by Lisa Norato
“I’ve let pride override everything else I’ve been f-f-f-feeling. Most especially my f-feelings for you. Truth is, I oughtn’t to have let anything stand in the w-way of being a friend to you. More’n a friend. I ask your ppp-pardon.”
“What?!”
Rain battered his naked head. It flattened his hair and streamed down his cheeks. A busted talk box did not allow for easy expression of what was inside his heart, but to finally voice those feelings, only to have the wind carry them away seemed a raw deal.
She gazed at him from beneath the hat brim and scowled. “You’re choosing now, in the middle of a lightning storm, after narrowly having escaped a stampede, to start opening up?”
“Did you hear me just now or not?” he shot back, a gruff edge to his voice.
And then she smiled, a dainty curl of her lips that set her eyes to twinkling. “I guess I caught the gist of it, but you know what?” she shouted over the elements. “None of that matters anymore. It’s okay. I’m just glad it’s you here with me. Now, is there someplace we can find shelter from this storm?”
“You bet.” Ruckert returned her smile with one that split his face like a greener schoolboy nursing his first Cupid’s cramp.
He knew precisely where to bring Shelby. The Flying Eagle had line camps posted every eight to ten miles along its border.
He urged the horses onward, and they traveled northeast at a gentle lope for another six miles across a flat tableland. In due time, they arrived at a deserted line shack.
No more than a one-room log cabin, shaded by a stand of tall pines, Ruckert knew the place well. He rode the horses into its adjoining corral and dismounted to tend to Shelby. Half-conscious and overcome with exhaustion, she slid from the saddle to collapse in his arms.
He carried her to the cabin, kicked open the door and strode inside. Sheltered from the elements at last, he stared into the dark interior, listening to the sound of rainwater drip from their bodies onto the floor.
Eyes closed, Shelby nestled her face against his shoulder, knocking the hat off her head. She released a soft, contented sigh and Ruckert bent his head, pressing his cool lips to her damp brow.
He never imagined a day he’d bring anyone to this place, much less a woman.
He’d come here often growing up. For weeks at a time. Just him and the stars and the wind and wild horses.
With horses he suffered no imperfections. Horses communicated without speech, in a language where words counted for nothing. They spoke with their bodies and listened with their senses. With horses Ruckert had no trouble making himself understood.
If only he could say the same for this little calico in his arms.
And now that Shelby was safe, and Ruckert found himself alone with her, he could not resist his musings. In the barn that day, she’d accused him of being too blind to see her true feelings for him. Could they be anything like what he felt for her?
He reckoned she wouldn’t have got bothered so much of the time if she were indifferent to him. She wouldn’t have cared whether he conversed with her or not. And surely, she would not have let him kiss her.
In fact, there were times when she’d study him with those narrow, mysterious eyes in a way he swore she could sense his desire for her. From that night on the stairs, the vision of her pale limbs and red-painted toenails had been a constant visitor to his dreams. Even in sleep, she stirred him to his depths. She had the blood stampeding through his veins faster than those cattle they’d left behind.
Ruckert abruptly refocused his thoughts. Enough ruminating. He needed to work fast to get her warm and dry.
Shoving the door closed behind him, he carried Shelby to the small iron bed opposite the cabin’s potbelly stove. He tugged off his riding gloves and stripped Shelby of the oilskin. One by one, he pulled off her boots, casting them aside in the darkness.
Straightening, he moved to the cookstove and lifted its single lid, scraping the gray ashes before adding kindling and wood. He lit the fire, and as the tinder caught and crackled, then sparked to flame, he took stock of their shelter in its dim, glowing light.
His gaze found the rough pine table and two straight-backed chairs with cowhide seats. Upon the table sat a single kerosene lamp set in a green iron bracket. Combing the wet hair off his brow, he shook out the rain and ambled over to light the wick. The room illuminated further. There was the old black coffee pot, an iron skillet, a water bucket, fuel for the cookstove.
