by Lynda Chance
Emma was shocked to realize she was so close to him that she could actually smell him. She could smell the masculine scent that was coming from his clothes, coming from his body. It was a provocative notion, being so close to him that she could smell the leather, smell the hint of horses coming from his person.
"I bet I know what the problem is. You were married at such a young age you never had time to adjust to all the male attention, is that right, Emma?
Oh, where was this going? Male attention? "I guess not, no," she agreed, making things up as she went along.
He crouched down on his haunches in front of her, and lifted his hand to pick up a lock of her hair.
Her pulse became erratic as he rubbed her hair between his fingers.
"I suppose with looks like yours and no husband to watch after you anymore, keeping the dogs at bay must have your back up all the time now."
His dark, sultry voice inundated her before she made since of his words. And when she did, she couldn't contain the hiss of air that left her lungs. She was too stunned, too shocked to speak. He thought she looked good enough that men bothered her all the time?
How could he possibly think that? And why was he saying such personal things to her? What could his reasons be? And why was he crowding her? Hanging over her as if he had every right to do just that?
The truth was, Emma wasn't a widow. She'd never been married before. When she'd left the orphanage, the matrons there had convinced her that her plight in life would be easier, because of her affliction as they called it, if she pretended she'd been married before. They felt she'd never be able to get married and have children like other women would, and it would make things easier on her, travelling alone and such, if people thought she was a widow.
She'd never liked the idea of lying, liked the idea of never marrying even less, but had grown used to the small fabrication. And it had, indeed, made things easier for her in her travels. Widows and married women had far more leeway than single women. Even in the west. And until now she hadn't given it much thought.
But she was thinking about it now. Suddenly, she felt like the lie was personal. That she was lying to someone, that she was being dishonest.
She was also more than a little confused. Her heart was pounding away and she was trying to find a reason he would question her about such things. Surely it just wasn't done.
"Answer me, sweetheart," he said in a firm voice.
His eyes tangled with hers and an incendiary heat passed between them.
There was only one answer she could give him without revealing the truth which she wasn't prepared to do. And there was only one answer she could get past the lump in her throat. "I suppose so."
A look that could only be described as pure challenge crossed his features. "We'll start off with you saying my name."
"Start off?" Her voice was shaky as her mind raced. Start what?
"Say my name, Emma," he cajoled.
His eyes held hers and Emma's insides quivered. She couldn't find the strength to deny him this one small thing. And he was right. What would it hurt? "Luke."
His hand tightened on the lock of hair and Emma felt the slight tug on her scalp.
"Why were you going to Denver?" Emma was too stunned, held enthralled under his spell to even realize he voiced that question in the past tense, as if she wasn't going to Denver any longer.
"I've accepted a position as a seamstress there," she answered him in a soft voice.
"You can sew?"
She smiled softly when he asked that question as if she had accomplished a great feat. "Yes, I can sew."
"By hand or on a machine?"
"Both."
"Really? You know how to operate a sewing machine?"
"Yes, we had one at the orphanage."
"You worked at an orphanage?"
Her eyes broke from his and she looked down at her lap. "No. I was raised in an orphanage."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"Thank you. It was one of the better ones, and it's in the past. My life is my own." She couldn't help the small amount of satisfaction in her voice. She'd waited a long time for the restrictions of both the orphanage and then the polite society of St. Louis where she had worked for the last few years to be lifted from her shoulders. Denver was supposed to be an adventure, and although the day had been horrific, she was young and strong of spirit and resilient; she would get past it and with any luck, have a decent and happy future.
Luke could tell she was trying to stay strong, but he could hear the fatigue in her voice. She needed rest and as much as he liked sitting here and watching her, he knew he needed to let her rest. A good night's sleep would take away the dark circles under her eyes and the lines of worry creasing her brow.
"I need to let you rest. Let's get you settled in a room. Are you hungry?"
At one time today, looking at the lifeless body of the stagecoach driver, Emma didn't think she'd ever want to eat again. But now, with warmth and relative safety again, her stomach chose that exact moment to make itself known by growling with hunger.
And for the first time, she saw Luke's smile as he quipped, "Guess that settles that. I'll get you something from the kitchen."
Emma made a move to stand. "I can help. Please, I don't want to be a burden."
He rose to his full height in front of her. "Rest. Stay there."
Emma couldn't remember a time when she had been completely waited on in this manner. She didn't know if it was the manner of the order he had given her or the feeling of comfort resting in the rocker induced, but she closed her eyes and did, in fact, rest.
Luke cut a slice of cheese and two thick pieces of bread and quickly spread freshly-churned butter on each. The sandwich he prepared was rudimentary, but it would do the trick.
It looked and smelled good, so he quickly made one for himself as well.
He inhaled his food in four quick bites while he moved around the kitchen, pouring Emma a glass of milk.
He hadn't been able to stifle the arrow of pleasure he had felt when he saw her face and form clearly for the first time after he'd lit the lamps.
