Cherish (32 page)

He trailed warm, silken lips over her forehead. “That’s because this is where you was always meant to be,” he whispered.

This is where you was always meant to be.

Those words that Race had whispered to Rebecca came back to her the following afternoon when she finally got her first glimpse of his ranch.
Home
. That was her first thought. She had finally come home.

Situated in the foothills of the Rockies, his land stretched to the horizon, encompassing countless grassy meadows bordered by steep, forested slopes. As the small caravan of wagons and the slow-moving herd traversed the winding, rutted trail that led to the central part of the ranch, Race kept up an almost continuous monologue, familiarizing Rebecca with the terrain. Directing her gaze to towering stands of fir and pine, he rattled off the names of the different trees, the only two of which she managed to recall being the ponderosa and lodge pole pine. He also called her attention to some of the wildlife he spotted, a mountain chickadee, a mule deer, a bounding cottontail, a marmot, and a cougar on a distant ridge.

Upon spying the cougar, Race slowed the wagon to a stop and slipped his arm around her shoulder. Following his gaze, she stared in amazement at the huge cat. Never had she seen anything like that—a fiercely wild predator, outlined against the powder-blue sky like an animated carving limned in gold. Even at a distance, the creature’s great size, power and grace of movement, and sheer beauty were absolutely stunning.

Next to her ear, Race whispered, “Now, darlin’, you
know why I don’t question the existence of God.”

She turned to look up at Race’s burnished face, thinking that if she needed proof of God’s existence, she need only to look at this man. In the space of a few violent minutes, she had been stripped of everything that truly mattered to her except life itself—her parents, her relatives, her friends, her self-confidence, her world. Even her God. There had been absolutely nothing left. On that fateful evening in the arroyo, it might have been anyone who found her, kneeling in the middle of that bloodbath, mindless with shock. But by some wondrous twist of fate—or perhaps by the hand of God Himself—it had been Race Spencer, a man who was, in every way, a consolation for all that had been taken from her.

Looking at him, she knew she would eventually heal, and until she did, he would provide her with the support she needed to stand. He was also offering her a world to replace the one lost to her, as well as a chance to love and to be loved. He had given her so very much, this man. And he was still giving, trying to make her believe in God again, trying to restore her self-confidence, making his home her home. Thus far, all she’d done was take from him. Taking and taking, giving nothing in return.

With her gaze, she traced the features of his face—the high forehead, the bladelike nose, the high cheekbones, the strong line of jaw and chin, those eyes that always seemed to see to her soul, and the firm yet mobile mouth that fascinated her so. He was so very like the mountain lion, big and intimidatingly powerful, his body roped with muscle. There was also a wild, savage aura about him—an indefinable something that marked him as different, possibly the Apache blood that ran in his veins. Yet for all of that, he was beautiful in a raw, purely masculine sort of way, as rugged and dauntless as the landscape around them.

Needing to touch him, she reached up to stroke the strands of ebony that fell like glistening silk threads over his collar, then she trailed trembling fingertips to his cheek. He had touched her just like this, so many times,
almost reverently, as if he were trying to commit every angle of her features to memory.

His were already carved upon her heart.

“What?” he asked softly.

Rebecca realized she was looking up at him through tears. Over the course of the month-long journey to this pocket of paradise, how many times had she sat in the back of her wagon, her gaze fixed on the lumbering cattle behind the caravan of wagons, trying to spot this man at the edge of the undulating herd? For all their leathery ruggedness, the other cattlemen fell short by comparison, failing to sit a horse with his ease of movement, all of them smaller in stature, none of them possessing his lethal edge. Race, swinging a rope with the same precision that he handled his guns. Race, singing out to the cows, his deep, resonant voice drifting to her on the afternoon air. Race, whistling and waving his black Stetson, as he cut his horse back and forth through the herd.

How many times had the mere sight of this man soothed her—slowing the frantic beat of her heart, easing the constriction of her windpipe, a balm to her frayed nerves. Countless times. So very many times, in fact, that the incidences were a confusing jumble of images in her mind, the only clear detail about any of them being that
this
man, and this man only, had the power to set her tilting, spiraling emotions back on their axis.
This
man’s smile, and
only
his, could reach across a distance and embrace her in warmth. How could she have sought him out so frantically, needed him so desperately, and basked in the comfort of his presence so completely without sensing deep within herself that she loved him with all her heart?