Wooden boxes nailed to the walls served as crude shelving, but were well stocked with supplies he’d delivered himself little more than a week ago. At the time, he’d ruminated about whether he shouldn’t just hole up here the three weeks of Cookie’s niece’s stay. Of course, the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d abandoned that thought.
Ruckert went to her. She lay curled on top of the musty blankets, cold and trembling in sleep. He squatted by the small bed and gently shook her shoulder. “Shelby, w-ake up. You’ve got to get yourself out of them wet clothes.”
Her lids fluttered as she attempted to open her eyes, but she couldn’t seem to shake the weariness dragging her down. She moaned. Her eyes never opened.
The iron bed groaned as Ruckert pressed a knee onto the mattress and sat her upright, then held her in place against the log wall.
He gave her a small shake, hoping to rouse her, and raised the volume of his voice. “I’ve a f-f-ire started in the st-st-sto—” He stalled, his bottom lip struggling to connect with his upper teeth to produce the “v” and release the word “stove.” For time’s sake, he moved on. “The cabin will commence to warm shortly. I’m going to step out-s-s-s . . . outdoors now and s-see to the horses. While I’m gone I need you t-t-t-t-t. . . .”
To get out of them wet clothes and wrap yourself in these blankets. The words sat on his tongue waiting to be uttered, yet he couldn’t release them. Seconds ticked by. He strained, determined to break the block, his frustration escalating.
He pounded the wall with his fist. It was his head he felt like banging.
Shelby didn’t stir. Her head slumped to one shoulder.
Ruckert shook his head and reached for the waistband of her tight denim trousers. As he loosed the top button, his knuckles grazed the smooth skin of her belly. The simple contact stimulated every nerve ending in his body, but he continued, and found, not another button, but a woven metal strip sewn down the front of her trousers, the likes of which he had never seen before.
He admitted he was stumped. In due time, he figured that if he fiddled with its small metal tab, pulling downward, that darned contraption fell open up like a ribbed seam.
Let her try and explain this, he mused. From there he had a heck of a time inching them wet trousers down her legs, and through it all, he got an eyeful of her long limbs. She wore no hose, only socks he recognized as belonging to Wylie. They were the only dry articles on her person.
And that wasn’t his biggest surprise. Her bottom was clothed in nothing more than some sort of legless drawers that just about covered her privates. They weren’t wool or muslin, as was common. They didn’t follow to any general rule of plainness, but were fashioned in a soft fabric of peach-colored lace.
And despite the fact he’d been soaked though by a driving rain and now stood in a cold, damp cabin, he broke a sweat.
For a woman with no respect for fashion, Shelby McCoy could set a man’s blood on fire in her peculiar choice of duds.
Ruckert fought to keep his mind pure, but already his imagination was running rampant. His conscience warned him he oughtn’t to be taking such liberties, spying on Shelby in a state of undress when she couldn’t defend her modesty, that the reason she slept so soundly was because she felt safe with him, yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
She moaned, soft and faint.
He reckoned he should step outside, where the cold rain could pour down over his head and cool his carnal thoughts, but he couldn’t leave her in those wet clothes all night without risking she’d fall ill
by morning.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he unbuttoned her white shirt, which was so drenched as to be transparent.
She wore a small, odd-shaped corset beneath. Its peach color matched her legless drawers and seemed to flaunt her bosoms rather than conceal them. Her naked beauty astounded him, and his throat went dry in a way that had nothing to do with a speech defect.
Holding her from the wall, he peeled the wet shirt from her shoulders and off her arms. Then he laid her across the mattress, and for his sake as much as hers, covered her with a blanket.
Chapter Sixteen
Shelby lay in an unfamiliar bed, resisting consciousness, and yet consciousness came just the same. Along with it, a total body ache that reached deep into her bones. As she stirred, muscles she didn’t even know existed cramped and knotted.
Rain battered the roof, wind howled through the trees and rattled the window, but the air surrounding her carried the comforting scents of pine, wood smoke and fresh-brewed coffee.
Shelby opened her eyes and found herself squinting at the lower half of an iron bedstead until its chipped white paint came into focus.
