A Rancher for Rosie
Page 12
If this was some kind of twisted dream he sure as hell didn’t want to wake up. He’d had his fair share of those and waking always brought the fresh agony of renewed grief. Or relief in the case of the nightmares where her screams rang out and he was up to his knees in thick mud, unable to free himself, let alone her. He always woke from the nightmares in a cold sweat, his heart a wild mustang galloping and his own cries stuck in his throat. Once or twice—though he was ashamed to admit it—he’d even broken down and wept on waking, the sheer horror of his loss too much to bear.
This was actually happening and she was really at his homestead, walking towards him wearing one of his sister’s old housedresses. Just like before. Like none of the bad things had ever happened and life was fine and dandy.
He shook himself. This would not do. He’d thought he’d never see her again, never converse with her or hold her close and it had drained him of everything he’d once been. Losing her had torn him apart and he’d had to adjust to giving up on the life he’d dreamt of. His days had become little more than just existing, as weak as an acorn calf.
Yet she was here.
She hadn’t died. Hell, if this wasn’t the opposite of an afterclap.
But images of the broken woman he’d imagined after her kidnapping resurfaced like flotsam on the sea, so he quickly snuffed his burgeoning hopes. He’d grieved for this woman once and no matter how she was here, how she’d survived, it would make no difference to him.
He had no intention of grieving for the titian-haired Catherine Montgomery a second time.
Catherine shook all over. Though this had been her intention all along, she couldn’t believe that she was actually here, looking at Kenan once more. In the two years she’d been away, he’d matured and grown leaner. Yet he was even more desirable than she could remember. His hair was still thick and black, though there was a dusting of white at his temples as if age had tried to claim him but had lost the battle against youth. His jaw was still square, his mouth still full and his eyes…still so deep and dark. She had always been able to lose herself in his eyes.
But he looked shocked and furious and no wonder. He had probably just returned home after months on the Texas to Montana trail, expecting to rest up before heading out again. Instead, he’d been surprised by her arrival. How did she expect him to feel?
What a mess. She had never wanted it to turn out like this, never dreamt that it would. They’d had a good life mapped out, had been due to get wed and they had hoped to raise a family. It had been all she’d wanted, all he’d wanted. Their joy in each other had been so complete and intense that they’d neither wanted nor cared for anything else.
Even though she’d known that the life of a homesteader could be tough and harsh—especially for a woman—she’d still been happy to live that life, as long as it was with Kenan. The thought of their wedding had thrilled her and she’d even been excited about the charivari. Catherine had dreamt of how she’d keep their little farm in apple pie order and raise big strong boys to help Kenan out on the land and make him proud.
But after all that had happened, all the time that had passed, she doubted if there was any way to put it all right. Surely there was no way to ever recapture the innocence of their love. It would be like wading through quicksand—impossible and hopeless.
Catherine bit her lip. How awful to feel so estranged from the man she’d loved with all of her heart.
“We need to talk,” Kenan gestured towards the table. “Sit.”
Kenan lowered himself onto the bench at the rectangular pine table. He’d helped his pa make the long benches, but he wished they’d made them higher. At just over six feet tall, he had to sit with his knees almost pressing against his chest. He felt awkward and cumbersome, though he knew that his feelings had more to do with the new addition to his household than anything else.
He reached for his coffee and realized that he was shaking. Anger and grief boiled inside him and memories of the day he’d been told of Catherine’s demise flashed before his eyes. He saw himself riding over to her uncle’s homestead, jumping down from his horse, striding across the front porch, hovering his hand ready to knock…already aware that something was different, something was wrong. Usually, his arrival brought Catherine immediately to the door but this time she was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly, her uncle had stood before him, eyes red, face blanched, a broken man.
“Kenan?” He was dragged back to the present.
“Huh?”
“Kenan?”
He jumped as the voice he’d believed he’d never hear again broke into his thoughts. She’d moved across the room like a spirit. For a moment his heated brain wondered if she was. Some folks believed that the spirits of the dead roamed the earth. Maybe she’d returned here to haunt him and she really was dead. The old familiar pain thudded though his skull like a tomahawk.
Catherine stood opposite him, hovering like a nervous bird beside the table.
“Sit down.”
