by Jillian Hart
"Let me guess. He was no decent man." Gil reappeared, swathed in snow, iron strong. "That's why you left Ireland so young, to escape."
"Yes." She had memories of those dark times she kept under lock and key. They were behind her, why bring them out in the light now? Her stepfather could no longer harm her or her sister. What was years of servitude and debt when compared with that? "But we were talking about you. Were you adopted?"
"In a way, I guess. My uncle finally came to claim me." He might have been talking about anything—the weather, gossip, the new building under construction in town—instead of the pain in his life. He pulled a length of twine from his pocket. "He was a brute of a man. Something we have in common."
She felt sucker punched. She never would have guessed it, that Gil had known the sting of a brutal man's violence. As Gil knelt down before her, a big, powerful man on the ground at her feet, a lump lodged in her throat. Swallowing hard didn't remove it completely. She let the silence settle between them. His confession felt too intimate, as if they were both without defenses and shields, revealed to each other. It wasn't a feeling she liked or was used to.
"When I was doing time in that orphanage, that's when I was poor. Not enough food, clothes handed down until they were rags. Oh, the place did their best. It wasn't intentional." Gil's gloved hands quickly banded the twine around her ankle, wrapping it snugly. "It was worse with my uncle. I ran off when I was fourteen. Lived on my own for weeks. Slept in fields, ate roots and berries when I could find them. I'd go to bed so hungry I couldn't sleep while my stomach gnawed on itself."
"Gil." Sympathy swamped her. It burned in her eyes, filled her to overflowing. It was hard to imagine him as a boy, not yet a man, alone and suffering. "I've been that hungry back in Ireland."
"It takes one to know one." His words reached out to her like a touch, bridging the distance between them. Still kneeling down, the crown and brim of his Stetson hid his face. Her eyes traced the rigid set of his shoulders and back, the muscled length of his arms. He was invincible. Always in a good mood, easy going, he seemed as if his life had always been that way.
You just never knew what someone else's path has been, she reminded herself, unable to stop her hand from reaching out, somehow needing to touch him, and landing on the outer curve of his upper arm. He felt like a mountain come to life, so solid, so real.
"I wish things had been easier for you," she said lightly, but she didn't remove her hand from his arm. There were things she couldn't say, things she shouldn't even be feeling, and she somehow wanted him to know that. As if she hoped he could sense it in her touch or read it in her eyes. And even if he couldn’t, her fingers wanted to stay on his arm.
Not that she had the right to hold on.
"Hey, things are good for me." He tied the ends of the twine into a bow, neatly binding her shoe to her. "I found a good job as a stable boy, I worked hard, saved my money and worked my way up. Even earned enough to buy Casey."
From somewhere in the storm, a horse blew out his breath in a horsy comment.
"Best money I ever spent," Gil said, pitching his voice as if to make sure his gelding heard it. With a grin, Gil stood, rising up to block the wind and snow. "It turned out all right. But what about you?"
"I'm grateful to Maureen. It's turned out all right for me too." So much better than her life had been in Ireland, that was for sure. The only regret she had was that she was not free, her life was not her own. Maureen owned a contract on her and it had to be paid. "I'm thankful every day."
"For being an indentured servant?" His sculpted mouth hooked up in one corner, an almost smile the rest of his mouth didn't complete. Something serious flickered in his vivid gaze, but it was hard to tell because of the snow hurling down between them. When she looked again, that seriousness was gone, but the air felt changed.
She felt changed. As if they were closer somehow than before.
"It's not so bad." She took a step to test the integrity of the twine-and-shoe combination. It seemed to work. "I have job security, for one thing. No matter what, I'll always be employed."
"True. Unlike me, you don't have to worry about being fired." Gil's humor returned as he moved to her side.
"Exactly!" How nice it felt when he ushered her through the snow, protecting her from the brunt of the wind with his big body, making sure she didn't fall. "I have room and board provided for years to come. No worries there."
"That sounds like a bonus."
