by Jillian Hart
She’s awful fine. A mighty aching swept through him, a forceful tenderness he’d never felt before. He reached out to push a few escaped tendrils into place beneath her cap.
Was this as close as he’d ever get to her? Only time would tell.
While she slept, safe and warm, he shivered, counting the miles.
Katelyn woke with the squealing of the sleigh’s runners. It was dark. Where were they? She straightened in the seat, hissing at the sudden shock of pain clamped tight in every muscle of her aching body. The robe slid off her shoulders and onto her lap.
“The storm’s too mean to go farther.” Hennessey leaned to speak in her ear, and the wind was so strong, she struggled to hear him. “We’ll stay here tonight. Fine by you?”
She nodded. Whatever he wanted. She’d never been so cold and stiff. The sleigh bucked, caught in a patch of loose snow. They were in a town, she realized. Not the one she’d expected to wake up in.
This town was smaller. False-fronted buildings framed the long street on either side. Friendly and tidy, lamplight glowed in the store windows. Snow-draped hitching posts and steps onto the boardwalks. No one was walking or out driving in this storm.
The horses slowed to a stop in front of a cozy three-story building on a corner. A sign above the door read Bluebonnet Inn. Were they that far north? She hadn’t thought to ask where the horseman was headed. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t her stepfather’s house. That was all that mattered to her. She was out. She was free.
Well, relatively free. The horseman groaned, moving his long legs, grown stiff from the bitter cold. He climbed out awkwardly, and the shield of snowfall snatched him from her sight.
She had to figure out how to move, too. She felt frozen solid. Could she bend her knees? She tried with some success. Pain streaked through her knotted muscles, but she didn’t let that stop her. She was going to get inside and buy a cup of hot, steaming coffee and drink it until she was warm clear through. Surely she had enough coins in the bottom of her reticule to pay for that.
With a warm place to think and something in her stomach, she might be able to make a good decision on what to do next. And how to do it.
She climbed out of the sleigh and pushed to her feet. The wash of pain and weakness dropped her to her knees. Lord, she hurt deep in her belly. She placed her hands there, where she hurt the most, only to discover new pain. Every muscle in her body felt raw with fatigue. Every joint felt swollen. Her head spun. The ground tilted, the snow fell sideways.
She breathed deep and waited until the world went back to normal. Keep going. You have to do it.
The six paces to the boardwalk in front of her felt like as many miles. Her knees were water. Tears stung her eyes as she fought to make each step. Weakness left her panting and dizzy. Too damn dizzy.
“Katelyn.” The horseman’s voice in her ear. His solid touch at her elbow.
Where had he come from? She turned toward him, saw the dark circles beneath his eyes and exhaustion evident in his face. Even then, he was handsome. Stalwart.
“You’re as weak as a kitten, darlin’,” he drawled deep as a low rumble of a warm kettle. The kind of deep, warm sound a woman could sink into like a steaming bath.
She felt herself sinking, and it was the last thing she ought to do. Even leaning on him now would lead to heartbreak. Hadn’t she learned that lesson enough times? She was strong. She could stand on her own feet. She could get up the steps to the boardwalk and into the inn. By herself. Without help from any man.
But he was there anyway, his hand braced around her waist to steady her. How nice it felt to lean on him just a little.
His fingers curled at her nape. His was a tender, strengthening touch. One that felt as welcome as spring’s first warm breeze to the frozen ground. A warmth that teased at dead leaves and hibernating roots.
And, like winter’s first glimpse of spring, she felt an allure that stirred deep in her soul.
His hot breath fanned her exposed earlobe. “Lean on me.”
How could she lean on any man? She was too weak to fight the flood of memories twisting together into a brief, quick punch of words and images. She remembered Brett’s cutting remarks, his slaps that were to teach her when a woman should speak. And when she shouldn’t.
She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling with memories and with the snow that clutched her ankles as if to hold her in place.
“Katelyn, you’re exhausted. Here, let me take care of you.”