He gazed at her hand with its petite fingers and lightly freckled skin, as she placed it on the table. That hand belonged to the woman he had adored. He had showered it with kisses, held it over his heart when he proposed. She had gripped him with passionate ferocity when she had sought to pleasure him in return for the sensual delights he relished offering her. He hardened beneath the table as images of her encircling his erection and caressing the length of him before taking him between her breasts, flooded his mind.
“Kenan, are you okay?”
He shrugged, not meeting her eyes, not looking at her face. He couldn’t. Instead, he drained the dregs of his coffee then stared into the bottom of the pewter cup, willing his cock to go down.
“Kenan?”
He tightened his hands around his drink.
“Kenan, please?”
The voice persisted, breaking into his consciousness, seeping into his soul like the warmth of the sun. It penetrated his tension, permeated his grief and reached down to his broken heart like a healing salve.
It carried him back to the summer they’d shared three years ago when she’d agreed to marry him. It had been the best summer of his life. He’d been helping her uncle with some work around his farm when Catherine had arrived, fresh from teaching college in the east. As her parents had both been taken by smallpox during her time at college, she’d had nowhere else to go than the home of her paternal uncle. She’d been delivered by wagon like an unwanted package one July morning. Kenan had watched her arrive. He’d been fascinated by her beauty in her green satin travelling attire, all wide eyes and fiery hair. His curiosity had been provoked and he had known at that moment, that she was the one for him, and that he’d do whatever it took to make her love him.
He slammed his cup on the table.
“What in the hell happened, Catherine?”
He glared at her.
“How are you here?” He gestured at her. “Alive?” His voice cracked on the final word.
He hung his head and ground his teeth. He would not submit to his grief and confusion. He was the man of the house, he had to be strong.
When he had reined in his emotions, he looked at her face. Her eyes glistened with tears like green pools freshly filled in a rainstorm.
“I’m so sorry, Kenan. I never wanted to hurt you.”
He glanced around the room. Rosie was darning socks at the fireside now, attempting to give them some time to talk.
“Hurt me?” He frowned at the understatement.
“Well, yes…” She wrung her hands together on the table top. “I know that I’ve hurt you.”
“You think that you hurt me, huh?” He sniffed. “Your uncle and aunt told me that you were dead, Catherine. Dead… Murdered by Indians, most likely the Sioux, on your way back from purchasing material for your wedding gown.”
“For our wedding.”
“But they lied.”
“They did,” she whispered. “It was wrong of them but please don’t blame them�
��they had their reasons.”
Kenan fought the urge to tell her exactly what he would do when he got hold of her uncle, reasons or not.
“So are you gonna explain? Or keep me hanging around for another two years so I can really feel the ache in my heart start to drain away my will to live?”
She stretched a trembling hand across the table towards him, the movement causing her sleeve to ride up her arm. He shivered as her cold fingertips met his skin and he swallowed hard to suppress the emotion rising in his throat.
Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed hold of her wrist.
“What in God’s name is that?”
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About the Author
Molly Ann Wishlade has always been an avid reader and writer of stories. Her lifetime of reading has taken her from the magical worlds of The Faraway Tree and The Borrowers, to the Greek myths and legends, to Sweet Valley High and Judy Blume’s Forever, to Asimov’s science fiction, Jane Eyre’s torment and Stephen King’s masterpieces. More recently she has wandered through the vivid historicals of Philippa Gregory; the bubbly, gritty delights of Adele Parks and the fast paced thrillers of James Patterson. She loves getting lost in a novel and often regrets finishing one as the characters are usually missed like old friends. She regularly indulges her insatiable hunger for romance and passion in the delicious worlds created by romantic novelists and is working on several of her own!
What precious spare time she has is spent with her family (one gorgeous husband and two bright and beautiful children), taking long walks around the beautiful Welsh countryside (although she’s still waiting for the rescue greyhound she wants to accompany her), cooking her own secret recipe curries, drinking Earl Grey (in copious amounts) and discovering delicious wines. Oh, and she also loves to ski and can’t wait to go again! And buying shoes!
She wants to take readers on the rollercoaster that is life through the creation of her own characters, relationships and worlds.
She appreciates feedback, recipes and wine recommendations.
Email: mollyannwishlade@hotmail.co.uk
Molly Ann loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.
Also by Molly Ann Wishlade
Desire in Deadwood
The Duggans of Montana: Harlot at the Homestead