by Jillian Hart
“Funny.” Dakota slid off the mustang’s rump and approached the fence. “I came over to see if you needed help lancing that wound a second time. But it looks like it’s healing up clean. Is there any pus?”
“Nope. I’ve been keeping a good eye on it.” Dillon’s gift with animals was small compared to Dakota’s. He watched while his brother spoke to the stallion, the language of their grandfather rolling off his tongue with ease.
“He’s in less pain and he’s starting to figure out he’s stuck here.” Dillon dismounted with a creak of leather. “He’s getting cranky.”
“He’s not happy to be here.” Dakota climbed on the fence and braced his forearms on the top rung. “He’s a Spirit Horse. You can’t keep him here. You can’t train him to saddle and bridle the way you did the others.”
“I know, brother.” Dillon braced his elbows on the wood planks and studied the rare Appaloosa, as black as midnight from his nose to his hooves. Except for the perfect blanket of markings over his withers and rump.
“He can’t be tamed.”
“He shouldn’t be. There’s a bounty on his head.”
“How will you keep him? Imprison him here when he’s made to run free? Keep him penned like a trained pony?”
“I can’t say it hasn’t been troubling me.” But it had been Katelyn who’d dominated his thoughts. Katelyn he’d been teaching to trust.
“I figure I’ll worry about the stallion when he’s well.” Maybe by that time he would have earned her love and she would be his completely and forever. He’d never have to worry about her growing discontent or regretting her choice to come here.
“Hey, you’re not listening, brother. You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?”
“Who?” Dillon shook his head. His thoughts had drifted away. He worried that he’d imprisoned her. Given her a future that she’d needed but, deep in her heart, didn’t want.
And yet, her words came back to him, tentative but honest. I love you. She’d said those words to him and meant them. She’d do it. She’d come to trust him completely, he’d make damn sure of that.
Everything he did from this moment on, he would do for Katelyn.
“It’s no sense talking to you.” Dakota waved him away like a speck of dust and whistled to his pinto. “You stay there and moon over that woman of yours. I’m going to go take a look at that filly of yours that’s hobbling. Is she still in the stable? Why do I bother to ask?”
Dakota stalked away in disgust.
One day, brother. You will feel this way, too. Dillon had never before been so close to a woman. Being married wasn’t all that he thought it would be. He figured at the best it would be a companionship. A soft sweet presence at the end of his day, to walk into the house, tired from hard work, and she’d be a friend to talk to. A lover to take into his bed at night.
Katelyn was more. He couldn’t define it any more than he could define the wind. He could feel it on his skin, watch it move through the grass and shake the cottonwood boughs and force the clouds across the sky.
But he couldn’t hold it in his hand. And that was the nature of love, he realized.
He knew the moment she was approaching. The prairie could hide her in its swells and troughs, and still he could feel her like the wind on his face. Like the grasses in the fields, he was moved.
Sure enough, there was the faint ring of steeled shoes on hard-packed snow. The birds stilled. The gophers hid. The mare and stallion both swung to the north, watching as the familiar sorrel nosed into sight on the rise, drawing the sleigh he’d built himself.
Katelyn. She was a small dot of gray hat and coat, and he filled more and more as she came near. There was no other way to describe how he felt. He was whole when he was with her.
He loved watching her drive into the yard. She was smiling. She must have had a good visit at the neighbors’. Women needed time together, he’d observed, and he was glad she was making friends. Fitting into the fabric of things. Please, be happy here. Please, never want to leave.
He took her hand to help her from the sleigh. “Is that chicken I smell?”
“Yes. There were so many leftovers, Mariah handed out plates of food as we were leaving. This will save me from having to make supper.”
“Oh? Maybe we can make something else instead.” Embarrassed, he looked away.
He supposed he oughtn’t to speak of his need for her outside the dark haven of their bedroom, but he couldn’t help it. He had to let her know he desired her. Only her. For the rest of his days.
