by Jillian Hart
The doc’ll know what to do. The thought comforted him, but he still couldn’t calm down. Couldn’t make himself sit on that narrow dainty sofa and wait for the doc to come down those stairs.
“You must have marched a good mile since I’ve been standing here,” Mrs. Miller commented from behind the front desk. “Sit down, you’re making me nervous.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” He blushed.
The cushions were too small and too hard. Dillon tried sitting there without fidgeting. His worries kept shooting right back to her. It sure had been something to be near her. He couldn’t say why he felt the way he did about Katelyn Green.
He only knew that every time she was near, his gaze riveted to her like a rock rolling off a cliff’s edge, falling fast and far, helpless, to the ground below. There wasn’t one thing to stop it.
He could only hope the impact wouldn’t tear him apart.
A pair of women, dressed in traveling clothes, descended into the lobby, giving Mrs. Miller orders for a ride to the train station.
That got him to thinking, and he popped to his feet again. Was Katelyn planning to head out on a train? Was there any chance he could convince her to stay? How much time did he have? Was she going to be all right? What if the long day traveling had harmed her?
“Hennessey?”
Doc’s voice broke through his worries. Dillon made a beeline across the lobby, toward a man with concern surrounding him like a cloud. “Is she all right?”
“She should be.”
Relief shook him to the marrow of his bones. Left him weak. Left him dizzy. Left him feeling a far sight too vulnerable. All that mattered to him was her well-being.
“It’s a good thing I stopped by.” The doc went on. “She’s not well, I won’t lie about it. She had a hard time of it, if I can figure out the truth in all she wouldn’t tell me. Her health is fragile, and we have to be careful. She’s not recovering the way she should.”
“Hell, Doc. You said she was going to be all right.” His chest exploded as if a bullet had ripped through his flesh and bone, leaving him in agony.
“She is, but she needs care. She needs rest.”
“Then that’s what she will have.” He was still hurting. He felt as if the wound remained, that his chest was ripped wide open and raw. “I’ll take care of her.”
He’d keep her here for a few weeks if he had to until he could move her to his house, where she’d be warm and snug.
“I’ll be back to check on her. In the meanwhile, she’s to be kept in bed.”
Dillon thanked the man for his time and expertise. He was sure grateful to him, and determined, he snatched his hat from the sofa and took the stairs two at a time.
He opened the door a crack to peek in, see if she was sleeping. The shade was drawn and the curtains closed to block out the stubborn cold draft.
A small pool of lamplight spilled over Katelyn’s still form lying beneath the quilts. Her knees were propped up with pillows beneath them, raising her legs higher than her head.
She didn’t move. Was she sleeping? He couldn’t tell if she was even breathing.
He dared to step in and close the door slowly so the hinges wouldn’t rasp, and he turned the knob carefully so the click wouldn’t disturb her.
Oh, she was something. An angel sent to save him from his loneliness. Or, so he hoped.
Could he be that lucky?
The train whistle called through the town, a sharp series that announced its intentions to leave soon. As Dillon towered over her, staring down at the perfect line of her nose and her lush mouth made softer in sleep, he wondered. If he tried his best, if he risked everything he had, could he keep her?
Or, if he gave her every piece of his heart, would she leave on that train anyway, as soon as she was able?
How did a man risk everything, the very core of him, knowing he could lose?
He sank to his knees, overwhelmed. She slept, unaware of his torment, unaware of the emotion hot and tender and aching all at the same time, filling up his chest like the first flow of water into a new well. Bubbling upward, unstoppable.
This frail female, so delicate he could see the blue veins beneath her porcelain skin. So fine, she felt like rich silk when he brushed a fingertip down the back of her hand. So dear, her heart-shaped face made him hurt just to look at her. What could make her want him? Could she ever?
He had no notion. And that made him afraid for the first time in his life. He drew up the chair and watched over her while she slept.
Hurting, just to look at her.
