The Horseman Page 15

  With him. She took a step down the aisle, through the echoing church. The pews were empty. Already her life was different. When she’d married Brett, it had been in a crowded church with her mother fussing about how everything had to look and her stepfather furious about last-minute expenses.

  It will be different this time. This time, there was only her and Dillon. There was no expensive wedding dress, just the crisp new calico she wore. The marriage would be different, too, because the man was.

  He held the door for her, and a bright sun warmed them.

  Nearly two weeks had passed since she’d accepted Dillon’s proposal and the weather had turned again. Melting snow plopped off the edge of the roof as she followed Dillon down the front steps and into the churchyard. A mild wind blew over her face as Dillon took her hand and helped her into his small wagon’s high board seat.

  He climbed in beside her. “Thank you for marrying me. I thought you were going to jilt me a few times. You kept looking at the door.”

  “I was nervous,” she confessed. “I thought I was going to faint.”

  “Am I that terrifying?” He sobered, his brow drawing down, and he looked strangely vulnerable. This man so mighty.

  “No. But I am scared.”

  “You’re with me now. You’re as safe as can be.”

  “I know.” That made him relax, and when he smiled, she could see his love for her gleaming like a brand-new promise. One that had not yet been broken.

  How did she tell him it wasn’t that kind of scared? He could let her down. He could fail her. Because she cared for him so much. Was he truly the man she’d come to know? She was gambling her heart that he was.

  How risky was that? She had grown up in a house where appearances were perfect, but beneath was a different story. Her marriage to Brett had been no different. He had been polished and well-spoken and had immense respect in the community. And once he’d gotten her back home after the wedding dinner at the town’s best hotel…

  Dillon’s not like that. She knew that. But as his hands gripped the reins and he called out to the horses, the power of them was unmistakable. The truth was, she was gambling her future on a man she did not know well. And all because she had the chance to be loved.

  The chance. Not the certainty.

  Dillon waited until the bustling traffic and the noise of town was behind them and they were jostling along the open prairie. “Did I ever tell you about the real man’s rules?”

  “No, but you did mention them the night you drew my bath.”

  “Yes, I believe I gave you a good introduction.”

  “Introduction? You just want to see me without clothes on.”

  “True, I won’t lie to you. I figured I was going to marry you anyway, and you were unwell. You needed help into that tub.”

  “And I suppose you didn’t want to trouble Mrs. Miller to come help me, since she had an inn to run.”

  “See, you understand. I was only interested in bringing pleasure to you.” He settled the reins in one hand so he could hold hers.

  She loved the thrill of his fingertips grazing across her bared skin. How would he touch her tonight? Maybe he would rub his way from the base of her spine to the top of her head in those slow, deep circles she’d liked.

  Desire welled up through her, like champagne newly opened bubbling up and over, spilling everywhere. He would be loving to her, right?

  “These commandments come from my grandfather’s teachings.”

  “Teachings? Was he a scholar?”

  “He was a very wise man. He could talk with horses. A rare gift.”

  “You talk to them. I’ve seen you.”

  “I’ve been known to hold a conversation or two with my four-legged friends.”

  Dillon liked the way her fingers fit between his, how her entire hand could fit into his palm. He traced his thumb over the diamond sparkling on the gold band. The ring that made her his wife.

  He was so committed. He was the man who would take care of her. Stand by her. Love her. She would never have to worry like that again.

  The way she was now, delicate lines of worry crinkled between her brows and around her mouth. Don’t you worry, my love. I’ll treat you right. I’ll show you the man I am. It would take some time but she would trust him. He’d make damn sure of that.

  He still couldn’t believe she was really his wife. His to love. Forever. It was too good to be true. But she was here, with him, of her own free will. He thought of his home waiting for her. Of their future together. All he had to do was get her to love him.

  It sounded like a big task, but the hard part was over. That courting sure was hard work. After that, how hard could a marriage be?