"Oh, it is. I work with great people."
"Yep, great. That's me."
"Not you," she corrected, mischievously. "But some great people."
"Good to know where I stand." His wagon rose out of the storm, hulking and shadowed. He gripped her arm, helped her up. "At least I'm not in the Lawrence category."
"Don't be too sure about that." The wind gusted ever harder, drowning out his chuckle, driving the straight-line snow with the wind speed of a twister. She clearly struggled to stay upright as she swiped snow from the wagon seat. "All you'd need is a handlebar mustache and you'd be twins."
"Now that's where you'd be wrong." Light, humorous, he helped with the snow swiping. A few brushes and the wagon seat was as clear as it was going to get. "I'll go fetch your groceries and the horse. Can you stay out of trouble while I'm gone?"
"I can try." She plopped down onto the wagon seat, covered with snow, her face scoured pink from the cold. She'd let her muffler slip down.
He reached over to tug it up, tenderness kicking in his chest. The curve of her face was so dear, so delicate and sweet. Her big emerald green eyes shone brightly as if with their own light, hinting at her inner beauty. It would be nice if she was his to care for, he thought, arranging the worn muffler higher on her shoulders, around her throat, to better shield her face. He'd cherish her. He'd make sure she was happy, or die trying.
Not that she realized he felt that way. The caring he felt was not reflected in her stunning green eyes, was not returned to him, so he backed away.
"Don't garner any more suitors while my back is turned, okay?" he joked, if only to hide the ache of gentleness that surged through his chest.
"I'll try," she teased back. "But no promises."
When he walked away from her amused smile, the warmth of it stayed with him even in the worsening storm. Well, his affections for her kept deepening, even though this was a one-sided thing. He plowed through the accumulating snow, sloshed through the sticky mud and spotted the shadow of a horse through the tumbling downfall.
"Hey there, Phil." He greeted the horse he knew well, for all of the cowboys lately took turns tending the ranch horses and cleaning stalls. Times were lean at the Rocking M, and several hired hands had already walked off the job for lack of pay. He patted the gelding's nose. "Bet you thought we'd forgotten about you, huh?"
Phil nickered, pressing gratefully against the palm of Gil's hand. The poor animal was coated with snow, looking a little forlorn, hitched to the mired-down wagon.
"No way would I forget about you." He assured the animal, gave him a final nose stroke and got down to the business of unbuckling and leading Phil out of his traces. The storm didn't make it easy.
His thoughts turned back to Maebry, and the protective fury—okay, call it jealousy—he'd felt when he'd found her alone with Latimer. Lawrence had no call trying to court her. Lawrence was new to town, he'd bought a patch of land next to the Rocking M, not even four months ago. Anger roared through him as Gil slogged down the road.
Two months and seven days. That's how long he'd been in love with Maebry. His jaw clenched tight, his molars grinding together as he stopped beside Casey. When he squinted up into the storm, she was nothing but a silhouette—a curve of her hood, the bow of her head against the storm, the elegant line of her sleeve as she braced herself on the seat.
As he bent to buckle Phil in next to Casey, he remembered the first day he saw her. It had been a dreary March day, a mantle of thick, charcoal clouds shrouded the sky, the rolling
hills and fields of the ranch were frozen but snowless. He'd dismounted outside a two-story log house, teeth chattering from the ride, frozen to the marrow of his bones. He'd been gathering Casey's reins when movement caught his eye. There, in the window, stood the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Golden hair like liquid sunshine, porcelain skin, angelic beauty that made his heart skip to a stop. Transfixed, his soul sighed as if in wonder, and when she laughed, he could feel it lilting inside him.
Determination filled him now. He patted the horses, straightened up, resisting the tug of longing within. He'd been waiting all this time for her to notice him. For her to realize that the little things he did for her—bringing in wood, fetching water, making sure she had the most reliable horse on the ranch for her trips into town—had nothing to do with his job. But because he loved her.
