by Caroline Lee
Ella stopped herself, and took a deep breath, knowing that she was completely mangling the explanation, but unable to help it. She slowly peeled back the now-soaked towel she’d hoped would protect the pup, and the animal let out a faint whine when the light from the lamp hit its face. She risked a glance up at Ian, wondering what he thought of her boldness.
He was frowning down at the dog. Slowly, gently, he reached out a hand to stroke the pup’s head, and his frown deepened when she whined again. Ella could tell that he was being careful not to startle her or frighten her any more than she already was. The animal’s breathing quickened, but she made no move to squirm away; Ella hoped it was because she trusted Ian, rather than because she was too weak to move.
“I think,” Ian met her eyes, “that you’d better tell me everything.” She let her relief show in her face, and knew that he’d seen it when his frown faded. “Let’s get her upstairs—you’ll have to carry her.” Of course. He needed both of his hands free to navigate the stairs. “But first, I think that you’d better get out of those wet clothes.”
…What? He wanted her to ... to what? To take her clothes off? Here? In his shop?
Maybe her horror showed, because his lips quirked upwards. “I meant, take off your boots and stockings down here.” He pulled the oilcloth from her shoulders, and hung it on a peg by the door, where it dripped onto a small rug. Then, before her heartbeat had even returned to normal, he was holding out his arms towards the pup. “You’d better give her to me.”
The idea of removing any article of clothing in his presence was horrifying and thrilling all at once. But she couldn’t very well stomp through his apartment in ruined boots, not after the kindness he’d showed her already. So, with a sigh that acknowledged the inevitability of revealing her imperfect skin to this perfect prince, she handed him the dog, and bent over.
Luckily, he kept up a murmured litany of comfort to the animal, as he peeled back the towel to look at her injuries, and Ella was almost able to pretend that he was ignoring the way her ankles, and then her knees, were exposed to the gas light.
When she stood barefoot and self-conscious before him, he just smiled slightly, and had her leave her stockings draped over the railing to dry. Then he handed the dog back to her and turned to lift himself up the stairs. She noticed the way his eyes lingered on her worn—now-muddy—work boots, and tried to tamp down the burn of shame that made her toes curls under her damp, frayed skirt.
He led the way to his apartment, and Ella had to swallow down the fierce thrill of longing that swept through her when she saw his cozy home. Despite the fact that it should’ve been hot and muggy in the July storm, the little space felt welcoming. He had a large armchair beside one of the windows, and a small table stood next to it with a half-full bottle of whiskey. A kitchen table was pushed up against one wall, with a single chair under it, and the kitchen was small and serviceable and utterly wonderful. A door on the other side of the large black stove—obviously the source of heat in winter—led to what must be his bedroom. Everything was strategically placed so that he could support himself using only his arms, and railings lined most of the walls. There were frames on a few shelves, a large braided rug on the floor, cheerful curtains around the windows, and all-in-all, it looked like the sort of home Ella had always dreamed of having.
It wasn’t until he cleared his throat that she realized she was standing in his front door, staring. Blushing, she stepped into his apartment, making sure that the muddy hem of her skirt didn’t make too much of a mess. He gestured towards the kitchen table as he moved towards the bedroom. “Why don’t you sit down, and put her on the table? Try to clean off as much of the mud as possible, and you hold her while I look her over.”
Pleased to have some direction, Ella hurried to the table. The towel hadn’t kept the pup dry, but at least it had kept off the worst of the mud. She whispered soothingly as she cleaned the dried blood from the animal’s coat as well as she could, and it seemed to help. She was so intent on keeping the animal calm that Ian’s sudden presence beside her—he put down the small box of supplies by her elbow and pulled up a tall stool from the kitchen—made her jump. He was wearing a shirt, now, but it wasn’t tucked in or buttoned all the way up, and he was rolling the sleeves up to reveal those magnificent forearms when she finally gathered the courage to look up at him.