There would be no other woman for him. Ever.
He let his kiss tell her. Let his devotion well up from his soul and flavor his kiss. He felt her respond with warm velvet kisses and tenderness.
Oh, yeah, she loved him. He kissed the tip of her nose. The dimple in her chin. Now give me the rest of your heart, darlin’. “If my brother wasn’t here, I’d carry you upstairs and show you how much I love you.”
“Your brother’s here?” She honored him with one last tempting kiss. “If he wasn’t here, I’d surely let you.”
“Really?” His low rumble of satisfaction vibrated through her. She could feel his want and his love for her. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to go chase my brother off so I can have you all to myself.”
“You’ll do no such thing! If your brother is here, then he’s invited to supper. There’s more than enough, and I can make the biscuit recipe Betsy gave me. Wait!” She squealed as he wrapped her in a bear hug, tenderly overpowering her and tossing her over his wide shoulder.
Their laughter drifted around them like the snowflakes gently descending.
“It was a fine meal, Katelyn.” Dakota thanked her with a polite nod before pushing his chair from the table. “I thank you for it.”
“I’ll pour the coffee, if you two men want to take it in the parlor.” Before Katelyn could rise, Dillon was there, pulling back her chair, taking the opportunity to skim his fingertips along the back of her neck as if saying, later.
Desire flickered through her, flame hot and staggering. If my brother wasn’t here, I’d carry you upstairs and show you how much I love you. His promise beat in her blood, growing bigger, brighter until it was all she could think of.
She wanted his touch. She wanted the callused pads of his fingertips grazing against her bare skin. The satin heat of his kiss, firm and demanding on her mouth, her throat, her breasts.
She melted, remembering. He’d made love to her this morning, right here, laying her over the table and she could feel his love, his heart, all he was as they moved toward release together.
She blushed, turning to the stove and pretending to search for a hot pad. As if he knew exactly what she was remembering, Dillon lifted the braid from the back of her neck and planted a hot, sucking kiss on the back of her neck.
She came alive, body and soul.
Dillon left the room, but his effect on her remained. The affection he felt for her was as tangible as the stove’s heat on her skin.
She was home. For the rest of her life. The first thing, now that she was well, would be to make curtains for the windows. Her man apparently did not think of those kinds of necessities, so she’d be happy to do it for him.
Maybe a cheerful yellow gingham for the window behind the table. She tried to envision it as she set the full pot on the stovetop. Yes, it would do nicely, something soft and draping with full ruffles.
As for the parlor, something softer. Lace maybe. She could crochet it herself. She had some small talent with a crochet hook. And her grandmother’s pattern for garden-leaf lace that would complement the log walls perfectly.
“…I don’t know if I know you anymore, brother,” Dakota was saying, his deep gruff baritone barely audible as she hesitated at the threshold.
Maybe she’d stay here and give the brothers time to talk. Her book was on the worktable. She turned around and heard the next snippet of conversation.
“…next thing I know, you’ll have yourself a
passel of children running around this place…”
Oh, Dillon’s brother didn’t know. Why would he? Being barren wasn’t something a person advertised in the weekly edition of the town’s newspaper. It was a private sorrow.
“That’s my hope, brother.” Dillon’s answer, his words solid and sure.
He doesn’t know? The blood rushed from her head, and the house tilted sharp and swift. She grabbed the wall for support, the light draining from her vision. She slid down the wall until she sat on the floor.
Breathe. If only she could breathe, she’d be fine.
She couldn’t get air. Her chest clamped tight and she was drowning. Gasping, fighting to breathe. Dillon didn’t know. He didn’t know.
How had that happened? Surely the doctor had told him. Surely the gossips on her stepfather’s ranch had told him. She couldn’t remember if she had. She couldn’t remember actually saying the words to him…
She hadn’t. It was true. She’d never told him that by marrying her, he would be childless, too.
