They walked in silence for a few yards, Kate trying to understand everything that had happened since she stepped off the stage.
Reverend Marshall was the first to speak. “Sofia said that you are here visiting from the East.”
Obviously, Reed had not told anyone other than his father and Sofia of his plans, and they had kept his confidence—just as she and Sofia had decided to tell no one Reed was injured, but that he was away on duty. What he had written assured Kate that he would have wanted it that way.
I’m a private person. No one really knows me.
“Actually I . . . I’ve been corresponding with Reed Junior.” She smiled inside, reminded of that fall day when she first saw Reed’s advertisement. “I’m from a small fishing village in Maine. Until a short time ago, I was a schoolteacher at a Catholic orphanage for girls.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look like a teacher, Miss Whittington.”
She turned to him and smiled. “You don’t look like a man of God, Reverend Marshall.”
His smile faded. “Because of my arm?”
“Heavens, no,” she said quickly, embarrassed to think she had offended him. “Until today, the only men of God I’ve ever met have been priests, and all of them were very . . . old. None of them were han—none of them looked like you.”
He smiled again. “I see.”
They had reached the house. Kate glanced up at Reed’s second-floor window. Although light shone from a few of the windows on the ground floor, the upper rooms were dark. The gloaming had thickened as twilight crept across the land. Miles and miles of darkness would soon engulf them. She looked out across the open prairie and shivered, suddenly feeling vulnerable, knowing they would be left in virtual isolation.
She was eager to get back to Reed, hated to have him wake up alone, in pain, in the darkness.
“It was nice to meet you, Reverend Marshall,” she said.
He reached up and tipped his black hat. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again, Miss Whittington.” After a moment’s hesitation he added, “Please feel free to call on me if you need anything while you are here.”
She quickly assured him that she would, then bade him good-bye and walked up the wide steps beneath the portico.
As soon as the last caller drove away, Sofia went upstairs to rest, but Kate, unable to get her mind off the little boy in the barn, lit a lamp and slipped outside with it, balancing a blanket and a pillow from her own bed as she made her way through the gathering darkness.
The huge, hollow horse barn was pitch black until Kate stepped in with the light. As she stood on the threshold, the barn echoed with emptiness, the only sound a soft, mournful sobbing which stopped almost immediately as she stepped inside. Kate was halfway down the long central aisle between the stalls when Scrappy Parks walked in behind her.
“Saw you crossing the yard with that lamp,” he said, eyeing her thoughtfully.
“I came in to see about the boy and to bring him these.” She indicated the bedding and frowned. “You left him alone in the dark.”
“Better than have him burn the place down.”
“Do you honestly believe he could climb out of there?”
“It’s my job not to take chances.”
She looked around the barn, glanced up at the loft. “Why not hang a lantern way up there? He can’t possibly climb in the condition he is in.”
Scrappy craned his neck, followed her gaze. Then he shook his head no.
“I don’t want him left alone out here in the dark,” she reiterated. “And I don’t want to have to disturb Sofia about this. She’s resting.”
The wrangler let go a long-suffering sigh. “All right. I’ll put a lantern up there, but if he burns this barn down with all the stock in it, then don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She refused to let herself doubt her order as she passed the many stalls and the beautiful horses in them, animals from the purest white to deep chestnut. There was even one warm-eyed, black-and-white pinto.
She shot the bolt on the boy’s stall, found him just as she had left him, pressed against the wall and wary of every move she made. Easing close enough to gently toss the pillow beside him and then the blanket, she longed to be able to sit down beside him, to comfort him, perhaps lull him to sleep with a song or a story as she might have one of the girls at Saint Perpetua’s.
For now, the simple offer of comfort would have to be enough. There was only so much she could do to relieve the suffering caused by the rending tear of separation from all he held dear. She knew that firsthand.
“Good night, little boy,” she whispered before she left him. “I know how you feel. I truly, truly do. I hope you get some sleep.”
Kate walked back to the house and went upstairs. Once she reached Reed’s room, she lit another lamp and then paused to stretch and rub the back of her neck. When he suddenly moaned, the sound nearly frightened her to death. She dropped to her knees at his bedside.
He quickly became more restless, gripped by fever and pain, struggling with whatever demons they conjured. She pressed her palm to his forehead. Reed was burning up.
She brushed his dark hair back, worried by the dark shadows beneath his eyes. His head tossed from side to side as he mumbled something she could not understand. She leaned closer.
“Reed,” she said softly. “It’s me, Kate. I’m right here beside you at last. Please, fight this, Reed. Get well. We’ve so much to talk about. So much to plan.”
As she leaned against the edge of the mattress, staring down at strong features drained of all color, she could not help but recall his written words. They were all she had of him now.
I want a family again. I have been lost without a wife, without my child. I need a loving woman in my life who is willing to stand by me, willing to face life’s challenges and share my hopes and dreams. A woman who can love this land.
“Reed?” she whispered. “Oh, please, Reed.”