“I’ve made that mistake before.”
“Letting a man take care of you? He couldn’t have been much of a man.” Dillon gathered her into his arms and carried her, cradled like a child against his broad, granite-hard chest.
Heaven. Katelyn’s eyes drifted shut as her cheek rested against the crook of his throat. His pulse surged like a powerful, slow drum beneath her ear. The stiffness eased from her muscles, the ache from her joints.
When he walked, she felt the stretch and bunch of his muscles and the roll of his gait. The power of him broke through her, like a tide upon the shore.
She’d never felt so safe or so protected, as he leaned the underside of his chin on her brow. Tucked against him, breathing as he breathed, it was as if he filled her. Touched her deeply in some strange, new way.
The snow disappeared as he carried her beneath the awning. He wrestled with a doorknob before he swept her inside the warm, brightly lit inn that smelled of wood smoke and furniture polish. She recognized the echoing expansive feel of a hotel lobby, and that meant being alone with him in a bedroom. Fear sliced through her, keen as the winter’s cold, as she wondered what he was going to do. How was he going to treat her?
But his hold on her was strong, not possessive. He looked down at her with quiet intensity. His brows frowned in concern, his expression a strange, warm inquiry, the lines in his rugged face gentling.
“You’re cold, I know,” he murmured quietly. “All you need is some rest. You’ll be fine. All right?”
It was as if he knew her fears. And she hated it, and she appreciated it, and she couldn’t explain the two opposite emotions. She didn’t have the strength to protest as Dillon carried her up the stairs. His body moved against hers in an intimate rhythm that stirred up more emotions.
She felt so warm and safe, snug against his strength and power. A flickering sconce at the landing cast his rugged features as if in bronze, and as if he were more than flesh and blood, made of tougher stuff than muscle and bone.
He was a warrior, a protector, a myth made real just for her on this cold, dark night.
He kicked open a door and laid her in a bed of soft, sweet linen. Exhaustion pulled her into sleep like a weight at the end of a rope, falling, falling.
The last image she saw was of the horseman bending over her, his face a shadowed oval of concern and integrity, his finger’s brush to the curve of her cheekbone a tender awakening.
Katelyn dreamed of him, of the pain of the penetrating wind and then the brush of Dillon’s knuckles against the underside of her chin, the faintest graze of kindness.
She dreamed of being lost in the blinding storm and then of how he brazened into sight. Of how he carried her safe against his chest. Of his touch.
She could still feel his caress on the outer curve of her jawbone. An amazing featherlight caress against the side of her face.
When she opened her eyes, she realized it was the way the pillow was folded, with the stiff end pressed against her jaw.
Not his touch after all. Why was she disappointed?
Katelyn dared to move, and her body protested. But, instead of the mind-numbing pain from her abdomen, as she feared, there was only a sharp ache. Her muscles felt stiff and refused to stretch when she shoved the quilt from her chin.
Was she alone? She peered over the sheet. A meager gray light peeked around the sides of the drawn shades, revealing the curved back of a wing chair by a brick hearth. A dying fire rasped and whispered as the tired flames licked a remainin
g log tumbling in on itself. Casting a faint shadow through the far corner of the room.
Yes, she was alone. She’d almost expected to find him seated in the corner, watching over her while she slept. The image of him remained, engraved in her mind, his face above hers, and the tenderness in his eyes…or maybe she’d imagined it. She’d been half-asleep and dreaming before her eyes had closed.
Her shoes were on the hearth. Her coat and scarf draped over the chair back to dry. She remembered Hennessey’s hands, his touch. Was he near?
Why did she keep thinking about him? His voice rumbled through her mind like the bold edge of midnight, dark and all encompassing.
She tried lifting her head. Weakness left her breathing hard, a ragged sound in the peaceful room, so she sank into the pillows. Her head was spinning. She felt strangely thirsty. A dull ache low in her abdomen intensified, sending streaking pains down the center of her legs.