Katelyn battled her way through the watery weight of the drug the doc had given her to the surface where a faint, distant light flickered in the dark room. Her vision cleared and she drew a deep breath, exhausted simply from waking up.
Hennessey. He was the first thing she saw. The only. A hard, shadowed man dwarfing the chair, the hearth at his stocking feet, where the flames leaped and danced as if happy to have the privilege of giving him light and warmth. This man silhouetted by the fire, his head slightly bent, a book held open like a Bible in his big hands.
“Oh, dear, you’re awake.” A lady’s voice, maternal and soothing, sounded from the darkness. There was a shuffle, and a matronly woman, her soft face framed by short brown curls, settled on the edge of the mattress.
“Your color’s improved. What a blessing.” Friendly, the woman held a cup and offered her a folded paper with white powder in the center. “Let’s get this medicine down you. It’s just the thing you need to be feeling better.”
Katelyn remembered the doctor’s visit. He’d been speaking about her physical recovery, of course. She understood that. There was no consolation. Not even the bitter-tasting powder and the warm, honey-sweetened tea could take away what truly hurt.
She accepted that. She knew this sorrow in her heart would always remain.
“Hey, pretty lady.” Hennessey, the book shut in his hand, strolled over to the foot of her bed. “It’s good to see you looking better. Can I get you anything? Do you need anything?”
“No.” She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Mrs. Miller has been here. She says it’s not appropriate for me to be here alone with you.”
“She’s right.”
“See, Mr. Hennessey?” Mrs. Miller piped in from the corner, where there was a chink of porcelain and a rush of pouring water. “I told you so. You have to pardon him, ma’am. Some men have lived too long on the range to recognize decent, civilized behavior.”
“I admit it.” He looked invincible and not apologetic for his social shortcomings. “I made you a promise I intend to keep.”
Katelyn closed her eyes. Hennessey was a problem, and she was not strong enough to find a solution to him. Maybe she’d been wrong to run as she had, knowing she was not well enough for an arduous journey in a blizzard. She could not panic again and make the situation worse.
She would regain her strength, and then she would handle him. What could he do in the meantime? Nothing. She was not a horse to be bartered. She was not property to own. She was her own woman, and she did not need him.
I can make it on my own. Alone.
A warm, wet cloth bathed her brow in an awkward dab and pat that told her it wasn’t motherly Mrs. Miller holding the cloth. Hennessey. It was him, a man with his own agenda. But what did he want?
She peeked at him through her eyelashes. She had a brief flash of his face, gentle and strong, before her eyelids fluttered shut. The dark stubble of a day’s growth shadowed the steely line of his jaw. How long had he been here, watching over her? How long would he stay?
The pain didn’t disappear, but she felt oddly weightless as she lay on the soft cotton sheets. So tired. Endlessly tired. The pain was a fist in her low abdomen. She knew if she let go, let sleep claim her, she would no longer be aware of what hurt her.
She opened her eyes, one last time, as the cloth edged along her jaw and circled her chin. He took the cloth away. He did not speak as their gaze
s locked. Like thunder crashing through the sky, vibrating the ground at her feet, that’s how it felt. Awareness bolted through her like lightning and every inch of her skin tingled as he moved away.
She’s mine, he’d said. It felt as if he was saying it now, again, without words. His stare was intense, possessive. The air crackled, the flames leaped, a pop in the fireplace couldn’t stop the way he bent over her. Or the heat of his kiss to her brow. Heartfelt. Tender. True.
A brand on her flesh that remained as he opened his book with a creak of the leather binding and found his page with a rustle of pages.
A shank of dark hair tumbled over his high, intelligent brow as he leaned over the book, intent on the words printed there. Her chest tightened, and not from exhaustion or pain or from the medicine that pulled her down into sleep. Listening to his baritone rise and fall as he read, Dillon Hennessey made her ache the way a winter’s night longed for the dawn.
