belly where their child might take root and grow, and open her thighs to welcome him into her.
“I’ve got to make a trip into town in the morning.” It was hard to hide his desire for her, but he did it. Veiled it behind talk of the everyday and the ordinary.
“I’ll be gone early and back after noon. It might be too long a trip for you. Give me a list and I’ll buy whatever you want.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I have feed to pick up. I’ve got winter supplies to put up for the horses. Molasses, grain, see about getting more hay and straw delivered. It’s going to be a hard winter by the looks of things.”
“The early snow?”
“That and the wildlife. Prairie dogs and beaver and waterfowl have all dug in or built thicker nests this year. They have a way of knowing things.”
“Did you learn that from your grandfather?”
“Yes. I learned many things. He was a great man.”
“You mourn him still.”
“Always.” The brush stilled in mid-stroke.
Katelyn wondered what it would have been like to have family ties, the kind that sheltered and endured, that made you stronger instead of tearing you down. And then she realized she
It had been her father’s steadfast affection, protective and decent, that had been everything to her once. And the knowledge of it, although the relationship had been a different one, made her believe now. Made her believe in the man seated beside her, with a fierce passionate love blazing in his eyes, trembling through him.
Dillon set aside the brush and caressed the line of her jaw with his knuckle. “You’re sad.”
“I’m thinking of my father.” Even though his touch was an unbreakable promise of love, it was hard to open up her heart like a room and let someone in. To trust someone, even a man like Dillon, with all of her, all of who she was.
She
“Are you ready for bed?” he asked in an intimate drawl.
She nodded, unable to speak, feeling the tide of emotion well up inside her again, from him to her, lifting her up, threatening to carry her away.
Without a word, he lifted the afghan from her lap, leaving her in the nightgown he’d bought for her. She felt oddly naked, as if the soft fleece was no covering, no protection from his eyes, which had already seen her without clothes. He folded down the thick blankets and the top sheet, arranged the pillows as she slipped her feet under the covers and relaxed.
He rose up over her, his arms enfolded her and his kiss was perfection. The warm velvet brand of his lips against hers made her arms lift and her hands curl around his solid shoulders. The sweep of his tongue was a deeper, intimate caress that made her want to surrender. Made the defenses covering her heart, like water on snow, break apart in slow, painful eddies.
“Sleep well, my wife.” He touched his forehead to hers. Tender love flowed from him, a powerful, unseen current that touched her deep inside.
He drew the covers to her chin, turned down the lamp and as the flame died on the wick, the last image on his face remained. Like a bronzed statue of a man as tough as the earth, as loyal as the sun, and as tender as morning. His love was a steady glow that did not fade in the dark as he closed the door behind him. His step faded in the stairwell and was no more.
Alone, in the darkness and silence, she was comforted. Loved. Her body achingly alive, thrummed with want for only one exceptional man.
How could she be so fortunate? What could she ever have done to deserve Dillon? The darkness gave no answer. Nor did the night as she crawled out of bed and sat by the window. Snow fell like shining crystal in the faint light of a dwindling moon. Storm clouds battled and won, hiding the moon, leaving only snow and wind and midnight bleakness.
She remembered all the nights she’d sat alone at the window, as a judge’s wife, full of hope as the babe within her grew. And later, at her stepfather’s ranch, watching the night and feeling as if she’d been the one to die. And now this, this strange awakening to love and happiness.
When she had given up all hope, when she had lost everything that mattered, fate had smiled on her. Why had she been given the chance to love this incredible man? How rare, to have any man love her, a barren woman, who could never birth a son. And rarer still to have a man so exceptional to love and hold close for the rest of her days.
It was too good to be true. Far too good. Would this happiness with Dillon last? Could it grow into a lifelong gift?
How could she be that lucky? Afraid to hold on, and afraid not to, she watched the snow fall and the storm end and slept only when the promise of dawn came to the plains.
Was that Dillon? Katelyn heard the clop of steel horseshoes echoing faintly, muffled by the thick log walls, and put aside her knitting. She’d missed him. His presence, his lopsided, bashful grin and the ring of his gait through the house.
She was halfway to the door when she saw the bay mare and the woman holding the reins beneath the shelter of a fringed surrey. A neighbor, maybe? Or someone Dillon had sent from town? He’d mentioned hiring the laundry out.
But the woman who stepped down from the expensive surrey didn’t look like a laundry woman. She was dressed in a simple calico, but there was a noble air about her, not arrogant, but good.
The woman’s smile was direct and friendly the moment their gazes met. “Hello, Mrs. Hennessey.”
Goodness, that was the first time she’d been called by her new married name and it felt right, like a key into the lock it was made to turn. She was now Katelyn Hennessey, the horseman’s wife.
The slim, light-haired woman lifted a large basket off the floorboards, where it had been safe from wind and cold and in danger of sliding out of the vehicle.
There was something about that basket. There was a glimpse of blue flannel as she hefted it carefully into her arms. “I’m Mariah Gray. I live on the neighboring ranch. Our husbands are friends. I was the one who brought the supper basket by the other night. Congratulations on your marriage.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you. Please, come in.” The wind was cold, but the fire snapped merrily in the stone hearth, and Katelyn felt proud of this home, finely made but not fancy. “I’m-”
A small whimper sounded from inside the basket. Mrs. Gray eased back the flannel and looked lovingly down at the small round face cradled there, puckering up in preparation of a good hard cry.
The baby was so small it couldn’t be more than a month old. Maybe two. A beautiful blue-eyed little boy who raised his fists swathed in flannel to keep them warm and cried again.
“This is Jeremy, who apparently is unhappy that I didn’t introduce him first.” Mrs. Gray gave an apologetic shrug before she rocked the basket gently to settle the infant.
“Riding in the surrey usually puts him right to sleep, and he stays that way, but no, not today when I was hoping he’d sleep for a good long spell, so I could get to know you.” The woman’s good-natured words were filled with love for her child.
Katelyn held the door wide, holding her emotions very still, sternly keeping all memories locked away. “Please, come in where it’s warm. I’m so glad you came. I wanted to thank you for the delicious meal you made for us. And the chocolate cake was the best I’ve ever tasted.”
“Why, thank you, I’d be happy to share the recipe.”
“Would you like to stay? I’ll make tea.”
“I’d like that.”
Katelyn hung her visitor’s wraps by the mantel to warm them and then led the way to the kitchen, where the teakettle gave a low-noted whistle while it simmered.