He just nodded down at her and settled himself on the stool. It looked like he was used to dragging the stool around the house, and she supposed that he must have difficulty standing for too long. Tugging on the towel, he pulled the dog towards him, and Ella shifted so that she could keep stroking the animal’s head. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
As he carefully examined the dog’s wounds—which still made Ella cringe when she saw them—she told him the story of the dog-fight and how she’d bribed Leonard to hide the pup, and keep her safe. She told how, after dinner, she cleaned up and told her family that she was retiring early, but really snuck out to the barns and past her stepfather’s sleeping men, and finally found the poor creature, torn-up and in desperate pain. She told how she didn’t know how to save her, but how she’d hoped Ian would, and how she was halfway back to the house with the dog wrapped in the towel when the storm started. Even that hadn’t been enough to deter her; not when she was determined to save the animal.
“Hmmmm,” Ian agreed, bent over the pup’s side with a cloth and some kind of liquid that made her whine when he dabbed it on her wound. “You could’ve been struck by lightning. And you probably ruined your boots.”
“Honestly, I was more worried about the dog. I’ve visited her since she was born, and loved watching her play. I was just so furious when I’d heard what they’d done!”
“Dog fighting is a cruel sport.” She heard his anger in the tightness of his reply.
“It’s not the first time the DeVille hands have come over to make trouble with my stepfather’s men.”
The moment the words left her mouth, Ella bit her tongue. Oh, shoot! Had she given away too much? Did he know who her stepfather was? Judging from the way his hands stilled momentarily, and the muscles in his forearm tightened, he’d noticed her blunder, and was trying to place the clue she’d just accidentally revealed.
But all he said was, “I recently met Max DeVille,” in a neutral tone.
Oh dear. How to respond? She stared down at the pup’s head, and continued to stroke her ears. “I’ve never met the family.” She wasn’t allowed to.
“Hmmmm.” Was all he said to that, and Ella hoped that meant that he was too intent on the dog’s injuries to follow through on the questioning. When he threaded a needle and began to stitch the animal’s wounds together, Ella breathed a little sigh of relief. He’d asked about her family last time too, and she’d refrained from telling him because she was ashamed. But now, with Papa’s threat hanging over her, she couldn’t tell him for his own good.
Ian had worked so hard to make Crowne’s Mercantile a successful business, and he didn’t have the same standing in the community that Papa did. Edmund Miller was a wealthy man, and if he and Roy DeVille agreed on something, they could work together to bring Ian down. She wasn’t about to allow that to happen, not if she had any say over the matter. And the only thing that she could do was make sure that Papa didn’t have a reason to work against Ian. He could never know that she’d snuck past the men he’d set to guard her tonight to see Ian; could never hear their names linked.
She cared about Ian too much to ever let that happen.
By the time that he was finished stitching the dog up, Ella was breathing normally again, confident in her decision. Ian was washing the dog’s fur out when he spoke again. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t think she has one.”
He glanced at her, a flash of green behind the glass. “She’s not your dog?” The surprise in his voice made her cautious when she answered. She couldn’t drop any more hints, or let him know that she lived on a prosperous cattl
e ranch.
“No. I’ve just been visiting her from time to time.”
“Well, I can wrap her up well enough for you to take her home, since the storm’s stopped.” Sure enough, Ella realized that she hadn’t heard any rain against the windows. At least tomorrow’s celebration wouldn’t be ruined. Not that it mattered, since she couldn’t go.
“Actually, I was hoping that I could leave her here, with you. If you don’t mind. You’d get to name her.”
Ian patted the dog softly, and sat back on his stool, eying her seriously. She wasn’t sure why this pup mattered so much to her; all she knew was that if she returned the animal to the Miller Ranch, she was unlikely to survive, and Ella might have to explain who stitched her up.
But the longer than Ian stared at her, the deeper she felt him in her own soul, and the more she understood that this wasn’t about the dog. This was about her. About him. About them.
