Tori groaned and eased away.
“What?”
“Didn’t I tell you this would happen if we shared a bedroll?”
He ran his knuckles across her cheek. Even in her distress, her features softened. “You did. But we both wanted this. You can’t deny it, sweetheart.”
Tori sniffed. “You know when you start kissing me like that, I forget myself.” She looked at him with tear filled eyes. “This is all your fault.”
“All my fault?” His eyebrows shot together.
“Yes. All your fault. Everything.” She blinked back the tears.
“Everything is my fault?” How could this little spitfire of a woman attract him so one minute and anger him the next?
She nodded.
“Even the War Between the States?”
She sat up and buttoned her shirt. “What are you talking about?”
“Well, darlin’, you said everything is my fault, so I assume you also blame me for the war. And, of course, the battles the South lost. You could even pin the collapse of the Roman Empire on me as well.” Though he wanted to find a bit of humor in the situation to ease her tension, his heart ached at the thought of her regret.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why not? You’re being ridiculous.” He reached for his pants and jerked them on. “What are you looking for?”
“My hairpins. They seem to be lost.”
Leaving the pants unbuttoned, he scooped up the hairpins lying on his side of the bedroll. He grabbed her by the shoulders, and twisted her around. Mumbling to himself, he put her hair up. Crazy woman, why did she even tempt him?
“I can do that.” She turned and glared at him. “You seem to have a great deal of practice with putting up ladies’ hair. Not that I’m at all surprised.”
“I don’t believe it. You’re crazy as a loon.” He shot out of the bedroll. He thrust the buttons of his shirt into the loops, only to see he ended with an extra button. Growling, he redid them. He lowered his hands to his hips and regarded her for a minute.
“Fine. If you’re worried about ‘improper behavior,’ we can get married when we get back to Guthrie, so you’re ‘proper’ again.”
“Married!” she gasped, rising quickly and fastening her pants. “I told you I don’t want a husband.” She spat out the last word like she had just discovered something nasty on her tongue.
Jesse’s eyes grew wide. “What, may I ask, is so horrible about a husband?”
“Everything. They think they can tell you what to do, where to go, and what to think. They expect you to cook and clean, do their laundry, and tell them how wonderful they are.”
He grabbed the bedroll and bunched it up. “Oh, I would love to meet the man who thinks he can tell you what to do.”
“Exactly,” she said as she grabbed the bedroll from his hands and with quick movements rolled it up and marched to the horse.
A loud groaned left his chest when her hips shifted in those damn pants. Turning, he stalked into the woods without another word.
As if the conversation had never been interrupted, Tori faced him when he returned. “Aunt Martha told me all about marriage. How it’s a prison for women, and men can’t be trusted.” Tori split a chunk of bread in half and handed him a piece, along with an apple.
“Who the devil is Aunt Martha?”
“The woman who raised me after my mother died, and Papa decided raising a little girl took too much effort.”
Jesse swallowed. Realization dawned on him. No wonder she had such an aversion to marriage. “Did Aunt Martha have a bad marriage?”
“No. Aunt Martha never married.”