by Jillian Hart
“Is the bed ready?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ve got Emma asleep again. You can move her.”
He looked directly into Elizabeth’s soft eyes, they were almost a pale lilac. Such a gentleness lived in her. He could see it in the careful way she tended Emma, in the undemanding way she treated him.
His senses burned as he knelt beside her.
“Her fever is still rising.” Elizabeth brushed a hand across Emma’s small forehead.
“Do you know how to bring it down?”
“I can try.”
Elizabeth twisted to look up at him. His hands shook as he gathered Emma in his arms. Sniffling, the child clung to him, and he concentrated on that.
“It’s all right, little one.” He brushed her forehead with his cheek. Her fine, wispy hair clung to his unshaven whiskers.
“My throat hurts real bad,” Emma complained in the smallest voice.
“Would you like some more tea?” He gently balanced her against his chest.
Emma nodded.
She was so precious. He couldn’t bear to see her ill. As he slipped her between the clean sheets, his whole heart began to rend.
“I’ll make you something for your throat, precious,” he said with a solemn promise.
Emma’s deep blue eyes, Mary’s eyes, smiled up at him.
Jacob’s throat tightened. Life was so uncertain. He brushed his big hand over her small, hot forehead.
“You shouldn’t be lifting like that.”
His voice startled her. She straightened from the stove. “It’s just a few pieces of wood, Jacob.”
“Wood is heavy.” He strode into the small kitchen, all powerful man, unyielding muscle and will. He’d changed into an emerald green shirt that darkened his eyes.
“I’m not going to break.” she chided.
His face tightened. “You need to take better care of yourself. You’ve been working who knows how many hours a day in that hotel’s kitchen, on your feet. It’s demanding work, Elizabeth, it can’t be good for you.”
“Being unemployed would be worse.” He didn’t want to talk about her pregnancy. Fine. She checked on the fire, then closed the lid, turning her back to him.
“I would have helped you.”
“You wanted to give me money, not help.” Her spine stiffened. She didn’t want to fight, especially when she saw the purple circles beneath his eyes. “You’ve been up last night and most of today with Emma. Let me take care of her while you rest for a while.”
“No, you need to nap.” He looked down at his empty hands. “You’ve been cooking and preparing and carrying water, now what are you up to? It’s too much, Elizabeth.”
“I thought I would wash Emma’s sheets.” She rested her hand on her stomach, small as a gravy bowl, but life thrived there. A life he didn’t want to acknowledge.
“I planned on stopping you from taking the stage,” he said now, hardly audible above the snapping fire and the scouring wind. “I didn’t know how to tell you when we spoke in the livery. Deep down, I’m afraid. Do you want a man like me?”
“What?” Not want him? She adored Jacob. “Why do you think I was leaving?”
“Because of me. Because you think I can’t accept...” His gaze slid to her belly. “Because it’s taken me so long to let myself tell you how I feel.”
Libby reached for an empty kettle, but his hand was there first. He towered behind her so close she only had to breathe and her back would touch his chest. “Jacob, I can get it. Emma needs you.” I need you.
“She’s sleeping for now. The bean soup you made was delicious. She liked it. I’m grateful to you—she managed to get some down.”
“It’s just bean soup.”
“It’s more than that. It’s you.” His hand cupped her jaw.
Shivers of need rippled through her. “Emma’s sick. I’ve done nothing amazing, Jacob. Just cooking and keeping her warm and fed and dry.”
“It’s everything.” He pulled her hard against the solid wall of his chest.
She shrugged. “I figured, since I was snowed in here, I might as well be useful.”
“You are no trouble, believe me.”
She wanted to. Closing her eyes made her want to believe. He smelled so good. She breathed in the scent of him, of wood smoke and tea. His strong arms engulfed her and she felt so small against him, so helpless against his goodness, his strength.
She didn’t know how to help him, to reassure him, to be someone he could lean on. She only knew she wanted to try.