“On one condition.”
Ian watched her swallow, the lamplight playing across the pale skin of her neck as her muscles contracted. He could tell that he’d made her nervous, and knew that she was thinking of the slip-up she’d made a while ago. So focused on the poor dog’s injuries, he hadn’t been able to devote much of his mind to the riddle she’d posed, but he fully intended to.
To his surprise, though, she accepted his challenge. “What’s your condition?”
He smiled slowly. “That you come back and visit her.” Visit the dog, not him. See? Everything is perfectly reasonable here.
But when her face fell, his stomach dropped too. He hadn’t realized how strongly he’d been hoping she’d say yes, but it was obvious that she was going to say no. Rather than letting her see his disappointment, Ian shifted forward off the stool, picked it up, and used it to hobble towards the kitchen counter. With his back to her, he washed his hands in the basin, and tried not to swallow down the hurt her denial had caused.
“I’m sorry, Ian.” Her voice was small, weak. Nothing like her. “I… I can’t.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?” His hands, resting on either side of the basin, fisted, and he stared at the wall in front of him.
“I can’t.” God, he hated how pitiful she sounded. He would do anything to take her fear away.
Ian let his head drop, felt the pull along his neck and down his spine, and exhaled slowly. She was here. She was in his home, talking to him, and she was real. He wasn’t going to let her go without a fight, this time.
“I dreamed about you, you know.” He hadn’t intended to admit that. Why had the confession slipped out?
He held his breath until he heard her quiet response. “Me too.”
Feeling like the world was somehow balancing out again, but not exactly sure how, Ian turned to face her, propping his hip against the counter. He folded his arms across his chest, and felt a thrill when her eyes followed the movement and lingered on his forearms. “You dream about me?”
She was still staring at his arms, and Ian resisted the urged to flex his muscles. “Yes.” She swallowed and lifted those gorgeous clear eyes to his. “Every night.”
Every night. The same as him. What were the odds? “In your dreams, what are we doing?”
Was it his imagination, or did she pale even further? “We’re talking.”
“Just talking?”
He could tell that she was uncomfortable with the topic, from the jerky movements she made as she stroked the young dog’s head, but he wouldn’t let her look away. He held her gaze, willing her to answer him, to stay with him. Always.
“Sometimes…” She swallowed again, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Sometimes we’re kissing.”
Well now… Ian raised one of his brows, as if he didn’t believe her. “Kissing, eh?” In his dreams, they were doing a heck of a lot more than kissing, but he’d take her admission for what it was worth. “Just kissing?”
Had he thought that she was pale? Suddenly color bloomed in her cheeks, bright enough to rival her lips. “Just kissing.” And he knew that she was lying.
“In these dreams of yours, when we’re kissing…” Was it his imagination, or was she leaning forward slightly in her chair? Her lips were parted, her turquoise-blue eyes were wide, and in that moment, he loved everything about her. “What were we wearing?”
He had to press his lips together to keep the laughter from escaping at her reaction. She sat up quickly, and must’ve dug her fingers into the dog’s fur or something, because it gave a strangled yelp she didn’t even seem to notice. Her cheeks pinked even more, and she looked ready to bolt. Ian took pity on her. “Because in my dreams, we’re not wearing much of anything at all.”
She bolted. With a strangled noise, Ella launched herself out of the chair, and took a few jerky steps towards the window, as if not sure why she was headed there, but needing to move. He felt safe letting a few satisfied chuckles escape. He’d rattled her, all right, but it’d been the truth. Even now, he had to shift his hips slightly to get comfortable in his own trousers. Even the memory of those dreams were potent.
