by Jillian Hart
“Sleep well, my wife.” He touched his forehead to hers. Tender love flowed from him, a powerful, unseen current that touched her deep inside.
He drew the covers to her chin, turned down the lamp and as the flame died on the wick, the last image on his face remained. Like a bronzed statue of a man as tough as the earth, as loyal as the sun, and as tender as morning. His love was a steady glow that did not fade in the dark as he closed the door behind him. His step faded in the stairwell and was no more.
Alone, in the darkness and silence, she was comforted. Loved. Her body achingly alive, thrummed with want for only one exceptional man.
How could she be so fortunate? What could she ever have done to deserve Dillon? The darkness gave no answer. Nor did the night as she crawled out of bed and sat by the window. Snow fell like shining crystal in the faint light of a dwindling moon. Storm clouds battled and won, hiding the moon, leaving only snow and wind and midnight bleakness.
She remembered all the nights she’d sat alone at the window, as a judge’s wife, full of hope as the babe within her grew. And later, at her stepfather’s ranch, watching the night and feeling as if she’d been the one to die. And now this, this strange awakening to love and happiness.
When she had given up all hope, when she had lost everything that mattered, fate had smiled on her. Why had she been given the chance to love this incredible man? How rare, to have any man love her, a barren woman, who could never birth a son. And rarer still to have a man so exceptional to love and hold close for the rest of her days.
It was too good to be true. Far too good. Would this happiness with Dillon last? Could it grow into a lifelong gift?
How could she be that lucky? Afraid to hold on, and afraid not to, she watched the snow fall and the storm end and slept only when the promise of dawn came to the plains.
Was that Dillon? Katelyn heard the clop of steel horseshoes echoing faintly, muffled by the thick log walls, and put aside her knitting. She’d missed him. His presence, his lopsided, bashful grin and the ring of his gait through the house.
She was halfway to the door when she saw the bay mare and the woman holding the reins beneath the shelter of a fringed surrey. A neighbor, maybe? Or someone Dillon had sent from town? He’d mentioned hiring the laundry out.
But the woman who stepped down from the expensive surrey didn’t look like a laundry woman. She was dressed in a simple calico, but there was a noble air about her, not arrogant, but good.
The woman’s smile was direct and friendly the moment their gazes met. “Hello, Mrs. Hennessey.”
Goodness, that was the first time she’d been called by her new married name and it felt right, like a key into the lock it was made to turn. She was now Katelyn Hennessey, the horseman’s wife.
The slim, light-haired woman lifted a large basket off the floorboards, where it had been safe from wind and cold and in danger of sliding out of the vehicle.
There was something about that basket. There was a glimpse of blue flannel as she hefted it carefully into her arms. “I’m Mariah Gray. I live on the neighboring ranch. Our husbands are friends. I was the one who brought the supper basket by the other night. Congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you. Please, come in.” The wind was cold, but the fire snapped merrily in the stone hearth, and Katelyn felt proud of this home, finely made but not fancy. “I’m-”
A small whimper sounded from inside the basket. Mrs. Gray eased back the flannel and looked lovingly down at the small round face cradled there, puckering up in preparation of a good hard cry.
The baby was so small it couldn’t be more than a month old. Maybe two. A beautiful blue-eyed little boy who raised his fists swathed in flannel to keep them warm and cried again.
“This is Jeremy, who apparently is unhappy that I didn’t introduce him first.” Mrs. Gray gave an apologetic shrug before she rocked the basket gently to settle the infant.
“Riding in the surrey usually puts him right to sleep, and he stays that way, but no, not today when I was hoping he’d sleep for a good long spell, so I could get to know you.” The woman’s good-natured words were filled with love for her child.
Katelyn held the door wide, holding her emotions very still, sternly keeping all memories locked away. “Please, come in where it’s warm. I’m so glad you came. I wanted to thank you for the delicious meal you made for us. And the chocolate cake was the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Why, thank you, I’d be happy to share the recipe.”
