Lightning flashed through the front window. Thunder crashed across the sky as the first raindrops spattered against the roof. Arabella shivered. She had yet to master her fear of thunderstorms. Her parents had been killed when lightning struck a tree, spooking the horse that pulled their buggy. The animal had plunged off a steep road, toppling the rig into the creek bed below. Only Arabella, a toddler then, had survived. She had no memory of the accident, but she’d been told about it. As long as someone was with her, she didn’t mind a storm. But when she was alone, it was as if the terror had been etched into the marrow of her bones.
She was struggling with her nerves when Stewart returned with a bucket and a loose bundle of muslin wrappings. His wind-tousled hair was damp with rain. At the sight of him, her fear took wing.
“Blowing up a big one out there,” he said.
Arabella remembered the youth he’d sent to Charles’s place. “Will the boy be all right?”
“He should be. The ranch isn’t far, and he can stay there till the storm’s done. Sally will give him a good meal and a bed if need be.” He glanced toward Arabella. “If the rain keeps up, there’s a chance you could be stuck here overnight.”
Her pulse slammed.
“There’s a bed in Sally’s old room,” he added, as if reading her thoughts. “And if you don’t mind cowboy grub, you’ll find me a fair to middling cook. Now let’s see about cleaning you up and packing that ankle.”
With the sun gone, the room had grown chilly. Stewart took a moment to touch a match to the logs and tinder already laid in the fireplace. As the crackling warmth spread around her, Arabella settled back into the pillows. Beyond the front windows, rain streamed off the roof enfolding the porch in a shimmering gray curtain.
Along with the wrappings, Stewart had brought a washcloth. Dipping it in the bucket, he leaned toward her and began sponging her dust-caked face. His touch was light, the water deliciously cold. Arabella might have closed her eyes, but then she’d have missed the chance to study his arresting face. His eyes, set deep beneath the dark ridges of his brows, were the color of the rain, their pupils deep and penetrating. His features, sharp but rugged with high cheekbones, reminded her of a painting she’d seen in a museum—George Catlin’s majestic portrait of a Mandan chief. Although he didn’t
really look like an Indian, Stewart had the same presence, the same quiet dignity.
Her eyes were drawn to the scar that slashed a lightning streak from his temple to the corner of his mouth. She knew he’d been in the war. Had it been a saber that marked him? A bayonet? She quelled the urge to reach up and trace the pale line with a fingertip. Maybe one day he would open up and tell her about it. But what was she thinking? After she left Montana she would never see Stewart McIntyre again.
“Hands.” He dipped the washcloth again and wiped her scratched, bloodied palms. “I’ve got some pine tar salve in the kitchen,” he said. “It works fine for horses—no reason it shouldn’t work for you. But first, the ankle.”
Settling back on the footstool he steadied her foot between his long legs. One hand dipped a length of wrapping in the bucket and laid it, still dripping, on her skin.
“Creek water. The cold will ease the swelling,” he muttered without looking up. “You’re damned lucky you didn’t break a bone or snap a tendon. Maybe next time you’ll be more careful.”
“Are you saying there might be a next time?”
His glance was a warning. She chose to ignore it.
“I know what you think of me, Stewart. In your eyes I’m a Jezebel, out to wreck your sister’s marriage. But you don’t know me at all.”
He continued wrapping her ankle. The cold was beginning to feel good now; and the brush of his fingers against her skin sent tingles of pleasure up her leg.
“Until I came here, I’d never known anything but love and kindness,” she said. “If that makes me a spoiled brat, so be it. But it doesn’t make me evil.”
“Did I ever say you were evil?” He didn’t look up but she could feel the tension in his hands.
“I grew up next door to Charles Middleton. He asked me to marry him when he was twelve and I was ten. There was never a thought that I might not be his wife one day. You can’t imagine how I felt when I arrived here and learned how he’d betrayed me. I’ll not easily forgive or forget what he’s done.”
