The Horseman

eyelids fluttered shut. The dark stubble of a day’s growth shadowed the steely line of his jaw. How long had he been here, watching over her? How long would he stay?

The pain didn’t disappear, but she felt oddly weightless as she lay on the soft cotton sheets. So tired. Endlessly tired. The pain was a fist in her low abdomen. She knew if she let go, let sleep claim her, she would no longer be aware of what hurt her.

She opened her eyes, one last time, as the cloth edged along her jaw and circled her chin. He took the cloth away. He did not speak as their gazes locked. Like thunder crashing through the sky, vibrating the ground at her feet, that’s how it felt. Awareness bolted through her like lightning and every inch of her skin tingled as he moved away.

She’s mine, he’d said. It felt as if he was saying it now, again, without words. His stare was intense, possessive. The air crackled, the flames leaped, a pop in the fireplace couldn’t stop the way he bent over her. Or the heat of his kiss to her brow. Heartfelt. Tender. True.

A brand on her flesh that remained as he opened his book with a creak of the leather binding and found his page with a rustle of pages.

A shank of dark hair tumbled over his high, intelligent brow as he leaned over the book, intent on the words printed there. Her chest tightened, and not from exhaustion or pain or from the medicine that pulled her down into sleep. Listening to his baritone rise and fall as he read, Dillon Hennessey made her ache the way a winter’s night longed for the dawn.

Only one man in her life had read to her while she was ill in bed. One other man, who’d stood as tall as the sky, and forthright as a warrior of old, just and right and stronger for the gentleness he’d shown her.

Katelyn wondered, although she could not dare to hope. Was Dillon Hennessey such a man as her father had been?

“You should go now, Mr. Hennessey.” Mrs. Miller set her knitting aside and rose from her place by the fire. “It’s nearly midnight. You need your rest as well.”

“That’s a polite way of saying a man shouldn’t be in a lady’s room. I’m not fooled.” He closed the book, set it safely on the edge of the night table. It was time to stretch his legs but not to leave.

“It’s only proper.”

“I don’t give a damn about proper. Only her.”

“Think of her reputation, then.” Mrs. Miller narrowed her eyes at him, crossed her arms around her middle and planted her feet, as if prepared for battle.

She’d best prepare to lose, because he refused to leave.

He unfolded from his position on the small, uncomfortable chair. His left ankle cracked and his right knee popped. His low back pinched tight in protest. It was hell being thirty, and he figured this was only the start of things to come. He’d broken more bones than he cared to admit over the years. Training other men’s horses meant dealing with troubled horses. Even the best horseman wound up ass down on the ground now and again.

Which brought his thoughts right around to Katelyn.

Maybe it was time for a change. He’d always been a determined man, independent, finding his own way through life. It was tough knowing his future wasn’t entirely up to him anymore. Would she have him?

He doubted it. But it was a hope that lingered, that gave him the fortitude to pour a glass of water from the pitcher Mrs. Miller had brought up fresh an hour ago. Gave him resolve as he turned up the wick as the night deepened, ignored the innkeeper’s caustic comments and reclaimed the narrow, wicked chair that made his back hurt.

Bending over the book, he thumbed through the pages and found his place. Took a sip of cool water, let it ease the scratchiness of his throat before he continued reading.

The windowpanes rattled with the sudden force of a mean wind. The lamplight flickered, sputtering out. A new blizzard howled along the edges of the eaves and the corners of the room. Dillon lit a match and held it to the wick until the flame caught. A new storm had arrived, but it didn’t trouble him.

He had everything that mattered.

The wind was howling. A lonely, weeping sound that made her feel as if she wasn’t alone in her misery. The wedding ring flashed in the faceted light from the crystal chandelier. Brett was angry again; she could hear the clank of the decanter. He mumbled to himself, his words indistinct from the butler’s pantry in the back hallway, but his tone was unmistakable.

She’d failed him again. There was nothing she could do but brace herself, wrap her arms around her swollen stomach and try to figure what to say to calm him.

There was no calming him tonight. His face, red with anger, flashed in front of her. He was standing in the parlor now, throwing his empty snifter. Angry. So angry.

She told him how sorry she was. She hadn’t considered how it would look, going out on the board-walk in her condition. She would not do it again.

His face twisted. She’d said the wrong thing. What else did he want from her? What would cool his temper? The flat of his palm connected with the right side of her jaw, knocking her over the arm of the chair.

It wasn’t decent, going out like that. His fist shot out. Pain exploded in her cheekbone. Angry words. More blows. Until she was on her side, curled around the child she carried, feeling the blood rushing out of her body. Her baby! The first clench of a contraction made her scream.

“Katelyn.” Big hands curled around her forearms, holding her up, holding her.

Trapping her? The wind howled in agony, and a fire snapped and crackled as her scream faded. A huge man towered over her, his grip sustaining not imprisoning.

“It’s the laudanum. You had a nightmare, that’s all. You’re safe.”

Her vision cleared. Dillon Hennessey, his face craggy and lined with exhaustion, helped her back onto the pillows. His eyes glowed with a strange fire, and a muscle bunched and jumped along his clenched jaw.

The emotion of the dream lingered, and something dropped onto her hand. Something wet and warm. Her tears.

“The poor dear,” came Mrs. Miller’s voice, sounding distant from the far side of the room. “Is she all right?”

“A dream, go back to sleep. I’m taking care of her.” Most men would have sounded controlling with that authoritative, booming voice, but he sounded in charge.

As if she could place her trust in him.

She didn’t want to trust him. Not any man. Ever again.

“I reckon you might want a cup of tea? I think it’s still warm.”

“No, thank you.” She couldn’t say what she needed.

As if he understood, he eased onto the bed beside her. The mattress dipped with his weight and the bed ropes creaked in complaint. His solid thigh settled against her ribs.

The contact was oddly comforting. It was wrong, she knew. She didn’t want to need him, but she hurt so much in so many ways. Wanting to be comforted, just a little, wasn’t wrong. Was it?

The bed jostled as he leaned to retrieve his book from the floor where it must have fallen. She felt pain when the mattress moved again as he straightened, the volume safe in his wide-knuckled hand. Such capable hands.

“Do you want me to read to you?”

Her throat ached, and she shook her head.

“Okay, then. What do you want? Name it. I’ll get it.”

She closed her eyes, afraid to reach out. What did she want? It burned in her soul, a need she didn’t understand. Her fingers crept toward his.

Suddenly he lifted her hand, settled it on his knee and twined his fingers through hers. He held her the way an anchor secured a boat at sea, unshakable.

“Go to sleep, Katelyn. It’s all right. I’ll be here.”

When she awoke, hours later, the dawn was dark as the night while the blizzard raged. Hennessey drowsed, sitting up, his fingers tight around hers. Holding her. Holding on.

She was holding on, too.