Thatcher smiled at her, and Emma tried not to focus on his shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. “Come on over here and sit with me for a while,” he said, waving his hand towards the sitting rock.
He patted next to him as he sat, moving his hat to the ground and smiling encouragingly when she hesitated. Soon enough, Emma just couldn’t keep away, so she made her way over, tiptoeing through the grass, her wet stockings squishing with each step. The rock was barely big enough for the two of them to sit on, Thatcher’s strong body taking up most of the room. Their shoulders touched once again, and Emma’s tingled from the feel of it.
“Now,” the man started, “tell me ’bout your little incident in town today.”
Her mood threatened to darken, but she reminded herself of what had just transpired. She didn’t care what anyone was saying. She knew this man was enjoying the time he spent with her. Besides, he was the one who had sought her out! But could she reveal what those gossiping women had said?
“Go on, darlin’,” he said softly.
Emma took a deep breath and ventured forth. “I just…I just overheard some women talkin’ ’bout me, that’s all.”
“And what’s it that they were sayin’?” he prodded.
“Just some stuff ’bout me…They said some…rude things.” She looked to the river, keeping a grasp on the peace she’d felt before, unwilling to let it go.
Thatcher rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Did one of the women include Mrs. Tilman?”
Her attention returned to him, and he seemed frustrated. She prayed it wasn’t because of her. “Yes, Mrs. Tilman was one of them.”
Thatcher nodded. “And was she sayin’ anythin’ that had to do with me and you?”
Emma shifted her gaze down again, but he cupped her chin with his right hand, looking into her eyes until satisfied. “I see,” he said.
She waited for further explanation, but when his mouth didn’t open, Emma could only guess and worry over what he might be thinking. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I just…I’ve done nothin’… I’m sorry I’ve brought you into all these rumors.” She pulled away from his touch, ashamed.
“Sweet pea,” Thatcher said, his deep voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t want you to apologize for what you ain’t done. That woman is as bad as…” Emma looked up to him to see anger in his eyes, but he quickly blinked and smiled down at her again, all anger vanishing. “I’ve been hearin’ these rumors since I got here, so don’t you worry one minute on them. Alright?”
She was sickened at the thought of people gossiping about strangers, people they’d barely met, but his encouraging words made her heart feel lighter, so she nodded her head. He smiled at her and then looked to the ground as if searching for something.
Moments later, he bent over, plucked a purple wildflower from beside the rock, and moved to place it behind Emma’s ear. Her heart fluttered, and she fought the urge to cry at the tender act.
His touch was gentle, and she watched him smile as he examined the flower’s new place. “I want you to ignore Miss Tilman, too,” he said. “Flowers only enhance your pretty face.”
She blushed and was unsure of what to do or say, so she ducked her head, quietly whispering, “Thank you, Mr. Deakon.”
Thatcher immediately stood, grabbing her arms to pull her up and leading her back to the water. Looking at him in confusion, Emma said, “What’re you doin’?”
“We had a deal,” was all he said, and their feet hit water again.
She smiled when she finally understood. “Thatcher! I’m sorry, I forgot! Thatcher, I’m absolutely freezin’, Thatcher!”
He stopped pushing her backwards and smiled, his strong hands holding onto her arms. The water circled about their ankles, her heartbeat quickening as she saw him looking down at her with his deep brown eyes.
They stood there in silence for several moments, and Emma watched him with fear and wonder. His smile slowly faded, the crow’s feet around his eyes subsiding, as well. The wind blew a piece of her wet hair across her cheek and forehead, but she was in such a trance by his gaze that she couldn’t move to brush it away. She felt Thatcher’s own hand gently move the strand, slowly tucking it behind her ear.
He placed his hand back on her cheek, her breathing quickening as she saw his eyes move down to look at her mouth. She felt the sudden urge to swallow from the excess moisture forming in her mouth. She couldn’t breathe. What was he doing? What was she doing? Was he…?
