Ride With Me (A Quaking Heart Novel - Book One)

  Chapter 12

  Tuesday morning began in genuine harmony. The breakfast had gone well. The cowboys had acted cordially. The summer sky was wide and blue, the sun shining. The wagon was loaded and ready for Clint and Jessica's trip. The only sign of unrest was in Jessica's stomach. The breakfast—what little she ate of it—had not set well. Now, her nervous tension was at an all-time high. She prayed away any impending hiccups.

  Jessica stepped out the front door to make her way to the wagon. She spotted Clint coming from the bunkhouse, toting a large knapsack on his back. His long strides ate up the width of the road, and he was at the wagon in a few seconds flat. He was a sight to behold. Dressed in an all green shirt—the same shade as his eyes—worn blue-jeans and the familiar black Stetson pulled low over his forehead, he looked cowboy-perfect. So different from her own ordinary looks and attire of tawny colored wranglers and a flamingo-pink blouse.

  He threw the sack in behind the wooden seat and in one swift move was up and onto it. He took up the majority of the bench. She stared up at him, and her legs flagged. How in the world was she supposed to fit up there, too?

  "Morning, Jessie. Ready?" Clint said in his rich, vibrant voice, sounding immensely more relaxed than he'd seemed to be in the last few days.

  She nodded. Walt came out of nowhere and wrapped a bony hand around her elbow. He helped her step up and didn't release her arm until she was settled on the seat. "You kids have a safe trip, ya hear. Clint, you take good care 'o this here girl," Walt said, pointing a gnarled finger in Clint's direction. "She's a special one, dear boy, if ya know what I mean."

  Clint chuckled. "Don't you worry, Walt. She'll be safe with me."

  Already in second gear, her heart leapt into third. Does that mean he'll keep me safe, or won't ravish me? She almost laughed out loud over her own bad joke. Silencing her mind of foolish thoughts, she sifted through ideas for something simple to talk about.

  Clint loosened the reins from the brake handle and, with gloved hands, adeptly wove them through his fingers. He flicked his wrists. The horses lunged forward until the reins snapped taut, and the wagon leaped. Jessica was glued to the far edge, as far from Clint as possible, when he whipped the reins again to speed up the horses. Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Jessica finally began to feel somewhat normal.

  When at last they began their ascent up the narrow road, Clint slanted a glance at her. He leaned forward slightly to peer at her bowed face. She knew she looked ridiculous with her rear-end pressed into the corner of the wooden seat and her death grip on its rim.

  "Do you want to ride outside the wagon, Miss Harper?"

  She turned her head toward him. He grinned, the first one she'd seen on him in a long while. The vision melted her clear down to her bones.

  "Very funny, Mr. Wilkins."

  What could she tell him? No. I'm just trying not to touch you and faint away from a racing heart? "I-I was hanging on in case we hit a bump or something. I wouldn't want to fall off so you would have to save me, now would I?"

  His smile dissolved, and the same underlying hostility he'd carried for days shown through. "Seriously, Jessie. Move over."

  She was not capable of even trying, her muscles had arrested.

  With a huff, he stretched over, wrapped long fingers about her middle and tugged her close.

  A furnace-blast of heat swept through her. I'm never going to survive this trip. "Why did you do that?" she asked in a small voice.

  "Because I don't want to have to save you. One good bump and you'll fly right off this thing. Believe me. I've seen it happen, more than once."

  "Oh." A pause. "Okay." Of course that's what he'd think. He was here to keep her safe, by Uncle Roy's request. That was all.

  The wagon seemed to shift and vibrate over every little rut in the road, and why on earth did they secure these stupid seats up so high and with no real hand holds, anyway? She looked around frantically trying to find something, anything, to hang on to. "What is there to hold onto when we hit bumps?" she said with no real thought.

  In the next instant the wagon dipped into a rut. With a quivering creak, it lurched back onto the graded road and nearly tossed Jessica out of the seat. She clung to the first thing her hand hit: Clint's knee. It was hard, like pure bone. So wide, her fingers almost couldn't grasp it.

  "I think you've found it. You've got quite a grip there for such a little thing." His laugh rumbled low. "And you can leave your hand right there. I can't keep you from falling off if you're not close enough." She couldn't have released her fingers if she'd tried. They seemed to have stuck there.

