Bluebonnet Inn. Were they that far north? She hadn’t thought to ask where the horseman was headed. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t her stepfather’s house. That was all that mattered to her. She was out. She was free.
Well, relatively free. The horseman groaned, moving his long legs, grown stiff from the bitter cold. He climbed out awkwardly, and the shield of snowfall snatched him from her sight.
She had to figure out how to move, too. She felt frozen solid. Could she bend her knees? She tried with some success. Pain streaked through her knotted muscles, but she didn’t let that stop her. She was going to get inside and buy a cup of hot, steaming coffee and drink it until she was warm clear through. Surely she had enough coins in the bottom of her reticule to pay for that.
With a warm place to think and something in her stomach, she might be able to make a good decision on what to do next. And how to do it.
She climbed out of the sleigh and pushed to her feet. The wash of pain and weakness dropped her to her knees. Lord, she hurt deep in her belly. She placed her hands there, where she hurt the most, only to discover new pain. Every muscle in her body felt raw with fatigue. Every joint felt swollen. Her head spun. The ground tilted, the snow fell sideways.
She breathed deep and waited until the world went back to normal.
The six paces to the boardwalk in front of her felt like as many miles. Her knees were water. Tears stung her eyes as she fought to make each step. Weakness left her panting and dizzy. Too damn dizzy.
“Katelyn.” The horseman’s voice in her ear. His solid touch at her elbow.
Where had he come from? She turned toward him, saw the dark circles beneath his eyes and exhaustion evident in his face. Even then, he was handsome. Stalwart.
“You’re as weak as a kitten, darlin’,” he drawled deep as a low rumble of a warm kettle. The kind of deep, warm sound a woman could sink into like a steaming bath.
She felt herself sinking, and it was the last thing she ought to do. Even leaning on him now would lead to heartbreak. Hadn’t she learned that lesson enough times? She was strong. She could stand on her own feet. She could get up the steps to the boardwalk and into the inn. By herself. Without help from any man.
But he was there anyway, his hand braced around her waist to steady her. How nice it felt to lean on him just a little.
His fingers curled at her nape. His was a tender, strengthening touch. One that felt as welcome as spring’s first warm breeze to the frozen ground. A warmth that teased at dead leaves and hibernating roots.
And, like winter’s first glimpse of spring, she felt an allure that stirred deep in her soul.
His hot breath fanned her exposed earlobe. “Lean on me.”
How could she lean on any man? She was too weak to fight the flood of memories twisting together into a brief, quick punch of words and images. She remembered Brett’s cutting remarks, his slaps that were to teach her when a woman should speak. And when she shouldn’t.
She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling with memories and with the snow that clutched her ankles as if to hold her in place.
“Katelyn, you’re exhausted. Here, let me take care of you.”
“I’ve made that mistake before.”
“Letting a man take care of you? He couldn’t have been much of a man.” Dillon gathered her into his arms and carried her, cradled like a child against his broad, granite-hard chest.
When he walked, she felt the stretch and bunch of his muscles and the roll of his gait. The power of him broke through her, like a tide upon the shore.
She’d never felt so safe or so protected, as he leaned the underside of his chin on her brow. Tucked against him, breathing as he breathed, it was as if he filled her. Touched her deeply in some strange, new way.
The snow disappeared as he carried her beneath the awning. He wrestled with a doorknob before he swept her inside the warm, brightly lit inn that smelled of wood smoke and furniture polish. She recognized the echoing expansive feel of a hotel lobby, and that meant being alone with him in a bedroom. Fear sliced through her, keen as the winter’s cold, as she wondered what he was going to do. How was he going to treat her?
But his hold on her was strong, not possessive. He looked down at her with quiet intensity. His brows frowned in concern, his expression a strange, warm inquiry, the lines in his rugged face gentling.
“You’re cold, I know,” he murmured quietly. “All you need is some rest. You’ll be fine. All right?”
It was as if he knew her fears. And she hated it, and she appreciated it, and she couldn’t explain the two opposite emotions. She didn’t have the strength to protest as Dillon carried her up the stairs. His body moved against hers in an intimate rhythm that stirred up more emotions.
She felt so warm and safe, snug against his strength and power. A flickering sconce at the landing cast his rugged features as if in bronze, and as if he were more than flesh and blood, made of tougher stuff than muscle and bone.
He was a warrior, a protector, a myth made real just for her on this cold, dark night.
He kicked open a door and laid her in a bed of soft, sweet linen. Exhaustion pulled her into sleep like a weight at the end of a rope, falling, falling.
The last image she saw was of the horseman bending over her, his face a shadowed oval of concern and integrity, his finger’s brush to the curve of her cheekbone a tender awakening.
Katelyn dreamed of him, of the pain of the penetrating wind and then the brush of Dillon’s knuckles against the underside of her chin, the faintest graze of kindness.
She dreamed of being lost in the blinding storm and then of how he brazened into sight. Of how he carried her safe against his chest. Of his touch.
She could still feel his caress on the outer curve of her jawbone. An amazing featherlight caress against the side of her face.
When she opened her eyes, she realized it was the way the pillow was folded, with the stiff end pressed against her jaw.
Not his touch after all. Why was she disappointed?
Katelyn dared to move, and her body protested. But, instead of the mind-numbing pain from her abdomen, as she feared, there was only a sharp ache. Her muscles felt stiff and refused to stretch when she shoved the quilt from her chin.
Was she alone? She peered over the sheet. A meager gray light peeked around the sides of the drawn shades, revealing the curved back of a wing chair by a brick hearth. A dying fire rasped and whispered as the tired flames licked a remaining log tumbling in on itself. Casting a faint shadow through the far corner of the room.
Yes, she was alone. She’d almost expected to find him seated in the corner, watching over her while she slept. The image of him remained, engraved in her mind, his face above hers, and the tenderness in his eyes…or maybe she’d imagined it. She’d been half-asleep and dreaming before her eyes had closed.
Her shoes were on the hearth. Her coat and scarf draped over the chair back to dry. She remembered Hennessey’s hands, his touch. Was he near?
Why did she keep thinking about him? His voice rumbled through her mind like the bold edge of midnight, dark and all encompassing.
She tried lifting her head. Weakness left her breathing hard, a ragged sound in the peaceful room, so she sank into the pillows. Her head was spinning. She felt strangely thirsty. A dull ache low in her abdomen intensified, sending streaking pains down the center of her legs.
Was that his footstep in the hall? She froze, her heart waiting to beat as the glass knob turned slowly, carefully, and the door whispered open. Dillon eased through the door frame, his wide-shouldered stance made larger by the wooden tray he carried in both broad hands.
Chicken soup scented the air and the faint jangle of stoneware accompanied his hushed step. He lowered the tray to the small round table near the hearth, and the weak flames flickered a respectful glow across his feet.
He knelt with sure, masculine grace. He could have been a knight of old genuflecting in an ancient church. As