“Oh, Race,” she whispered shakily.

“Sweetheart, what?” He glanced out over the rolling hills around them, looking for all the world as though he was ready to do battle with whatever might be distressing her.

“I’m just thinking how very much I love you.”

His face went utterly still, as if the muscles beneath his skin had turned to granite. His gaze held hers, his dark
eyes taking on a suspicious brightness. After a long moment, he said in a gruff voice, “Rebecca Ann, don’t tell me that unless you mean it. It means too much to me for you to say it lightly.”

In that moment, Rebecca knew how very much he loved her in return, and that he was almost afraid to believe she cared for him in the same way. “I mean it from the bottom of my heart,” she assured him. “I love you, Race Spencer.”

Switching the leather leads into the grip of his left hand, he reached over to thumb a tear from beneath her eye. Then he tipped his hat back and bent his head to lightly brush his lips over hers, the contact so airy she wondered if she had imagined it. When he drew back, she followed him as if attached to him by invisible strings, her heart slugging in her chest like a labored piston.

Glancing at Pete and Corey, who were just then riding past the wagon on their horses, he grinned and nudged her erect. “Behave yourself. You know what I do with wantin’ women, don’t ya? I leave ’em wantin’ more.”

“‘Wantin’ women?’” Rebecca repeated. “As in ‘
wanting
’?”

He arched an eyebrow. “Ain’t you ever heard of wantin’ women?”

Rebecca started giggling.

“What’s so funny?”

She hugged his arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “Nothing! Just take me to my new home, Mr. Spencer. I have a feeling I’m going to love it there.”

For the remainder of the ride into the main part of the ranch, Rebecca was breathless with wonder. She’d never seen such a beautiful place. Dense thickets of Gambel oak wove between the stands of trees, splashing the hillsides with red and orange, forming a brilliant contrast to the azure Colorado sky. Race pointed out occasional wild roses on the lower slopes, from which he said she could collect petals to make medicinal teas. He also assured her that the creeks and narrow streams that ribboned the meadows were plentiful with fish, just in case she tired of eating beef and wild game. It seemed to Rebecca that
even the air smelled different there—fresher and more invigorating.

She hauled in deep breaths, feeling almost giddy. “Oh, Race, I love it!” she said, letting her head fall back and closing her eyes. “It’s absolutely divine.”

“The cabin ain’t much,” he warned her. “Next spring and summer I’ll start the house, but you’ll have to make do where we’re at for at least a year, maybe even two.”

Rebecca braced her hands on her knees, so excited she was unable to settle her gaze on any one spot. “I don’t need a fancy house to be happy. Especially not with so much beauty around me.”

When she glanced at him, his gaze snagged hers, and for several long seconds they stared into each other’s eyes. Then his mouth tipped into one of those grins that always made her heart catch. “Darlin’, any time you wanna see somethin’ that’s truly beautiful, take a gander in the mirror.”

Just as he said that the wagon crested the hill, and before them lay the small valley where the main part of his ranch was situated. Off to the right, nestled among tall pine and fir, a log cabin perched on a gentle rise, below which lay a smattering of outbuildings and a large log barn. Beyond that stretched velvety green pastures, tidily fenced with split rails. Two creeks, sparkling in the sunshine like silvery satin ribbons, ran the length of the bowl, one of them trailing over the slope where the cabin sat, the water a stone’s throw from the dwelling’s front stoop.

“Like I said, it ain’t much,” he said.

“It’s beautiful. More beautiful than I imagined, by far.”

“It’s nowhere near as beautiful as you,” he said softly. “Once we get down there, I’ll be busy till almost dark.”

Her gaze fixed on her new home, Rebecca curled her hands over the edge of the wagon seat. It was well past time that she begin performing her wifely duty. The fact that he’d postponed the consummation of their union for this long was probably nothing short of a miracle. In as matter-of-fact a tone as she could manage, she said, “I’ll
still be a wantin’ woman when you get back, Mr. Spencer. There’s no need to hurry.”