  Though she kept her eyes on the road, she sensed his scrutiny. All at once feeling like a city slicker instead of a born and raised farm girl, she flushed and shot him a glance. He looked as if he were trying to decipher the blush. "You okay now, little one?" he asked.

  She closed her eyes, steadied her thoughts and then her voice. "How about we talk about you for a change?" Warming to the idea she gulped in some air and plunged in. "Where did you grow up?"

  Jessica watched his grin vanish. After too long a lapse he said, "I was born in Cheyenne, Wyoming." A very long pause, then, "Now, it's your turn. Tell me about California."

  "Oh, no you don't," she teased. "That's hardly fair. You need to tell me more about your upbringing first . . . your mom and dad. Do you have siblings?"

  Jessica was suddenly intrigued, thinking she might find out more about the mysteries of this man. And maybe more about the life he had left behind. Though on the surface Clint seemed quite able to handle anything life threw at him, there were rare times—like this—when she glimpsed his pain, in the sadness of his eyes, in the slump of his shoulders. She knew the Lord could help him with anything that plagued his soul. She wanted to help.

  "No, I don't," he said gruffly, his dark brows dropping into a scowl.

  Jessica could see distress on his face. His strong jaw was clenched, his lips pressed tight. "You don't have siblings?"

  "No, I mean I don't have to tell you more."

  The pain seemed to hang on his countenance like a shield of armor—heavy with the weight of his wounds, and impenetrable. Her heart went out to him. "What is it, Clint?" She kept her voice soft. Remembering her hand still rested on his knee, she gave it a delicate squeeze. "What happened in your childhood to hurt you so?"

  He looked shocked, then contemplative, but through it all his gaze never once left the road. When she thought he didn't plan to answer, he finally said, "That was a long time ago. Like I told you before, it's better left in the past."

  No. In this he was wrong. What Jessica saw on his face put her in mind of an injured man, his lifeblood draining out. Would she leave him to try to survive on his own? Absolutely not. She was compelled to help.

  "Is what happened in your past what has made you so angry with God?" Why was finding out about his past such a pressing need for her? Did she think it would help her to understand the man? To justify his philandering nature somehow?

  His head snapped over to look at her. "Who told you I was mad at God?"

  She saw the instant rage in his eyes. Over her knowing he was mad at God, or her exposing his anger, she didn't know. "Well . . ." She was never any good at lying, so she didn't. "Walt told me—now, don't do that. Don't be mad at him. I noticed the way you reacted to a comment I made to you about God painting the sunrise, so I asked Walt about it. That's all."

  The muscles in his cheek twitched again and she suspected he was trying hard to hold his temper. "So, if Walt's so smart—" His tone was clipped, harsh. "What did he tell you?"

  "He said you had a pretty tough life." Had she cornered him? By the look on his face, she had. "You know, Clint, rather than being angry with God, He can help you."

  His scowl deepened. Okay. So, she had crossed the line.

  Clint fumed in silence for a long while. Jessica didn't attempt to say any more. The last thing she wanted to do was push him away from God entirely.

  Truth
was, her own attraction to Clint was getting in her way. That made her no different from Mabel's past helpers. They'd all had their own agendas concerning Clint. Now, she was clearly one of them. Please help me to be a better advocate for You, Lord.

  Time clicked on with Clint still mute as they rose in altitude up the mountain pass.

  She breathed in the fresh, cool air and began taking note of the scenery. She could see now why a car couldn't be taken up this road, as it narrowed with ever deeper ruts. The strain on the wagon and horses grew with each passing mile. But the beauty was indescribable. Fragrant pine trees crowded in on either side, as thick as if God had personally plunged handfuls of them into the ground. And every now and then they gave way to glorious meadows dappled with wildflowers. Scenic and serene.

  As they came around a bend in the road the horses spooked sideways, and shook their bulky heads. Jessica shot a frightened glance at Clint—saw the concern on his face.

  "Slide over and hang on to me, Jessie. We've got trouble." Clint worked to control the steeds. "They smell something."

  Jessica slid into Clint and stretched her arms around his torso, barely able to clasp her hands on the other side. His abdomen tensed in anticipation of what was to come, though his tone was surprisingly even. "Bessie. Bonnie. Settle down now, girls."

  The chestnut cocked an ear back to catch his voice, but instead of calming, she reared as high as the harness allowed. Bonnie—the more stable of the two—hopped, her ears pinned back and tail swishing. Jessica's throat went dry. Each bump and tug on the harness rocked the entire wagon—and riled the horses more. Bonnie finally caught the edginess, and off they ran.