“I need you,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
She knew how overwhelmed he felt, how afraid. Emma was so sick.
When his mouth found hers, Libby felt a kick of fear bolt through her. Not fear at his touch, but fear of what his touch meant. Need drove his kiss in a slow, sensual caress of his mouth to hers. Libby felt her heart pulse and heat curl through her stomach.
She dared to lay her hand along the rough texture of his jaw. A day and night’s growth of whiskers tickled her palm, and Jacob moaned at her touch, deepening the kiss, pulling her hard against his body.
How could he find her attractive at all? She was carrying another man’s child. When her rounded belly pressed against his solid abdomen, Jacob didn’t pull away; he drew her arms up around his neck, holding her closer. Her fingers played with his collar length hair.
She wanted him. It wasn’t right, yet she couldn’t stop it. Loving him felt so right.
The hard length of his arousal nudged against her abdomen, and a heady excitement kicked through her. Don’t stop. Emotions unknotted in her heart, emotions long unused. As if he knew, Jacob softened his mouth against hers, tracing her bottom lip with his velvet-moist tongue.
“Oh, Elizabeth,” he said as he drew his lips from hers and hugged her to him hard, pressing them together, man against woman. Libby had never felt so safe or more alive.
“I need you,” Jacob whispered in her ear. “Please, just hold me.”
No one had ever wanted her like this. Libby held on to him with all her might.
Emma slept fitfully. While Jacob tended her, Libby found onions down in the cellar and began the smelly task of slicing them up. Night deepened as she worked at making a batch of thick paste. She lit a lamp as the brew simmered over the stove.
“What stinks?” he asked, stepping into the kitchen.
“This should knock the congestion from her lungs.” Libby lifted the pan from the stove. “I’ll let it cool for a few minutes. Then I’ll rub this on her chest.”
“I’m glad you’re here. I wouldn’t want to touch that stuff. It smells rancid.”
“It smells bad enough to clear up her lungs,” she corrected. “Here, carry this pan for me. I’ll get some clean towels.”
“I’d rather get the towels.” Jacob winked.
His teasing made her smile, although there was so little to smile about with Emma’s fever worsening. Libby didn’t want to think what would happen if her aunt’s concoction didn’t work. The storm still raged with no sign of stopping. When it did, it could be too late for a doctor’s help.
She returned to the kitchen, laden with fresh towels. Jacob stood by the table, the teasing glint in his eyes faded.
He held the pan. “I’ll carry this in to Emma.”
“Fine.” She hugged the soft towels. He looked—he felt—so distant“ Are you angry with me?”
“With you?” He whirled around. “No. I’m not angry, Elizabeth.”
“Scared?”
“I’m damn scared.” His gaze fell to the bed where Emma slept fitfully, breathing hard, coughing painfully in her sleep. The hacking sound filled the cabin, hollow and desolate.
“She can’t get worse,” he said, determination in his voice. As if he could will it, and Emma could be well soon. He knelt beside the bed.
“We’re doing all we can. We’re keeping her warm. We’re fighting the fever and the congestion.” Libby knelt,
too, setting down the towels to unbutton the front of Emma’s pink flannel nightgown.
“She’s so very ill. So very small. But she’s strong.”
“Strong like her pa.” Libby covered his big hand with her smaller one. “Don’t torture yourself with those fears, Jacob. She could become worse, but she also could recover. Don’t borrow trouble.”
He closed his eyes. She could see the hope in him. She could see the darkness. Like the storm howling outside, he struggled.
“She’ll be fine, Jacob. Because she has you.” Libby dipped her fingers into the pungent paste. “Hold her nightgown open so I can apply this to her chest. I made a very strong batch. This ought to clear her lungs.”
“Or suffocate us,” he said wryly.
They worked side by side for hours, as they had done all day. Libby at the stove, brewing soothing honeyed tea for Emma’s throat when she woke, boiling coffee for the two of them to sip while they worried, heating water and warming a quick meal, then making another poultice for Emma’s chest.
