by Jillian Hart
At least Betsy wasn’t the kind of woman who’d outright lie. He saw that now, how horror-struck she’d been when he’d told her what her loved ones had done. Lying seemed to be a huge sin in her eyes, for the way she’d been affected.
Not that she minded much about him, about the fact that they’d left him to die…or so they’d hoped.
It was time to be moving on. If he could sit up. He strained, he groaned, he tried leveling his body up with his good arm. Nothing.
He gave up, panting and sweating. Looked as if he’d be here for a while, staring up at the open beams in the ceiling he’d built from logs he’d cut down and skinned. The thought of starting over somewhere else—again—had the bile rising in his throat.
A sound rasped from the other room. It wasn’t a normal sound, not the wind at the eaves or the low fir bough scraping against the corner of the house. It wasn’t a cougar crossing the roof. It wasn’t a moose rubbing his great horns on a tree outside. It wasn’t a mouse digging in the pantry—although that’s what it sounded like.
Except mice didn’t make shoe falls or have petticoats that rustled like a spring breeze.
The old woman. She was back. He’d slept through her arrival, but she’d come as she’d promised. To make good on her threat. She was here to defend her granddaughter, and he hated her for it, and envied Betsy.
Although she cared so little for him, enough to walk away when she knew he was alive. Enough to have let her brother take her away in the first place, he felt a singular force when he was in her presence.
It was as if she were near. Simply thinking of her made the place new and tender in his heart move as if a current directed it. Like the rush of a river’s stream. Like the lap of a mountain lake’s tide. Like the moon drawn from horizon to horizon across a star-spangled sky.
The old woman was coming. Her step, light and delicate, tapped steadily in his direction until she cut through the brightness spilling through the window and he felt her shadow fall across him.
He waited. He was in no hurry to talk to her. He didn’t want to hear what she had to say at all. So by now Betsy Hunter knew the truth about him. Fine. She wasn’t here for him to see the disgust on her face. The hatred. How he’d go from hero to liar to rapist in her opinion.
He turned his heart to steel. His soul to cold iron.
Finally, the old woman spoke. “I would have removed your boots so you were more comfortable, but I didn’t want to disturb you.”
It was not the crone’s voice.
He listened to the warm cadence of Betsy’s voice, the gentle resonance of her, and he was sure that he was trapped in some cruel level of Dante’s purgatory, where he would be forever haunted with dreams for the woman he longed for and could never have.
He squinted through one eyelid. The sun glowed around her, as if she were made of the same light. Good and strong and pure. Brilliant enough to change the world from night to day.
“Here, let’s get you sitting up.”
His head was ringing, his body boneless. He saw her coming and panicked. Her small, dainty hands curling around his good elbow, her other grasping him carefully around the chest. The scent of her hair was like a spring garden and he breathed her in. Her sweetness filled him until he had to turn away or she would know.
He did his best to move on his own, accepting little help from her as he dragged his seemingly wooden body along the mattress to collapse, exhausted, on the pillows. The softness felt good, so damn good, and that was why his chest gave a hitch of gratitude. To be lying properly in bed against a pile of pillows.
Sitting up, his head didn’t drum as much. He let his head roll to one side and he stared at the walls. The careful chinking he’d spent weeks on when he was building this place. The logs had matured to a rich dark honey and the thought of building another cabin had him angry all over again.
This time he’d build something he didn’t care about. Something like those tiny shanties that pockmarked the prairie. They looked more like piano boxes than houses. They were simply one half of a little house, with the slant of roof going in one direction only to encourage the winter’s barrage of snow to not accumulate. And the shanty itself nothing more than the length of the boards it took to make it. Eight feet by ten feet. Some were larger.
Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Slap something together that would be good enough for the coming winter, wherever it was he settled, and when it came time to pack up and leave, it wasn’t something he’d miss.
That is, if the Hunter family decided to chase him off instead of bringing vigilante justice. Not that he’d touched Betsy, but the thought that he could would be enough to drive them into a frenzy. Fear changed people. He’d seen it.
Whatever was coming, he had to be prepared.
“Here, let me help you to get comfortable.”
As she leaned over him, escaped curls from her hair knot bounced against his cheek and caught on his scruffy beard.
Hell, she was nice. He held on tight—he would not give in to this flooding river of wanting that seemed to take over. He was a strong-willed man, and still it overwhelmed him. The beat of his heart sounded tinny in his ears. His blood like hot springs bubbling up from the earth.
His groin, as weak as he was, hitched as he inhaled her scent. As he felt the subtle heat of her skin. It took every ounce of his warrior’s will not to lift his arms the few inches separating them, pull her down to his chest and leave the troubles of the world behind—for a while—and lose himself in her.
No other woman had affected him this way. She melted his will like steel in a forge and he wanted to curse her for it. But like the pure beam of light she was, she didn’t have any inkling of his thoughts as she plumped his pillows and moved away to tug off his boots.
He wouldn’t look at her. He could never cast his gaze upon her again without tasting this hunger. Wanting to spend his passion in the warm comforting heat of her body. Holding her so tight, it felt as if they could never be apart again, even after they pulled apart.
