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

  Chapter 16

  Jessica stared at the bedroom door. What was taking Mary so long? After about a forty minute wait, the door creaked open and Mary slipped out.

  "Is everything okay?" Jessica asked.

  "We were catching up. Sorry to have worried you." Mary smiled with understanding. "Don't you fret. That stallion's a fighter, always has been. And God is good, Jessica, but His ways are not our ways. He loves our Clint, and I believe He'll heal him. And it will be far more than his injured arm. Now, you go on in. He's ready for you."

  Jessica didn't know what 'healing' Mary was talking about, but decided she didn't know her well enough yet to ask. Turning the doorknob, she peeked inside. "Knock, knock. May I come in?" Clint was on his back, his arms exposed above the white sheet, the wrapped gauze on his left one showing signs of seepage. He turned his head toward her.

  "Listen. Can we hurry this up? I'm pretty tired."

  "I promise to be quick."

  In silence Jessica un-wrapped Clint's arm, then wedged it in the basin of tepid water. As it soaked, she checked his forehead and frowned at how warm he still was. His probing eyes followed her every move. He licked at the edges of his mouth. She dabbed his dry lips with a cool, damp cloth. His barely visible smile curved against the fabric. She smiled back and his shoulders seemed to ease, relaxing into his pillow.

  She laid the washcloth across his forehead. "Almost done." She sighed, relieved the nerves he always set on edge had finally calmed.

  There. That looked pretty good. At least the wound had a fighting chance. If only she could bring down that fever. She dragged the washcloth off his head and twirled it. She watched it wrap around her hand. Circling the other way, she whipped it again. Like my heart. Whip. Whipped about. Whip. This way and that. Whip.

  "What're you doing?" he said, startling her out of her thoughts. "Mary already gave me a thorough bath." His eyes softened. There was a hint of a smile. "You've lost your mind?"

  "It's an old trick my mother uses, to cool off the washcloth. Keeps me from having to go through the process of re-dunking and re-squeezing."

  "Does it work?"

  "You tell me." She laid it back on his skin.

  He flinched. "Yep. Works."

  "Good. Get some sleep." She took one last look. The stubble had grown darker on his face. Soon the creases near his mouth would disappear under the coat of whiskers. Such a captivating face. "I'll be right outside the door, so if you need anything, call out." She rose to her feet.

  With his good hand he snatched the cloth off and caught her wrist. "Jessie. Thanks." Her pulse slammed into her fingers at the heat against her skin. She turned back and looked down. His eyes latched to hers as firmly as his hand held her wrist.

  She fumbled for a strand of hair at her neck and twisted it around her finger until his gaze dropped to their linked hands. She exhaled the breath she'd been holding, and slipped her hand free of his grasp. It was like slipping free of a lasso around her neck, only she wanted to be caught. But it could never be. She made her way to the door on leaden legs.

  Jessica tried to fall asleep, but managed only to toss and turn on the narrow canvas cot for hours on end. She turned to her side and stared at Clint's open door. He was in there, so vulnerable. So different from the guarded, complex man she'd come to know.

  She could hear his breaths—more labored since his fever had risen. She breathed with him. An intake of breath. A huff. Too many in a row. Now, too few. She turned her head so she could hear with both ears. Clint was struggling. She lurched upright, and listened. He was talking in his sleep with mumblings she didn't recognize. Then, an agonizing yell.

  Jessica leapt from the cot, nearly losing her balance, and scurried to his side. He was thrashing about, calling out names and . . . whimpering? The lamp was low, but still she saw the flush of his upper torso. She put a hand to his forehead—still burning.

  Lord, I thought he'd be better by now. Please help him.

  "Can you hear me?" She touched his arm. "Clint, you're dreaming. It's Jessie."

  His eyes opened. They were glazed, bloodshot with fever, and seemed to look right through her. "I need you," he breathed out.

  He needs me? Of course. She sighed in resignation and grasped the hand that lay on his abdomen. "I'm right here."

  Suddenly, with tremendous fevered strength, he squeezed her hand and hauled her across his chest. His broad hand pushed her hip, molding her body into the cradle of his. She caught her breath at the sensations, the new awareness. Desire exploded, and with it an overpowering hunger to explore the male body she felt so small against.

  No! She couldn't. Could she? Before she had the chance to decide, he wrapped his arms about her, entrapping her to him. He settled his face in her hair, exhaled a slow, hot breath that caressed her scalp, then drifted back to sleep.

  It should have been awkward, but was surprisingly natural. This was home. Her soul recognized its mate. She listened to his steady heartbeat against her ear, felt the heat of his fevered body bringing perspiration to her own. He held her fiercely, even as he slept, and she experienced contentment as she never had before.

  Reality shoved its way in. If you don't move off him, you'll want to sample it all. All of him.

  Resigned, she pushed against his chest. He didn't seem to notice. Just a little more and she could slink off of him without disturbing his sleep.

  Slowly, she raised her head and eyed him. Her hands were fixed on his chest. She squelched the need to thread her fingers into the soft mat of hair there. Abruptly, he sucked in a deep, choppy breath. His eyes snapped open. He stared, dazedly, into her face, nearly nose to nose with her. Blinking, as if clearing his vision of a hallucination, his sight seemed to focus in recognition.