  “Did you live with your grandfather? Is that how he taught you?”

  Yep, she was interested. “He was my mother’s father. A Nez Percé warrior of great courage and goodness. I was honored to have known him.”

  “You loved him. It was his native tongue I heard you speaking.”

  “Guilty. My grandfather taught me a great many things. Talking to horses was one of them.”

  The image of him speaking to the wild stallion was etched into her memory. The lull of his voice, deep and strong and musical. The silvered moonlight, the pearled shadows on the snow-blanketed prairie and the lone man with his hand outstretched, a legend in the night.

  And he is yours. The new ring felt strange on her fourth finger, a reminder of the choice she’d made. She listened to the wagon wheels splash in the melting slush and chunks of snow. Felt the temperate breeze on her face. Let her body relax into his.

  Dillon affected her like the warm south wind, trying to melt away the shadowed places within her. Persistent and constant, and she was weakening. What would happen if she did?

  “My grandfather has been gone nearly five years. He lived with me.”

  That surprised her. “Here? Not on the reservation?”

  “In the house I built. He wasn’t well toward the end, and I cared for him all day, every day until he passed. It was a heartbreak. I miss him still. That’s the reason I began traveling. I couldn’t stand to be alone in the house anymore. The sadness of losing him was part of it. The sadness of not having my own family was another.”

  “I lost my father when I was little. Whenever I’m in the ranch house, I remember him. He was so tall I had to tip my head all the way back to see his face. He was a giant to me. In all ways.”

  “He was a horseman?”

  “Yes.”

  “We horsemen are good men.”

  When she smiled, a slow curve of her rosebud lips, Dillon swore he saw paradise. He wanted to kiss that amazing mouth more than anything. Ever.

  She shivered, and he realized he’d been staring at her.

  When the last rise of the prairie lifted them up on a field of brown, dead grasses and mud and white patches of melting snow, he had to admit it. He couldn’t pretend even to himself that he wasn’t nervous.

  Nervous? Ha. That was a lie. He was terrified. He loved his house. His brother and grandfather had helped him build it because he’d always hoped he’d find the wherewithal to court a woman and marry her. To raise a family there. Sons and daughters who would run and play in the pristine meadows and splash in the nearby creek.

  So much depended on this woman he’d made his bride. Every bit of his future. His happiness. Hell, even his children. He wanted her to be happy. It wasn’t much, but the structure shaded by a grove of cottonwoods to the north and framed by the giant Rockies to the west and hugged by wild prairie was his home. All he had in the world.

  Would it be good enough?

  He braced himself for her disappointment. Figured he’d done all he could to prepare her. He’d told her outright before he’d placed the ring on her finger how it was going to be. She’d made her choice. But what if she regretted it?

  Please, Katelyn, please like the house. He drew in a shaky breath and steeled himself for what was to come as the horses crested the la
st rise.

  “That’s our place,” he told her when the prairie rose up before them. “Welcome home.”

  She didn’t say anything. That couldn’t be a good sign, could it?

  He tried not to let it trouble him. He had told her she wouldn’t be living in a fancy house. He was a man of humble means. He hadn’t pretended to be something he wasn’t.

  At his low command, the horses stopped the wagon near the front steps. He tried to understand her disappointment. Maybe she’d come to like the place in time. The cabin was cozy and snug. She was a good woman. She’d come to see that was a far sight better than a lot of people had.

  “This is your home?”

  She didn’t sound unhappy. Not at all. When he dared to look at her, she shone.

  “When you said you lived in a cabin, I imagined something much smaller. You know, like the ones we drove past on the way here.”

  “You mean the claim shanties.” The ten-by-sixteen shacks that dotted the prairie in quarter section patches. “You’re not disappointed because you were expecting worse?”

  “Stop this. I didn’t always live in a big house. Before my father built the ranch house, we lived in a claim shanty. I was probably four years old, but my best memories are from that time. From living in that shanty.”