He didn't know what he'd been expecting exactly, hadn't given it much thought at all. He'd been relieved to find her alive and hiding after he'd seen the sewing and other feminine fripperies in the coach. He knew there was a woman, and after a quick, cursory look around, knew immediately the driver was dead from the ambush.
He'd been afraid he'd find her dead and naked body not far from the coach, and was inordinately relieved when he heard the small noises she was inadvertently making where she was hiding in the brush.
He'd quickly estimated that her state was fearful but not hysterical, so she'd probably not been violated. Even now, moving around the kitchen, he felt a sudden inexplicable rage toward the men that had even looked at her and held her fate in their hands for that small moment in time.
It was a good thing they hadn't touched her.
Because if they had, they would have to die.
They'd hang anyway for the murder they had committed; the sheriff and posse would take care of that. He could stay here, on his ranch where he belonged, and protect the woman that knew the faces of the outlaws. It was a small relief that he wouldn't personally have to chase them down and make sure justice was handed out, as it would have been if they'd touched her.
Why he had that feeling he couldn't explain and didn't even try.
He walked back to where she was sitting and placed the drink and plate on the edge of the fireplace and turned to study her.
She'd quickly fallen asleep; he could tell her eyes were more than just closed by the deep inhalations of her chest underneath the coarse cotton fabric of her dress. It was buttoned firmly to her throat, and covered her arms all the way down to her wrists.
Her hands were small and white. He carefully picked one up and ran the pad of his thumb over her palm. He grimaced when he found the small calluses on her hands.
He couldn't explain
it but he knew he didn't like it. Her hands should be smooth and soft, not roughened from work.
He'd already felt her body pressed against his. Granted, there had been two layers of clothing between them, his and hers, but he could still remember the soft, tempting way her body had given to accommodate his chest pressed into her back when he'd had to chase her down. That smooth, soft spine had curved inward, and he clearly remembered his body surrounding the softness of hers.
It made his groin clench with need when he thought about that sweet body fully giving into and accommodating his.
His eyes ran from her torso up to her face. Her skin was alabaster smooth, and her hair had long ago fallen from the knot of restraint she had probably put it in that morning. Her hair wasn't dramatic in color, but a warm brown filled with lights and streaks that had a honey look about it. She was softly pretty, plain at first glance, until you looked more closely and you saw the fire in her slanted eyes, the high cheekbones that defined the very feminine lines of her face. Her cheeks were almost plump, full and healthy, and in direct contrast to the many women of the west who were haggard, drawn and tired, valiantly fighting a life in this rough part of the country.
He hoped like hell she never had that pinched, compressed look to her face. He hoped she always had the healthy, open shine to her face that he saw now.
And by God, while she was under his care, she would retain that healthy, almost innocent glow.
She would eat now.
He placed his hand on her slim arm and shook her softly. "Emma."
He received no response so he shook her a bit more. "Emma, wake up, honey."
A soft moan came from the back of her throat and the rigid shaft in his jeans swelled more fully from the small sound she made.
The primal lust that consumed him put him on edge and his voice was sharper than he intended, "Emma!"
Her eyes flew open and she jerked in her chair when she came suddenly awake and saw him looming over her. Recognition was slow in coming and he saw the panic and fear that shone from her eyes as she whimpered.
"Shh, it's me. It's all right, you're safe," he soothed at the same time trying to tamp down the arousal sliding insidiously through his body.
He needed to get her fed and into bed.
Into her bed, alone.
Emma came fully awake as she recognized the man in front of her. Her muddled brain tried to understand the differences she saw in him. Anxiety heightened her senses as she took in his pointed gaze, the ropes of tension bracketing his mouth and his strong legs braced apart as if prepared to ward off an attack. But that made little sense.
A wave of apprehension burned through her and she had to physically get a hold of herself. He was the same person. Demanding and arrogant, yes. But the same person. He wasn't going to hurt her. If his intent was to hurt her, he would have done so already.
She studied him as she tried to understand the changes in his demeanor.
"What's wrong?" she questioned him in a voice husky from interrupted sleep.
"Nothing's wrong," he bit out as he turned to pick up the plate and put it on her lap.
Emma reached out to steady the plate and jumped when her hand brushed his against her thigh. It was ridiculous to jump, she knew. It wasn't as if she was naked. She had on a dress and two petticoats. But still, the brush of his hand against her was like a streak of fire running through her.
Her eyes flew to his and were ensnared by the heated look in his eyes. His nostrils flared as he lifted away from her and stood back to his full height.
"Luke, I--"
Luke felt her voice hit him on another wave of arousal. She had to choose this moment to spontaneously call him by his first name?
He cut her off. "Eat."
She licked her lips and glanced down at what he had placed in front of her. The bread was yeasty and fresh and the cheese was a warm yellow color that made her mouth start watering. She hadn't eaten since early that morning. And that had only been a hurried snack while on the road.
