The Horseman

by Jillian Hart

  Dillon had done this for her. She couldn’t remember anyone doing so much for her in what felt like a lifetime. She had to think of something to do for him in return.

  She heard the hush of fabric and the crinkle of paper. Hennessey’s step moved closer. Fabric whispered to a rest on the chair cushion, within reach. She summoned up enough strength to open one eye a slit. He’d brought her the new robe.

  “And for you. I hope you haven’t read it.” He laid a volume and a towel next to the robe.

  A book? He’d bought her a book? She sat up. Water crashed against the rim of the tub and splashed over. Dillon knelt and handed her the towel to dry her hands.

  A more disciplined man would say it was water droplets glistening in the lamplight on her bare, silken skin that aroused him. Or the graceful sweep of her slim hands as she took the towel and dried the dampness from her sensitive fingertips. A better man than him wouldn’t sneak a quick peek at her generous, rose-tipped breasts and creamy thighs.

  He wasn’t a saint. He looked at her, blood stampeding through his veins. His ears buzzed. His vision blurred. He panted for air in short, fast gasps. He was instantly throbbing hard.

  It was all he could do not to reach through that sheen of glittering water and fill his hands with her soft breasts. So big, they’d fit his hands with some to spare. If only he had the right to touch her like that. Love her like that. He’d make sure to take care of her. To give her pleasure. To make her want him.

  “Oh, Charles Dickens.” Even her voice aroused him more. Soft as a caress on bare skin.

  She’s not yours yet, Hennessey. He fought for control as he handed her the thick book. She was talking, but her words came from so far away and he couldn’t hear them over the drum of his pulse in his ears. A beat that pounded through his entire body. How he wanted her. Needed her.

  This is for her, remember that. As much as he wanted to haul her wet and naked into his arms, he turned his back and grabbed the pitcher from the nightstand to fill Katelyn’s tin cup. The cold water and the cool cup felt like ice in his hand. He heard the tinkle of water as Katelyn settled back to read her book.

  Just give her the cup. And don’t stare. Don’t scare her.

  “Dillon, how can I ever thank you enough?” Her face was flushed from the heat. A healthy glow. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

  “This is only the beginning, ma’am.” He set the cup within reach and kept his attention on her face. She was lovely. He ached with the need to touch her. If only to run one fingertip down the inviting curve of her face.

  “So, this is how a real man treats a lady? He pours her a bath and watches her?”

  “Sorry. Guess I shouldn’t be sitting here.” His face burned, but he stayed right where he was. “But a real man doesn’t leave a job half-finished.”

  “What job?”

  “Why, ma’am, I brought up the tub and the water, but there’s more work to be done. It goes against my conscience to be a lazybones and leave you to do all the work.”

  “What work?”

  “Why, that’s a complicated question. The first answer would be this. It’s my duty to help you feel better. After what you’ve been through and how you were treated, it’s my sworn duty to show you not all men are jackasses.”

  “Sworn duty?” Over the top of A Tale of Two Cities, the humor vanished from her face. Wariness crept in.

  Just how much had that bastard hurt her? A slow burning rage tasted bitter on his tongue as he eased around to the back of the tub. Slow. Easy. He wasn’t about to frighten her. “That’s right, ma’am. Relax, it’s all right. Keep reading.”

  She turned with a swish of water to watch him. “What are you doing?”

  “Me? I’m simply following the rules.”

  “What rules?”

  “Real men’s rules. They’re like commandments. A decent man always follows them.”

  “Decent? You call gazing down at a bathing woman decent?” Some of the wariness was easing.

  He kept his voice low and easy and warm, as he did when he talked to horses. “Just mind your business, ma’am, and read your book. Leave the rest up to me.”

  “Dillon.” She tensed. Her jaw tightened. Her eyes pinched. The wariness crept back. “I thought you would leave. I know what my stepfather said, but you can’t-I’m not-”

  Sure she was worried and expected the worst. She’d been hurt and hurt badly. Didn’t know if men did anything else. Just like the horses he worked with. And he knew exactly what to do. Exactly what she needed.

