The Horseman

by Jillian Hart

  “Good morning,” he greeted her, because it was the best morning of his life. “How are you feeling? Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?”

  She glanced past him to study the room. “Where’s Mrs. Miller?”

  “Must have gone downstairs. What do you need? I’ll fetch it.”

  “I, uh, need Mrs. Miller.” She bit her bottom lip and stared at the colorful pattern on the quilt.

  “Why, I’d help you out-oh.” Realization hit him. “Sure, I’ll, uh, get the innkeeper. You wait right here.”

  Embarrassed, Dillon couldn’t look at her as he smacked the door shut behind him. Offering to help her-jeez.

  He found the innkeeper in the kitchen, stirring eggs over a red-hot stove. Breakfast for the few other guests. He convinced her to let him take over, he’d been taking care of himself for thirteen years and knew how to handle a fry pan. Katelyn needed her, and that was more important than cooking breakfast for strangers, anyhow. Mrs. Miller called him an impertinent fellow, which wasn’t the worst thing he’d been called in his life, and handed over the spatula.

  A man didn’t know how to cook, huh? He found a second pan, melted butter and set the grated potatoes to browning. Cooking over a stove was a luxury. How many nights had he fried up supper over a campfire?

  Too many. The open range of Texas under a sky clear and bright. Or high on a Colorado plateau. On the endless plains with the coyotes howling. It had been a lonely life.

  Maybe that loneliness was about to change.

  He’d do his damnedest to make sure of it.

  “Feeling better this morning, are you?” Mrs. Miller asked in her pleasant way as she left a cup of bracing tea on the edge of the small night table. “Goodness, you had that Mr. Hennessey worried. He stayed the whole night, as improper as that was. I couldn’t get him to budge.”

  “I know you stayed, too. Thank you.”

  “Doctor’s orders. And they are still in effect, missy. You lay back. The doc was most clear in his orders. You’ve been through a very serious thing. Lost a child myself I did. My first. It is a heartache to this day.” Sadness welled in the woman’s eyes. “Although it has been thirty years.”

  “I’m sorry.” Katelyn tamped down the wave of grief threatening to rise up and bury her.

  “I am, too. It’s hard to lay to rest that sorrow, but time has helped. You’ll have more children one day, as I did, and that will help fill the emptiness. It’s my guess your Mr. Hennessey would help you with that. A bachelor his age, he’s serious. He’s looking for a wife.”

  The pain left her reeling, and Katelyn struggled to dull that, too. The innkeeper had no way of knowing there would be no more children. No family to fill Katelyn’s emptiness. The future stretched out before her like a void.

  Alone.

  “A man that age, he’ll make a good husband. Mark my words.” Mrs. Miller swept through the room straightening pillows and knickknacks and folding a crocheted afghan. “He’s been around. Got all the temptation out of him. He’s done everything he’s wanted to do by this time, is my guess, and he’ll make a steady husband. I’ve seen it before. Trust me-you live long enough, you see the pattern of things. Your Mr. Hennessey is devoted to you. Are you hoping he’ll be offering you a ring soon?”

  “I’m hoping that I can get out of this bed in a few days.” She didn’t want to think about Hennessey. “I can’t pay what I owe you. I wish I could, but perhaps I can find work here. I’ll be good for the debt.”

  “Goodness, you fret too much.” Mrs. Miller halted by the bedside and patted Katelyn’s hand with maternal kindness. “You get well first and worry about that later, when you’re stronger. Besides, you’re not alone. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. When a man like your Mr. Hennessey courts you, he means it. He’s paying for your stay here. And the doctor, too, as I understand it.”

  He’s not my Mr. Hennessey, she wanted to say, annoyed and frustrated and irritable because she wasn’t feeling well. Instead, she inhaled deeply and started counting. By the time she hit fourteen, her temper began to wane.

  It was good, too, because there he was, striding through the doorway as if he owned the rights to her. Hennessey looked pleased with himself, confident and bold, and he dominated the room with his presence.

  She ought to hate him for it. For making her pulse surge and the memories return. His voice reading her to sleep. His touch of comfort against her face, and how she gave in to it, pressing her cheek into his warm palm. She was ashamed of how she’d needed him, and she knew it.

  She didn’t need him now.

  “I know the doc said broth and tea, but I figured you might be hungry.” Only then did she notice the plate he held, heaped with scrambled eggs with a melted topping of cheese, thick slices of crispy salt pork and golden-brown, butter-fried potatoes.