Stewart tied the ends of the wrapping into a snug knot. “But he still loves you. I saw that last night. And for all I know, you still love him.”
Arabella’s temper surged. Wasn’t the man listening to her? If words wouldn’t get through to him, maybe she should try something else. Gripped by a sudden impulse, she seized the sides of his head, yanked him toward her and burned a hot, angry kiss onto his mouth.
For an instant he went rigid. Then his arms caught her close. His lips crushed hers, powerful and demanding. She’d been kissed by Charles, of course, and by a few silly boys at parties, but never like this. She’d always been so proper, so restrained—but something about Stewart made her lose control. She moaned as his mouth coaxed hers to open. The thrust of his tongue trailed flame along her sensitive nerves. Dizzy with a whirl of new sensations, she arched against him, offering her throat, her breasts, wanting to be kissed, to be stroked and touched by that compelling mouth and those big, gentle hands.
“Damn it, Arabella,” he muttered. “I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you!”
A response stirred in her throat. “I need…” The rest of her words dissolved in a moan as his hand cupped her breast through the damp linen blouse. Her nipple shrank to an aching nub under the pressure of his palm. Her free hand fumbled for the buttons. “Yes,” she whispered as his thumb slid beneath her lace-edged camisole to brush and tease her bare nipple. “Oh, yes…”
Thunder rattled the windowpanes as the storm broke in full fury. Arabella’s heart drummed in counterpoint with the pounding rain as he bent and kissed her mouth again. Her fevered body responded, hands pulling his head lower to her barely covered breasts. The heat shimmering through
her veins was beyond anything she could have imagined. All she could think of was how badly she wanted more.
To aid the wrapping of her ankle, she’d bared her left leg to the knee. Now his palm found her naked calf, sliding upward to the lacy hem of her drawers. Arabella whimpered, feeling the yearning ache where she wanted him to touch her, and knowing that nothing less would be enough. When he seemed to hesitate, she found his hand and slid it beneath the loose fabric to rest on her thigh.
A groan escaped his throat. “Arabella, we mustn’t…” he murmured.
Arabella’s kiss stopped the words she was beyond hearing. Her hips arched against his hand. As her right leg moved aside, her foot struck something solid. With a clatter the bucket spilled onto the floor.
“Oh!” She felt the shock of the ice-cold splash. Pulling away, Stewart scrambled to right the bucket and sponge up the water with the leftover wrappings. When he stood, she saw that a wall had slid into place behind his eyes.
“Arabella, I…” She could see him trying to frame an apology, and knew she couldn’t bear to hear it.
“Please don’t,” she interrupted. “We…we both got carried away, that’s all,” she added, desperate to save face.
He cleared his throat. “I need to see to the stock,” he said. “It might take some time. Will you be all right to hobble around in here?”
“I suppose so.” Shaken by his sudden shift, Arabella mouthed the words.
“The salve’s on the kitchen counter, and there’s stew warming on the stove. When you’re ready to sleep, you’ll find Sally’s room down the hall. There’s a necessity under the bed.”
“Stewart, I—”
“Not now.” Reaching out, he traced a fingertip along her cheek. “We can talk tomorrow, after we’ve both had time to come to o
ur senses.”
Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned and strode out through the kitchen. The back door slammed in the wind. Arabella reached for the afghan and pulled it around her shaking shoulders. Her cheek felt cold where his finger had brushed it. Thunder boomed across the sky like mocking laughter.
Merciful heaven, what had she done?
* * *
By the time Stewart reached the barn, where he kept a spare slicker, he was soaked to the skin. Not that it mattered. After what had happened in the house, he’d needed a good, cold dousing. Lord help him, he’d believed he was under control. Then Arabella had kissed him and blown that notion all to hell.
What had she wanted? If she’d wanted to prove she could make him respond, she’d succeeded. For a few minutes there, his need for her had overwhelmed everything else. And oh, how she had responded… In that moment, her desire for him had been as real and as powerful as his craving for her. But it had been just a moment of passion, and nothing more. He couldn’t let himself believe she might truly care for a man like him. He was too awkward, too homely, too old at thirty and, although well-off, most of his money was in the land. He was nowhere near as eligible and appealing as Charlie Middleton.