The moment was slow, and Emma looked to his own parted lips. They were inches from her own, moist from the water, and shadowed by a dark and handsome scruff. Her eyes were closing by their own accord then, and her mouth, without any command from herself, slightly parted as she leaned her face into his callused fingertips.
He bent down and moved deliberately to the side, kissing the right corner of her mouth, and as his scruffy cheeks rubbed against her own soft flesh, she couldn’t help but whisper, “Thatcher.”
Emma instantly felt the change. Thatcher snapped upright and removed his hands from her face and arm, causing her head to spin with confusion. He turned abruptly away, grabbing his boots and hat as he muttered, “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”
He left without a single glance back to Emma, disappearing in the trees. She stood in a daze, the water swirling around her reddened toes. What had she done wrong? He had told her to say his first name, but had she been too forward? Truth be told, she couldn’t have really helped herself from saying it.
She stood there, listening to the horse hooves galloping away as she pulled the wildflower out from behind her ear, holding it gently in her palm as she wondered what she was supposed to do then.
***
Thatcher didn’t care that he was soaked, or that his under garments stuck uncomfortably to his backside as he rode back to James’s homestead and away from the river. He shouldn’t have done what he did. First making her as wet as he was, then holding her so close. Especially not going to…to kiss her. Now it would be even harder to stay away from the beautiful woman. He had done so well since he had met her, even as they moved to being good friends. He had managed to keep his distance, but all his efforts had been ruined.
He shouldn’t have faltered, no matter how darn cute she was, how long and free her hair flew, how tightly her skirts clung to her calves from the water. He couldn’t afford to do it again.
He dismounted Sweet Tooth, walking beside him once he’d decided that the wet feeling beneath him was too much to handle. He didn’t mind that it would take him twice as long to get home. Besides, it’d give him time to air out in case James, or worse, Seth, asked why he’d decided to bathe with his clothes on.
He stroked his horse’s strong, black neck as he thought of how Emma had come alive when she’d splashed water on him. Something had been ignited in her, and he couldn’t help but smile, looking forward to the coming night when, hopefully, he would get to see the secret fire blazing again in her beautiful, blue eyes.
Chapter Five
It had been a week since the incident with Thatcher, and Emma had yet to speak with him alone again. She had seen him once that night for supper and once more in town as he’d gathered more supplies for the growing house a day or two afterwards, but not since then. She knew she had done something wrong. She just didn’t know what. Perhaps he was just upset that he had moved to kiss her, or that she was obviously willing to reciprocate the affection. Maybe she had been too forward, and he now thought less of her because she had actually wanted to kiss.
Whatever the reason for his sudden departure, Emma’s mind was in turmoil because of it. She couldn’t seem to focus on anything, confusion and doubt being her regular companions. She tried to keep busy, sweeping the floors twice or more daily, taking over supper days for the increasingly tired Eliza, patching up curtains and bedspreads, but none of it helped. She always found herself lost in her thoughts. She hadn’t slept peacefully in days either, distracted by the constant tingling sensation near the right si
de of her mouth.
So, for seven long days, Emma had decided to stay safe in her home, not having the courage to go out and confront the gossipers of town. However, being locked up with no social interaction didn’t help her worries settle either.
“Come on, Em,” Eliza said one day. “You’ve got to get yourself out of here. You’re goin’ to drive yourself crazy. Or me, for that matter.”
Emma smiled at her sister-in-law but continued to wash the already clean walls. “I know I ought to go out, but I just don’t feel the need. Besides, I’ve got far too much work to do ’round here to just leave it.”
With her hands on her hips, Eliza said, “That is the third time you’ve washed walls this week. I think they’re clean enough.”
Emma sighed. She knew Eliza was simply trying to help, but she was fine. And the walls were still dirty…really. “I’m okay, Liza.”
“I don’t think so.” Eliza followed Emma to the other side of the wall, and Emma scrubbed vigorously, trying not to feel unnerved under her gaze. “Now, James’s house is comin’ along nicely, and Seth’ll be home tonight for supper, so I’m goin’ to make it for him. You go out and take yourself a little ride on Spitfire, and it’ll be ready when you get back. She probably needs just the same amount of fresh air as you right now.”