There would be no sons. No daughters. No babies to cuddle close on a cold winter’s night. No children running around the yard, laughter like music in the air.
He had wed her believing they could have a normal life together. A family life and all the happiness and trials that came with it.
He wanted children. She’d heard the tone in his voice. The certainty of it. The desire.
No decent man will have her. Her stepfather’s voice haunted her like a ghost in the corner, rising up with the shadows as the lamp sputtered on the table, dancing a slow writhing death.
You’re useless to me. Brett’s words. Brett’s disdain. If you can’t give me a son, what good are you?
Air squeaked into her throat and she coughed. What if that is what Dillon would think, too? Not again, no. She couldn’t go through that again. She couldn’t endure being shunned and put aside, not as good as other women who could bear their husbands a son.
Dillon wouldn’t do that to her, would he? He wouldn’t make her feel useless and worthless for something that wasn’t her fault, would he? No, he wouldn’t.
He wanted children. Sons and daughters. Their bedroom was not the only one in the house. There were empty rooms, echoing and lonely, waiting for children to play in them, laugh in them, sleep in them.
Dillon had built this house with his own hands. And in it, he’d kept his dreams. Dreams for a loving wife and their children together.
How did she tell him? How did she say the words that would destroy his hopes? That would change the radiant love that sparkled inside him-all that love, just for her. She couldn’t watch that love fade and wither.
There were plenty of women who could give him what he wanted. Why would Dillon want her?
The lamp on the table gave one last sputter, and the one ray of light died silently, sadly, leaving only darkness.
Katelyn climbed to her feet, kept to the shadows and crept up the stairs. Dillon’s laughter rumbled through the wood flooring. There was a faint clinking sound from the kitchen, as if he’d poured the coffee himself.
The coffee. She’d forgotten her promise to bring cups in to them in the living room, to enjoy with their cigars and conversation. It was a small oversight, but tonight it felt like the worst of failures.
Well, not the worst. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed. She swore her womb hurt from sorrow. Her heart, her soul, bled with it as she drew the covers over her head. There were no tears. Her grief was greater than that. There would be no end to this sadness.
No healing from this loss.
“Katelyn?” Dillon’s step outside the door. His concern as he ambled into the room.
She didn’t move. Maybe if she stayed very still, the truth would somehow change. Fate could not be this cruel, she decided, as to give her the perfect love, a rare and singular man to love, only to snatch it away.
And leave her more broken than before.
Yes, fate could. She felt her husband’s hand stroke her forehead.
“Are you tired?” he asked. “Well, then you sleep, my precious wife.”
His step was halting as he left. The door whispered nearly closed, then paused, open. There were no footsteps marching away. Was he watching her?
Then the knob clicked into place and she was alone.
As she was meant to be.
Chapter Seventeen
“Katelyn?” The hour was late, for the faint ring from the downstairs clock had sounded once through the floorboards while she’d tried to sleep and couldn’t. He smelled of cigar and wood smoke and a faint hint of whiskey as he eased beneath the covers. The ropes groaned as he leaned over her, watching her.
His kiss on her brow was heaven.
I don’t deserve you, Dillon. She squeezed her eyes shut. Fisted her heart. Shuttered her soul. He was faithful and loving. He was an incredible husband. Never once had he treated her poorly, neglected her, devalued her or in any way belittled her.
No, he’d been honorable and devoted and giving. He loved her with his whole heart, as he had vowed to do when he had placed his ring on her finger, when he’d made her his wife. He was a man of his word.
But he hadn’t known the truth when he’d made those promises. When he’d said his wedding vows.
The sheets rustled as his hand curved over the crown of her head and stroked, lightly, so he wouldn’t wake her.
He believed she was asleep.
“I love you so very much, my angel.”
I love you, too.
The plump feather pillows whispered as he laid his head to rest. The ropes groaned as his weight settled in the feather tick. He gave the covers a yank and they snapped over his head. His breathing slowed. His body relaxed.
