Jillian Hart - The Horseman

“Good. Glad to hear it.” He looked bashful as he focused on the bed. “The necessary room is through the door.”

“I figured it was.”

“Is there anything I can get you? Tooth powder? More water? How about I fetch some wash water for you?”

“Don’t go to the trouble.”

“It’s no trouble. Do you need fresh towels? I could get you some.” For all his eagerness, he was about as soft looking as the Rocky Mountain range. He was still blocking the door.

“I have everything I need. Good night, Dillon.” Would he leave? A keen, slow quiver rocked through her. The bed stood between them. What would Dillon do next?

“Sleep well, my wife. Call me if you need anything. Agreed?”

She nodded, angry with herself because she was so afraid. Because she expected the worst of him. It was because she’d seen some of the worst a civilized man had to offer. She wrapped her arms around her middle and breathed.

Simply breathed. She doubted Dillon even knew how he’d frightened her. What had he ever done to deserve her suspicion? He’d helped her, paid for her hotel and a doctor, taken care of her the way no one had since she was a very small child. And what had she expected of him?

I’ll try harder, she vowed. The wounds in her heart couldn’t remain forever, could they?

She brushed her teeth and washed her face. She changed into the nightgown Dillon had given her. A soft blue flannel dotted with sunny-faced daisies, and it was so comfortable she knew she’d sleep well wearing it.

She read another thirty or so minutes, in the light of a small battered lantern that looked as if it used to be brass. She listened to Dillon moving downstairs. To add wood to the fire. To fetch a cup of tea.

Hours passed while he read downstairs and she lay in the dark upstairs in his bed.

When the clock struck ten times, she heard the clang of a fireplace poker as Dillon banked the coals for the night. She listened to his slow gait echo faintly through the house as he walked from the parlor to the kitchen rattling the doorknob to check that it was locked.

The faint light creeping up the stairs from below was extinguished, leaving her in complete darkness.

Alone.

There was a faint rustling downstairs, as if Dillon shifted on the sofa, and there was only silence.

She finally slept, alone in her marriage bed. Her first night spent as the horseman’s bride. Safe, as he’d promised.

There. That was one thing done right. The oven door clattered as loud as a gunshot in the silent predawn kitchen. Katelyn straightened, brushed the bark from the wood she’d carried in off her sleeves, and caught sight of Dillon through the window.

Talking to his horses. Simply from watching him, her senses stilled until the rugged mountains behind him and the wild meadows around him faded into nothing. Until there was only Dillon, his Stetson sitting high on his head, his movements easy as he approached a half-dozen horses. Hands out in a show of friendship.

She could feel his voice as if it whispered inside her, rumbling and magical and sure. She watched as dawn broke around him. The shadows ebbed as first light flowed into the world and the man was no longer a shadow as the horses gathered close to nip treats from his hand.

Dawn’s brightness slanted into her windows, spearing the first shafts of golden light over the edge of the table and onto her. Emotion quickened in her chest and, like the day’s first light, glowed graciously, quietly. Changing everything.

Why do I want him so much? Her whole being ached for him. She couldn’t explain it. She’d never felt this way before about any man. She’d slept deep and sound last night, better than she could ever remember sleeping. Because of him.

The man bathed in the morning light blessed each horse with his touch, then climbed through the wooden planks of the fence and hefted the two ten-gallon buckets he carried. She watched until the draw of the prairie stole him away.

Maybe she ought to try to stop mooning after him and get to work. She chose a big fry pan from the variety hung on hooks in the back of a cupboard. A battered one, with a thin coat of oil to keep the metal from rusting, and a wooden handle worn smooth and cracked on one side from heavy use. Dillon’s favorite pan?

There she was, thinking of him again. Looking forward to his sure, quiet presence in the kitchen.

How did Effie do this? Katelyn had spent half her childhood in the kitchen seeking shelter from her stepfather’s disapproval. She’d even helped now and then. But helping wasn’t bearing the responsibility for the entire meal. What did Effie do? The bacon first? Yes, that’s right. Now, where does Dillon keep the bacon?