Luke watched her as she picked up the sandwich and with greedy little bites silently devoured the simple meal. He stood in front of her until she had finished every scrap and then handed her the milk.
She drank half the milk down and rested the glass lightly against the chair and slowly lifted her eyes to his.
"Finish it."
Dismay spiked through her at his tone. "Finish the milk?"
"Yes," his answer was succinct.
"I can't right now."
"Yeah, you can."
Alarmed at his possible intent, panic filled her. Being told to eat or drink something when she was full or when she absolutely couldn't stand the taste was one of her biggest fears. It was ridiculous, she knew. But for two miserable years in the orphanage, she and the other children had been terrorized by a controlling matron who took pleasure from forced consumption.
The knot of panic in her throat grew and she knew she wouldn't be able to get down another drop.
She trembled and reminded herself that she was an adult; he couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do.
At her continued silence, he spoke. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
She ignored the question and tried to move past the conflict. "I'll just take it to bed with me, I'm tired. Can you show me where I'll sleep?"
"Finish it now and then I'll get you settled."
Luke was shocked when his reasonable request was met with a negative shake of her head and a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Tears? What the hell had set her off now?
He reached out and took the glass from her hand when he saw it was in immediate danger of spilling. Her hand was shaking uncontrollably; he needed to find out what was making her panic all of a sudden. Did she think going to bed meant she was in danger from him? The idea that she thought he couldn't be trusted put a black frown between his brows.
The moment the milk was taken from her and pushed to the side, the subtle quaking of her body subsided somewhat.
"You all right?"
"Yes."
She looked better now. The color was coming back to her cheeks and the trembling had subsided. Now to get her settled and away from him. He needed some damn peace tonight and wasn't going to get it as long as she was in his radius.
"You sure you had enough?"
There was that glimmer of tears again.
"Please, Luke, don't make me drink it. I can't. I'm so full." Her expression beseeched his.
"Make you drink it?" The roar came from his diaphragm and as he blasted the question out her head jerked back and hit the back of the rocking chair.
She was silent and he continued. "Where the hell would you get the idea I'd make you drink it? Why would I make you drink it?"
She shook her head back and forth as she tried to answer him. "You told me to finish it." Her eyes dropped from his. "And I thought you meant it."
Luke looked at her bent head and searched for the answer to what the actual problem was. "I did mean it. But I'm not going to force it down your throat. Jesus. I'm just worried about you, that's all. I'm assuming you haven't eaten all day, or even had much to drink. I don't want your health to suffer."
Emma couldn't believe she'd misunderstood the situation so completely. It was definitely going to take her a while to learn how to read this man. His tone brooked no refusal, but evidently, she could refuse him and walk away unscathed. Couldn't she?
"I'm sorry. I misunderstood, that's all. I know we don't know each other, but I have a small phobia about being told how much to consume."
He studied her and the look of anger on his face wasn't directed at her.
"The orphanage?" He questioned in a menacing tone.
She understood what he was asking her. "Yes."
He nodded his head in quick understanding and reached out and lifted one of her hands and helped her to her feet.
His hand moved to her chin and he lifted it and stared down into her eyes. "You're right. We
don't know each other. But know this about me now. I'll never force you to eat or drink anything you don't want. I'll never force you to do anything. I'm a harsh man. I know that. My words are sometimes sharp, but ask Maria tomorrow morning when you meet her, I'm nothing but a pushover."
Chapter Three
"He said what, Senorita?" Maria turned and completely abandoned her task of washing the breakfast dishes and stared askance at Emma.
"He said he was a pushover. Was he telling me the truth?"
While Emma took in the stunned look on the other woman's face, she looked around the kitchen in the light of day.
The room was far more comfortable than she would have imagined a kitchen on a ranch in Colorado could have been.
A large stove was at the center of the workplace and it vented to the outside. A water pump directly in the kitchen was a convenience she hadn't imagined she'd find. The table was huge, big enough to seat ten or twelve she expected, and the chairs were sturdy and strong. Blue and white decorated china graced the cabinets that were fronted by real glass doors, and the flatware she stood fingering was real silver.
It was a beautiful room, with a hominess that was enhanced by curtains and herbs that grew in containers on the windowsill.
When Luke had escorted her to her room the previous evening, he hadn't taken the time to show her the rest of the house. He had shown her where he slept in case she needed him, where to take care of her more personal needs in the middle of the night, and then told her goodnight as swiftly as he could.
She slept through the night, probably from pure exhaustion, and this morning she saw the room she had been given for the first time. She slept in a sturdy four-poster bed with a comfortable feather mattress, and a colorful, quilted coverlet. The furnishings in the rest of the room matched the bedstead; they were carved from a deep mahogany wood and embellished with intricate, detailed designs. There was a dresser with a mirror, and a small, feminine writing desk and chair to match.
The room was lovely and unlike any she'd ever been in other than the one time she had stayed in a hotel for a few days in St. Louis.