  “I know. Believe me, I would never hurt you.” He gathered her long hair and slipped it over her shoulder, baring her neck.

  He touched her before she could leap up and bolt for safety, before her nervousness could escalate into panic. He drew up the warmth from his heart, the way his grandfather taught him, so she could feel him. Feel that he meant her no harm.

  He felt her intake of breath. Yeah, she felt him all right. His hands stroked up the length of her neck, from shoulder line to her hairline and on up past to the crown of her head. A light, soft, slow touch. “Like that?”

  “Oh.” She breathed the word. “Yes.”

  “See? It’s a job to serve a pretty lady.”

  “You’re just trying to convince me to m-marry you. You said so.” She stiffened and shuddered.

  He could feel the hurt move through her and into him. “That I did. I’m just being honest. That’s the best course between a man and a woman, don’t you think?”

  She nodded, her beautiful face pinched. Yeah, it was as he thought. So much pain.

  It’s okay, my sweet angel. It’s all right now. He stroked his fingertips up her spine again. He could feel the rounds of her vertebrae, the heated satin of her skin, the gossamer softness of her hair.

  His trousers became more uncomfortable as he grew unbelievably harder. There was no denying the desire that pulsed through him. Hard like a hammer’s blow. But this wasn’t about his needs. His desires.

  He wove his thumbs up her neck, digging in between those small vertebrae.

  “Oh, that’s nice.” She leaned into his touch, just a bit.

  That’s right. It feels good, doesn’t it, honey? As if in answer, she sighed in a long, slow release. A contented sound. Yeah, she liked it. She liked his touch. I’m gonna make you feel better, see?

  He cradled his left hand at the base of her skull. She didn’t rest her head, she didn’t trust him yet. Fine, he’d show her that she could. He stroked along her hairline, behind her right ear and lingered when he heard the tiny moan low in her throat. He ran his hand across her brow. Over the top of her head in slow easy circles.

  She rested the weight of her head in his palm.

  That’s right, angel. He wanted to hop up and dance a jig. Throw open the window and shout his triumph to the wind. Instead he caressed the length of his hand down her neck and into the dip of her right shoulder.

  “Oh.” She sighed.

  He kept going along her shoulder and down her arm and back again. I’m going to treat you good and gentle. I’m going to make it all better. I can do that for you. Yes I can, sweet lady. See?

  As if in answer, she relaxed even more. Sank lower into the steaming water. He held her head steady. Caught the book as it began to tip out of her hands.

  “I’ll just put that over here.” He had to smile. Her eyes drifted shut, her face as soft as if she were sleeping, as trouble free.

  He’d done that for her. It made him feel good, manly, satisfied. She was his now, whether she admitted it or not. But she’d already decided it. He could feel it in her surrender.

  He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. Affection began to grow in his lonely heart. I’ll take care of you. I’ll never hurt you like that. Never.

  “Here’s your book.” He retrieved it for her, found the page she’d been reading and placed it into her hands.

  “That was wonderful.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.” His clothes rustled
and a knee joint cracked as he straightened to his full height.

  She felt his gaze as strongly as if he’d reached into the water and grabbed hold of her breasts. Why wasn’t she upset about that? She pulsed at the thought. She glowed all over. Every inch of her.

  From his touch.

  “It’s your job to gape at my naked form?”

  “It sure is.” A blush crept up from his collar to his chin and stained his cheeks. Bashful, but he didn’t look away. “Since I mean to marry you, I might as well see what I’ll be getting.”

  “That was indecent.” She tossed the washcloth at him.

  He caught it in midair before it could hit him in the face. “Yeah, but you liked it. Want more?”

  “More?” Oh, heavens, yes. The thought of his touch, like rapture along her skin, like bliss to her soul, made her want. Made desire swell low in her abdomen. She’d never felt like this before.

  She knew the marriage act was cold duty. And it was nothing like Hennessey’s touch. Nothing like the kiss he’d given her. Nothing like the liquid pleasure pooling within her.