Her gaze skimmed along the floor to the pointed, muddied toes of a pair of black riding boots. She nearly had a fright, until her sleep-clogged brain recognized those spur chains, and the memory of her brush with death returned.
Shelby relaxed back onto her pillow. Ruckert was seated at her bedside, leaning forward on his knees in a weary slump. His dark, hatless head hung between his shoulders, and in his large, strong hands, he cupped a tin mug.
“Hi,” she croaked, her throat dry.
His head jerked up and he straightened, guiltily blinking the sleep from his eyes. He scraped a palm across his rough, shadowed jaw, and as he fixated on her, one corner of his thick black mustache crooked up in a lazy smile. His intense, sage-green eyes shone with pleasure.
“Howdy,” he greeted in his rich, deep drawl. “I figured you for sleeping through the n-night.”
She lifted her head off the pillow. “How long was I out?” she asked.
“A couple hours. How do you feel?”
“Tired.”
“And sore, I reckon.” He gestured with the tin cup. “C-care for sssome cof-fee? It’s hot.”
“Coffee sounds great, thanks.”
She watched as he unfolded his long legs from the chair and strode to a small wood-burning stove by the door, soothed by the musical jingle-jangle of his spurs.
Draped over a second chair were her clothes. Vaguely, she recalled Ruckert trying to remove her wet outerwear. It was the last thing she remembered before falling headlong into the sleep of the dead.
But she was awake now. And feeling warm and cozy beneath her blanket.
This morning she couldn’t have felt more alienated from Ruckert, and now, here they were. Together.
Holding the blanket before her, she raised herself to a seated position as Ruckert returned to her side with a steaming cup. As she reached for it, Shelby glanced up to meet his gaze. An electrical current charged the night that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.
She wrapped both hands around the cup. Warmth spread from her fingers to the rest of her body, and she breathed deeply of the strong coffee aroma. “Thank you.”
Ruckert resumed his seat at her bedside. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m not referring to the coffee. You saved my life. I thought we’d left you back at the ranch. Then, from out of nowhere, there you are. Hoss Man to the rescue like a scene from The Lone Ranger. Not that I’m, er, old enough to have watched The Lone Ranger. Not even close. But I’ve heard stories.”
He regarded her with a puzzled scowl. “L-L-Lone R-Ranger? That’s as much a mystery to me as them legless dr-dr-drawers and plumb near everything else about you.”
He gave her a sultry look from beneath his thick black lashes then had to clear his throat before continuing. “But as for your qu-qu-question, I-I-I-I—” He stalled, struggling with the effort to push onward. “I have been on your trail since morning, keeping watch over you f-from a d-d-distance.”
“Ah, that would explain Wylie.”
“I asked my brothers to k-k-keep silent. You may have fooled my ffff-olks, but it’s plain to me you weren’t raised to a ranching way of life. I told you I would make it a point to get answers out of you, but the truth is, I don’t give a rap why or how you came to the Flying Eagle. I’m just thankful you did. Despite your eccentricities—or maybe because of them—I find myself drawn to you. Have been from the st-start. There can only be one word for what I feel inside, and it grows stronger day by day. I l-l-l-l-ove, you, Shelby McCoy.”
Now it was Shelby, ironically, who had difficulty speaking.
Love. She hadn’t been expecting that.
Love, wow, could that be what was happening to her? Was that why her emotions were always in a jumble where Ruckert was concerned? Had she fallen in love herself?
After years of searching for love, had she found it in the past, in an age other than her own? This wasn’t the way life was supposed to work out. This was crazy. Nuts! She couldn’t let this happen. As if she could turn off or even slow down her feelings for Ruckert.
Did she even want to?
Could she expose her fragile heart yet again? To a man much younger than herself? A man from another world, another time? She was caught in the impossible. She had stepped back in time. Was it real? What did destiny have in store for them? Could they stay together? Or would time reverse again to separate them? Was she trembling with passion or was this terror she felt?
Love is a risk only brave people take, a dark, handsome cowboy once told her in a dream. Maybe his message was true. Maybe she was afraid to love. Maybe her challenge all along lay not in her search for someone to love, but in her willingness to surrender to that someone.