He stirred again and turned toward the sound of her voice but did not awaken. Kate sighed and leaned back on her heels, closed her eyes, and lowered her forehead to the edge of the mattress. She was exhausted but determined not to lose hope.
His arm brushed against her face and she felt his burning skin. A basin of fresh water and clean folded rags stood ready on the washstand across the room. She stood up and walked over to the washstand and dipped a rag into the tepid water, wrung it out and went back to Reed’s bedside. Bone tired, she had no thought of leaving. Each passing hour spent alone with him was a gift. A precious, private, one-way exchange that allowed her time to know him in an intimate way.
Bathing him the way Sofia had done earlier, Kate found it almost impossible not to let her hand linger as she ran the damp cloth over his face and neck, across his strong shoulders, and down his arms. She drew the bedsheet past his chest, to his hips. Staring down at the crisp dark hair that covered his pectorals and trailed to his navel, she blushed fire.
I am touching a naked man.
She took comfort in the notion that he could not see the burning embarrassment of a once-cloistered spinster and tried to remind herself this wasn’t the first time she had ever set eyes on a man’s naked body.
As she studied the hard lines and angles, the muscular shoulders and arms, his size and strength became apparent and a bit overwhelming. Lying in the center of the double bed, he almost dwarfed it. There was barely any room left for someone else to lie there without being pressed against him.
She lifted his right hand, washed it carefully and gently, whispering all the details of her trip West, hoping to soothe and comfort him. Each finger was attended to with care. She turned his hand over, traced her fingertips across the lines and calluses that marked his palm, carefully laid his arm down, and then picked up the other.
As she studied his hand, she could not help but think about how, when he was well again, these very hands would one day touch her, fondle and caress her. She shivered and felt her face burn again.
Still, she anticipated that day. At least I know what to expect. She had never forgotten all she had seen and heard those years she lived with her mother, had not forgotten the things that men and women did with one another.
The curtains billowed as the night wind lifted them high and let them sink back against the window frame. She looked outside, watched high, thick clouds slip across a full moon. In that instant, from somewhere deep inside the cobwebbed corners of her mind, came a recollection of her early years.
Twisted sheets on narrow beds. The pungent smell of aroused, sweaty bodies. The mystery behind the gruff sounds made by the noisy strangers her mother had taken into her body.
Meg Whittington had entertained men for money— for food and shelter. She had let them touch and taste her, couple with and ride her. If Mama hated those nights, if she had ever suffered shame, she had kept it hidden behind a brazen bravado. Kate refused to wonder if her mother might actually have enjoyed her work, if there was something in Meg that had made her want to whore with men.
Kate’s hands began to shake. She set the washcloth aside and quickly drew the sheet up, covering Reed to the neck. She stared down at him, watched his chest rise and fall, memorizing the way his dark lashes—sinfully thick lashes—brushed his high cheekbones. He seemed to have calmed; his skin had cooled. He was resting comfortably. Kate decided to take advantage of the bathing room at the end of the hall, so she picked up the lamp, crossed the room, and gently closed the door.
7
Reed opened his eyes to darkness.
His head felt stuffed with cotton. His mouth was dry, his shoulder ached like a son of a bitch. He had been dreaming of Daniel, and in his dream he was running after his son—running as fast as he could, shouting his son’s name.
But Daniel wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t stop running. Soon, the boy disappeared completely behind a dense wall of smoke.
Reed had been around Comanche long enough to have learned some of their beliefs. They took a lot of stock in a man’s dreams. Had his dream of Daniel been some sort of warning?
He would have to remind Becky to keep a close eye on the boy.
He had dreamed of the old man, too. He’d seen his father dead, laid out in a wooden box in the window of the sitting room of his damn palace, Benton House. The place was a mansion suited for a city someplace back East, not the middle of the prairie. It looked like it had fallen out of the sky. His father used it to tempt Becky, to make her beg to move back.
Benton House was fit for a king, not a rancher.
Reed Benton Senior—the goddamn king of Lone Star Ranch. The man never listened to a soul, never cared about what anyone else wanted, not his son, not even his wife. Reed winced thinking of his mother, of the neglect she had suffered at the hands of his father, and of one thing she wanted that his father refused to give her—his love and attention. As far as Reed was concerned, her death was his father’s fault. He would forever lay that on the old man’s head.
His father might be the ruler of his domain, but he didn’t wield enough power to dictate to him, or Becky, or Daniel. Not now, not ever. It would be a cold day in hell before he moved them back to Benton House to live under his father’s thumb.
Becky knew he wasn’t going to change his mind, either. He saw in her eyes that she hated him for not wanting to live the easy life, for not letting her enjoy the luxury of the big, solid house away from the frontier. She wanted Sofia waiting on her hand and foot while his father spent time trying to convince him to run for state legislature. The old man swore that he cast a long enough shadow that he could even buy his son an election.
Reed would never feel like a man, never be anything but “Junior” as long as his father was alive. At least living on the edge of the frontier kept him removed from the old man’s grasp.
Reed opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but the bed beneath him began to spin, so he dropped back down.
Where in the hell was Becky?