  Mrs. Miller’s hand flew to her throat. “Why, you can cook! I can’t believe my eyes. I thought I was in peril of scaring my guests away if I left you alone in that kitchen.”

  “I’m a man of my word.” He winked, making light of it, but his truth rang true and undeniable.

  Truth Katelyn didn’t dare believe in.

  “I left the plates in the warmer. I didn’t know what rooms have guests.”

  “I’d best go see to it, then.” Mrs. Miller scurried by, pausing to study the plate of food he held, shook her head in disbelief and, beaming happiness, bustled into the hall.

  “Am I right? Are you hungry?” He approached the bed, his plate an offering he held out to her.

  “What about you? Where’s yours?”

  “Don’t tell anyone. I sampled the food in the kitchen. Ate enough to get me by.” He drew up the hard-backed chair and eased his big frame into it. “I suppose you’re used to food prepared better than I can make it, but at least it’s hot and edible.”

  “It smells wonderful.” Her mouth was watering, and she supposed it couldn’t hurt to accept the food. She did need to regain her strength. “I didn’t know men could cook.”

  “I grew up in a house of six brothers and no mother. My father cooked until I was ten, and then I took over.” He grabbed an extra pillow and tucked it behind her when she sat up.

  He was so close she could feel his body’s heat, a strange radiation of warmth and man that curled through her. He smelled good, too, masculine and woodsy.

  “Is that comfortable?” His gaze met hers, a connection more jarring than if they’d touched.

  A connection that chased the air from her lungs and turned her mind into a muddled confusion. She managed to nod, since she couldn’t seem to find any words to speak with.

  “Good.” Satisfied, he whipped a tray from where it rested against the nightstand, stowed, she guessed, from last night’s tea. He set it on her lap to serve as a bed tray.

  “Your breakfast, ma’am. Cooked special just for you.”

  “What about the other guests?” she asked as he slid the plate in front of her. “Didn’t you cook for them at the same time?”

  “You’re confusing a courting man. I’ve heard, in some social circles, that isn’t polite behavior.” A slight flush crept across his high, proud cheekbones. “I expected more of you, Katelyn.”

  “A courting man? I thought you expected to own me outright. Just as my stepfather promised.” She set her chin, braced and ready.

  One dark brow shot up in a face that didn’t look cruel or angry. No, not Hennessey with his penetrating stare and his capable hands that could lure a wild stallion on a starlit night. His touch could lure her, too, as the weight of his palm settled on her shoulder, right in the curve of her neck. His thumb stroked a daring circle in the hollow of her throat.

  It was a possessive touch. She wanted to hate it. Wanted to tell him to leave her be. But it wasn’t only possessive.

  “This may be a free country, but it is a man’s country.” He looked about as understanding as steel. “Don’t worry. I’m not about to force you into marrying me. I’m not that kind of man. But it�
��s my hope you might consider it.”

  “Are you proposing to me again?”

  “No. I’m courting you. Proposing would put the cart before the horse. I’ve learned that never works well.”

  “But my stepfather’s offer-” She couldn’t say the words. She couldn’t admit that she was a woman no man would want. Besides, she didn’t have to say it. Everyone at the ranch knew her situation, surely the horseman did, too. Why was she even wondering? She didn’t want to be courted.

  “Willman’s offer was a cruel one. I helped you out of that house because the truth is, I’ve never seen such a fine woman as you. I’m not much, but remember I’ve got my own piece of the Montana prairie, I work hard and I’ll be better to you than any man in this country.”

  “You’d want to dominate me as you do those horses you break.” She wasn’t fooled, although the allure of his voice, the strength in him, hooked her like a fish in water, pulling her toward him when she wanted to escape.

  His thumb traced up the line of her throat. Caressed the curve of her chin. Mesmerizing. Brett had never touched her the way Hennessey did. As if he wanted to comfort her. And the pleasure of it…

  She squeezed her eyes shut, her entire being shut, against the need for it.

  “I don’t break horses.” He leaned close until his words were a whisper against her ear. “I show them they can trust me.”

  “Trust? I’ve seen how horses are broken to ride.”

  “You haven’t seen the way I’ve done it.” He knew she hadn’t watched him through the window, the way he’d watched her. Or she would know he did not wound a horse’s spirit. He did not use spurs. He did not use a whip.