He drove the wagon off into a deep rut. The conveyance lurched and tipped sharply to the left. Cursing, he grabbed hold of her arm to keep her from pitching off the seat. As he loosened his grip and turned his attention to getting the wheel out of the hole, he said, “Jesus H. Christ, Rebecca Ann! Are you
tryin
’ to make me have a wreck?”

Bent forward over her knees before the cheerful blaze in the stone fireplace, Rebecca ran the brush through her long hair, lifting as she reached the ends to separate the nearly dry strands. From outside, she heard the muted sound of men’s voices, a reassurance that Johnny and Corey were still standing guard over her. Race had given them orders not to leave her alone for even a second while he was away.

Their presence should have made her feel safe. Should have, but didn’t. If the cabin creaked, as all houses often did, her heart would skitter with alarm. She also found that she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder constantly. Somehow, she had to stop this. It was like a sickness had taken root in her mind, and nothing could eradicate it.

In the time she’d been alone, she had gotten down on her hands and knees three times to check under the bed. As if someone might have slipped into the cabin through a hairline crack? There couldn’t possibly be an intruder. Rationally, she knew that. Yet she found herself pacing, looking in the trunk next to the wall, peering behind the wood stove, and then returning to the bed again to look underneath it.

The funny part was, she had no idea what she might do if she actually found someone. A fair-size man could hide under the bed, she supposed. But if she were to look under there and see one, her heart would stop from sheer shock. So why bother?

As for the trunk, it might have been large enough to accommodate a smallish midget. That wasn’t to mention
that the space behind the wood stove wasn’t exactly roomy either. Her fear made no sense. She
knew
that. So why wasn’t she able to put it from her mind?

Despite Race’s reassurances that her nervousness was normal and would pass, Rebecca was beginning to think she might never get over it. Even here, in the cabin, she’d become breathless several times. It was the most horrible sensation, suddenly suffocating as if the air had been stripped of oxygen, her heart slamming so violently that she felt as if she might faint. She could sense it coming on—a strange, fluttery feeling in her chest, sweat filming her skin, her breath beginning to come more quickly. And then, wham, it would hit her. So far, she hadn’t passed out, but she’d seen black spots a few times and felt as if her legs had turned to water.

Was she going mad? The thought terrified her almost as much as the spells.

The heat from the fire bathed her in warmth, making the cotton of her gown feel almost hot against her shins. She wished she could take a nap. After soaking in a hot tub of water for nearly an hour, she should feel deliciously relaxed, but she didn’t.

She pushed up from the chair, tossing her hair away from her face as she took a turn around the room. She held the hairbrush clenched in her fist like a club as she leaned around to peek behind the wood stove one more time. If a man jumped out, she would brush him to death.

A hysterical laugh came up her throat, and tears filled her eyes. She spun away from the stove, determined to make herself stop this.
Insane
. It was insane. And if she knew that, why did she allow herself to do it?

Intending to return to the rocker, her bare feet seemed to stick to the floor planks. She stared at the trunk along the opposite wall. Inside it, Race stored clothing, an extra pair of boots, some handguns and ammunition. There were perhaps six inches of empty space beneath the closed lid. In addition to that, the length of the trunk was no more than four feet. No man could possibly hide in there. A half-grown boy wouldn’t fit in there. She was
not
going
to lift the lid again. She absolutely was not. To do so would be absurd.

All her life, she’d been “so levelheaded.” Everyone had commented on it, from the time she was small. “
Have Rebecca go with the other children. She’ll watch after them
.” Or, “
That Rebecca is so mature for her age
.” Or, “
That daughter of yours is such a responsible child
.” Or, “
That Rebecca! She hasn’t a flighty bone in her whole body
.”

She’d never been one to snivel, as so many young girls and women were given to do. Tears, Papa had always told her, were a waste of time. Better to tackle the problem and correct it than to whine. Crying only made one’s head ache. And it was true. Rebecca had no patience with weepers. Never had and never would. But now she’d become one.