Exhaustion weighed Libby down like an anvil, but she pushed herself hard, unable to stop the creeping worry. Emma wasn’t getting better.
The howling storm still battered the cabin, cutting them off from town and the doctor. Jacob brought in great piles of snow-covered wood to burn. It was a struggle to keep the main room warm enough for the sick little girl.
When she wasn’t in the kitchen, Libby sat beside Jacob at Emma’s bedside, watching the fear settle deeper into his face. She didn’t know how to comfort him. She doubted she held that much power over his heart.
Jacob looked up at the whisper of Elizabeth’s stockinged step. She balanced two coffee cups, steam rising from both.
She’d left her hair down and it curled down her back, shimmering like fine silk. Her pretty blue dress was wrinkled from drying near the hearth overnight, but the rumpled fabric could never detract from her gentle beauty. A beauty that radiated from the inside.
“This is the last of the pot. I can brew more.” She handed him one of the coffee cups.
The welcome heat burned his hand. At least he could still feel. “No, don’t go to the bother. I won’t want more.”
She settled down awkwardly beside him. The floor was hard. She looked uncomfortable, but there was no complaint. He watched as she checked Emma’s forehead, listening to her breathing.
“It sounds better,” she announced.
“Perhaps.”
Silence.
“I’m glad you’re here, that you were forced to stay.” His gaze caught hers. “If the storm hadn’t done it, I would have. A stage ride isn’t what you need in your condition.”
“You keep worrying over my health, Jacob, and there’s no need.” She kept her voice even, but she twisted away from him to look at Emma.
“Why not? You’ve hardly eaten. You’ve been without sleep. I feel damn guilty.”
“Guilty?” She shook her head, scattering soft wheat blond curls that shimmered in the firelight. “I don’t understand. Emma is sick. She needs me. Where else would I be?”
Emma was very sick. Despair swam in his heart, but he had to fight it, to refuse to give in to the fear. He could feel the darkness descending, but then Elizabeth smiled. Saving him.
“Jacob, look.” She moved gracefully, reaching across him. “Emma’s fever is broken.”
The words were magic; from her lips they were a miracle. He laid his hand on Emma’s forehead. No fever. None at all. His daughter slept peacefully, except for the rattle of congestion.
Tears spilled into his eyes, hot like hope, clear like dreams. “You did this.”
Elizabeth looked up, her eyes wide and bright. She didn’t know how she saved Emma, saved him. How she made life easier to live.
Unable to find words, he reached out, tracing her jaw, holding her face in his hand from the hollow of her ear to the curve of her chin.
“I owe you everything,” he rasped.
Emotion trembled in her eyes. “Don’t be silly. rm not a doctor to be paid. Emma is well. Let me get the clean sheets I washed this morning. They ought to be dry by now. Oh, and another nightgown.”
She scrambled to her feet before he could stop her. Jacob stood, catching her by the shoulder. “Let me do those things for my daughter. It’s time I took care of her myself. I haven’t been a good enough father.”
“Jacob, you are wonderful to Emma.” The lamplight glowed against the soft contours of her face and the deep luminous shine in his eyes. “You are always too hard on yourself.”
His throat closed. He would be nothing without Emma. Without Elizabeth. He realized it now, at the sight of beauty in her eyes. “I almost lost you, too.”
Something precious burned in her gentle blue eyes. He leaned forward, catching her mouth with his.
The storm broke somewhere near dawn. With Emma safely sleeping, Jacob climbed up the ladder into Elizabeth’s attic room, warring with himself.
He needed her. His mind kept telling him to stay in his own bed. His feelings told him to keep climbing.
Lamplight from the kitchen below tossed enough of a glow into the snug room for him to see her by. She slept on her side, breathing regularly and softly, her light hair fanning the pillow in a curly cloud.