  He knelt beside her. His eyes had gone black. She could see his chest rise and fall in quick, sharp breaths. The intensity of him, the desire for her naked on his face. His hand splayed along her throat, drawing her into his kiss. It was more than a kiss.

  Soft touching, the way the first snowfall of winter finds the earth. Tentative, following its destiny. Snow could no more fall upward than she could break away from Dillon’s kiss. Soft, tender, and then harder. Hungrier. A storm that came from him and swept through her. Carrying her away, making her forget all that had come before. The pain. The unhappiness. The loneliness of being with another man.

  This man healed her. With his kiss, with the sweep of his tongue, with the brand of his mouth to hers, there was no pain. No unhappiness. No loneliness. Just the singular pleasure of being wanted. Cherished.

  He broke away, breathless, looking into her eyes as if he could see the frozen ice around her heart. He leaned his forehead to hers, and she swore she could feel him. His feelings. A warm bright glow that she’d never felt anywhere.

  She wanted him to hold her. To kiss her again. To shelter her in his strong arms and let her feel that light in him. That soft comforting brightness of his affection.

  But he moved away.

  “Enjoy your bath, beautiful. I’ll be close by if you need me. Just holler.”

  He closed the door behind him, leaving her alone.

  Leaving her wanting. Sharp-edged barbs of need that did not ease as she tried to read. She couldn’t. The words were merely letters and she couldn’t concentrate on the story. All she thought of was the horseman. His touch. His tender kiss. The warmth that he’d set to glowing, like ashes breathed back to life, and it hurt.

  It hurt.

  What was this feeling? And why did this man have so much power over her?

  Not a bad power, she conceded. Closing her eyes, she could bring him back. The memory of his callused fingertips at the base of her neck. Of his leather and winter scent. Of the vibrating rumble of his voice as he spoke, and it moved through her. His touch, his kiss, his soft comfort.

  She thought of nothing else until the water grew cool. She washed quickly, dressed and hurried to bed. She pretended to be asleep when Hennessey returned to check on her. Water sloshed as he worked quietly so as not to wake her. He carried away the water bucket by bucket and then the tub.

  Before he left her alone, he approached the bed. He bent over her and brushed away damp curls from her face. His kiss to her cheek was feather soft.

  He whispered into her hair, “Sleep well, angel. I love you. I do.”

  She kept perfectly still. Like a bud drawn tight during a freezing night. She waited until the door creaked shut and the knob clicked. Until his retreating step faded into silence before she crawled out of bed.

  He loved her? That couldn’t be true. He didn’t know her. And of the men who had known her well enough, they had found her wanting.

  Except for one man. He’d been a horseman, too.

  Katelyn’s chest tightened, and not from exhaustion or pain. It was her conscience. Her heart. Aching the way a long cold night ached for the dawn.

  She pulled back the curtains to watch the street below. There he was, a dark form on the endless prairie, a lone rider growing smaller and smaller until the shadows stole him from her sight.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dillon had to stop thinking about Katelyn. It sounded pretty damn easy. He figured he could just start concentrating on other things. Things like seeing his brother again. Checking on his land. Seeing if any wild varmints had decided to hole up in his cabin. And what about the stallion? That had to be a priority.

  The trouble was, when he thought about the stallion, it took his mind right back to her. How she’d looked asleep, framed by pillows and lace, an angel too fine for the likes of him.

  Was there a chance? She’d surrendered to his touch. She’d wanted more of it. It was a start on a long, uncertain road. Liking having him rub her neck was a far cry from loving him, heart and soul.

  His mustang stumbled as a section of hard-packed snow gave way, snapping Dillon’s attention back to the task ahead of him. He had to get the cabin cleaned up and ready if he was going to bring Katelyn home.

  Would she come? He could make her. She was a woman alone, without family or friends who would help her. She had no place to go. A home with him was better than being destitute and homeless, and in her weakened condition, too.

  It was one way to rope her. To put a ring on her finger and make her his. But it wasn’t the right way. It wasn’t the way he wanted to do it.