  She cringed, waiting for the inevitable rebuff from him.

  His vision seemed to sharpen, but he didn't say anything. She didn't move—like if she remained still his eyes would close again, letting her make her escape. Both his hands came to her back, one above the other and merely held her against him as he looked her in the eye. If she had a wish above all wishes, this would be it—to be held in tender care every night in this man's arms. She imagined him seeing her for the first time; as a woman, as someone he could love.

  Half-lidded eyes dropped to her lips, and her heart skipped. One moment they'd been locked in a heated gaze and in the next his lips touched once, then latched onto hers. Unchecked desire ripped through her senses like dry kindling in a roaring blaze.

  His palms glided up and down her back and if she'd had extra breath, she would have gasped at his boldness. She fought her body's own agenda as it took commands from somewhere other than her own good sense. She'd never experienced anything like this. No one had ever touched her like this before, or kissed her this way before.

  He released her lips to search her eyes. His pupils had practically swallowed up the irises. She clamped her eyes closed, escaping from his intense gaze—to decide what to do. Before a single thought came to her, he rubbed his face in her hair.

  "Let me breathe you in." He inhaled an uneven breath and let it out with a satisfied murmur against her ear. "You smell so good."

  With gentle fingers he combed through her hair, drawing it back from her face, then brushed his lips along the soft skin of her neck. Chills dashed down her side. She ached for him now. The thought both terrified and excited her.

  A tingling wave of regret coiled in her stomach. He needed her, but he hadn't said he loved her or even that he wanted her. She couldn't let him take her cherished virtue. Yet the craving for him tore at her and a lifetime of willpower to stay pure began to crumble.

  She needed to move off him. Before she could force her body to comply he stretched upward to close the distance and covered her mouth with his again, slow and satisfying. If he'd been aggressive, there was no doubt what she'd do. But, this was Clint. And he hadn't demanded a thing, just enjoyed her with a fragile sort of deliberateness.

  "You feel so right,"
he whispered against her lips.

  She wanted to say something back but was afraid the sound of her own voice would break the magic somehow.

  The next kiss was chaste. So sweet, so tender, that a moan slipped from her. He groaned in response and flipped them over. Now, under a mountain of muscle, she should have felt trapped. She felt anything but. He wrapped a leg around both of hers and pulled her closer with his calf and heel. The move shocked her, but set fire to her blood. He tantalized her mouth with such a breath-stealing union that she was sure only a man crazy in love could have delivered it. Could he be?

  Still, how could she not stop this? She knew he wasn't in his right mind. It would never be right unless he was lucid. He'll never even remember, she thought, painfully. Then her own lustful obsession spoke to her. If he doesn't remember, none of this will matter and you can enjoy him for a time.

  He ended the kiss and looked at her. She tried to read his thoughts through his eyes. Does he even know who you are, Jessica? Or have you become yet another convenient female body? Walt's words came crashing back to her, blistering her conscience. Did she want to become one of Clint's disposable women?

  A thread of doubt and fear tangled with her excitement.

  His fingertips slid delicately from the soft skin under her ear down her neck. Deft fingers untied the tiny bow at the top of the white lace on her gown. He opened it enough to skillfully trace her collarbone to the hollow of her throat. Warm breath tickled her skin. She gasped and shivered.

  "So soft," he whispered.

  Jessie. Why didn't he say her name? So soft, Jessie. He knows it's me. He must. It's me he wants. But logic had its say. No, it's a woman he needs.

  She shoved away those thoughts, and let his touch go on.

  Lust clogged her mind so hard and so fast that God's voice didn't stand a chance. But, her own conscience began to scream at her. He will never remember this, it said. Do you want a man this way who isn't your husband, who isn't planning to love and cherish you? Do you want him to take your innocence from you then desert you like he has all the others?

  She began to argue with her conscience. But I want him. I want him to love and cherish me. I want him to be my husband.

  Then she heard Him, almost audibly. But that is not his plan, daughter. He doesn't know Me—you do. You must leave his bed.

  She froze. It was her Shepherd. She was one of His sheep. She knew His voice. She needed to obey.

  Stilling her body of its passion with as much will as she could rally on her own, she asked God for the rest. Please, Lord, help me. Forgive me.

  And He did . . . both.

  In that instant Clint's body went limp, and he slumped to his side. Jessica pushed him to his back as he succumbed to what looked like a deep, restful sleep. Astounded, Jessica brushed her fingertips down his cheek, then put a hand to his forehead. He was cooler to the touch as he lay there motionless, breathing easier.

  Without hesitation, Jessica slid out of his bed and returned to her cot. She sensed a harmony with her Almighty God. Forgiven and protected and loved. She'd nearly fallen into the sin of her own making. Tonight He had rescued her. Had given her a caress to her soul—an invisible hug.

  Yet, she lay there waiting for a peace concerning Clint that never came. Here was a man who had drawn her heart to him like the tide to the moon. His care and protection of her, his patience, teasing, compassion, even the scared little boy she had caught flickers of, all of it combined to form the man she had fallen deeply in love with. And now a physical hunger had been added to that unreciprocated love.

  It seemed the emotions within her were at odds with each other; peace from God's grace, guilt for her actions, love of a man she couldn't have . . .

  But worst of all, she detected a chill of foreboding she couldn't quite identify.