Brook stood tentatively. Lance waited patiently at the door, but made no move to help her. He wanted to see how well her feet were healing by watching her walk. She stepped gingerly, but did better than he'd expected.
Brook shivered as the cold wind raced through the cabin, slicing through the heat from the roaring cook stove. She pulled her shirt tighter around her body and moved to his side.
“Look.” He turned her to face the open doorway and gently tilted her head slightly. The snowfall was in a temporary lull and the clouds had parted, revealing a large black patch of sky. Distant heavenly lights shone and flickered with cold brilliance against the inky blackness. Brook inhaled sharply at the sight.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. “There are so many stars. They look almost as if I could reach out and touch them with my fingers.”
“I think it’s because we’re closer to them up here on the mountain,” Lance said, a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s my own little piece of heaven. Some nights, in good weather, I take a blanket out, lie on the ground, and just look up into the starry space. During meteor showers it looks like fireworks in the sky.”
Brook shifted her attention to his profile; his strong jaw line covered with a soft dark beard, the wisp of black hair that curled just slightly in front of his ear, the lashes too long for a man, his straight even brow over mercurial brown eyes that could shift from passion to tenderness in a second. Something rolled inside her, a warm spreading sensation.
He felt her gaze and turned to face her. When their eyes met, she thought she perceived a glimmer that told her he, too, felt the connection. He placed a hand on her shoulder and Brook wondered if he planned to kiss her, but he only guided her back into the house and closed the door.
She shivered, wondering if she would have let him kiss her if he had tried. She didn’t know. She was confused and needed to decipher her feelings.
“You’d better get back in bed and cover up. It’s cold.” His voice was throaty, revealing that she was not the only one affected by their closeness. He eased an arm around her waist and helped her across the floor. She leaned against him and breathed in the clean scent of his skin. Her feet ached, but not as much as her heart. Tears threatened, but the reason for it was beyond her understanding .
Once Brook was restored to bed, Lance arranged the blankets over her. He appeared reluctant to meet her eyes, distant, although his body radiated warmth like a fever. He seemed to be struggling with his emotions; she could feel it and it made her feel sad, somehow.
Lance went to the kitchen and busied himself with trivial tasks as Brook relaxed into the mattress. She wanted to examine that moment, that wordless exchange at the door. Delicious warmth stole over her at the mere thought, followed quickly by a surge of guilt, and then sudden panic. How could she possibly feel affection for a man after what those men, those devils, did to her? And, what about Clark? She loved Clark. Didn’t she? She needed to redefine her feelings for her husband, too. There was something there. Something just beyond reach, some niggling thought that she needed to remember. But it was slippery right now. Her thoughts moved to her attackers.
Brook fought against remembering those life-altering days. Three days, and her life was irrefutably changed forever. Squaring her shoulders, she shook the thoughts away. She would forget those horrible days. She'd even forget Clark for the time being; he seemed part of a different life, a past life. She would focus instead on the feelings that had passed between her and Lance. Warm feelings.
But, much as she wished to analyze and dissect these new feelings, her body had other ideas. Weariness, along with the warm bed, won, and she drifted into a sleep filled with vague but sensuous dreams. That night, anyway, memories of terror did not intrude on her rest.
Lance, however, lay awake a long time, staring into the darkness of his room, trying to remember Ellen’s face, and wrestling with guilt for he couldn't stop thinking of Brooklyn. He played the moment at the door over and over in his mind, and found himself resisting an urge to wake her from slumber, and take her in his arms. He had only known this woman for six short days, and under bizarre circumstances. He couldn’t understand the workings of his own mind. Finally, he punched his pillow a few times to fluff it, rolled over, and closed his eyes. Sleep was slow to come.
Chapter 36
Lance looked up and saw Brook’s face in the frost-framed window, her image indistinct. He found the sight strangely moving. As he turned to his chores, it was with disquieting sensations in the pit of his stomach and a kaleidoscope of images and remembered feelings: The sight of her tender bruised flesh that saddened him, the softness of her hand that he could still feel on his skin if he allowed himself the indulgence, unwanted tenderness that stole through him in her presence, the feathery feel of her arms draped over his shoulders when he lifted her, the brush of her hair against his beard, the quickening of his heart when she spoke, the deep blue color of her eyes. Just knowing someone waited for him a few short steps away. Not what he wanted. Not. Not. Not.
He gripped the shovel and set to work clearing a path to the sheds. Opening the small pen, he scraped a clearing for Gilbert before releasing her from her shelter. Overcome with goat joy, she braced herself against his shoulders for a Gilbert hug. Laughing, he wrapped her in his arms, and then tussled with her a few minutes. Finally, he pushed gently away from her to resume his chores. Ducking into the shed, he broke the ice on her water and added a fresh supply into her bucket before tossing more feed into her trough.
Gilbert lay in-waiting for him outside the door, looking suspiciously devious for an innocent goat. Brook watched this curious behavior with genuine interest. The goat acted like a mischievous dog!
When Lance emerged, Gilbert head-butted him and immediately bucked away sideways in a playful romp, challenging him to catch her. He gave in to her exuberance and tumbled in the snow after her, swimming through the drifts and chasing her with youth-like abandon.
One of the hens, excited at the prospect of feed and freedom, flapped clumsily into a snowdrift, where she lodged like a fat bullet. Her distressed squawking carried even to the cabin, and Brook watched with amusement as Lance rescued the wayward fowl. Cradling the bird in the crook of his arm, he spoke to the outraged animal before placing her gently on the clean-swept ground where she joined the rest of the birds flocking at his heels. Brook wondered what he said to her. Did he dole out a stern lecture on poultry foolishness, or soothe wounded chicken pride with kind words? If she had to guess, she would say he chose words of comfort. The encounter brought a smile to Brook’s face. Lance soon disappeared around a corner, fowl following him like baby chicks after a mother hen. They wanted their morning grain and would tail him with singular perseverance until they received it.
Brook noted the outbuildings with a sense of admiration. Like small forts, they were constructed vertically of gray weathered wood, and surrounded by trees and shrubs. She realized they would pass undetected at first glance; they blended so well with the scenery. Summer, with its thicker foliage and greenery, would conspire to camouflage them even more. They seemed a part of the forest. Concealed. Safe.
Brook moved from the window and sat in the easy chair before the fire, her feet sending tendrils of pain up her legs. The pure pleasure of watching Lance with his animals shifted without warning into melancholy. She ran her fingertips over the branches of her little willow, and her eyes blurred with tears as she watched the slender chains swing delicately back into place. She picked up a book from the table, but didn’t open it. Instead, she gazed ahead, thoughts trapped within dark memories.
Outside, Lance filled his canvas shoulder bag with potatoes, turnips and carrots from his root cellar, and set it on the front porch. Next, he hauled several loads of firewood from the covered stack. Dividing the supply of wood, he put some in the outside storage near the cabin door and the rest beside the root crops. He gathered eggs, tossed some hay in for Gilbert to munch on, and some extra straw for warmth. Sweeping the snow from the tops of the sheds, he cleared the skylights so the animals could enjoy whatever meager warmth the sun would provide on this day. A quick glance up told him that might be minimal. The clouds were gathering strength again, threatening
