****
The chill in the water added aches to Ben’s aches. Twenty years of easy living—except for the past four—had stolen the memory of hard work from his muscles. They’d knuckle under sooner or later. Like the rest of him, they had no choice. With the surrender, his fancy Harvard law degree had become a worthless piece of paper. He was barred from voting, his political career died with the Confederacy, and all the Collier interests he’d managed in Galveston—the cotton brokerage, the tannery, the tallow-rendering plant—were gone. Even his law office had been commandeered.
He glanced at the Navy Colt atop his clothes on the bank, then turned a slow circle, checking the shadows; listening to the frogs, the cicadas. If they stopped singing, only the pistol would stand between him and gators or Yankees. He gauged the distance to the weapon, grabbed a gulp of air, and slipped below the surface.
A muffled blast sent the breath and Ben bolting straight up. Pulse hammering his ears, he slung wet hair from his eyes and dove for the bank. Shaky fingers latched around the Colt as he clambered onto slippery mud.
A crimson stain spread across the water only a few yards away. His heart caromed off his ribs.
A snap at his back spun him into a crouch, facing away from the gator’s grave.
Flanked by two cypresses, Maggie lowered the shotgun. Her gaze darted along the bank, skimmed the bayou’s surface, and finally landed on him.
Words stumbled from his lips between rapid, gasping breaths. “What are you doing here?”
“I was gonna do the same thing you’re doin’…but I think I done changed my mind.” Tension displaced the rustic music in her voice, loud in the unnatural silence. “Might want to get on away from there.”
He nodded on a hard swallow. “You might want to turn around.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ I ain’t seen before.” Nevertheless, she flung her gaze to the far shore. Even in the shadow of cypress boughs, he couldn’t miss the flush tinting her cheeks.
By the time he’d fumbled the buttons on his pants into buttonholes, he could breathe again. Mostly. Palming the water from his chest, he tossed his shirt over a shoulder, took a firm grip on the Colt, and joined Maggie between the trees.
A tremor rattled through the shotgun and all the way up his arm when he eased the weapon from her grasp. Fear still swirled in warm-cognac eyes. She didn’t resist when he scooped her against him, more to prop up his knees than hers.
His whisper fell into sunshine-scented hair. “Thank you.”
“You need to be more careful out here, mister.” Moist breath whispered over his chest.
“When are you going to call me something besides mister?”
“Like what?”
“Try Ben.”
His skin missed her touch when she pushed away.
She smoothed her skirt, looking at everything but him. “I ain’t ready to be diggin’ no graves on my property.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” Along with the way another man’s wife felt too good in his arms.
Chapter Four
Ben Collier had to go before she did something stupid and ended up in another fix.
Chewing a ragged fingernail, Maggie clomped the few feet to the far wall, spun and clomped back to the hearth.
The floor didn’t shake. The walls had been patched. The lean-to stood under its own power, as did the porch. The roof was the only thing left to shore up, and the Reb’s hammering on that this very minute was about to make her crazy.
She yanked her finger from between her teeth and clomped to the far wall again.
He’d been kind. He’d been generous. He’d made her feel comfortable and safe and appreciated. No matter how hard she scrubbed, three days later the touch of warm skin, the tickle of chest hair remained on her cheek.
He could have taken anything he wanted right then, but he didn’t. What kind of man behaved like that?
She chewed another nail and aimed for the hearth again.
The longer he stayed, the more she was tempted to tell the truth and accept the consequences. And that would be foolish. For the sake of her virtue—such as it was—he simply had to go.
Besides, the boys could show up any day, and that wouldn’t work out well for anyone—especially a man wearing Confederate Cavalry pants.
Even if his eyes were Union blue.
Dammit. Why did he have to go get himself tangled up with that gator anyway?
She stormed to the door, flung open the panel, and stalked onto the porch.
“Ben Collier, come down off that roof.”
The hammering stopped.
“Right now?”
“Yes, right now. I want to talk to you.”
Faded trousers followed scuffed knee-high boots over the edge and onto the ladder. He jumped the last few feet and turned to face her…half-naked.
“Where is your shirt?”