Jillian Hart - The Horseman

The horseman had cared for her with his strapping outdoorsman attitudes and appearances. He had made her dream again with a single touch of his big, rugged, working-man’s hands. She didn’t want it to be that way.

“That’s why you said what you did. About the kind of impression I was trying to make.” He winced. “I must not be doing a very good job.”

“I haven’t seen worse, it’s true.”

“I’m a horseman. I know horses, not how to charm women.”

“Oh, that’s what you’re doing? Trying to charm me?”

“I’m failing. It’s obvious you’re not charmed.” He looked sheepish, but there was an amazing quality in him. One that drew her attention to him so that she was aware only of him as he eased onto the bed, sitting beside her when it was far from proper.

Maybe she didn’t want proper. Her pulse skipped as she hoped he would touch her again.

No, she wasn’t charmed. She was more.

“It was worth a try.” He didn’t look diminished. He appeared as noble as ever, spine straight, shoulders set. He looked stalwart, able to defeat any foe who crossed him. But something in his eyes…Had she hurt him?

He retrieved the book and studied it, as if debating. “Do you want me to keep reading to help you pass the time? Or was that a shameful attempt, too?”

This was her chance to send him away. Why was her hand reaching out? Why was there a pulse of hope in her soul as she laid her hand on his much larger one. “I loved the reading.”

“Yeah?” He tilted his head, cocked one brow, studying her hard as if reading her sincerity. And then reaching deeper, as if trying to see into her heart.

She drew the blanket around her chest, shielding herself, keeping him away. I ought to send him away. For now. For good. Letting him stay, allowing him to think she’d consider marrying again and so soon, permitting him to continue courting her, was wrong.

“Then I’ll keep on reading until you tell me to stop.”

He’s going to kiss me. She knew it as surely as if he’d told her. His eyes went black, focusing on her mouth. His lips parted slightly, as if in preparation. Slowly, as her lips tingled with both dread and want, he leaned closer.

The room faded, the light dimmed, the fire silenced and his mouth covered hers in a brush of heat and brilliance. Its radiance dwarfed any other kiss. Firm and yielding at the same time, and the pleasure of it radiated through her like a bolt of sunlight.

His hands settled on her cheeks, framing her face as he held her to him like a new blossom to the sun, kissing her with his whole heart. The beauty of it forced her to answer with hers.

He drew back, leaving her dazed and dazzled, irrevocably changed. How could a kiss be so much? How could it dip into her heart like that, past the sorrow gathered there? How could he make her feel?

He had. More than the sorrow of her loss, more than the betrayal of her husband’s false vows, Dillon Hennessey had made her feel new. He made her feel alive. Quietly, wholly, achingly alive, and, again, she was a woman with desires and needs.

He opened the book with care and began to read as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. His deep baritone, as mellow as twilight shadows, wrapped around her like a wool blanket, warming her, sheltering her. It wasn’t Dickens’s story she heard, but Hennessey. The man he was, steady and kind and proud on the outside.

What type of man was he, deep down, on the inside? Why did she want him to kiss her again? Ashamed of how she needed him, she closed her eyes. Tried to hold back a tide of feelings she didn’t understand. Didn’t want. Refused to act on.

If she wanted a second kiss, all she had to do was to sit up and she knew he’d take her into his strong arms. And give her, for a moment, the chance to be alive again.

A knock sounded on the door, and Dillon snapped the book shut.

“It’s the doc.” He lifted her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. A hot caress that made her dream.

Dream that a woman like her could be loved. Even just a little.

“I’ll be waiting outside.” He laid her hand on her stomach with care, with authority.

She couldn’t look at him as he walked away. Hated that the ring of his boots permeated her senses and made her aware of him. Only of him. Of his low mumble to the doctor and the squeak of a board beneath his foot. Of the creak of the door he closed. She could feel him in the hallway, like an unseen source of heat radiating only to her.

She faced the doctor with a weak smile. Answered his questions. Endured his examination. Listened to his advice.

“The weakness will continue for a while.” The doctor drew up a chair. He was a kind man, meek but not weak. He pushed his spectacles back into place and studied her somberly. “That’s to be expected from so much blood loss. From the birth.”