There were no doors that led to a well-stocked food pantry. Finally she spotted a ring in the floor near the far wall. She pulled and a section of the floor lifted up to reveal wooden steps descending into darkness. Hmm. A food cellar?

Yes. The shelves were bare except for a few dust-covered jars of jam and a stack of recent supplies stacked in no particular order on the closest shelf to the ladder. Katelyn found a wrapped package of what had to be bacon, a basket of fresh eggs and a brick of good cheddar cheese. A sack of potatoes was piled in the corner so she took several of those as well.

It was awkward climbing up into the kitchen with her arms full, but it was kind of fun, too. To think she was going to prepare Dillon’s breakfast. She wanted to do her best, even though she had no cooking experience. She imagined a perfect breakfast, with eggs sunny-side up and crisp fried bacon, a wonderful meal for the good man she’d married.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Katelyn gasped. The potatoes were the first to go, rolling out of her hand to thud to the floor. The cheese slid off her arm and then the bacon. Adrenaline speared through her, swift and sharp.

“I couldn’t find you, I started to panic.”

Concern. Not anger. Katelyn tried to calm down, tried to stop the shaking that rattled through her like an autumn wind.

Dillon’s grin was sheepish as he knelt to catch a rolling potato. “I thought you may have changed your mind and taken off on me.”

“Did you honestly think that?”

“Yep.” His hand shook as he reached for another potato. “I figured you’d gotten an eyeful of how it was going to be living with me and gone back to your family.”

“You are my family now.”

“Yeah?” He rose, dropped the food on the counter. “I suppose I am, being your husband.”

Not a sophisticated answer, but it was the best he could do considering his state of mind. The panic of not finding her in the house was giving way to a tight knot in his chest. He wanted to grab her close and hold on to her forever.

But she was staring at him with those wide angel’s eyes of hers, and her unspoken fear tore at him.

No, he was never going to hurt her. But he had to show her that. Trust was something a man earned.

“What were you doing down in that pantry?” Dillon gentled his voice, spoke with the same cadence he used with the horses. “I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy. Doctor’s orders. Or am I wrong?”

“No, you’re right. But I thought-I just wanted to do something for you. After all you’ve done for me. This dress, for instance.”

She brushed at the delicate white-and-pink calico he’d picked from a shelf at the seamstress’s shop. Satisfaction filled him. It did look fine on her. Made the little color she had in her cheeks rosier. The fabric hugged her just right, too, over the curve of her fine breasts to the dip of her waist.

Why, it made a man want to run his hands along the shape of her, peel off that dress and…

His blood turned so hot he was ready to melt. One day soon. He’d wait until she was ready.

She was that precious to him.

“I’d like to do something for you, even if it is breakfast.”

She shyly pushed a lock of gold behind her ear, escaped from the braid that trailed down her back. The diamond and gold sparkled on her finger, bright and new.

His ring. He loved that. He did. She was his now, his to take care of. She gazed up at him, watching him carefully.

She didn’t know how he was going to react next, he figured. Like the horses he came across who had good reason not to trust one more man. A wounded heart was a wounded heart, and he knew just what to do. How he was going to treat her, his wife.

His wife. That filled him up. Slow and easy, so she could see there was nothing to worry about, he set the potatoes on the table and approached her. She stiffened a little. It was best to start talking, let her hear in his voice how he meant to treat her. “I figure we can fix breakfast together. What do you say?”

“Together?” She took a little intake of breath as he leaned close. “All right.”

“Good. It’s settled then. And if you get tired, why, all you have to do is sit down and I’ll take over. Agreed?”

She nodded, wary as he lifted the packages out of her arms. He was close enough to tilt his head and he’d be able to brush a kiss against her temple, to breathe in the female and flowery fragrance of her hair.

He waited, wanting to kiss her more than anything, to brush his lips over hers. To fit her body against his, to show her there wasn’t one thing she ought to be afraid of. Because he was going to love her good and hard and completely…

Her mouth parted, as if she wanted it, too. He could see her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. He’d scared her and that fear lingered. He pressed his forehead to hers, not a kiss, but a connection. He swore that he could feel love rise up from his chest and pour into her.