The Horseman

As for the parlor, something softer. Lace maybe. She could crochet it herself. She had some small talent with a crochet hook. And her grandmother’s pattern for garden-leaf lace that would complement the log walls perfectly.

“…I don’t know if I know you anymore, brother,” Dakota was saying, his deep gruff baritone barely audible as she hesitated at the threshold.

Maybe she’d stay here and give the brothers time to talk. Her book was on the worktable. She turned around and heard the next snippet of conversation.

“…next thing I know, you’ll have yourself a passel of children running around this place…”

Oh, Dillon’s brother didn’t know. Why would he? Being barren wasn’t something a person advertised in the weekly edition of the town’s newspaper. It was a private sorrow.

“That’s my hope, brother.” Dillon’s answer, his words solid and sure.

He doesn’t know? The blood rushed from her head, and the house tilted sharp and swift. She grabbed the wall for support, the light draining from her vision. She slid down the wall until she sat on the floor.

Breathe. If only she could breathe, she’d be fine.

She couldn’t get air. Her chest clamped tight and she was drowning. Gasping, fighting to breathe. Dillon didn’t know. He didn’t know.

How had that happened? Surely the doctor had told him. Surely the gossips on her stepfather’s ranch had told him. She couldn’t remember if she had. She couldn’t remember actually saying the words to him…

She hadn’t. It was true. She’d never told him that by marrying her, he would be childless, too.

There would be no sons. No daughters. No babies to cuddle close on a cold winter’s night. No children running around the yard, laughter like music in the air.

He had wed her believing they could have a normal life together. A family life and all the happiness and trials that came with it.

He wanted children. She’d heard the tone in his voice. The certainty of it. The desire.

No decent man will have her. Her stepfather’s voice haunted her like a ghost in the corner, rising up with the shadows as the lamp sputtered on the table, dancing a slow writhing death.

You’re useless to me. Brett’s words. Brett’s disdain. If you can’t give me a son, what good are you?

Air squeaked into her throat and she coughed. What if that is what Dillon would think, too? Not again, no. She couldn’t go through that again. She couldn’t endure being shunned and put aside, not as good as other women who could bear their husbands a son.

Dillon wouldn’t do that to her, would he? He wouldn’t make her feel useless and worthless for something that wasn’t her fault, would he? No, he wouldn’t.

He wanted children. Sons and daughters. Their bedroom was not the only one in the house. There were empty rooms, echoing and lonely, waiting for children to play in them, laugh in them, sleep in them.

Dillon had built this house with his own hands. And in it, he’d kept his dreams. Dreams for a loving wife and their children together.

How did she tell him? How did she say the words that would destroy his hopes? That would change the radiant love that sparkled inside him-all that love, just for her. She couldn’t watch that love fade and wither.

There were plenty of women who could give him what he wanted. Why would Dillon want her?

The lamp on the table gave one last sputter, and the one ray of light died silently, sadly, leaving only darkness.

Katelyn climbed to her feet, kept to the shadows and crept up the stairs. Dillon’s laughter rumbled through the wood flooring. There was a faint clinking sound from the kitchen, as if he’d poured the coffee himself.

The coffee. She’d forgotten her promise to bring cups in to them in the living room, to enjoy with their cigars and conversation. It was a small oversight, but tonight it felt like the worst of failures.

Well, not the worst. She kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed. She swore her womb hurt from sorrow. Her heart, her soul, bled with it as she drew the covers over her head. There were no tears. Her grief was greater than that. There would be no end to this sadness.

No healing from this loss.

“Katelyn?” Dillon’s step outside the door. His concern as he ambled into the room.

She didn’t move. Maybe if she stayed very still, the truth would somehow change. Fate could not be this cruel, she decided, as to give her the perfect love, a rare and singular man to love, only to snatch it away.

And leave her more broken than before.

Yes, fate could. She felt her husband’s hand stroke her forehead.

“Are you tired?” he asked. “Well, then you sleep, my precious wife.”

His step was halting as he left. The door whispered nearly closed, then paused, open. There were no footsteps marching away. Was he watching her?

Then the knob clicked into place and she was alone.

As she was meant to be.

Chapter Seventeen

“Katelyn?” The hour was late, for the faint ring from the downstairs clock had sounded once through the floorboards while she’d tried to sleep and couldn’t. He smelled of cigar and wood smoke and a faint hint of whiskey as he eased beneath the covers. The ropes groaned as he leaned over her, watching her.

His kiss on her brow was heaven.

I don’t deserve you, Dillon. She squeezed her eyes shut. Fisted her heart. Shuttered her soul. He was faithful and loving. He was an incredible husband. Never once had he treated her poorly, neglected her, devalued her or in any way belittled her.

No, he’d been honorable and devoted and giving. He loved her with his whole heart, as he had vowed to do when he had placed his ring on her finger, when he’d made her his wife. He was a man of his word.

But he hadn’t known the truth when he’d made those promises. When he’d said his wedding vows.

The sheets rustled as his hand curved over the crown of her head and stroked, lightly, so he wouldn’t wake her.

He believed she was asleep.

“I love you so very much, my angel.”

I love you, too.

The plump feather pillows whispered as he laid his head to rest. The ropes groaned as his weight settled in the feather tick. He gave the covers a yank and they snapped over his head. His breathing slowed. His body relaxed.

How was she ever going to find it in her heart to tell him?

She eased onto her stomach and folded the top edge of the sheet back. Although it was dark, her eyes had adjusted to the shades of black in the room, and she could make out the darker black of his hair scattered over his high brow and the hollow of his closed eyes and the rise of his nose. The cut of his chin as he breathed in and out, lost in sleep.

He was extraordinary. A magnificent man. One that would always be hers. Or, so she had believed.

I’m going to lose him. What would she do then? He was her entire heart. How could she live without her heart?

Pain left her dizzy and weak and she sank into her pillows, burying her face. The soft feather pillow cupped her face, but it did nothing to stop the images in her head. The image of Dillon cradling Mariah Gray’s baby in his arms and his desire for one of his own naked in his twinkling eyes.

The image of his hand curving over her low abdomen, above her surgical scar, over her womb. Had he placed his hand there while cradling her close in the kitchen and wished one day that was where his son would grow?

She remembered the town doctor’s sadness when he had told her the truth that day she’d lost her baby.