He wanted her with a fire he’d never felt burning before. It was greedy and selfish and consuming. He feared it because it was not lust. No, the emotions went deeper than that.
“Here, I brought you coffee.” The mattress dipped on her side and he felt the distinct curve of her hip and upper thigh fit against his side. “I don’t know about you, but if I don’t have a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, just to sit and sip and soak in the beautiful dawn, then my day turns out to be a load of horse dooey. Every time.”
“Horse dooey?” He’d never heard that term before. But why was he surprised? She didn’t look like a woman who’d ever said the word “crap,” much less the more colorful terms he could think of.
No, Betsy was…amazing, his heart wanted to say, but the hard cold truth was he had no business thinking anything about Betsy Hunter. She obviously hadn’t been told what he’d done. Who he was. Or she wouldn’t be anywhere near him or lifting a battered tin mug to his lips.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
She was close enough to kiss. He couldn’t help thinking it. Her face hovered close to his and he could see that her skin was creamy and her freckles lay like tiny dainty snowflakes across her nose.
He wanted to kiss each freckle. To nibble the dimples that accented her smile. He wanted to run his hand down the graceful arch of her neck and tug at the prim buttons at her collar.
He’d bet all he had that Betsy Hunter was anything but prim.
The vibrant taste of coffee spilled across his tongue and he savored it. Hell, that was good. She sweetened it, he liked a couple spoonfuls of sugar, and that surprised him because he didn’t keep sugar in his pantry. He didn’t need it. He didn’t bother to buy extras that had stopped mattering long ago. But the sugary taste was welcome.
“There, it’s not so full. Do you want to hold it? Or I could put the cup down on the table?”
“I’ll hold it.”
“Good. I’ll be right back.�
�� She hustled away, skirts swishing, shoes tapping.
The sunlight seemed to follow her as she disappeared from his sight.
That’s when he noticed she’d moved the roses she’d brought to the night table, where they leaned to one side in his army field cup of water. The yellow buds had opened and the delicate inner petals unfurled like hope in a place where hope could never be.
He heard the clang of a pan and realized the cabin was so hot because the kitchen stove was lit. The sizzle told him she was frying meat—sausage patties by the smell of it. His stomach growled like a furious bear. He was so hungry for real food that his mouth wouldn’t stop watering even as he drank the coffee until the mug was empty.
She returned with a plate heaped with food. He knew he ought to shout at her and frighten her away, but she’d turned his will to “dooey,” as she would say, and he hadn’t had real food since the bear attack.
“I’ll fetch more coffee, too,” she said, dragging a pillow over his lap to set the plate on. It made a rickety table, but it was enough to hold the plate level as he grabbed the fork, stabbed a slab of greasy, spicy sausage and shoved it into his mouth.
Damn, but it was good. Sunny-side up eggs, fried potatoes and three flakey biscuits with butter dripping from the center cut. He hadn’t eaten like this since he’d lived at home. Since he was a real man with a real life just like anyone else. He’d have eaten anything—as evidenced by the stack of empty cans tossed in the kitchen—but this, it was too much, too good to be true.
He wanted to savor it, to enjoy the tastes and textures. Betsy was an amazing cook. The potatoes were buttery and peppery, with something else he couldn’t name, but he couldn’t eat them fast enough. The eggs were perfect, just a little runny, mostly soft and the whites fluffy.
And the biscuits… Lord, he’d gladly go to prison for another ten years just to have more of the moist, rich, buttery flavor.
She poured the coffee, draining the pot. He watched out of the corner of his eye as he polished his plate clean. She stirred sugar in his coffee, took the plate and disappeared into the other room. He heard the splash of water, the clink of dishes, and then she returned.
Every place within him burned—not with the fire of anger or the inferno of lust, but a heat that was altogether more powerful.
“I’ve cleaned your kitchen and left a basket on the table. It’s enough food for your lunch and supper.”
She reached for her sunbonnet, a thoroughly female motion of shaking out the hat and pulling it in place over her lush dark hair. The blue bonnet framed her face, bringing out the jeweled sparkle in her eyes and the pink of her rosebud mouth.
The mouth he hungered to taste.
“I have to hurry. I have to get home before anyone notices I’m gone, and then I have my washing and ironing and deliveries. But I’ll be back tomorrow morning, I promise.”
She paused at the door. “Is there anything you want me to bring back with me? Oh, and I’ve already watered and fed your horses, so don’t worry. Just rest and heal.”
His throat ached. She flickered her fingertips in that endearing wave, the one he told himself to hate, and then she was gone, humming as she closed the door, her voice growing faint as she called out to Morris, who must be her horse. Who would name a horse Morris, the poor creature.
Duncan listened to the rattle of her buggy and the squeak of her wheel, which was getting worse, until there was only silence and sunshine spilling into his cabin.
As if trying to fool him into believing there were nothing but blue skies ahead.
Chapter Ten
Why was it the man looked like an archangel while asleep? Betsy resisted the urge to brush the tangle of black hair away from the hard angle of his face so she could admire him better. His features were hard, but the muscles beneath the bronzed skin were relaxed. Not exactly soft, his face could never be mistaken for that, but the bitterness was gone along with the anger and the ferocity. What remained carved in his features and etched in the grooves and character lines on his face astounded her.