No. She rolled her face into the pillow, biting back tears of anger and frustration. She needed to rest. Then she’d be all right. She had to be all right.
Was that his footstep in the hall? She froze, her heart waiting to beat as the glass knob turned slowly, carefully, and the door whispered open. Dillon eased through the door frame, his wide-shouldered stance made larger by the wooden tray he carried in both broad hands.
Chicken soup scented the air and the faint jangle of stoneware accompanied his hushed step. He lowered the tray to the small round table near the hearth, and the weak flames flickered a respectful glow across his feet.
He knelt with sure, masculine grace. He could have been a knight of old genuflecting in an ancient church. As he added wood, the dwindling fire snapped in appreciation. The light changed from orange to gold, haloing him like heaven’s touch, caressing his strong profile and the steeled length of his back, shadowing his warrior’s face.
As if he felt her gaze, he pivoted toward her. The corner of his mouth edged into a slow, lopsided grin. “Good morning. Or should I say, good afternoon?”
She pulled the quilt to her chin. Should she mention how inappropriate it was to be alone in a room with him? While she was in bed? Her face heated, but Hennessey didn’t seem aware of it as he added more wood to the fire with a steady competence, the way he did everything.
He concentrated on his task, handing one stick of pine after another into the flames, unconcerned by the heat as the fire licked higher and higher.
When his job was done, he unfolded his big masculine frame and pinned his attention on her. “How are you, pretty lady? You look whiter than those pillow slips.”
“I’m simply tired, is all.” At least that’s what she hoped.
“Seems like it’s more than that to me.” His boots issued a warning as he dared to approach the bed.
“Truly, I am fine.” She had to be all right. To prove her point, she pushed up from the mattress. She felt a sudden warm rush as dizziness swirled through her head, stealing the light and the room from her sight.
“Here, lie back now. That’s it.” His hands on her shoulders pressed her into the pillows. His words were a comfort as she waited for the spinning blackness in her head to cease. It hurt too much to think. She could only endure the wave of pain as it crashed through her.
Her vision cleared to see the man bowing before her, like a knight before royalty, his shoulders strong and broad enough to manage any burden. The long column of his neck, where his black hair was gathered back with a single leather band, made him appear strangely vulnerable at the same time.
The room righted itself and the light returned. It was no knight of old kneeling before her, but Hennessey, his wide fingers folded around hers, his touch like an anchor keeping her safe.
“A little more than tired, are you?” One brow quirked on his stony face. There was tenderness written there in the corners of his mouth and the pinch of his eyes. “Just close your eyes, angel, and rest.”
“But-”
“Hush. The last thing you need right now is to be troubled by a packful of worries.” His callused fingers could have been harsh, but when he squeezed, the power in them was comforting. “I’ll take care of anything you need. You say the word, and I’ll do it. How’s that?”
Tears welled up, filling her throat and her eyes. He was kind. Kind, when she was helpless and he so strong.
“I brought up a full tray from the kitchen. Figured you might be hungry. I was. Ate the diner out of their entire stock of eggs and bacon, I’d bet money on it. That was some storm we came through, wasn’t it?”
She nodded, the scrape of her hair on the pillows all the effort she could manage. Her vision blurred so that he was streaks of gray and black, backlit by the cheerful glow of the fire.
“It wasn’t luck we made it here by nightfall. My horses have traveled in a lot of blizzards.”
He moved away, the heat of his hand leaving hers. She rubbed the wetness from her eyes as he ambled through the half light in the room, his step a comforting knell on the wood floor, his drawl luring her attention away from the pain she was feeling.
“They’re used to traveling, just like me. We’ve been over most of the West. That gelding and me have been through flash floods in New Mexico, an avalanche in Colorado, prairie fires in Texas. We’ve borrowed rides on the railroads from here to Mexico.” There was a scrape of ironware and the sound of water pouring.
“Here.” He knelt beside her, a cup cradled in his hands.
Her hands shook. The ironware cup was full nearly to the brim. She’d spill it for certain, but as if he could read her thoughts, Hennessey guided it to her mouth and held the cup steady while she sipped. The cool water tasted delicious across her dry tongue.