“Elizabeth.”
She stirred, shook her head, then bolted upright. “Jacob. How’s Emma?”
“I made her some oatmeal and now she’s sleeping soundly.” He took one step toward the bed, and another. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Good.” She threw back the blankets and climbed to her feet. In the faint shadowed light he could see the shape of his too large wool union suit stretching over every curve of her body.
Need kicked through him.
He knew he should turn away and head down the ladder. He knew he should do anything but stay in this room with her, seeing her sleep-soft and her hair tousled by the night. Long wisps had escaped the single braid and softened her oval face with gossamer curls.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am,” Elizabeth breathed, then slipped into his arms.
Heavenly sweetness pumped through his veins—an intoxicating combination of need and loneliness and affection. Her arms tightened around his back, and he enfolded her gently against his chest, this woman who loved his daughter as fiercely as he ever could. She felt so light in his arms, small despite her strength.
“That’s something else we have in common,” he whispered into the soft curls of her hair. “Remember the letters we wrote? We discovered we had more and more in common with each letter?”
“I remember.”
“Our mothers had the same pattern of dishes.” He started.
“We both broke our right leg when we were young.” Laughter softened her mouth. “I was six. You were... ten.”
“Yes.” His heart squeezed. He could no longer hide from life, yet he’d been afraid to live. Well, not anymore. “Come sit with me.”
“Downstairs?”
“No. Here.” He held out his hand.
His gentle hands.
Libby trembled as she lifted her palm. His fingers caught hers, easing her toward him. Heavens, she couldn’t breathe. He sat down on the bed, pulling her down beside him so close her thigh brushed his.
Libby had never known such powerful feelings. She’d been terrified of the storm, terrified of losing Emma. Now in the webby light from the kitchen below, she could see the same realization in Jacob’s eyes. He was scared, too.
“I swore I’d never be like this again with a woman,” he whispered, “if you will have me.”
Her throat closed. She wanted him, even though she knew better than to want him.
“You aren’t saying anything. I guess I—” Jacob bowed his chin. “Forgive me, I’m exhausted, I’m shaking with emotion. I—”
“I don’t want to mistake human need for love.” She’d been lonely, needy, so hungry for affection, she’d been blind once before. But not this time.
“There is no mist
ake,” he said.
His gaze caught hers, and Libby saw the weight of his need, the size of his heart. Lying with Jacob could never be a mistake. To feel his strong yet gentle hands on her body, to know the weight of him inside her. That would be heaven.
Jacob’s eyes darkened. He reached out and unbuttoned her long johns with stiff, quick movements.
He needed her. And she needed him.
She stood when the shirt fell open and she slipped the garment over her shoulders, down over her full breasts and her thickening waist By the time the fabric puddled at her ankles, Libby’s heart beat too fast to speak.
She stood before him naked in the faint light. She hoped he couldn’t see her tears. They blurred her vision and she felt helpless to stop them. She waited while he removed his shirt and stepped out of his trousers. He stood naked before her, unashamed of his body and its proud, full shaft.
She warmed shamefully. How she wanted him.
Jacob took her hand, laying her gently on the bed. A softness burned in his eyes, an affection she couldn’t believe in. He eased beside her.
“Can I take down your hair?” His whispered words sounded rough and strained. Full of need.
“Yes.”
His hot, hard body pressed against hers while he ran his fingers through the braids, loosening the long silken length of her hair. He felt so good, so gentle. Libby pressed her face into his shoulder, holding back her heart.
Chapter Thirteen
She wanted him. She didn’t deserve him, couldn’t have him. And if nothing else, if he hated her afterward, then at least she had this: tender love with a real, gentle man.
“You don’t know how I’ve been wanting you,” he whispered once her hair spilled free down her back.
Libby could feel the hard pulse of his shaft against her pelvis, mysterious and throbbing with his life. “Ever since you kissed me that first time,” she answered.