And that's why he would see her safely home. He would do everything he could for her, hoping one day she would take a good long look and see him differently, see a man she could love.
Chapter Three
"Too bad the storm didn't hold off until sundown, the way you cowboys predicted." Maebry's teeth chattered behind her woolen muffler, trying to ignore the affect of Gil's presence as she swept snow off the wagon seat for him. "I'd have worn my winter long johns."
"Me, too." He dropped down beside her, taking command of the reins. An abominable snowman would have been less snowy. White clung to him everywhere—the brim of his hat, his eyebrows, his muffler wrapped loosely around his throat. He gave the reins a snap. "I don't even have a horse blanket to offer you. Are you doing okay? You're not too cold, are you?"
"I'm tougher than I look." Her spine straightened. She had to be. "Besides, we're almost home."
"True, but that might be easier said than done." He pulled up his muffler one handed, as the wagon rocked forward cautiously in the heavy accumulation. The snow pounded down so thick and furious that you couldn't see the horses at all. "This is going to get interesting."
"Keep high and center." She smiled against the scratchy wool of her muffler. "At least that's what Lawrence told me."
"Funny." He leaned into the storm, as if to will them through. "Any more driving advice you want to give? It takes a certain skill to get a wagon stuck that badly."
"It was the snow." Why did she always want to laugh when she was in this man's presence? It was a total mystery. She should be too frozen to talk, she should be upset about the wagon—she knew Maureen was going to have a fit if she heard about it—plus the fact that her attempts to thwart Lawrence's interest in her had backfired, making the whole situation worse. He'd offered to try to pay off Maureen! Craziness.
"Sure, it was the snow. That was the reason," Gil teased gently. "It wasn't your driving."
"Glad you understand." She smiled against her muffler, feeling her breath begin to freeze to the coarse wool. "The road was all white, so I couldn't see the mud."
"A likely story." Humor rumbled through him, his chuckle warm as stove-top molasses. Caring resonated in his eyes.
Caring.
Honest and unguarded. Something she'd never noticed before.
"You look cold," he observed.
"Yes, as it's well below freezing." She tried to smile, but she wasn't sure her mouth was working properly. Probably because she was mesmerized by him. Surprised at the unexpected realization of how Gil felt.
How he really shouldn't be feeling. Her chest ached with a strange sorrow. Because it was one thing to have a crush on a man when you knew your heart was safe. It was another to see that caring reflected back at you. She stared straight ahead into the storm, seeing only whiteness. It would have been better if she'd never seen caring in his eyes. Much easier.
Somehow the fact that nothing could ever come of his feelings was worse. Gil knew that her life was not her own. It wouldn't be until she was almost thirty, too many years for a man to wait, even if he was interested.
Best to pretend she'd never noticed the caring in his gaze. She bowed her head, stared down at her gloved hands. "I'm not cold at all."
"Your teeth are chattering."
"No, they are just bumping together because the road is bumpy."
"A likely story." He inched over, closing the distance between them on the bench seat, driving out all awareness of the storm, until there was only his hulking manliness, just his closeness, his tantalizing warmth. "Maureen knew about the bad weather coming, I know Beckett told her about it. She shouldn't have sent you out in this. It's too cold for a lady."
"I'm not a lady. I'm an indentured servant." Her chin went up. She had her dignity, if not her freedom. She'd traded seven years of her life for passage here to escape the misery of poverty, for a new hope for her life. A better beginning. She'd traded another seven so her sister could have the same. "I'm tougher than I look."
"Sure you are. That's why you needed my help chasing off Lawrence today."
"And I thanked you, right? By the way, you are a wonderful pretend beau and you make a really good wind block."
"Glad I'm good for something." His voice dipped low, as if there was something more there than simple humor. "Don't forget you promised baked goods."
"Did I? I can't remember." There, that made him laugh, and she laughed too, resisting the sweet tug on her heart that made her want to turn her gaze to him, to drink in every detail of this man and his kindness. Good thing she kept her eyes focused squarely on her gloves and the fraying strand of yarn that needed mending.