  Should he give her a choice? That would mean he’d risk losing her, and the thought of that ripped a hole in the middle of him. I want her so much.

  But not at any cost.

  As the miles passed, the clouds overhead broke, giving way to a reluctant glimpse of an ambivalent sun. White curtains of light rained from heaven to earth and, in celebration, the snow winked like fine-cut diamonds.

  Like the kind of diamond Katelyn would deserve on her wedding ring.

  Would he see his ring on her hand? He tried to imagine it. A slim gold band on her slender fourth finger. His brand marking her as his wife. Wife. Wouldn’t that be something? He’d be able to love her.

  The image of her in her bath, smooth lean thighs made to wrap around a man. He’d love her. He’d show her what a man could do for her. He’d make her moan low in her throat, groan in pleasure and then sigh, contented.

  Damn, she kept filling his thoughts. It was certain to drive him mad. He’d never been like this over a woman. Never wanted to be like this again. If Katelyn didn’t want him, if she didn’t come to love him, then there would be no other woman.

  She’d wanted him, a little. He remembered the way she’d moaned. The way she’d leaned into his touch.

  The cabin looked lonely and forgotten with the windows closed tight and the snow drifted over one corner of the small porch. His brother must not have had a chance to come over and check on things. A season’s first snow always meant unforeseen work. Dillon dismounted, led the mustang into the stable and forked some fresh hay into the trough.

  A faint whistle carried on the wind. The late-afternoon train.

  Along the northern horizon, a bank of clouds was coming in from the northwest. It looked like more snow. Not a blizzard, but an inch or more on its way. This year winter had come hard and early to the plains.

  If Katelyn didn’t stay, maybe he’d head south. Escape the long winter. He’d had a couple job offers come in from Arizona.

  He sensed the rider before he saw him. Small brown sparrows stopped in the middle of their song, scattering low along the frozen sheen of ice and snow. A gopher dove into his burrow with protest, his snow-clearing task interrupted.

  Dillon had the fire hot and the coffee boiling by the time his brother stabled his cayuse and stomped the snow off his boots on th
e back porch.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.” Dakota hung his hat on the peg by the door. “Did that job finish early?”

  “Something like that. Come in. Get warm.” Dillon poured two cups. “Hell, it’s good to see you, brother.”

  “I could say the same. You look like hell.”

  “Yeah? I guess a woman will do that to a man.”

  “What woman?” Dakota held his hands up to the stove. “Don’t tell me you have got yourself a woman? I don’t see any signs of one.”

  “She’s at the hotel in town. It’s a long story. When you’ve warmed up, runt, I’ll tell you all about her over a cup of coffee.”

  “Who are you calling ‘runt’?” Dakota was every bit as big, but wider. Brawnier.

  “Yeah, but I’m tougher.” Dillon pulled up a chair, considered the significant layer of dust on the seat, and sat on it anyway. “Have you ever considered getting married?”

  “Sure, but I was drunk under the table, an unfortunate decision in my youth, and after a bottle of whiskey I thought marriage sounded like a good notion. Then I sobered up.”

  “You’re no help.” Dillon studied the log house. The solid walls. The good chinking job. A sturdy roof that had never leaked. The thick walls kept the cold winter winds out, and the fire’s warmth in.

  It wasn’t a rich man’s fancy house. He couldn’t imagine Katelyn here. Or could he? Did she know how to cook? She’d probably had hired servants in her former husband’s house. He tried to envision her frying his breakfast eggs at the stove. It just didn’t fit.

  He had to be prepared to let her go. He had to be ready to lose his heart.

  “Here’s a pot of tea, love.” Mrs. Miller shuffled into the predawn shadows balancing a loaded tray, a lace scarf covering her silvered hair. “Nothing heals what ails you better than sweet tea. I brought up some honey and a sourdough biscuit straight out of the oven. Eat up, now. Breakfast is served at six prompt. I’m making pancakes.”

  “Thank you.” Katelyn took the tray, the cup and saucer rattling as she lowered it to the small table beside the wing chair where she sat. “Can you tell me if Mr. Hennessey will return this morning?”