“Want to try some of that soup I brought?”
Her chest began hurting, too, at his kindness. She managed to nod. What manner of man was he? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t afraid to be alone with him. The sounds of his movement in the room and the rise and fall of his voice comforted her.
Ironware rattled, flatware scraped and he returned. The rim of the bowl brushed her bottom lip and the fragrant broth steamed her face. Not too hot, just right as she sipped slowly, letting the soup glide all the way to her stomach, warming her up. Soothing. Comforting.
There was that word again. She didn’t want to be comforted by a man.
She couldn’t seem to turn away as he held the bowl steady. She watched him over the curve of the rim. “It’s good to be back. I was raised here. It’s the reason I took the job on your father’s ranch. Figured it would do me some good to be close to home for a change. I could ride over and stay at my place now and again.”
Her stomach began coiling up. She didn’t feel right. She didn’t feel good.
“You’re looking more pale, if that’s possible. I reckon it’s a good thing I asked the doc to stop by.” The callused pad of Hennessey’s thumb traced away wetness at the corner of her eye.
“I can’t pay a doctor.” When she spoke, her words came rough and raw, and so quiet he had to lean forward to hear her. “I just need rest. No doctor.”
She wasn’t only tired, Dillon figured. She was weak. She was in pain. Her gold hair fanned along the crisp pillow slips that were shockingly white against her gray pallor. Fear wedged in his chest as he lowered the bowl.
“Katelyn? You rest. That’s right. Sleep all you need to.” He intended to make damn sure the doctor took good care of her. Where was that man? He should be here by now. If he didn’t hurry up, Dillon vowed to march through the snowdrifts and haul him back by the collar.
She’ll be all right. I’ll see to it.
Her eyelids drifted closed, fluttering half moons against her cheeks. Dark circles bruised the delicate skin beneath her eyes. Exhaustion dug deep furrows into her soft brow and bracketed her lush mouth.
Maybe he’d been wrong to help her. If he’d known her health was this frail, he would have hauled her back to that house, and no amount of pleas and empathy for her would have changed his mind.
She was more important than anything, a good kind woman like her. Why would anyone cast her aside?
His fingertips drifted to her brow. He knew it was wrong to touch her like this, as if he had the right. He couldn’t stop his thumb from trying to rub out the worry deep in her brow. He hated that she was ill. Hated that she was worrying even as her breathing changed to a slower, deeper rhythm.
I’ll take care of you. He watched sleep claim her, his chest swelling, his entire being filling with a strange, powerful emotion. All he knew was that he would lay down his life for her.
Right here, right now, until his last breath, he would watch over her. Keep her safe.
A light knock rattled the door. The doc ambled in, set down his black bag and shrugged out of his coat.
“’Afternoon, Hennessey.”
“Hi there, Haskins. Appreciate you coming over.”
Dillon stood, jarring the bed, and Katelyn heard his easy gait ringing on the wood floor. Pain washed over her. She really wasn’t feeling well. She tried to open her eyes and through the curl of her heavy eyelids she saw a man about Hennessey’s age, competent looking as he unbuttoned both sleeves and began rolling them up his forearms.
“Are you responsible for this woman?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, she’s mine.” Hennessey’s rumbling baritone was nearly a whisper, but the impact of his words shouted through her.
That was the reason he’d been caring this morning. Noble, as he knelt at her side. Dependable, as he’d held the cup to her lips.
Mine, he’d said. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face into the pillows, but the image of him standing before the door remained. The image of Hennessey watching her, hat in his hand, heart on his sleeve.
Chapter Eight
Hell, yes, she was his. Saying it was different than hoping for it. Saying it gave a man reason to hope.
What was taking the doc so damn long? Dillon tossed the hat onto the sofa cushion next to him and took up pacing the short length of the inn’s lobby. Her color hadn’t been right. First pale, then gray. That couldn’t be good.