He needed to get himself under control. If he went back in the house right now, he’d be tempted to pick right back up where he left off—and he had a sinking suspicion that she’d let him. If he allowed their mutual passion to play out, if he fully explored the heat and desire between the two of them, then he didn’t think he’d be able to let her go. Not back to Boston, not back to Charlie and Sally’s house—not out of his arms or his heart ever again.
But that wasn’t going to happen. With Miguel gone, he could find enough chores to occupy him for a couple of hours. He wouldn’t go back into the house until she was in bed, safely tucked out of his sight.
Donning the slicker over his wet clothes, he saddled a horse and rode out to the pasture to check on the calves. Range cows were used to stormy weather, but the smaller, weaker calves could get chilled. Circling the pasture, he rounded up the cows with younger calves and herded them toward the open shed at the near end. Some hay tossed down from a storage rack would give the mothers an added incentive to stay put.
The horse he’d ridden would need a rubdown after the short gallop. The pigs and chickens would need attention as well, to make sure their pens weren’t flooding in the storm. There was a weasel-size hole in the coop that couldn’t wait till tomorrow. The milk cows were running low on hay; and that was only the beginning.
By the time Stewart finished the chores, night had fallen. Rain sheeted off the roof of the barn as he bolted the doors and turned back toward the house.
The windows were dark, but a lantern glowed on its hook next to the back door. Had Arabella lit the wick and hung it there? Since he hadn’t done it himself, there could be no other explanation.
Shedding his slicker and muddy boots on the back porch, he stepped into the kitchen and closed the door behind him. He was chilled beneath his wet clothes. It was time he peeled them off and hauled his tired body into bed. But there was one thing he needed to do first.
Stealing down the hall, he paused before the room that had been his sister’s. The door stood ajar. He eased it open.
Arabella lay asleep in the narrow bed, her curls spilling over the pillow. In the darkness, Stewart could just make out her pale face. With her eyes closed and her sweet mouth at rest, she looked as innocent as a child.
Gazing down at her, Stewart felt something tighten around his heart. From the start, he’d done his best to convince himself he didn’t like her. But in the measure of things, Arabella was bright and spunky, with a ready wit and a courageous heart. He remembered her reckless plunge into the river to save her wedding gown. He pictured those small hands, scratched and bloodied from crawling across the prairie. And the way she’d turned to living flame in his arms…
Tearing his gaze away, he backed out of the room and left the door as he’d found it. He could drive himself crazy thinking about Arabella. But that didn’t mean any good would come of it. She’d be leaving soon, and that would be best for them all.
Weary as sin, he dragged himself back to his own room, stripped off his wet clothes and crawled into bed.
* * *
Only after he’d left did Arabella dare to open her eyes. She’d lain perfectly still, heart pounding, while Stewart stood in the doorway, gazing at her. What did it mean when he’d lingered a few moments in the darkness? Was he having second thoughts about what had happened between them and how he’d ended it?
She’d gone to bed hurt and angry. But as she felt his presence in the room, she’d found herself yearning to have him bend over and touch her. She’d imagined herself reaching up, pulling him into her arms. At least she might have spoken to him. Now it was too late.
She was in dire need of sleep. The day’s misadventure had worn her out; but thoughts of Stewart had kept her on edge. Now that he was safe indoors maybe she could finally relax.
Fluffing the pillow, she turned over and closed her eyes. Lulled by the steady tattoo of the rain she began to drift…
A deafening thunderclap shook the house. Arabella opened her eyes with a gasp. What time was it? Was she still dreaming?
The dream had haunted her since childhood, returning again and again—no images or words, just the sensation of crashing through space, tumbling over and over to the boom of thunder and the echo of screams. Aunt Phoebe, who’d done some reading on the subject, said the dream could be the buried memory of the accident that had killed her parents. Arabella would never know for sure. She only knew that, whenever it came, the dream left her terrified beyond words.