He tried to call her, but his throat was so rusty that damn near gibberish was all that came out.
Just then the door opened and a shimmering halo of lamplight preceded her into the room. She had her hair twisted into a thick braid that fell like an auburn rope over her shoulder. He hadn’t realized it nearly reached her waist. He loved her hair, loved to run his fingers through it.
Some men were of the opinion that if you told a woman you loved her too often, she would begin to take you for granted.
It seemed like a hell of a long time since he had held his wife in his arms. She stood in the doorway, not moving, just watching him. A circle of light played over her face, teased him with shaded glimpses of her features.
He tried to sit up, rolled to his side, decided to wait for her to come to him.
Damn, even as bad as he felt, just the sight of her had him hard as a rock.
He stretched out his arm, beckoned her closer.
When Kate opened the door and found Reed awake, struggling to sit up, she nearly dropped the lamp. Even now, as she stood there dumbstruck, her hand shook so hard that the flame threatened to go out.
The glow of lamplight spread before her into the room, far enough for her to see into his eyes. Reed stretched out his arm, beckoned her closer.
Her breath caught. Her knees began to tremble as hard as her hand. She hastily set the lamp down on the washstand. In half a dozen steps she crossed to his bedside.
With one hand pressed against the bodice of her nightgown, she watched him reach for her free hand. Slowly their palms met. A rush of heat shot through her, hard and hot as lightning.
He gently tugged until she sat on the narrow space between him and the edge of the mattress.
When the corner of his lips lifted into a half-smile, she almost dropped to her knees to offer a prayer to Saint Perpetua for interceding. His hand was too warm, his skin still radiated the last vestiges of fever, but he was conscious. He would recover. She knew her prayers had been answered.
No words came when he tried to speak, only a croaking sound. Kate reached for a glass of water on the bedside table, slid her arm beneath his head, cradling him so that he could take a sip. He swallowed half the contents before he raised his head again. When she lowered him to the pillow, he closed his eyes and sighed.
“Is . . . is the boy asleep?”
Hearing him speak startled her so that she nearly dropped the glass of water, but she smiled. It was fitting that his first inquiry be about the child, and that pleased her.
“He’s sound asleep.”
“Good. Good.” Reed’s lashes moved. His eyes slowly opened. “I dreamed he ran away.”
“No. He’s still here.”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Her heart swelled.
“I didn’t know you were awake or I would have been here beside you.”
“Your hair—”
Suddenly uncertain, she reached up and touched the part down the center of her hair.
“Let it loose,” he whispered.
Reaching for the thin ribbon tied around the end of her braid, she tugged it and the bow unraveled. Staring into Reed’s eyes, Kate ignored the scrap of ribbon as it sailed to the floor. She finger-combed her hair until it fell around her shoulders.
Reed reached up, wrapped his hand in her hair and with a gentle but persistent tug, drew her close, so close she was leaning against his chest. Her breasts flattened against him. He was surprisingly hard, unyielding where she was soft.
He urged her closer until she gazed into his eyes. Their lips met. His were surprisingly soft, warm and dry from fever. The kiss was a gentle meeting, an introduction, a chance to taste, to touch, to discover each other more intimately.
Her first kiss.
Something deep inside her slowly melted. Something she had guarded all her life, something she had once feared melted away. She loved him. She wanted him—wanted this night to go on forever.
“I waited so long,” he whispered.
The past months of
correspondence, the proxy marriage, the long trip west and anxious past few hours— she, too, had waited so long.
“I know,” she whispered back. “I know, Reed. So very long.”
Their lips touched again, then parted.
“Stay with me.” His lips moved against her mouth.
“Yes. Of course.”
She started to rise, to move the rocker close so that she could spend the night beside him.
“No.” He protested the instant she began to pull away. His hand, still tangled in her hair, dropped to her shoulder. His thumb grazed her collarbone. He rubbed it back and forth. “Lie down. Here, beside me.”
Stay with me.
She had mistaken his meaning. When her cheeks began to burn, she was thankful for the shadows.
So soon.
Her heart was pounding. His thumb continued to trace her collarbone. His fingers slipped across her skin. She shivered when they explored beneath the fabric.
She could not calm her racing heart. She thought that caring for him today would have helped her past this point of embarrassment, that she had grown used to him, to the idea of him and what being married to him meant. Now that reality was staring her in the face, she realized that she had been wandering around in a dream, unaware that this very night she would become his wife—in every sense of the word.
He was her husband. Their marriage had been recorded in Maine and Texas.
Reed slowly ran his hand down her shoulder and took her by surprise when he gently cupped her breast. She gasped, shocked at the intense sensation when his thumb found her nipple, teased it, stroked it. A moan escaped her, shocking her.
Wanting more, needing more, she pressed her hand over his. The fabric of her nightgown separated their hands, yet she felt the heat of his hand through the muslin.
“Take it off,” he urged. His voice was low. Their eyes locked.
She took a deep breath to steady herself, tried to calm her racing heart. He wanted her to undress, to lie beside him, to give herself, her virginity to him.
Summer Moon Page 5