  The reins slipped from his fingers. He wouldn’t have guessed that about her. Her lack of arrogance and the affection that warmed her like summer on the plains. It warmed him, too.

  He hopped down and circled around to help her down.

  “Come in. I’ve got a fire going and I’ll put some tea water on. You can look around and get used to the place. See if it’s something you can make a few more good memories in.”

  “Maybe.”

  When she laid her palm on his, his heart rolled right over in his chest. When her foot tapped against the ground, her long skirts swished around her ankles. The rustling sounds of her movements skidded along his skin.

  It was amazing how she affected him. As if there was nothing and nobody in the world but her. Only her.

  She left her hand in his, her step matching his as they climbed the few stairs onto the porch. She was here, on his porch, about to become a permanent part of his life. He had to be dreaming this. How else could he ever have an angel like her? What good had he done?

  Nothing nearly good enough, but he wasn’t about to argue. She was his, and he was determined to take care of her. “You still look tired. There are circles under your eyes. Let’s get you sitting down to rest.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. I’m not at my best.” She bowed her head, self-conscious.

  Maybe he hadn’t said that the right way. He unlocked the door, cursing himself a few times. “You look beautiful, did I tell you that? I feel proud to be seen with you.”

  “Dillon, you don’t have to compliment me.”

  “How else are you going to fall in love with me? Unless you want me to start saying ugly things?”

  “You know I don’t. You are in a good humor today, aren’t you?”

  “Darlin’, this is my best day ever.”

  He brushed a warm kiss across her brow, a brief stroke of heat against her skin. She inhaled his salty, musky scent, so pleasant.

  He pushed open the door and stood aside. “What do you think?”

  “It’s home.” Her home. Katelyn stepped through the threshold into a parlor as perfect as a painting, constructed with an artist’s touch.

  Wide smiling windows framed the river-stone fireplace, topped by the carved wood brim of a mantel. Neatly chinked log walls shone honey-gold in the sunlight, like an invitation.

  Like a place to belong.

  “Do you like it then?” He stood on the porch, looking in, hands fisted, frowning.

  He was a worrier, wasn’t he? “I do. The workmanship is stunning. Did you carve this?” She ran a fingertip over the intricate mantel where swimming salmon struggled upstream in a wooden river.

  “One of my brothers.” He gestured past the fireplace to the arched doorway in the center of the house. His big hand caught hers.

  His touch blazed through her as dazzling as sunlight. She held on, letting him warm her clear through. How good it felt, this bright love of his.

  Would it last? Is any man’s love true? Dillon had her in his home as his wife. How would he treat her now?

  The memories of another man crowded in, like shadows in a night room when a candle burned low.

  She screwed her mind shut against the memories that crowded out, even as she fought them. The hope in her heart, the chance to be loved, it was all the same. Finally having a home where a wonderful man would love her.

  And he had grabbed her roughly by one arm and had frightened her-

  Don’t remember. She bit her lip, trapped the pain in her throat. She didn’t make a sound as Dillon’s touch, sustaining and true, brought her back to where she was. In his cozy home about to enter another room. The bedroom?

  Panic clawed at her. No, he wouldn’t do that to her. He’d given her his word. She would find out today exactly how well Dillon Hennessey kept his promises.

  “Do you want coffee or tea?” he asked, leading her not into a bedroom but a sparse kitchen where two big corner windows shed light on a small round table.

  That’s your answer, Katelyn. See? Dillon was keeping his word. At least at this particular moment. The prospect of tonight loomed ahead of her, a dark, threatening cloud she couldn’t seem to escape.

  “Tea would be wonderful.”

  “Pull up a chair and rest. I’ll bring it to you.” There was a clang of metal as he set water to heat, working with the ease of a man used to taking care of himself.

  It was odd to see a man at a stove. He dwarfed the small cooking range with his width and breadth. He swore when he dropped a spoon on the floor, picked it up, wiped it on his shirt and stuck it in the sugar bowl.