“Would you like to stay? I’ll make tea.”
“I’d like that.”
Katelyn hung her visitor’s wraps by the mantel to warm them and then led the way to the kitchen, where the teakettle gave a low-noted whistle while it simmered.
Don’t look at the baby. She kept busy finding the ironware teapot, plain but serviceable, and measuring out just the right amount of tea. She ignored the sounds of the cooing baby, happy now that he was the center of attention.
Mariah Gray had set the sturdy basket next to the table, a safe distance from the stove. She unwrapped the baby’s blankets and peeled the mittens from his tiny hands, chatting sweetly to him while she worked.
As Katelyn carried the sugar and creamer to the table, she caught sight of two tiny fists waving in the air. So tiny.
Do not think of it. She refused to think about the baby she’d buried. The little girl she had never held and never murmured loving words to.
The sugar bowl tumbled from her fingers, falling onto the table. The lid toppled and the jar rolled and brown sugar avalanched everywhere.
“I do that at least once a day,” Mariah confessed as she folded her baby’s things. “Something is always spilling.”
It was a kind attempt to make her feel less awkward, but it wasn’t shyness that troubled her. It was that baby, so small and helpless. So precious. Pain sliced through her like an ax stroke to her soul. Did Mariah know how lucky she was?
Katelyn swept up the fallen sugar, wiped down the table and set out spoons, cups and saucers. By the time she’d filled the teapot, Mariah had taken a chair by the window and was rocking the baby’s basket with her foot. A soothing, gentle rhythm that had the little one quieting. Those tiny fists stilled. His perfect, button face relaxed. Dark curly lashes fluttered shut.
“He’s so sweet,” she managed to say past the emotion wadded unwanted and unspent in her throat.
“Thank you. I never thought I would have a baby of my own. I married later than most women do. He is a blessing.” A true mother’s love gleamed in her eyes.
Katelyn had to stare hard at her empty cup. Empty, like she was. There would be no baby for her.
That Dillon could love her, a barren woman, gave her strength. It was the reason she could pour the steeped tea without spilling. The reason she could leave the memory of her daughter in a closed-off room inside her and keep the door tightly shut.
She had Dillon, a good man who loved her. The thought of his touch eased some of the tightness in her throat, some of the pain from her chest so she could breathe.
“Do you sew?” Mariah asked as she reached for the sugar bowl. “I’d like to ask you to my house this Friday noon for our weekly sewing circle. There are three of us who meet, and we would surely like for you to join us. So we can get to know you.”
“I’ve never belonged to a sewing circle before, but I’d love to come.” This was a chance to settle in and make friends with Dillon’s neighbors, and now hers. “What should I bring?”
“Just yourself and your sewing basket. The girls will be so pleased to meet you.” The baby squalled again in mild protest. “Oh, and Jeremy would like to see you again, too. He likes to be the center of attention.”
Mariah lifted the infant from his snug nest and into her arms. The little guy waved his fists and rubbed his face.
She would not remember another little baby. Another little round face.
“Would you like to hold him?”
Katelyn shook her head at her new friend’s kind offer. She poured too much milk into her tea before she set the creamer aside. “No, thank you. He looks content where he is. He’s starting to fall asleep.”
“He’s a good baby. Tell me about you. What part of Montana are you from? All Dillon would say was that he fell in love with you at first sight and he married you before you could change your mind.”
Katelyn struggled to understand Mariah’s words. Her gaze would not lift from the baby. From the tiny rosebud lips and the dimple in the middle of his cute little chin-
Don’t think of her. Katelyn locked the door to that part of her heart and turned the key. She would not remember. Or she would shatter into a million irretrievable pieces.
“Afternoon, Mariah.” Dillon shrank the kitchen with his presence as he lowered a crate to the work-table, the wooden box overflowing with staples for the kitchen. A molasses tin and tea and a small bag of white sugar were a few of the items she recognized.
