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

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  Clint heard a clatter and a muffled oath, coming from the doorway. Oh great, another woman's inspection. Yep. Mary, with a tray of food.

  "Good morning, sunshine," she said.

  He groaned. "Is that the phrase all women say to a dying man?"

  Ignoring his foul mood like she so easily did, Mary crossed the room and laid the serving dish on the small end table. "I brought your breakfast—dry toast & hot tea." He made a face. "How're you feeling this morning? Here, let me check your forehead."

  Same words, same actions. "Jessie already did this," he groused. He looked past Mary to the open door. "Where is she anyway? I'm worried about her."

  Mary's smile spilled across her mouth. "Oh you are, are you? You're the one who's had us pretty worried." She stopped to examine his skin and with a thumb pulled down a lower eyelid to check the color. He grunted at her ministrations. "I sent Jessica to my bed. I'm sure between you and that horrible cot out there she didn't get much sleep last night. She looked pretty worn out." She tilted her head and looked at him with suspicion. "So tell me, why are you so concerned about her?"

  "She looked like she'd been in a fight. Missing half the skin on her chin. What happened to her anyway?"

  Mary seemed to be holding down a smirk while her gaze arbitrarily roamed over Clint's face. She sidled up next to him and rubbed an open palm up his jawline. He heard it rasp. "You always did grow heavy stubble." Her eyes twinkled with amusement.

  Shock hit him with the impact of a rifle butt to the ribs. He pressed a fist into the mattress and worked to sit up. Dizziness brought on a wave of nausea. Mary took hold of his shoulders to steady him as sweat dribbled down his hairline. He leaned his head back against the cold wall to wait for the world to stop spinning.

  "Stay there a minute until your color returns."

  "You mean . . . my dream about her actually happened?" he said, mostly to himself. Nah. Can't be. I wouldn't have. But memories of the incident spun around his cloudy mind. He thought it'd been a dream since she'd been so remarkable. No, more than remarkable—mind-altering. His fever-racked brain grasped at the recollection, awakening his body all over again. Had it been the fever and his muddled brain, or had it been as incredible as he remembered it?

  Then guilt crept in. Clearing his head he tried to remember everything he had done to her. Slowly, recollections slid in, one after another; her ardent kisses, the feel of her soft body, her lilac scent—solely Jessie's—the exquisite passion, her unswerving response to him.

  She'd come to him. Why?

  While trying to sort it out and reliving the flawless pleasure, it came to him that he didn't know how it ended. Dread rose along with bile to his throat.

  Confound it—she's Roy's niece, and someone he'd vowed not to be involved with. So why did he do it? The fever, of course. But the second that lie bored in, he knew he was fooling himself.

  Mary had been watching him. "Are you feeling faint?" she asked in a worried tone.

  Mary usually read him unerringly, so how could she be so far off the mark this time? He scowled at her. Women. "Men don't faint! I'm fine. It's Jessie you should be worrying about." He slumped at hearing his own words. "What have I done?" He ran a hand down his face to linger over his mouth.

  Mary's lips twitched.

  Clint caught the small gesture and glared at her. "You think this is funny?"

  She looked indignant. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  An unfamiliar sort of disquiet came over him. A sense that he would soon face some unknown consequence. "I'm afraid I did a terrible thing to Jessie last night."

  Mary frowned with concern. "What terrible thing did you do?"

  He gazed out the small window at the shadows from the thick grove of pine trees, lost in the replay of last night's heat. "I've compromised her," he whispered.

  "Clint. Tell me what you're talking about."

  He swung his gaze back to Mary. "I can't be treating her like . . . like, you know. Like all the others." He squeezed his eyes shut. "For many reasons."

  Mary waited.

  He growled low in his throat. She wouldn't budge off the subject he'd carelessly opened until he told her. He sighed heavily, kept his gaze averted. "For one, I'm sure the girl is as pure as white snow, and I can't remember all I did to her—" He stopped, all at once self-conscious of how candid he was being to this mother figure.

  Mary looked surprised. "Clint. You know better than that. You wouldn't have taken advantage of her."

  But, what if he did? Rage, at himself, worked its way up his spine. He kept his voice in check so Jessica wouldn't hear through the thin walls. "As far as I knew, last night had been a dream. If you hadn't figured out why Jessie's skin was so raw, I might never have remembered!" He dragged a hand through his hair. "Dang it all, Mary. Now what do I do? She acted funny. Rushed out of here like she was barefoot on a hotbed of coals when I asked her about her chin." He paused and closed his eyes to reclaim some composure. "How do I approach her to find out what happened?"

  "You're asking me what to do about a woman?" She barked a laugh, but stopped when she noticed his grim expression. "Well, son, truth has always been my policy. I think when she wakes up you two should have a little chat." Mary winked then, and gave him a motherly pat on his hand. "Now, let's not worry your pretty little head about it." Clint cringed. "Have some breakfast."

  Mary really looked too blasted happy about this. Getting way too big a kick out of his discomfort—as if she was hopeful his worry for Jessie meant something more than it did. He had to admit, at least to himself, that this was the first time he was concerned over a woman the day after. Though Mary believed him foolish in his thinking, he was careful to choose women who liked his attention with no attachment.

  But somehow, this time, this woman, was different.