  Jessica clung to Clint. She tried to stay out of the way of his arms while he tugged back on the reins. He continued his call to the horses, but they were having none of it. They just kept pulling harder uphill. Clint jammed his feet against the floorboards to lock himself—and Jessica—into the seat.

  The wagon slammed into a pothole. Jessica lost her grip on Clint. She scrambled to clasp her hands back together. "Lord, help us." Even with the horses bolting straight up the hill, Clint managed to keep them on the road.

  Under the tremendous strain the wagon gave way with an ear splitting crack and pitched to one side. Jessica's hands tore away from Clint and she squealed his name. She bounced at the seat's edge. Clint caught her by the waist and dragged her back to his side. She clawed at his chest to get another stronghold. But, she needn't have worried. Clint's grip on her was rock hard.

  The wagon dragged along the ground on its axle, the right front wheel missing. Clint looped his left arm twice about the reins, his right foot skidded along the wooden floorboards until his boot wedged into a crevice at the sideboard. Leaning to the left with all his weight, his straight leg held them in place. His fingers were digging into her side to keep hold.

  The horses snorted and huffed. They were tiring, thank goodness. "Whoa, girls. Whoa. Come on Bessie, Bonnie, slow down, girls," Clint chanted.

  Finally, after what seemed an endless time, the animals slowed and came to a halt. They tossed agitated glances over their shoulders, eyes flashing, nostrils flaring. Their harnesses jingled with the pitch of their heads.

  "Gotta get you out," Clint barked. He unwound his arm, stepped across Jessica, and jumped off. He turned back to extend his arms to her. She fell into him, trembling and sick from fear. He scanned the area and pointed to a nearby log. Using the last of her strength she staggered over and dropped hard on the unyielding wood, wincing in pain.

  Clint went to the horses. He ran an open hand down their necks and lathered sides—checked where the reins had dug into their hides and grimaced. Jessica observed every tender touch he gave the animals, heard every soothing word. It was a marvel to her, because Clint's own arm was a mass of torn shirt fabric and dripping blood. No wonder Uncle Roy had trusted him and him alone for this journey. Who else could have assured her safety when his own life had been threatened?

  Clint assessed the damage to the wagon, then un-harnessed the horses. He grabbed a gunny sack, water jug, and bucket from behind the seat and walked the animals into the woods. He must have rubbed them down since it was a while before he returned.

  Jessica breathed a sigh of relief when he came into view. "It's going to take me some time to repair this wagon," he said. "We'll have to hole up here for the night while I do repairs."

  He looked exhausted, pale and drawn. He glanced around as if to evaluate their predicament. "The thing that concerns me is the wildlife that will smell the food in here." He patted the side. Jessica wasn't sure if he was actually talking to her or making plans aloud. "We'll be back off the road ourselves, but we'll have to build a big fire and I'll stand guard through the night."

  Clint glanced up and Jessica followed his gaze. The puffy white clouds that hung in the sky all morning had turned dark gray at their centers and seemed to be piling up on each other.

  Jessica stiffened. What was worrying him, the weather, or worse? "What scared the horses, Clint?"

  Grim, he caught and held her gaze. She wondered by his expression if he thought he'd said too much already. He glanced away. "They smelled something. A predator of some kind. They're still agitated even though the run wore them out pretty good. Should settle down soon, though."

  She waited for him to explain. When he finally looked back, he studied her for a beat, seeing the question in her eyes. He blew out a long breath and turned back to the wagon to shuffle through things. "Probably a grizzly or mountain cat."

  How could he be so calm? Was he doing that for her sake? "Which one, do you think?" She hated that her voice wobbled. He didn't look at her. If he had, he would have seen the sheer terror in her eyes.

  "I have my saddle rifle and plenty of ammunition," he said, ignoring her question. He rummaged until he could trap the rifle and a box of cartridges under his bad arm.

  "Have you shot a grizzly before?" She sounded wimpy, even to her own ears, but she didn't care. "I thought I'd read where they're the kind of bear that will actually seek out humans to do them harm. Is that true?" She was talking too fast. Adrenaline still raced through her veins and now seemed to be log jamming inside her.