"Hey, don't pretend to forget. We made a deal. If you don't deliver a plate of cookies, maybe I'll haul you over to Lawrence myself." Humor, rumbling in his voice, gentle in his tone, tugged her toward him, so that her body was leaning against her will, her gaze tracked over the granite planes of his handsome face and she couldn’t stop. It felt as if her heart had come open like a long locked window. How was she going to convince herself she didn't feel a thing for Gil now?
"Come here." His arm came around her shoulders, strong and comforting, and he drew her protectively against him. It felt as if he wanted to protect her from more than the storm.
Was it wrong to lean in, to snuggle into his solid heat? She couldn’t seem to stop herself. He felt so good. As she cuddled against his side, his arm came around her like an iron band. Squished comfortably against him with her cheek resting against his chest, she listened to the reliable thump-thump of his heart. As if that wasn't intimate enough, as if they were not close enough, he tipped his hat low and bowed in, so his Stetson protected her eyes and the uncovered part of her face from flying snow. Wow. Never had anything felt as nice as being held by him.
Emotion pricked behind her eyes. She'd never, well, felt so much. It didn't help that she'd figured out the truth about Gil, how he felt about her. And she couldn’t let that knowledge change a thing. Maureen would never allow her to be courted, she'd never give her enough time off to date. With a wistful sigh, she thought of the debt she still owed Maureen, not yet half-way paid off. It was a contract that would not end with Maureen's death, which according to the doctor would be sooner rather than later. No, this was a debt Maureen could always sell to the highest bidder or could leave to her heir. Even more likely, the contract would be sold by the attorney to help pay for Maureen's debts and funeral costs, and who knew where she would be forced to go then or who she'd be legally obligated to work for.
So no, it was better not to let her feelings get carried away. Best to be sensible about this. Gently, reluctantly, she pulled away from Gil's side, from his shelter and comfort. It was the sensible thing to do. Best to keep things friendly. That's the way it had to be.
But it wasn't what she wanted. Nothing was harder than shimmying out of Gil's arms and scooting several inches away from him. She let the winds batter her, felt the relentless snow slap and strike her. On the seat beside her, Gil said nothing. He simply switched the reins into both hands and didn't look her way.
Maybe he'd come to the same conclusion, too.
* * *
"Good." Well, not great, but she didn't want him to know that. Feeling very lonesome on her end of the wagon seat, she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep her body heat in. Wasn't working well, since her teeth kept chattering harder. The warmth and comfort she'd felt by his side taunted her.
If she crept over to him, it would be a mistake. The door to her heart stood open, and she had to find a way to close it. Her chest smarted with a deep, unrelenting ache. He fell silent again as they jostled along blindly in the storm. She listened to the sounds of the horses struggling—their heavy breathing, their uneven gait, the protesting squeal of the wagon wheels on the snowy slope. She couldn’t help worrying. What if Gil didn't understand why she'd pulled away? What if he thought she didn't like him and hadn't wanted his comfort?
She choked at the thought, hiding the cough in the icy-crust of her muffler. When she cut her gaze sideways, he sat stoic at his end of the board seat like the tough cowboy he was, head bowed to the storm, determined to get them through. A man anyone could count on. She gave a little wistful sigh.
Why wasn't she stronger than this? Unhappy with herself for wishing for what she could not have, she tried to close that open place in her heart. The place that felt so sore, wished for so much. Gil pulled back on the reins.
"Whoa." The wagon rocked to a stop and the faint, tantalizing glint of lamplight flickered through the pelting snow. "We're home, safe and sound."
"So we are." She recognized the distant tone to his voice, hated that she had put it there. She had to, what choice did she have? Even if Gil did like her, if he was a little sweet on her, then she could not encourage him. It wouldn't be right. As much as it hurt, she planted her feet on the floorboards and hauled her partly-frozen, very stiff body upward until she was standing. "Thanks for the ride and the rescue. You make a pretty good pretend beau."