He watched her shoulders expand slightly with each breath, the thin material of her worn shirt still slightly damp. Everything she was wearing was slightly damp, in fact. The oilcloth that she’d thrown over herself and the dog hadn’t done a perfect job, but at least she wasn’t soaked. His gaze traveled down her frame, his experienced shopkeeper’s eye taking in the out-of-date cut of the blouse she wore, the ragged hem of her skirt, and her bare feet under it. Her boots—the same pair that she’d worn the last times she’d visited—had been old to begin with, and being soaked through and slogged through mud probably wasn’t going to help them. He thought of them, sitting beside the back door to his shop, and thought of her trying to put them back on to walk out of his life again.
He wasn’t going to let her do that. This time, when she walked out on him, she’d be obligated enough to come back. Ian was willing to do anything to keep her in his life.
But for now, he made small talk as they cleaned up together, making her laugh with stories of other dogs he’d fixed up. They discussed the pup’s prognosis, and she seemed relieved that it would not just live, but live well. He called Shiloh and Manny and Vick over to meet the new pup, and he and Ella fussed over the animals for sitting so quietly and patiently during the operation. Ian boiled water for some tea, and shared it with her at the kitchen table.
Being here, with her and the dogs, felt right. Seeing her smiling and laughing with him, scratching Vick behind the ears while she sipped her tea, felt right. Making the pup a new bed to keep her safe and secure, and watching Ella fuss over her while they worked together… it all felt right.
And Ian knew: This is what he wanted. Forever. He wanted her here with him, seeing him for who he really was. He wanted her compassion, her industry, her loyalty, in his life. He wanted to protect her, to provide for her, to come home every evening to her and the dogs and maybe, someday, a child, a full home that she would help him build. He wanted her.
He was going to marry her, and keep her forever. And he knew how to do it.
When, at almost midnight, Ella finally said that she had to go, Ian didn’t fight her. He just gestured for her to follow him, and he swung down the stairs to the back foyer. Rather than letting her out the door, though, he turned to the store room, and she picked up the lamp and followed.
He knew exactly what he was looking for; it had come in last week’s delivery. Sure enough, in the ladies’ ready-wear section, he pulled them out. Holding onto the shelves with one hand, he turned to Ella.
She stared down at the shoes in his hand. They were black, and unadorned, and not at all the kind of thing that a suitor should give the woman he was rapidly realizing he loved. But when she turned breathless, bright eyes up to him, he knew that he’d made the right choice.
“For me?”
“Your boots are ruined. Leave them here, and I’ll do what I can to fix them up for you.” Dry them, scrape them, reshape them—if poss
ible—and oil them. Maybe he could take them to Micah Zapato, who’d taken over his grandfather’s cobbling business. “This way you don’t have to walk home in wet boots.”
Hesitantly, she reached out and touched one of the shoes, running her finger down the smooth dark leather. They were serviceable, with a simple sort of beauty. But her beauty—when she smiled up at him—was anything but simple.
“You’re giving me shoes?”
Ian was hit with a wave of self-doubt. What if this wasn’t what she needed? What she wanted? He hadn’t courted a woman before; what if shoes were a terrible choice of gifts? “I… Do you want them? You don’t have to take them.”
Her fingers stroked along the insole, and Ian shuddered, remember those fingers doing the same to his skin in his dreams. “I think…” She inhaled slowly. “I love them. No one...” She looked up, and met his eyes, and he was done. “No one has ever given me such a wonderful gift.”
If she let him, he’d give her gifts—even more wonderful than this—for the rest of her life. He felt like his heart was in his throat when he asked, “You’ll take them?”
Their fingers brushed when she wrapped her hands around the shoes, and the thrill shot up his arm, as always. What was it about this woman’s touch that could affect him so? Ian didn’t care; as long as he had plenty of more chances to touch her.
“Thank you, Ian.”
Anything for you. He couldn’t make his throat work.
“I can’t pay you for them, but I will return them as soon as possible.”
“No!” He managed to choke it out. “No,” he repeated, softer. “They’re a gift. But…” He wrapped his free hand around hers, which was still holding the shoes. “But I need to see you again. Please.” She looked away, and he felt his stomach clench. “Please tell me your family name. Tell me where I can find you.”