  The whole time she babbled, he gathered supplies. He stopped, peered down at her from under his hat. "I thought your Bible tells you not to borrow trouble, Jessie. I heard you praying. Don't you believe your God will protect you?"

  The rebuke caught her off guard. At first anger surged through her. Then a flush of embarrassment. An unbeliever shouldn't have to remind a believer that God was her protector. This was a perfect example of how she fell so short of God's expectations, on a regular basis. Clint didn't know how she struggled with her own faith and she was glad for that, anyway. Otherwise, what good would she be to him?

  What had he asked? "You're right. He will protect me." She was thinking clearer now. "But, He's not just my God, Clint. He'll protect you too. In fact, I believe He protected us just now."

  "Is that right?" Frosty emerald eyes stared at her. "I thought that was me."

  "Well, true. You were pretty amazing," she said, then blushed at actually saying those words . . . again. His coolness seemed to thaw as a hint of a smile formed. Moving closer, he handed her a couple of items. "Here, take these to the camp." He nodded his head. "Through there. I'll bring this pile. Then I've got to go find the wagon wheel."

  They walked toward the horses in silence. It was still a few hours before dark, but Clint detailed what Jessica could do to set up camp and get ready for the dangers of night.

  Clint shed bedrolls, a canteen, food, and cooking equipment, but kept the rifle. He turned to go after the wheel, but Jessica stopped him, touching a hand lightly to his injured arm. "We have bandages and alcohol in the wagon. We need to take care of this arm. Hold on. Let me look."

  Clint let her peek through the opening in his sleeve. "In all the excitement I forgot about it," he said. "Well, what d'ya think, Doc? Will I live?"

  Was he
trying to lessen the worry with his teasing words? Jessica tried not to let their situation trouble her. She took hold of the torn sleeve and ripped it farther up his arm. The reins had yanked a portion of his skin wide open. He had a long gash, below the elbow, and it was bleeding pretty steadily. Jessica tried to be delicate in her ministrations, though she knew it must be throbbing with pain by now. Carefully, she parted the wound and found a small piece of leather stuck in the muscle. With slow movements, she carefully picked the piece out of the seepage. When the object had been purged, blood gushed even harder.

  "Oh, Clint! You're losing a lot of blood. I wish we could stitch it, but we'll need to at least wrap it." Without thought, she reached up to his neck and began untying the knot of his handkerchief. He jerked in surprise, but then went still while she accomplished the task and slid it from his neck. She pulled the wound together, tied the cloth around his arm and knotted it.

  Jessica looked up into Clint's eyes, concerned. "We need to clean this out and bandage it better. We should do that before you try to fix the wheel. Come on. Let's go find the first aid kit."

  His wound was pretty bad, and Jessica was concerned about his loss of blood. As they walked back to the wagon, she tried to think of a way to convince Clint to let her help him with the wheel. "Listen, Clint. I don't have a weapon, and, well, not to be a fraidy-cat or anything, but shouldn't I go with you to get the wheel after you're all patched up?"

  The smile that never failed to weaken her knees did a slow spread across his face. She stumbled. He caught her elbow for a couple of steps as if it was an everyday occurrence to catch enamored females. "A fraidy-cat you say?"

  She returned his smile. "Haven't you ever heard that saying before?"

  "Can't say as I have. Where'd it come from?"

  Jessica thought for a moment. "Maybe it came from a cat's inability to stand up to a dog twice its size. Now, I'm thinking about having to stand up to a grizzly many times my size." Peering up at him out of the corner of her eye, she scrunched up her face in a sorry-to-be-so-silly look and shrugged.

  He laughed outright.

  There was that laugh she loved, and when he smiled it accented the creases in his cheeks and glorious white teeth. She gazed up to admire the smile that was such a rarity these days.

  "You can come with me. Maybe I'll need your help."

  When they reached the wagon, Jessica went to where the medical supplies were packed, but Clint veered away and took off toward the lost wheel.

  "Wait. What are you—Clint!" she hollered after him. "We need to fix your arm . . ." Jessica let the sentence drop, since he and those long strides were already progressing down the road at a pretty good clip. She hustled after him, doing her level best to catch up.

  Clint glanced up at the gathering clouds again, but just kept walking.

  "Stop! You need to let me treat your—oh, phooey." Clint ignored her appeal, like she wasn't even talking. Aggravating man! Fine, since she wasn't dissuading him, she would change the subject to the other problem at hand.