  He used touch and language. Would it work on a woman? He was ignorant on such matters. Not one thing in his life had ever been as important as this moment. As this woman.

  “My father was a horseman.” Affection changed her, took down her defenses, and the tension vanished beneath his fingers.

  “Was he? The ranch was his, then.”

  “Long ago. I was six when he died. Just old enough to really remember him. To understand the void in my life when he passed.”

  “Was it an accident?” Plenty of men died breaking horses. It was common in his profession.

  “He fell ill in the spring and was gone by midsummer.” The sadness lingered.

  Dillon could feel it in her as if it were his own. She’d loved her father. And he knew how it must have gone. A widow alone with a ranch to run, land and horses worth a small fortune, and the ruthless banker who loved money more than anything. Yep, that pretty much explained the situation he’d witnessed on Katelyn’s family ranch. And the stepdaughter who’d been married off to improve the family’s standing.

  She hadn’t married because of love.

  That was important to know. Dillon kept that in the back of his mind. A woman wanted to be loved, no different than a man did. Wanted to find the missing piece of her heart.

  Just like he did.

  He traced the cup of his palm down the round of her shoulder and the length of her arm. Watching as she eased into his touch. It was a subtle thing, the way she moved into his caress like a cat wanting to be stroked. She didn’t appear to move at all. But he felt it, a slight lifting, or maybe it was a wish for affection.

  It was the first step in this perilous wish of his.

  “Eat up before the food gets cold.” He released her, breaking the contact but not the connection.

  She lifted her fork and took a tentative bite. After the taste of the cheesy eggs registered on her tongue, her eyes lit up. “It’s very good. Thank you.”

  Another step. Small but sure. Pleasure filled him to the brim. “You’re surely welcome.”

  Her shy smile was all the encouragement he needed. Casually, as if he had nothing to lose, he dragged a book from the shelf on the night table. A book he’d dug from the bottom of one of his saddlebags.

  “Do you like Dickens?” he asked.

  She shone a little brighter. “I love him.”

  More certain now, Dillon opened to the first page to the start of Pip’s adventure. It was a good thing he’d read the book more times than he could count, or he’d be stumbling over his tongue. How did a man concentrate on anything when his hands were damp and sweat was breaking out on his brow?

  This must be the reason why he’d never courted before. The worry of it was likely to kill a less hardy man.

  He read, while she ate, doing his best to concentrate on the story when she was right there in front of him, setting him on fire, making him feel as if his chest was wide open again and she could look right in and see everything he was.

  And everything he wasn’t.

  What would it take for her to want him? What would it take for a man like him to earn her love?

  He was about to find out.

  It’s my hope you might consider it, he’d said. Consider marrying him.

  She tried to put that thought out of her mind. Every time she looked at him, it returned. Over and over until she had to face it. Her stepfather had given her to Hennessey. And he was trying to court her in his fumbling, unskilled manner.

  While she knew the story nearly by heart, he was ruining Dickens’s narrative. Stumbling and losing his place and pretending he wasn’t.

  Brett had courted her with all the right words and all the right gifts. He’d been perfect and charming and in control, making her feel as if he could take care of anything.

  “Whew, I need a drink of water.” He cleared his throat and set the thick volume on the edge of the bed. “Can I get you something? Tea? Water?

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “Anything you want from the kitchen? Mrs. Miller has coffee. And apple juice, I think. I sure wouldn’t object to fetching you some.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?” He lifted the pitcher and poured. “The stores are opening up this time of day. I could run down the boardwalk and get you anything you want.”

  “You’re awfully helpful for a man.”

  “That might be because I’m trying to make a good impression.” He grinned at her over the rim of the glass. “Is it working?”

  “It depends on the impression you’re trying to make.”

  “Why, showing you the kind of husband I’d be to you.” He drank, swallowing all the water in the small glass without stopping. “Useful. Considerate. I hear the ability to fetch things is a good trait in a husband.”

  “No, that’s in a dog,” she teased.

  “Right.” He laughed at himself and put the glass down, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve been making myself look like a fool, have I?”

  She shrugged, unable to agree. He wasn’t a man practiced in courting, but he was sincere. He had taken care of her more in the short time she’d known him than her own mother had in her entire lifetime. Than had her husband, who’d sworn in a church before God and one hundred witnesses to love and cherish her always.

  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 appea
red 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.