Nobility. Strength. Integrity.
Vastly different from the man who burned with so much hatred that the fury emanating from him would make the fires of hell seem tepid by comparison.
It didn’t look to her as if he’d moved since this time yesterday, but the basket on the table was empty. Good. She couldn’t resist laying her hand on his brow. Not overly warm—just warm from sleep, not from fever. He made a low noise in his throat, not exactly a moan but definitely a sound as if he’d liked being touched and pressed against her.
Her heart gave a little sigh. Why on earth she felt affection for this difficult bear of a man, she wished she knew. He couldn’t seem to stand her when he was awake. The total sum of their interactions had been, in large part, him trying to escape her or telling her to keep away. No, he definitely didn’t feel this floating awareness, like a summer’s cloud sailing along. But she’d been in deep love before and it was not so long ago that she didn’t remember how it started.
Just like this.
What she didn’t know was what to do if the man didn’t feel the same way. With Charlie, it had been evident from the start the way their souls stirred when they were together that they were destined to marry. To spend a happy loving life together.
And they had.
The problem was that she thought her marriage to be so special and rare, the bond she and Charlie had, that finding that again would be impossible. Didn’t a soul mate imply there was only one match? That as soul mates, there could never be anyone better for the other?
And what happened to Charlie, waiting for her in heaven, when she was falling in love with someone else? These things troubled her greatly. It was a sign she was thinking too much. The one thing she knew for sure was that she never had to worry about replacing Charlie. Duncan Hennessey hated her. It was that simple.
And that sad.
She withdrew her hand to lay her palm against the center of her chest, between her breasts, where she hurt as if a serrated blade had sunk deep behind the bones. When she ought to be getting something accomplished, she was sitting idle, watching him sleep. Staring at the way his mouth, a hard, terse frown by day, had transformed into a pliable, soft-arched upper lip, with a pronounced dip that made her want to lay her lips on his, and a bottom lip that was made to bring pleasure to a woman.
Not that she should be considering his mouth whatsoever. Or his kiss. Or wondering how his lips would feel grazing over her bare flesh….
Whoa, right there. She’d certainly missed the marriage bed, but that was no reason to let her mind wander in that direction. Because Duncan wasn’t just male, he was a man. In every possible meaning of the word. His frame was big, his muscles corded. His abdomen flat, his arms, while relaxed, showed the cords of muscle and sinew. A lesser man would not have survived his injuries, but even those were healing. Beneath the edge of the bandage she saw the red tender places of new skin.
His hands were big like the rest of him, and so were his feet. Big, thick toes. Before she started wondering if he was like-size anywhere else, she bounced off the bed and made herself gather up the pile of clothing tossed in the corner, stuffed it into his rucksack and went outside to load it into her buggy.
On her return trip she carried in the second basket, heavy with food. She saw him stumbling up from the bed. His long hair tangled, his clothes twisted and wrinkled. He wasn’t exactly gray, which was an improvement over yesterday. A harsh spark flashed in his dark gaze and his jaw tensed. A muscle twisted along his jaw.
She perched on the top step. She could set her chin, too. She could make a fierce challenge with her eyes. “Are you going to slam the door and send me packing?”
“Tempting.”
“In your weakened state, you never know. I might be able to push you around.”
His left brow arched. Did she really think she could ever push him around? “I could just take your basket, shut the door and lock you out.”
“You could try it, but then I wouldn’t bring you more food.” A furrow dug between her eyes, above the bridge of her nose, and it was adorable how she pulled her eyes into a frown as she thought. He had her wondering, he knew, if he was teasing or serious.
He should take her basket, snarl the meanest words he could think of and send her on her way for good. That was the only solution. She couldn’t keep coming out here. Her family was bound to figure it out and they wouldn’t approve. It was only a matter of time before she knew the truth. He should end it now.
Besides, associating with women like her was against his principles.
So what did he do? Did he snarl and shout and terrify her? No, he didn’t do that. It was an impulse, he blamed himself for later, an impulse of a man living too long alone. He did the only thing he could, ravaged as he was. Knowing how he looked to her in clothes he didn’t know how long he’d been wearing, unwashed and unkempt. He couldn’t even stand up straight.
He had no business opening the door wide. “I don’t have the patience to argue with you today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“How gracious of you. I knew you were gentle as a kitten. Why else would you roar so loudly?” She could tease, too, and watched the indignation streak across his face. Gone were the glimpses of the noble Duncan—the real Duncan.
His features hardened. Sharpened. “You mistake me for someone else. Don’t tell me you read a lot of those dime novels.”
“I do. I am a great fan of the romantic novel.” With a sigh, Betsy stormed her way inside, knowing it was the food he wanted. But goodness, she intended to feed him until he was well.
She stumbled her way in the dim light; the sun seemed to have disappeared. The kitchen echoed with shadows—not just emptiness. It felt to her as if a great sorrow hung in the air like cobwebs in the corners, needing to be chased out.
Remembering what Mariah had said of Duncan’s parents, she understood him more. Home is a sad place when the people you love are gone forever.