  She caught up to him, yet still had to skip a step here and there to keep up. "You never did answer me about whether you've shot a grizzly before."

  He inhaled a big breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. "Don't like to, but they get after the cattle, and sometimes the horses, so it's necessary."

  His gaze rotated between the road ahead and occasional glances at the sky. Did he think it would rain, make the roads muddy, leave them to have to sleep in a downpour? Worried about lightning? What?

  "Recently, a rogue grizzly's gotten a vile taste for blood."

  A glance at him told Jessica this was what Clint was worried about. They were silent for a few dozen paces.

  He crooked his head in her direction, must have seen her unease. "Don't worry, little one. I'll keep you safe."

  Her heart skipped at the nickname. And the thought hit her. Grizzly or no grizzly, she would love to keep this man up here all to herself—for life. And, since Veronica was no longer in the picture, hope sprouted.

  Coming around a bend in the road, they spotted the wagon wheel, thankfully still in one piece. Clint headed toward it.

  "Wait. You're going to need help."

  Once again Clint ignored her, but shoved the rifle in her arms. He bent, lifted the wheel with a grunt, and began rolling it back up the road. Shrugging, she resettled the weapon under one arm, cradled in her elbow, and let the barrel tilt toward the ground.

  He glanced at her. "You've carried a rifle a time or two."

  "And I've shot them a time or two," she copied with a grin. "Yours looks to be a Winchester lever action 30/30."

  Clint's eyebrows shot up. "Well, now, I'm impressed. How'd you know that?"

  She smiled. "My dad has one like it, so I'm cheating a little."

  The grunts from his efforts with the wheel filled the silence between them.

  "So, do you shoot?" he asked in a gust of a pant.

  "Sure. I have a little Remington .22 rifle, and shotguns too."

  He shot her a look of admiration. "Tell me. What do you use a shotgun for?"

  Guns were one of her favorite subjects. True pleasure filled her at this topic. Before she could answer, a short, breathless chuckle escaped his mouth at her sudden joy.

  "Mostly on our jack rabbit hunts," she started. "We begin at one end of the ranch, all spread out to either side, then walk the length of it, staying even with each other as we cross. Whenever a jack rabbit jumps out, and starts running, whoever's closest shoots it. It takes a few hours, but we love it."

  "No kidding. Don't know any women who would do that."

  "I know." She grimaced. "Pretty manly of me, huh?"

  He pushed for several strides without a word, then said in a serious tone, "That's the last thing I'd think of you."

  She sucked in a quick breath, thrilled he had said that, until she remembered he was a charmer by nature. It would behoove her to remember that.

  Clint gave a few more hefty pushes on the wheel. "Do you ride much, other than double—with a man?" He was smiling when she looked over at him. A rivulet of sweat dripped from his forehead to his jaw and off onto his shirt.

  She smiled, thinking of those two occasions with him. "I love to ride. I have a little pinto pony at home."

  "Yeah? We'll have to go riding sometime." He grunted. "On two separate horses." Totally out of breath now, Clint rolled the wheel up and leaned it against the wagon. He tugged off his hat, wiped the sweat from his face and leaned back against the frame. "Whew, what a work out," he panted. "I'll take a breather . . . then get to work fixing it."

  "Where's the water jug, Clint? I'll get some for you."

  "Under the seat."

  Jessica found the container and thrust it at him. He didn't take it. Instead his eyes joined hers and dimmed to a smoky jade. Her arm holding the jug began to quiver from the extra weight. What is he up to now? Why doesn't he take it? She tried to swallow, and thought about taking a drink herself. Breathe Jessica. She nudged him in the stomach with the jug.

  He finally broke their eye contact, and took the vessel, slowly twisting off the cap. He slung his head back to gulp the water, and while he was busy drinking, she studied him. It was no wonder every female from miles around seemed to be drawn to this man. Just look at him. The muscular cords in his neck stood out under his tanned skin. Even with a sticky hat ring in his hair, his arrant maleness dominated him. Faded jeans, old beat up boots, and a bloodied shirt, yet he exuded a quiet, unobtrusive power. Maybe it was the way he held himself. Or maybe it was his height, or how he filled out his work shirt. But one thing was for sure. He was all cowboy, all man, and one day she would melt clean away just being near him.