Dillon swept off his Stetson and dropped it onto the worktable, too. “What did you bring with you today, ma’am? Someone downright precious, I’d say.”
“That he is.”
“Howdy there, little fella.” Dillon lifted the tiny babe with his big, strong arms and cradled him in one arm, safe against his chest. With experience and confidence, the way he did everything. A mighty man stronger for his gentleness.
He’d make a good father. Katelyn ached with sorrow as she watched him. Ached for what could never be.
Dillon’s gaze met hers with longing. With sheer, unveiled desire. Yes, he wanted to be a father. Very much. He didn’t bother to hide his desire from her. What man didn’t want a son in his image?
And Dillon, it was obvious as the smile on his face and the shine of want in his eyes. He wanted a baby boy of his own to hold and love and dream over.
And yet he’d chosen her and courted her and married her. Why? Did that mean as much as he wanted a child that he wanted her more?
“Well, little man, it’s been good seeing you. You come by any time to visit and bring your ma with you. Mariah, thank you kindly for coming by.” He laid the infant in Mariah’s welcoming arms, pressed a tender kiss to Katelyn’s brow and grabbed his hat on the way to the door.
“He sure is in love with you.” Mariah’s eyes sparkled. “My, what a lucky woman you are. It is everything, isn’t it, to be loved wholly and true, and to have the chance to love the same way in return. To love more than you ever thought possible.”
Katelyn nodded, overwhelmed. The door to that small room of her heart was breaking, as if a tornado were hammering at it, splintering it grain by grain, sliver by sliver. “I am very fortunate.”
“Yes, to love someone so completely you would give your life for them.” She pressed a kiss to her son’s brow. “Look at what can come from that kind of love.”
Not for Dillon and me. Katelyn couldn’t help it. As Mariah’s visit concluded, when the tea was gone and they had run out of polite conversation, she sneaked a glance at the child. At how the knit cap snuggled over his round, baldish head. At the fuss he made, shaking his fists and squalling when Mariah slipped his gloves on his soft pink hands.
Mariah rescued her wraps from the parlor and donned them. “I’ll see you in a few days, then.”
Katelyn watched the woman stow the infant safely in the surrey before climbing in. There was something so ordinary about that. She’d probably seen women make sure their babies were safe and snug in their wagons and buggies and sleighs her entire life.
It would never be something she would do. Not for the child she had never been able to hold. Not for the son she would never give Dillon.
The future stretched bleak before her, dim without the chance of her own child. Not the one she’d lost. Not the one she wished she could have, a round-faced, blue-eyed son for Dillon.
There would be no first birthday parties. No first steps. No first day of school. No graduation or wedding. No grandchildren to welcome and spoil and love.
Just an empty house that would never know the sound of a child laughing and at play. There would be days spent in neat order as she embroidered or cleaned or sewed. Evenings spent in front of the fire in the winter or on the front porch in summer, just her and Dillon.
Their lives would be orderly, content and calm. Not interrupted by footsteps pounding down the stairs or an argument between brothers in the yard, or the excitement of Christmas Eve, when the children could not sleep knowing Santa Claus was on his way.
It was so lonely. Her arms were so empty. Grief overwhelmed her, breaking apart the locked place inside her, rending her wide open until she was on her knees, her face in her hands. She willed back tears even as they fell, blurring her vision and wetting her cheeks and tapping to the wood floor.
She wanted her baby, the one she could never have.
“Katelyn?” The back door creaked when he opened it, and his voice echoed through the empty kitchen and dining room, as if to emphasize the loneliness of rooms. “Did you want to help me with the stallion?”
“Yes.” She swiped the tears from her eyes with the hem of her sleeve, but more trickled down before she could stop them. “I’m coming.”
“I’ll wait.” So good-natured, he sounded. So loving. “I’d wait a lifetime for you, angel.”
See how he loved her? What was wrong with her that she was crying instead of celebrating? The grief in her soul, like a February wind, held back the spring. Sorrow, like winter’s selfish hand, would not let go.