Only one man in her life had read to her while she was ill in bed. One other man, who’d stood as tall as the sky, and forthright as a warrior of old, just and right and stronger for the gentleness he’d shown her.
Katelyn wondered, although she could not dare to hope. Was Dillon Hennessey such a man as her father had been?
“You should go now, Mr. Hennessey.” Mrs. Miller set her knitting aside and rose from her place by the fire. “It’s nearly midnight. You need your rest as well.”
“That’s a polite way of saying a man shouldn’t be in a lady’s room. I’m not fooled.” He closed the book, set it safely on the edge of the night table. It was time to stretch his legs but not to leave.
“It’s only proper.”
“I don’t give a damn about proper. Only her.”
“Think of her reputation, then.” Mrs. Miller narrowed her eyes at him, crossed her arms around her middle and planted her feet, as if prepared for battle.
She’d best prepare to lose, because he refused to leave.
He unfolded from his position on the small, uncomfortable chair. His left ankle cracked and his right knee popped. His low back pinched tight in protest. It was hell being thirty, and he figured this was only the start of things to come. He’d broken more bones than he cared to admit over the years. Training other men’s horses meant dealing with troubled horses. Even the best horseman wound up ass down on the ground now and again.
Which brought his thoughts right around to Katelyn.
Maybe it was time for a change. He’d always been a determined man, independent, finding his own way through life. It was tough knowing his future wasn’t entirely up to him anymore. Would she have him?
He doubted it. But it was a hope that lingered, that gave him the fortitude to pour a glass of water from the pitcher Mrs. Miller had brought up fresh an hour ago. Gave him resolve as he turned up the wick as the night deepened, ignored the innkeeper’s caustic comments and reclaimed the narrow, wicked chair that made his back hurt.
Bending over the book, he thumbed through the pages and found his place. Took a sip of cool water, let it ease the scratchiness of his throat before he continued reading.
The windowpanes rattled with the sudden force of a mean wind. The lamplight flickered, sputtering out. A new blizzard howled along the edges of the eaves and the corners of the room. Dillon lit a match and held it to the wick until the flame caught. A new storm had arrived, but it didn’t trouble him.
He had everything that mattered.
The wind was howling. A lonely, weeping sound that made her feel as if she wasn’t alone in her misery. The wedding ring flashed in the faceted light from the crystal chandelier. Brett was angry again; she could hear the clank of the decanter. He mumbled to himself, his words indistinct from the butler’s pantry in the back hallway, but his tone was unmistakable.
She’d failed him again. There was nothing she could do but brace herself, wrap her arms around her swollen stomach and try to figure what to say to calm him.
There was no calming him tonight. His face, red with anger, flashed in front of her. He was standing in the parlor now, throwing his empty snifter. Angry. So angry.
She told him how sorry she was. She hadn’t considered how it would look, going out on the board-walk in her condition. She would not do it again.
His face twisted. She’d said the wrong thing. What else did he want from her? What would cool his temper? The flat of his palm connected with the right side of her jaw, knocking her over the arm of the chair.
It wasn’t decent, going out like that. His fist shot out. Pain exploded in her cheekbone. Angry words. More blows. Until she was on her side, curled around the child she carried, feeling the blood rushing out of her body. Her baby! The first clench of a contraction made her scream.
“Katelyn.” Big hands curled around her forearms, holding her up, holding her.
Trapping her? The wind howled in agony, and a fire snapped and crackled as her scream faded. A huge man towered over her, his grip sustaining not imprisoning.
“It’s the laudanum. You had a nightmare, that’s all. You’re safe.”
Her vision cleared. Dillon Hennessey, his face craggy and lined with exhaustion, helped her back onto the pillows. His eyes glowed with a strange fire, and a muscle bunched and jumped along his clenched jaw.
The emotion of the dream lingered, and something dropped onto her hand. Something wet and warm. Her tears.
“The poor dear,” came Mrs. Miller’s voice, sounding distant from the far side of the room. “Is she all right?”