Emma rolled her eyes and continued, but Eliza pushed her big belly in her face, saying, “Uh-uh. You leave right now, Emma Marchant.”
It was Eliza’s no-nonsense tone, and Emma knew better than to simply ignore it. Maybe she was right. No. She was absolutely right. She had been neglecting Spitfire as of late, and perhaps a ride would do her some good. She prayed it would. “Fine,” she sighed, standing up from kneeling.
Grabbing her shawl, riding boots, and bonnet, Emma prayed to not encounter anyone, especially not a certain mother and daughter.
She opened the front door to find Spitfire already tacked up and tied to the hitching post in front of the Inn. Eliza was smiling as Emma looked back to her. “I took the liberty of havin’ Papa saddle her,” she said.
Emma laughed and shook her head as she walked out the door. “Thanks, Eliza,” she said with a wave.
The boardwalk creaked, her boots thudding against the old wood as she moved towards the dusty road. She mounted the horse and, keeping her head down to avoid the looks of anyone and everyone, urged Spitfire to go south of the inn, the closest escape from town.
Instantly, Emma felt at ease. The smooth gait of the horse calmed her mind, and she could finally breathe again, wishing she would’ve done it sooner.
As soon as she passed the inn and Reilly’s Livery, Emma was out of town. She rode for a few minutes in silence, reveling in the smell of her horse’s hair and the feel of the wind caressing her skin.
Everything in the world felt right for Emma as she sat atop her horse, but when the desire to smile finally came, she felt Spitfire flinch, becoming tense beneath her, and she knew instantly that something was wrong.
She peered over the horse’s neck to the dirt road, searching for the cause of Spitfire’s distress, when her eye caught the glimpse of a yellow, camouflaged snake positioned right in front of them. The horse began to prance, backing up and breathing heavily, her nostrils flaring with apprehension.
“Calm down, girl,” Emma said, pulling back on the reins to direct the horse elsewhere. “Easy, Spitfire.”
But it was too late. The horse’s fear overcame her, and she reared up on her hind legs as the snake approached the horse and rider. Emma tried to hold on, but as the second rear came, she felt her weightless body falling through the air. The ground came up to meet her back, and the air was rushed out of her lungs. The sun above her faded to darkness, and all around her was still as she blacked out, only to come around seconds later to the gnawing pain of dirt and rocks grinding into her neck, elbows, and back. Dazed, Emma tried to make sense of what was going on, but her mind refused to focus.
She felt her ankle throbbing, the pulse inside it quick and strong, and fear was the only thought left. Her foot was caught in the stirrup. And Spitfire was at a dead run.
She tried to protect her head from the rocks beneath her, tried to shelter herself in any way she could, but her bonnet had long since been ripped away, her strength entirely depleted. She felt like her leg was being pulled in two, the pain so excruciating that she prayed to faint again, hoping that some relief would come. She tried to scream out, call for help, but no sound would come forth from her dust-coated throat. There was nothing she could do.
Her mind created visions of her mangled body, fear constricting her breathing further. She panicked as she thought of dying, of feeling more pain, of not seeing Eliza or Seth ever again. Most of all, her thoughts turned to Thatcher, knowing that he would never know how she truly felt.
In her worries and pain, moving in and out of consciousness, Emma could hear his voice calling her name, telling her to hold on, that he was coming. But it was only her imagination, the stinging in her head, not her Thatcher. And with that final thought, Emma passed into oblivion, the darkness an inviting escape free of pain.
***
Thatcher’s heart raced furiously as he spurred his horse faster and faster. “Emma!” he shouted again. “Hold on! Hold on, darlin’!”
Seconds felt like hours until Thatcher was able to race around the dragging, lifeless body of Emma, moving to the side of the wild mare and leaning down to grab the reins dancing around the horse’s feet. As soon as he gripped the leather with his left hand, he straightened and pulled back firmly on Emma’s horse and his own, yelling, “Whoa, girl!”