Dillon could love her, and she was barren. He could hold another child and not wish for one of his own. Even now he was waiting patiently, and he’d spoken to her with love in his voice. Not contempt.
“Katelyn, honey, are you all right?” He was kneeling at her side, ever the gallant warrior, her champion who never let her down, never hurt her. Even now, when she couldn’t explain why she was crying over a child she’d lost and at the same time the child she couldn’t have and she felt so empty.
He filled her up. His love. His compassion. His endless integrity as he cradled her to his chest, where life beat through him and into her.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair, his whiskers catching and tugging, his words vibrating through her like mercy. “I didn’t stop to think seeing a baby would remind you. I don’t blame you for grieving. For being sorry. That’s a devastating loss, but, my darlin’, you haven’t lost everything. It just feels that way.”
His words could have been trite and his sympathy shallow, but they weren’t. Her pain echoed on his face in tiny lines and shadows. Her sadness saddened him. Her desolation became his.
She let him hold her until there were no tears. He wiped the tears from her face with the pads of his thumbs. Erased the memory of them with a trail of tender kisses that made her wish all the harder. This man loved her truly for who she was and what she was not.
That was the way she wanted to love him. All of him. To stroke him until he reached only for her. To love him wholly, flesh to flesh, and make him a part of her. To drive this pain away with the hope of a newer, greater love.
“You need to rest, angel.”
His kissed her brow, her champion. Her savior. He lifted her to her feet as he lifted her heart. Like a phoenix rising from its ashes, born anew.
Like a new flame, she glowed when he touched her. Laid his arm around her shoulder to guide her because she couldn’t see, couldn’t tell where she was going. All that mattered was Dillon. His touch, his presence, his love like radiance warming away the shadows inside her. Every grief. Every loss. Like a new spring come to the shaded places that felt sunlight for the first time.
Dillon’s touch was the soft brush of a western wind against her grateful skin. She clung to him, to the bold heat of his kiss. Of the need they shared, the need to taste him, hold him, bind herself to this man she loved more than anything. Anything.
She wanted him with the sweetness of a new dawn, when the li
ght was innocent and gentle. She wanted him with the bright passion of a burning sun, and melted when he sat her on the edge of the bed, splayed his hands on either side of her hips and asked the question without words.
Yes. She needed him. Like no man she’d ever needed before. She burned with it, was torn apart by it and made whole all at the same time as she loosened the button at her throat. His eyes went black. His chest rose quick and fast, and a flash of fear bolted through her like lightning in a clear sky. Brief. Lonely.
“You say the word, and I’ll stop. You hear?” Like a caress to her soul, his words swept through her.
He was already laying her back, his hands tugging at her clothes with a steady competence, so that she burned like a midday sun, exposed and naked and a little afraid.
She hated that she was afraid. He tugged her laces free and the corset gave way, and with a sweep of his fingers to her hips she was naked before him. Vulnerable. Open. And wanting to cling to him. To be a part of him. To feel him in every part of her.
It would be like that, wouldn’t it? Doubt crept in, even as he moved into the frame of sunlight from the window, burnished with gold and so awe inspiring as he stripped the shirt from his shoulders, her doubts frizzled. She craved the touch of his hand to her ribs.
On a sigh, as if she already knew how it would feel, his hand fit over her breast and stroked, squeezed, bringing a sharp, flawless pleasure.
“You are the love I’ve been waiting for all of my life,” he murmured as he stretched out naked beside her. “When I first looked at you, I knew. I would love only you.”
“I’ve never known a man like you.” She realized it was true. So good, so strong, everlasting. A real man she could trust with the deepest part of her.
“Angel, I am not finished yet.”
His kiss was tender, his touch beautiful. He drew her against him and she explored the hardness of him and the differences. He was magnificent and touching him melted her within, the way her touch melted him. Forcing a new emotion to take root within, in those vulnerable shadowed places. She opened her arms and let him in.