“A dream, go back to sleep. I’m taking care of her.” Most men would have sounded controlling with that authoritative, booming voice, but he sounded in charge.
As if she could place her trust in him.
She didn’t want to trust him. Not any man. Ever again.
“I reckon you might want a cup of tea? I think it’s still warm.”
“No, thank you.” She couldn’t say what she needed.
As if he understood, he eased onto the bed beside her. The mattress dipped with his weight and the bed ropes creaked in complaint. His solid thigh settled against her ribs.
The contact was oddly comforting. It was wrong, she knew. She didn’t want to need him, but she hurt so much in so many ways. Wanting to be comforted, just a little, wasn’t wrong. Was it?
The bed jostled as he leaned to retrieve his book from the floor where it must have fallen. She felt pain when the mattress moved again as he straightened, the volume safe in his wide-knuckled hand. Such capable hands.
“Do you want me to read to you?”
Her throat ached, and she shook her head.
“Okay, then. What do you want? Name it. I’ll get it.”
She closed her eyes, afraid to reach out. What did she want? It burned in her soul, a need she didn’t understand. Her fingers crept toward his.
Suddenly he lifted her hand, settled it on his knee and twined his fingers through hers. He held her the way an anchor secured a boat at sea, unshakable.
“Go to sleep, Katelyn. It’s all right. I’ll be here.”
When she awoke, hours later, the dawn was dark as the night while the blizzard raged. Hennessey drowsed, sitting up, his fingers tight around hers. Holding her. Holding on.
She was holding on, too.
Chapter Nine
Dillon woke with a start. The doorknob clicked shut and he blinked, looking around. Jeez, he’d fallen asleep. He raked a hand through his hair, and the movement made him notice the kinks in his back.
Katelyn was worth it. His chest warmed with a tender fierceness. She looked better this morning. Still pale as the sheets, but better. It was something to feel good about. It didn’t matter what the doctor had said-Dillon had still worried. He stayed the urge to touch her. To run his fingertips along the curve of her cheekbone. To kiss the soft tip of her nose.
One day. Soon. He wanted the right to kiss her. To claim her soft rosy lips with his. To hold her while she slept, safe against his chest. To feel the soft comfort of her body a
gainst his.
His blood burned in his veins, and he stopped his thoughts right there. This woman was his, and he intended to honor her. To respect her. To treat her so well she would love only him.
The faint bruise on her cheek was a shadow, nearly gone, but every time he looked at it rage kicked through him. She’d been badly hurt. Her dream last night…Hell, it had to have been horrible for her.
He swiped his hand over his face. He’d better never see that fancy judge who’d married her. Who had thrown her away like garbage in the street. He knew the type. Had worked on too many rich men’s ranches not to know there was ugliness in the hearts of rich men as well as poor. The rich covered it better with their money and varnish. Only a weak coward struck a woman. Only the lowest sort of man left a woman because she hadn’t borne him a son.
I’d be happy with a dozen daughters, he wished he could tell her. The thought of having a family with this woman, why, that choked him up. Seized his throat. Made his eyes burn. A family. Now, wouldn’t that be something?
And best of all would be having Katelyn as his wife. He’d cherish her. No doubt about that. He would love her so well and hard that she’d forget any other man.
Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned, struggling against the laudanum. Or was it another bad dream? The thought of her being afraid made him desperate. Should he wake her? Or comfort her?
She moaned again, a low, despairing sound in her throat. He laid the length of his hand to her jaw, cupping her face tenderly.
No more bad dreams. He willed the words from his heart to hers. You are safe now and forever. I swear it.
She stopped moaning and pressed her cheek into his hand, snuggling closer.
His heart cracked wide open. Love for her spilled in, filling him up.
Her eyes opened. She saw him and sighed in what sounded like relief.
The love in his heart began to hurt. A keen, tightening ache. He’d comforted her. And she liked it.