  He glanced at her through dark veiled lashes, bashful when he must have realized she was watching him. “Oops. Guess I should have got a clean one out of the drawer.”

  “At least you wiped it off first.” Katelyn bit her lip so she wouldn’t laugh. “The question is, if I would have dropped the spoon on the floor, what would you have done?”

  “Probably used it. I’m not too finicky.” He switched the fallen spoon for a clean one. “I suspect the sugar doesn’t have any dirt in it. I just cleaned the floor.”

  “I see.”

  She tried to imagine her first husband being so unconcerned, and she couldn’t. How could she tell him what it meant? To take in the soft light from the window, to feel the peace in the room, to know that she wouldn’t be broken by a yelling man losing his temper over every small thing.

  He isn’t going to hurt me. I know it. So why was her stomach cramped into a tight hard ball?

  Because knowing something wasn’t the same as seeing that it isn’t true.

  “What do you think of the kitchen? Think you’ll like cooking in here?”

  Did she tell him that she couldn’t cook? “I think I’ll find it very interesting.”

  “Good. Darlin’, you’re getting pale. Sit down so I can stop fretting about you.” He tossed her a grin that made pleasure glide in a slow fall all the way to her toes.

  The room was proof that a bachelor lived here and not often. Dust clung to the tops of the cabinets and in the corners along the puncheon floor. The cook-stove looked brand-new, as if it wasn’t often used, and still bore its first coat of black polish from the factory.

  And the furniture, heavens, she’d never seen the like. Mismatched set of chairs, one that looked as old as the Revolution and the other that sat hidden behind the hand-carved oak table.

  Such workmanship. She ran her fingertips along the maple-leaf-and-acorn pattern carved into the rim of the rounded tabletop. She left behind a thin trail through the dust.

  She’d have to figure out how to clean house, too. It would be a fine thing, to take pride and pleasure in her own home. To keep everything polis
hed and sparkling. An act of love, she figured. And a much better way of spending time than going to social events.

  I could be happy here, with this man. Would she be? She didn’t know. But anything was worth the chance. She craved the bright enveloping warmth of his love more than air, more than water, more than food.

  “Your tea, ma’am.”

  She sat in the closest chair and spooned sugar into the chipped cup he’d set before her. This giant of a man was her life now. And how she would live and how she was treated was up to him. Only him.

  The knock at the door stirred Katelyn from her book. Dillon had gone out to put up the horses, leaving her to her tea and the sunny warmth of the kitchen.

  Before she could rise, she heard the faint muffle of Dillon’s voice outside. Whoever it was, he was taking care of it. He did seem like a man who could take care of anything. Made of steel and nothing could bend him.

  She drained a comforting swallow of the tea from the cup. It was cooling some, and only then did she realize there was a haze of rosy light glowing through the window behind her. Sunset. She turned in the chair, rested her chin on the wooden crown of the ladder-back and couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Peace filled her at the sight of the streaks of purple and crimson and magenta painted on the underbelly of the clouds and the proud snowcapped mountains. The jagged lavender-tinted peaks dominated the horizon. Some things you could count on to last. To never change.

  Was Dillon Hennessey such a man?

  Horses grazed in the distant pastures. Why was she surprised to see them? Many of them bore the markings of the mustangs native to this country. Pintos with large patches of browns and blacks over their rumps and along their sides. Appaloosas with their showy blanket of white spots as if a hundred snowflakes had landed and decided to stay on those velvet coats of black or brown or gray.

  She remembered the stallion, the one her stepfather had placed a reward on. Dillon said he’d captured him. Was the stallion here?

  She felt Dillon even before the door opened on the far side of the house. The rustle of his clothes, the whisper of his movements and the snap of his approaching step rolled through her like a wave on a lakeshore, lapping lightly, inevitably, over and over again. Touching her in a way she couldn’t see or describe but could feel deep inside.