  The bright red on his arm caught her notice. She grimaced as she went to him and inspected it. It was bad. Blood had soaked the makeshift bandage and it was dripping at a pretty steady rate. "You must've broken it open. I shouldn't have let you bring up that wheel before fixing this," she mumbled. "You
need to sit somewhere . . ." She twisted about to check the area. "Come on. That log where you sat me earlier." She seized his right hand and started for the log.

  His fingers squeezed hers and gave a sharp tug. With a yelp she whipped back to him like a practiced tango partner, and smacked into his chest. His good arm encircled her waist to steady her. Then ever so slowly, he pulled her in tighter, her face only inches from his. His overheated body radiated a sort of urgency that made her heart pound alongside his.

  "I'm fine right here, Jessie," he whispered, his heated breath stirring against her cheek.

  Yep. Now was the time—she'd soon be a puddle at his feet. But, she didn't understand him. Since the night of the oyster feed, he'd avoided her. Avoided this. Why now?

  As if coming to his senses, he freed her so abruptly she stumbled back a few steps.

  Standing a few feet from him now, she gaped, speechless, amazed at what he'd done. What was worse, he had the audacity to look appalled, like she'd somehow trapped him into that embrace. That stung.

  "All right. But when I dump the alcohol on your wound, don't you pass out on me."

  "Pass out?" He glared at her. "I've never passed out in my life. Don't plan to start now." He stole the alcohol out of her hand, untwisted the top and shoved it back at her. "We need food and it's going to be a long night, so let's get this over with."

  Jessica advanced to his side. Hurt and frustrated by his constant change of behavior, she took hold of the sleeve and ripped it all the way up. Next, she un-wrapped the handkerchief. When she saw the gruesomeness of the gash, her wounded pride abated. She sighed. "This is really going to hurt, Clint, but I think it's vital we sterilize it as best we can. Do you want to bite down on something?"

  His look let her know he was done with the pampering.

  She shrugged. "Okay. Have it your way."

  She poured the alcohol into the deep gouge. His loud grunt of pain startled her. Her head whipped up to check his face. He was squeezing his eyes shut tight. His bunched up jaw muscles looked as if they would burst right through his dark stubble. She made a face and started blowing on the gash. "Are you going to be okay?" she said between blows.

  She watched as his tanned skin began to take on an obvious pallor, worrying her that his passing out might actually happen.

  "Clint, I think you'd better sit." The minute she said this, his body slumped forward. She dropped the alcohol bottle and caught him around his middle. His head drooped over her, and a soft groan vibrated into her shoulder. She could hardly hold him up, he was so heavy. She adjusted her grip and dragged him as best she could toward the log. To some extent he was alert enough to help her with his weight, but she feared he would pass out all the way.

  How the two of them managed to get to the log and plant him on it was a miracle. Jessica shoved his head between his legs, knocking his hat off in the process. To her relief, after a brief time, and several deep breaths, his color began to return. He raised his head enough to eye her—his agitation and embarrassment palpable.

  Jessica ignored his daggers and offered him water. He took a couple of sips while he scowled at her from behind the canteen.

  "Are you okay now? Do you still feel faint?"

  Below his narrowed eyes, his splendid mouth moved, "Don't ever say the word faint about me again."

  She gave him a knowing smile. "Don't worry. Mum's the word," she said, trying to lighten the mood.

  It wasn't to be lightened, however. One look at him and she knew that. She ignored his glum look and went to retrieve the rest of the first aid supplies. Dropping to her knees before him, she laid supplies on the log. After a more gentle cleaning, she tore open some bandages and began butterflying the wound.

  She stole a glance upward and found Clint's eyes roaming over her. His gaze slid up her throat to her chin. When he reached her lips, her heart pounded so hard she thought he'd feel the shudders. Nervously, she licked her lips. His nostrils flared with a huge intake of breath, and his gaze jerked up to hers. She wished she were as good at reading men as he was women, but she had no idea what that look in his eyes meant.

  The breeze was playing havoc with her hair. Clint stared at the wayward lock that had escaped her ponytail and now tangled up in her lashes. Before she had the chance to brush it away, he tenderly freed the strand and slipped his fingertips down the length before tucking it behind her ear.

  "Thanks," she said, so softly he couldn't possibly have heard.

  But he had, and nodded.

  His eyes penetrated hers. She couldn't look away, like he had trapped her to him. When his gaze fell to her lips he bent forward.