Lightning flashed hot blue through the bedroom window. Thunder roared across the sky, so loud it seemed to fill the universe. Suddenly Arabella was on her feet, bolting out of the room and stumbling down the hall in her shift—toward the one source of comfort and safety.
* * *
Stewart was a light sleeper by nature. He’d been snoring soundly, but the presence of someone in the room quickly roused him to full alertness. He raised his head and opened his eyes.
Arabella stood in the doorway, ghostly pale in her white shift. Her hair fell in tangles around her face. Her eyes were as wild as a spooked mare’s.
“What is it?” he managed to ask.
Her lips parted, but no voice emerged. He could tell that she was shaking. Outside, the storm had redoubled its fury. Wind and rain lashed the house.
“What is it, Arabella?” he asked again.
Lightning flashed through the window. The thunderclap was louder than the cannon fire he remembered from the war. Arabella cowered in terror, wrapping herself in her arms. Her strength had always ignited a passionate response in Stewart, but somehow her vulnerability moved him even more deeply.
Stewart knew what he needed to do. He also reminded himself that he was naked between the sheets, a sure recipe for disaster. But then a solution dawned. Turning back the quilt, he exposed the top side of the sheet that covered him.
“Come here before you catch your death, girl,” he murmured, brushing the surface he’d smoothed for her. She came with a little whimper, huddling into the bed as he covered her with the quilt. Stewart wrapped her in his arms. She was soft and warm and smelled faintly of lavender soap.
They lay spooned, chastely separated by a thin layer of cotton flannel. Stewart’s body had responded at first touch, springing to full, quivering arousal. He did his best to keep his hips pulled back from her rump, so she wouldn’t feel it and be alarmed.
The effort was pure torture. Arabella was the most desirable woman he’d ever known. But, so help him, the last thing Stewart wanted was to ruin her the way Charlie Middleton had ruined his sister.
* * *
Stewart’s bed felt warm a
nd safe but Arabella was still trembling.
“What’s the matter?” he asked her again.
“Just a bad dream. The thunder makes it worse. I know it’s silly but I can’t seem to help it.”
“Nothing’s silly if it makes you afraid. Tell me about it.”
Arabella’s story began haltingly, then spilled out of her in a rush—how her parents had died in a storm, and how, despite no conscious memory of it, the tragedy still haunted her dreams.
“Sometimes I dream about the war.” His lips skimmed her hair. “The thunder makes it worse—it reminds me of artillery fire. I tell myself that’s silly, too. It was over a long time ago. But there’s a part of my brain that doesn’t quite believe that. Maybe it’s the same with you.”
She turned to face him in the bed. “Hold me tight, Stewart,” she whispered. “Maybe the thunder will go away for both of us.”
A groan quivered in his throat as his arms tightened around her. His skin was cool and smelled of rain. She realized for the first time that he was naked beneath the sheet. Somehow that seemed all right. More than all right. A freshet of excitement pulsed through her body.
He muttered something that sounded like “Maybe you should go back to bed.” Arabella couldn’t make out the words, but that didn’t matter because in the next breath they were kissing, and she was lost in the taste of his lips, the roughness of his stubbled beard, the sheer masculine power of the man. Her arms slid around his neck, fingers raking his thick hair.
Now that they were face-to-face she could feel the rock-hard jut of his sex against her belly. The thought that she was causing that reaction sent a jolt of heat to the aching core of her body. Moisture slicked her thighs. The sensations that swirled through her were as old as nature, yet frighteningly new. A lady, she reminded herself, would leap out of bed or fight tooth and nail for her virtue. But she was lost in a storm of delicious yearnings. All she could think of was flinging aside every rule of propriety and common sense she’d ever known to give herself to this man.
Weddings Under a Western Sky: The Hand-Me-Down BrideThe Bride Wore BritchesSomething Borrowed, Something True Page 6
