by Jillian Hart
“Supper.” He burst through the threshold, stirring the serenity of the room, making every hair on her arms and the back of her neck stand up and tingle.
He carried a large wicker basket that he set on the table with a thud. Wonderful fragrances lifted from it when he opened the lid-roast beef and gravy and roasted garlic and fresh-baked bread. “I paid one of the neighbor ladies to cook up a feast for us, since I figured with the ceremony and whatnot I wouldn’t have time to cook for you.”
“I thought I was supposed to cook. I was going to try and figure out what I could make.”
“Not on our wedding night, darlin’. You sit there and rest. Want more tea?”
“I do.” She watched in amazement as he filled her cup with a steady hand.
Twilight crept into the room, and he lit the lantern on the table before he sat down to dish up the meal. As the evening passed, all she did was worry about the coming night. She couldn’t concentrate on her reading while Dillon read across from her in the parlor, his newspaper crinkling as he turned the page.
When the regulator clock on the kitchen wall gently bonged eight times, Katelyn closed her book, said good-night and headed up the flight of stairs and into the dark second story.
Moonlight spilling through an open window led her to the bedroom. A carved four-poster bed dominated the inside wall. There were two plump goose-down pillows at the head of the bed. She sat down on the feather tick and sank just right. The soft down felt like paradise.
Was that a footstep on the stairs? She listened, heart thumping. Yes, it was Dillon. Coming closer. Step by step. Slow and deliberate.
Dillon will keep his word. She was sure of it.
But a ripple of uncertainty launched her from the bed. She waited, her palms damp and her pulse thudding in her ears.
“Have you found what you need?” He pushed into the room as if he belonged here. “There are clean sheets on the bed. A couple of quilts in the trunk at the foot of the bed, if you get cold. I put your satchel in the wardrobe over here.”
Did he realize he was blocking the doorway? Probably not. It was making her nervous, but she wasn’t in any danger. Stay calm. “I believe I have everything I could want.”
“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.
Chapter Thirteen
T here. 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.
As if she felt it, too, she rose, somehow taller against him. The tension holding her so tight eased, and there was less wariness in her eyes when he stepped away.
“Guess we’d best get started with the bacon.” He kept his voice steady, calm. To let her know everything was just fine. “I see you found my favorite fry pan. It goes everywhere I go. I’ve cooked a lot of good meals in that pan. And a whole lot of bad ones.”
She quirked one brow at him and didn’t say a thing.
In truth, his favorite pan wasn’t the best topic of conversation. He was no parlor-room conversationalist. On a sigh, he wrestled the bacon from the thick paper and took a knife to it. Cutting through the meat gave him something to do so he wouldn’t have to say anything to embarrass himself further.
Just think before you speak, man.
“What about the stallion?” She shouldered close and peeled a thick slice of meat from the cutting board. “Something bad happened to him and you didn’t want to tell me. Or you forgot about him.”
“If that’s the kind of horseman you think I am, then I’ve got to change your opinion.” His chest tightened, and he put down the knife. “I haven’t said anything because I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“A good surprise?”
He felt her hope, tentative and fragile like a young seedling in a March rain, easily drowned. He chose his words with care. “The one thing you need to learn, beautiful, is that the only surprises in this house will be good ones.”
She smiled, that tentative hope strengthening, and he felt as tall as the sky.
Katelyn peered over the top of her book through the front window to see if she could spot Dillon riding in from the far fields. After making most of the break-fast-she paid careful note so she would know how to do all the cooking tomorrow morning-Dillon had banished her to the couch for the rest of the day.
Not cruelly or by barking orders as Brett would have done. No, the horseman had used his kindness to his advantage. He’d simply taken her hand in his, told her how good it was to see his ring there, kissed the palm of her hand and asked her to do something for him. To lie down and rest, because he worried about her.
How was she so lucky? That night when she’d watched Dillon for the first time trying to lure the wild stallion closer, how could she have known she would end up here in his house as his wife? That he would be the one? The man she didn’t believe existed because he was too good to be true.
She still thought that when he rode into sight through the fallow meadow, sitting straight and proud and mythical on a white spotted horse. He used no saddle or bridle, not even a lead rope snapped to a halter. The proud Appaloosa and rider moved as one being, one entity, cantering across the plains.
If she squinted, blurring the modern clothing of Levi’s and his heavy winter jacket and imagined away the Stetson covering his dark locks, he could have been a native warrior on his Indian pony, hunting the plains for his tribe. Or on a spirit quest. He was regal and noble to the very core.
Something she had never seen in any man before.
She put aside her book and folded the wool blanket he’d covered her with. The one he’d slept beneath last night, she knew, because it smelled faintly of winter wind and leather and him.
“Did you take a nap?” Dillon asked the instant he walked through the door.
“I rested.” She swung her feet off the couch and he was there, his hand taking hers to help her stand. “You’re spoiling me.”
“Good. You may as well get used to it. This is forever, just like I vowed.” His kiss feathered across her brow.
Making her quiver deep down. He almost made her believe as he led her to the door, grabbed her coat and escorted her into the stunning day.
The wind was cool and smelled of snow, although the clouds were moving high and fast. The wind ruffled her coat hem and chilled her face as Dillon tucked her hand into his and led her down the steps and along the fence where a dozen horses gathered. Not mustangs and cayuses, but fine-blooded animals.
“Where did you get these animals?” Katelyn rubbed the nose of a big black Arabian who nudged her mitten.
“Got them in
trade, mostly, whenever someone couldn’t find the cash to pay me for my work.” He reached into his pocket. “Hold out your hand flat.”
She did, and he dropped a broken length from a peppermint stick onto her palm. Before she could blink, the black mare lipped the treat from her hand. The others crowded around.
“In trade?” She accepted a piece of candy for each hand and held them out to two of the other mares. “You sometimes choose the horses instead of the ranch owner’s daughter?”
“There was only one woman I ever wanted bad enough that I’d try to talk to her. And that’s you.”
“Try to talk to? What does that mean? You used smoke signals? Wrote notes on a slate?”
“I’m thirty years old and until yesterday, I was a confirmed, lifelong bachelor. And the reasons why? Because I’m too shy to get up my courage to talk to a woman. Courting is one daunting experience. I don’t see how most men live long enough to stand before the altar.”
“You’ve never courted anyone?”
“Just you.” Over the velvet nose of the sorrel mare, Dillon blushed. A slow heat crept up his face from his chin to his hairline.
How did he do that? Make her feel special to him with two simple words?
“This one here, the little gray mare, she’s a delicate thing. See how she stands off? She’s never sure about strangers. I was riding through Omaha of all places, just passing through on my way south to Tucson, and the street was jammed. People riding up onto the boardwalk just to get around. Tempers flaring. It was summer and hot as Hades.
“When I got up to where the problem was, there she was, on her knees with her sister-that mare right there, the white-and this teamster was whipping her. She couldn’t get up. He’d ruined her. Pushed her too far. She couldn’t move and no amount of fear or pain would get her to.”
“You saved her?”
“I gave him everything I had on me for the two of them, unhitched her. I stayed with her until she could move. Brought her water and food. Convinced her there was a reason for living. A nice cool meadow right here where she’d never feel the sting of a whip again.”