Ruckert.
That was Nana Tinkler’s hard-learned lesson. Her reason for being here. In this time. Ruckert. He was that someone.
And he was here, not a dream but real. Her heart was full with love for him. His nearness soothed her soul. Two lonely people need not be lonely any longer.
Her thoughts whirled, but faced with her silence, Ruckert rose off his seat. “I’ll go wait outside.”
“What? In this storm? No! You don’t save a woman from danger, bring her to a secluded cabin in the woods, profess your love and then bolt.” Wrapped in her scratchy blanket of musty wool, Shelby squeezed to one side and patted the lumpy mattress beside her.
Ruckert’s eyes narrowed and simmered. He held back, embroiled in some inner struggle.
“I am not some rounder who’d take advantage of a woman. You’ve had a bad sc-sc-scare and don’t realize what it is you’re inviting.”
Shelby cocked a slim brow. “Oh, don’t I? Have I ever given you the impression I was naive? You’re just as vulnerable as I am of catching a chill in those wet clothes. You know, I hear the best technique for surviving a cold night in the wilderness is sharing body warmth.”
“What a s-sassy mouth on you!”
“How’d you like to kiss it?”
That seemed to close the deal. Desire exploded in his eyes, and Shelby could literally see Ruckert’s resistance drain to the floor.
“You taunt me with your scandalous talk. Serve you right if I did,” he growled in that bass voice.
“Then serve me right,” she enticed.
Well over six feet of rangy, rugged Hoss Man dropped his weight on the edge of her small bed. The mattress protested noisily and dipped beneath him, setting Shelby somewhat off balance. Slipping an arm behind her, Ruckert leaned forward and took her lips with no more warning than a tickle from his thick, black mustache.
It was a ravenous kiss. A little overwhelming on impact, but the moment Shelby contributed her own suppressed longing to the mix, they moved in sync with an endless succession of kisses that grew sinfully slow and deep.
She wrenched her arms free and slipped them behind Ruckert’s nec
k. She ran her fingers through his damp curls and caressed the back of his head. To think, days wasted bickering, suspicious, spewing sarcasm at each other. Discord when there could have been . . . this.
Ruckert withdrew his lips and rested his forehead upon hers. “Now . . . see . . . what . . . you’ve . . . d-done,” he rasped, husky and breathless, each word followed by another tender, clinging kiss. Affectionate smooches, each one more delicate and fragile than the next, building a sensation and pleasure in Shelby that was so exquisite, so acute, she wanted to cry.
Outside the storm raged. Rain battered the cabin. Thunder rumbled down from the mountain ranges and shook the skies with a flash of lightning. The room illuminated and for a brief instant, Shelby saw on Ruckert’s face what she’d been looking for all her life. Love. Tears glistened in his eyes, and she cupped his bristly cheek, touched by how difficult it must’ve been for him to share his feelings, his heart, hoping for acceptance, stutter and all.
Lids closing heavily, he leaned forward and answered her with a kiss.
When, at last, they came up for air, Shelby stared into Ruckert’s eyes and asked on a shaky breath, “Where are we exactly?”
His gaze roamed her face adoringly. He swept the hair off her brow with a brush of his fingertips. “An old line c-camp along the rrr-rangeland’s border.”
“And what about your brothers? Will they come looking for us?”
“They won’t follow, no. My brothers know I have been watching over you . . . your protector. It’s their business to tend the herd. In the same way I have made it my business to look out for you.”
He took her in his arms and no longer could she feel the time difference. It was all one—past, present and future—and what did it matter? There was only now. Only this moment. And at this moment, she felt everything was as it needed to be. She couldn’t help but wonder again if there wasn’t a song inside her and found herself itching to put her fingers to the keyboard to find out.
But not right now.
She felt Ruckert’s lips on her brow and, for the first time, wondered how she could have ever felt uncomfortable with his silences. For his was not a silence that shut her out, she realized, but one that drew her in, deeper and deeper into an intimate awareness of each other.
