "I've had other things on my mind the past few years." He studied her eyes for a moment before asking, "Do you?"

Hazel averted her gaze and pretended ignorance. "Do I what?"

He arched a brow and grinned, "Have a sweetheart."

She shook her head and flicked a glance at him as she smoothed her hair. Then, grimacing at its tangled, dirty state, she forced her lips into a smile and pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach. "Why don't I get washed up a little and see about finding something more suitable to wear? We can talk about this later—or better yet, forget I brought it up altogether."

"All right," Shepard nodded, "I'll wait for you downstairs."

A smile teased at the corners of her lips as she watched him clomp down the steps and called out, "There's a rain barrel just outside the back door if you want to clean that soot off your hands."

He gave a noncommittal grunt that made her smile turn into a full-fledged grin, his heavy footfalls echoing as he crossed to the backdoor. Hurrying into her kitchen area, she pulled the stained shirt off over her head and started pumping water into the basin she used for a sink.

When it was sufficiently full, Hazel grabbed her small bar of scented soap and quickly washed her hands, then her face, and pursed her lips in indecision for a minute before submerging her entire head under the rush of water. Whether it was a pathetic attempt to drown herself or clear her head, she wasn't sure at first.

However, as she worked up a good lather and scrubbed at her scalp, watching the dirt and grime muddy the water, she began to feel more in control of her chaotic emotions.

Wrapping a kitchen towel around her hair, she wrung the water out, then combed through the length with her fingers. Once the majority of tangles were worked free, she coiled it atop her head, shoved in a couple hairpins to hold it in place, and hurried downstairs.

Shepard turned from wiping his clean hands on a rag near the stove as Hazel leaped from the second step and raced across the room, wearing only her camisole and petticoat. Where was his shirt she'd been wearing? "Something wrong?"

"No," she called out over her shoulder, disappearing behind the curtain to the front room, "I'm just gonna grab a few things."

Shepard watched the curtain partition swing back and forth, tempted to take a peek. He took a step forward just as she burst through, holding a dandelion yellow dress and several white unmentionables away from her dirty clothes.

"I suppose I should count myself fortunate I made all the dresses on display for me," she said, disappearing behind the dressing room curtain. "Else, I'd have to resort to wearing trousers and cause a sensational scandal in town."

Shepard chuckled and leaned his rump against the work table, crossing his feet at the ankles. "I thought people would be a bit more forgiving in a town like this."

Hazel let out an unladylike snort. "I suppose they are... to a point... more so than certain people in San Luis."

"Your business is going good?"

"Mmm-hmm," came Hazel's hasty reply.

Shepard frowned and pursed his lips, unsure why he'd been hoping to hear the opposite from her.

He watched the curtain for a minute, then allowed his gaze to wander to the two-inch gap at the bottom where her booted feet were visible seconds before her soiled petticoat dropped to the floor.

She quickly kicked it aside, making the curtain flare out and create a crack just barely wide enough to glimpse the naked skin of her back as she pulled her camisole over her head and dropped it atop the discarded clothes.

Shepard swallowed and looked away, his heart hammering against his ribs as though he'd just run a five-mile race. Blood rushed in his ears, his hands began to sweat and shake, and his throat and mouth suddenly became parched.

"Shepard?"

He had to clear his throat before he could squeak out a reply, "Yep?"

Hazel poked her head out from behind the curtain, drawing his attention, "I need a little help getting this done up—I forgot it closes down the back, and no matter which way I turn, I can't seem to bend my arms enough to get to all the buttons."

He stared at her, his eyes wide like a startled deer, and didn't move a muscle.

"Unless you want to grab me the ochre gingham from out front?" At his blank look, she grinned and rolled her eyes, "The one that looks like a pretty yellow picnic blanket."

Shepard gave himself a mental shake and marched over to her, willing his hands to stop trembling when Hazel stepped from the dressing room and gave him her back.

Considering the various stages of undress he'd seen her in over the past several hours, the sight of her undergarments and bare upper back peeking through the wide gap in her bodice shouldn't have disturbed or tantalized him in the least.

But it did.

Hazel held her breath, clenching her eyes shut, and bit back a sigh when Shepard's hand brushed against her skin between her shoulder blades when one of the buttons proved troublesome. Shivers of delight raced down her spine, and she found it difficult to concentrate on anything—even breathing.