How was she ever going to find it in her heart to tell him?
She eased onto her stomach and folded the top edge of the sheet back. Although it was dark, her eyes had adjusted to the shades of black in the room, and she could make out the darker black of his hair scattered over his high brow and the hollow of his closed eyes and the rise of his nose. The cut of his chin as he breathed in and out, lost in sleep.
He was extraordinary. A magnificent man. One that would always be hers. Or, so she had believed.
I’m going to lose him. What would she do then? He was her entire heart. How could she live without her heart?
Pain left her dizzy and weak and she sank into her pillows, burying her face. The soft feather pillow cupped her face, but it did nothing to stop the images in her head. The image of Dillon cradling Mariah Gray’s baby in his arms and his desire for one of his own naked in his twinkling eyes.
The image of his hand curving over her low abdomen, above her surgical scar, over her womb. Had he placed his hand there while cradling her close in the kitchen and wished one day that was where his son would grow?
She remembered the town doctor’s sadness when he had told her the truth that day she’d lost her baby. It is certain there will be no more children. I’m sorry.
Her entire body grew taut, as if she’d taken a blow to the stomach. Pain was a sharp, curved blade cleaving her in two, leaving her helpless and raw, a mortal wound. It wasn’t a roof she needed. It was Dillon. She needed his love, his touch, his tenderness in the night.
His undying regard for her.
She slipped from the covers, careful not to disturb Dillon. He lay on his back, his big body relaxed in sleep. His quiet puff of air as he breathed out was endearing to her. He’d stripped down to the skin, and the midnight gloss of it, a strange luster in the dark night, made her fingertips itch to stroke their way across the delineated lines of his chest. To feel the heat of his skin and the thud of his heart and know this man was hers to love.
She kept close to the wall, where the boards did not squeak or groan beneath her feet. The stairwell was as dark as a coffin as she descended to the first floor, where signs of Dakota’s visit remained-the scent of cigar smoke and the shadow of empty cups on the hearth. Where th
e brothers had sipped a bit of whiskey and smoked while they talked through the hours.
It was a room where brothers confided in each other, where a husband and wife found contentment in front of a crackling fire. A room where children should run and play in the sunlight, their laughter echoing like happiness.
Her losses felt reopened like wounds scabbed over and newly bleeding. She stumbled into the kitchen and to the door, where her coat hung neatly on a peg. As if it belonged there, next to Dillon’s, hung up and ready to wear on his early-morning chores.
Blindly she jammed her arms into the sleeves of her coat and stumbled outside. The frigid wind sliced through her few layers, straight through her skin to her bones.
Good. She had to stop feeling. She wanted to be like the winter, numb, silent and cloaked with forgetfulness. It hurt too much to do anything else. And what was she going to do? Wake up Dillon from a sound sleep and tell him she was the reason he would never have a son?
Pain cracked her open, left her wounded, left her bleeding. She headed out into the prairie, and let the cold and the darkness claim her.
Katelyn? Dillon woke with a start and saw the pillow beside him empty. The sheets where she should be lying were cool. Where was she?
Probably downstairs. He heard the stove lid rattle, and his fear ebbed. Katelyn was lighting the morning fire, he figured. He had to stop expecting her to change her mind. To find him wanting.
Hadn’t she held him? Reached up to kiss him? They were a part of each other now. Husband and wife. Lovers and friends. Of one flesh. And he hated to think of her working so hard, when she still needed to take good care of herself. The doc had been clear about his orders. Katelyn had to take it easy for some time to come. She’d done far too much around the house yesterday.
What she needed was a little rest and relaxation. Maybe she would feel up to a trip into town. He wanted to get a look at the last-minute additions at the county auction. It was a good excuse to take the sleigh into town and treat Katelyn to a nice lunch at the diner of her choice and a shopping trip. He’d even go along to hold her packages.