Hooves slid against the small dusty road, and the second the horses stopped, Thatcher leapt to the ground, still pulling firmly at Spitfire to remain still, but releasing his own.
The horse continued to prance, jerking Emma’s flimsy head right and left, and when she threatened to rear again, Thatcher yanked the reins firmly down, having no other thought except to free Emma. The horse pawed at the ground and snorted nervously, but Thatcher moved around her thrashing head, holding tight until he could reach Emma and gently remove her delicate foot from the boot he left dangling in the stirrup.
As soon as Emma was free, Thatcher released the reins and let the horse carry on with her rampage, racing off in the opposite direction of town.
Not a second thought was occupied with worry over the horse as Thatcher dropped to the ground beside his delicate, bruised Emma. He checked her pulse and then moved on to see if there were any visible signs of broken bones, grateful when the only swelling he could see was in her ankle. “Stay with me, sugar. Stay with me,” he whispered as he lifted her gently, her lifeless body feeling like a rag doll in his arms.
A small group of men and women from town that had seen the ordeal came running, shock spread across each of their faces.
“Fetch the doctor, quick!” a man yelled as soon as he saw the state Emma was in.
“Tell him to go to the Inn!” Thatcher shouted after the woman who had responded immediately.
A few men road off to gather the horses, but Thatcher couldn’t take his eyes off of Emma. Her beautiful face had yellow and green bruises already forming across her chin, cheeks, and forehead. Blood from a gash in the side of her head was streaming through her hair, matting into cakes of red mud from the dust. His heart pounded, and he quickened his step.
Seconds later, Thatcher reached the inn, barging in and shouting into the empty front room. “Eliza? Eliza!”
He didn’t wait for a response as he made his way through the house, turning down the right hall and going to the last room that he knew to be Emma’s. He laid her gently on the bed, her blood-stained hair already tainting the white feather pillow. Thatcher heard footsteps coming down the hallway and then Eliza’s gasp behind him. Still, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. “Come on, darlin’,” he spoke softly, his voice breaking, “stay with me.”
He eyed the gash on her head and prayed the doctor would be there soon. He’d stitch the
wound up right then and there if he knew his cowboy hands wouldn’t do a poor job and pain her further.
Eliza raced from the room, but Thatcher couldn’t leave Emma. He scanned her body, her skirts shredded so badly he could see the holey stockings beneath them. His stomach churned as he saw her small calves sliced and covered with small, sharp rocks under her stockings. Her arms looked no better, and her ankle swelled more, turning a shade of deep purple. The thing that scared him most of all, however, was the blood that continued to pour forth from the wound on her head.
With rags, a pitcher, and a basin filled with water, Eliza entered the room again, moving as quickly as possible with her swelling stomach. “Here,” she said, thrusting wet rags into Thatcher’s trembling hands. “Wipe as many rocks away as you can from her body. We need to make this as clean as possible for Doc Symes.”
Thatcher blinked tears away from his already moist eyes. “Look at her head,” he whispered, emotion catching in his throat as he held the rag Eliza had thrust into his hand. He attempted to wipe away the dirt and blood from her arms. How could this have happened to her, to his Emma?
Eliza moved a piece of Emma’s hair back and gasped, seeing the depth of the cut for the first time. She exchanged glances with Thatcher but spoke calmly. “Don’t worry. She’ll be alright.”
He found it hard to believe her shaking voice but nodded anyway as he watched her press her rag firmly against Emma’s head, holding it in place. Anger filled his heart. He should’ve been able to stop that horse sooner.
Shortly, the bell above the door to the inn rang as it was opened, announcing the arrival of the doctor. Eliza rushed to usher him in while Thatcher took over and held the rag against Emma’s wound. Her blood seeped onto his fingers, and his stomach churned, knowing it was hers. Thatcher silently prayed his beautiful Emma would stay asleep so she wouldn’t be aware of the pain she was feeling.
A Secret Fire (Western Historical Romance) Page 8
