Surrender the Wind by Elizabeth St. Michel

John dealt a blow that knocked Elias over the porch railing.
    Catherine peered over the edge. The store clerk wobbled when he stood, nursed a swelling eye and picked barberry thorns off his scalp and neck.
    “Where’s he from?” Dinkle demanded and glared at Rourke.
    Not desiring to create a worse scenario than was already starting, Catherine warned Dinkle. “You better leave…his condition, gets riled awful easy. Never can tell what will happen.”
    Thirty paces out, Elias thrust out his chest. “He’s as ornery and nasty as a stinking Reb.”
    John started toward Dinkle.
    Dinkle made fast tracks to his wagon, whipping his team around. His carriage tipped on sidewheels, slammed on all fours, and then disappeared in a huff of dust. Fuming, Catherine walked past John.
    He blocked her, a broad, unsmiling barrier. “I want some questions answered.”
    “Let me pass.” She hissed, and he took hold of her arm.
    “Damn you, Catherine, where were you all evening?”
    Lifting her chin, she stared mutinously into his eyes. “I was at a church dance.”
    “With that pile of…” He shook his head. “I wouldn’t even give him the rank of humanity.”
    “You’ve been drinking. Apparently you also like the flavor of wheat and barley.” She smelled it on his breath, so let the accusation snake around him. “As it stands, I have you to thank for compromising me.”
    “Looked to me, like your reputation was well on its way. Do you realize…that Elias Dunghill—”
    “Dinkle. I had the situation well under control.” She jerked her arm. He wouldn’t let go.
    “I believe, Miss Callahan you would have been in desperate straits had I not intervened. You have thrown yourself in with dangerous company.”
    She glowered at him. “I don’t doubt that for one second.” Kicking Rourke with everything she had, she caught him in the shin. Pain reverberated from her toes up her leg. Had she broken her foot? Why he didn’t budge. He bent low, catching her in the midriff and throwing her over his shoulder.
    “Put me down you son of a cur…you unsired son of a chamber-pot maker.” To split him open with every curse her Irish maid, Brigid, had ever championed.
    “Be quiet woman!” He dipped extra low through the doorway. She slipped, the floor loomed. She screamed, and he chuckled, righted her on his shoulder, his hand smacking her bottom. “This is such a charming position.”
    “Oh-h-h.”
    He tossed her on the bed, and she rubbed her behind where it smarted.
    “Now, answer my question.” He crawled across the bed and chucked her under the chin with his finger. Why did you leave with that harebrained imbecile?”
    Catherine sat up, and sniffed, refusing to answer him. His lashes fell with a lazy nonchalance. How she relished challenging him.
    “Do you know how many times I looked at that clock concerned over your disappearance? When it came to well past midnight, and you had not returned…one nightmare after another crossed my mind. To my complete frustration and disbelief, you’ve been tapping your toe at a church social?”
    Catherine had no answer for him. When his jaw clenched, a slight tremor traveled up her spine and her misgivings of defying him increased by the second.
    “That buffoon assaulted you. Even more ridiculous is your idiotic denial of the incident…had the situation under control. Why did you run away?”
    Before he finished his last question, she knew he had guessed her reasons, saw it in the myriad of emotions that crossed his face, and then losing all his fury. He became drowsy, his gaze roving downward to her…lips.
    The touch of his lips was a tempting sensation—a kiss as tender and light as a summer breeze. She felt drugged by his earthy scent intermingled with whiskey. John placed both his arms on each side of her, forcing her back upon the pillows with an even more demanding kiss. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died as his mouth covered hers.
    Her vow not to