Lone Wolf of Saturnine

That's Murfree Country

She released a little grumble of impatience at his fumbling. She sat up straight, her hips sliding down as she straddled him in a tantalizing and unintentional provocation.

As she worked the buttons, Charles watched her, amused and aroused at how eager she was to continue. He was more than willing to witness the oncoming reveal of naked skin. He had yet to view her in full daylight.

But something on her face caught his attention, cutting through his amorous-clouded mind. On her right cheek, there was a a red welt, which instantly sombered him. Fury replaced all lustful thoughts the more he studied the injury.

"Did that bastard lay a hand on you?" Charles seethed, thinking of the man who had shoved her against the wall. He hadn't witnessed more than that before he'd thrown him off, and Irene hadn't said anything, but Charles was seeing red now. If he had known Irene had been hurt, Charles would have made sure that man in the alley had paid for it.

Irene's eyes widened and her hand flew to her cheek. She lowered her eyes and tried to brush it off. "It's nothing."

"Does it hurt?" He frowned at her and reached to touch it, concerned.

"I said, it's nothing, Charles."

In the blink of an eye, she snapped up from the bed in a sudden movement, leaving him cold and at a loss. She faced away from him and hastily re-buttoned all the progress she'd made on her shirt.

Shocked at the sudden turn, Charles sat up and faced her, his shirt gaping open to the cool morning as he stared. She knelt over her bag and began rummaging through it. He knew not what she sought, but all of her attention was off of him.

Charles stood, unsure of what to say, and not understanding the reason behind her show of temper. After a few minutes of her turned away from him in silence, he came to terms with the fact that she was not returning to their former position. He said gruffly, "I'm going to check the horses."

Charles threw on his boots, grabbed his saddlebag and left the cabin, in a state of confusion at her reaction and stung at her rejection.

He stopped on the porch, and buttoned up his shirt, feeling the loss of what hadn't passed. He studied the morning, at the way the clouds smothered the sun and hid the blue sky. It was a grim start to the day, but it matched his mood.

To get his mind off of everything, he stalked down the stairs and greeted the horses beneath the manor, where he'd left them tethered last night. This was the best he had been able to do for them. There was a canopy next to the house, but it had been whipping wildly in the rain and wind and would have offered no protection for the horses. The ground here was soft, but firm after a muddy layer. He made sure they were fed and brought them around to the front of the cabin.

Soon Irene emerged from the front door. She was fully dressed, with a new shirt; this one buttoned high on her neck as if to deny any impropriety they'd been up to. She had also applied make-up, successfully covering the mark on her cheek as if it had never been. Why had she done so? Did she think he was less likely to pry about it if he didn't see it? Why was she protecting the man who had caused it? He didn't understand her.

Irene didn't speak to him or meet his eye as she approached him. Charles wanted to say something, to put to rest this conflict that had arose between them. However, he found himself still hurt by her harsh reaction so instead all he said was, "We'll be in Van Horn by dusk."

As they mounted their horses and started down the trail, silence continued to hang between them, stiffening the air and expanding the tension. He didn't like it, but neither did he know a way to dispel it. He also didn't know if he wanted an apology for what had occurred, or merely an explanation for her reaction. A small part him was kicking himself for making the initial mention of the injury on her face at all.