She nodded. She knew that. “I know it will take time to regain my strength. But how much longer?”

“You’ve had a setback, traveling as you did. It will take a long time to heal from such trauma. But my worries are your emotional recovery. The loss you’ve suffered is the worst a woman can face, I believe.”

Tears abraded the backs of her eyes. Tears she refused to let fall. “I am managing.”

“You need time for that as well.”

The compassion in the doctor’s voice was meant to be kind, she knew, but somehow it made her hurt more. “You didn’t answer my question. I have a mounting hotel bill to worry about and your fees. I need to be able to work.”

“You need to heal. I told you. At least two more weeks, is my guess. You have no fever, no other complications to worry about. I’ll come back in a few days to check on you. Let me know if your condition worsens.”

He rose to leave. Katelyn steeled her hopes, protected them, even as she asked the question, “Is it your opinion, too, that I cannot bear another child?”

The doctor froze. His face saddened. “It is certain there will be no more children. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

She waited until the door closed before she let the first tear fall. It was the emptiness of it, the finality. The knowing she’d never hold her own baby in her arms. She’d never be a mother. Never have a family. She’d lost her only chance.

What was she doing wanting another man’s kiss? She buried her face in the pillows, hiding from him when the door opened again, and it was Hennessey’s gait rolling toward her. Hennessey’s touch to her back.

His comfort she did not acknowledge as the blizzard howled outside. Her heart cooled and her hopes froze until both were as glacial as the relentless north wind.

She’d let him kiss her. Dillon couldn’t think of anything else as he watched her sleep. As the hours ticked by and she lay on her stomach, her face turned toward the wall, buried in her pillows.

Just seeing the fall of her luxurious hair down the fragile column of her neck and the glimpse of creamy skin at the flannel collar of her borrowed nightgown made him weak. Like a blow to his knees. Like having the wind knocked right out of him.

She sure is special. How a man could have set her aside, he couldn’t figure. Couldn’t imagine it. She was beautiful and smart and kind. She had a heart of gold and an invisible halo crowning her head. He was sure of it, for when they kissed, the instant his lips had met hers, the desire he kept banked roared like an inferno feeding on kerosene.

What more could a man ask for?

There was no single woman on this earth as special as her. And she might be his. There was a good chance she would say yes when he proposed. Be at his side, as his wife and lover-

The thought of climbing into her bed nearly tore him to pieces. What would it be like to claim her completely? To loose the ties at her throat and pleasure her breasts and thrust deep inside her sweet woman’s body? To make her completely and everlastingly his?

The doc had said she would be strong enough to be up and around some tomorrow. In a week, maybe two, she’d be strong enough to buy a passenger ticket and leave him forever on the afternoon train. He had to work fast. He’d kissed her and she’d accepted it. She’d kissed him in return.

That meant he kept moving forward with his plan to make her fall in love with him. To show her the man he was, heart and soul. He might not be an educated, rich man, but he was decent and he’d love her better than any man could. If he showed her that, would it matter to her?

Or, if he gave her his heart, showed her his soul, would she leave anyway?

On the other hand, how did a man hold back when everything he ever wanted was right in front of him? So amazing and precious, he’d spend the rest of his days mourning her loss?

“Good morning.” Dillon’s thundering baritone boomed over the crackle of the brown-wrapped packages in his arms. He dropped at least a dozen of them on the foot of her bed.

Katelyn’s hand stilled, and her grip tightened around the wooden handle of the hairbrush. She simply stared. Eight days had passed and she was stronger. But she wasn’t ready for this. The way he stood so proudly over her and the steady, measuring way he studied her made her stomach ball into one huge knot. “What is this?”

“Necessities for you, ma’am. Mrs. Miller had a hand in that. She told the seamstress what you would be needing.” Bits of snow clung to his dark hair, turning to ice and then translucent as they melted.

One thing was for certain. She would not melt. She could not relent. “You are a thoughtful man. But it wouldn’t be right for me to accept gifts from you.”

“And why the hell not?” He quirked one brow, not angry but determined to know. “You need clothes, it’s that simple.”

“Then I can worry about procuring them.”