Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (22 page)

Samantha bit her lip. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry. My wretched temper. If I hadn’t ordered you off my ranch, why—” She stopped short, full of regret. “This was all my fault. Christine sneaking away to play with the Falabellas—”

“And here I’ve been blaming myself all evening.” A spark kindled in his eyes. “If I’d handled the situation better with you.” A corner of his mouth pulled up. “Come over hat in hand to apologize. Allowed her to continue to come here, not been away from home tonight.” He shrugged. “You see how it is?”

“You must allow me to apologize. I could tell you’ve been angry with me.”

“Angry?”

“You’ve barely spoken to me.”

“Samantha, all I’ve been feeling is a bone-numbing terror. If I’d lost her.” His shoulders sagged. “I still might.”

“You won’t!” Samantha put all the fierceness in her heart into her response.

He leaned his head back against the door frame and closed his eyes. “If only conviction like yours could make it happen.”

“
We’ll
make it happen.”

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. “I’m glad we’re on the same side this time.”

“Me too,” Samantha whispered, feeling as if an invisible lasso had looped around their bodies, binding them together. Was Wyatt feeling what she was? She reached out to touch his cheek. The chill of his skin shocked her into an awareness of his need for warmth and sleep. Like cold water dashing out a fire, guilt quenched her feelings. “Wyatt, you’re freezing. You have to get into bed.”

He straightened, his body moving stiffly. “I know. I’m going. But, Samantha…”

“Yes?”

Wyatt shook his head. “Never mind.” He forced a tired smile. “Another time.” He stepped away from the door.

“The boys’ beds are all made up. Take your pick. Take extra blankets off the other beds. I’m sure you’ll need them.”

“I’ll be fine. You’ll call me if Christine—”

“Yes. Now get to bed. All will be well.” But as she said the words, she wondered.

It took everything Wyatt had left inside him to walk down the hall away from Samantha. Behind him, he could feel her standing by the front door, watching him. What was she thinking? He forced himself not to look back.

Samantha’s comfort touched him deeply. She cared. That nurturing, womanly part of her that drove him crazy for the last month when she’d adopted her stray boys felt so wonderful when directed toward him and his daughter. A powerful feeling, like sharing with a wife—a helpmate…

His body ached—both from the ordeal he’d been through and from wanting Samantha. The doctor’s visit left him feeling flatter than a beetle squashed under a rock. Samantha’s warmth
and conviction that Christine would be all right bolstered him up. But then turning his back on her had drained the rest of his meager energy until he was a mere shadow of himself.

He started up the staircase, but climbing the steps exhausted him. The farther he got from Samantha, the more he felt like his boots had turned to stone. He paused halfway up to catch his breath, no, to find his breath.

He tried to wrench his mind away from Samantha by walking into Christine’s room as soundlessly as rock-hard boots would allow, not wanting to disturb his daughter. In the dim lamplight, he bent over her still form, checking for her breathing, like he had when she was a baby. During her first few months, he’d spent hours by her cradle, watching the rise and fall of her tiny chest, and talking to her about her mama.

He’d loved her with a fierce protectiveness since the day she was born, and he’d lost Alicia. But all his watchfulness had failed to keep her safe today.

He dropped into the chair by her bed. Reaching over, he brushed the hair off her face, feeling the silky strands catch on his rough fingers. He dropped the lightest of kisses on her forehead, then rested his cheek against her brow.

“Be well, my sunshine.” He closed his eyes, remembering the agony he’d been through in the last hours. “Don’t leave me, Christy. Your ma doesn’t need you in heaven like I need you here.”

His daughter slept on.

One more kiss. Then, grabbing the nearest bedpost, he pulled himself to his feet. He looked across at Samantha who’d followed him in and now leaned against the opposite bedpost. The candlelight burnished her hair to copper and shadowed her blue eyes. He fought down the impulse to go around the bed and pull her into a comforting hug. “You’ll be all right staying up with her?”

She nodded, giving him a half smile. “Go get some sleep.”

“Good night, then.” He headed for the boys’ room, needing to rest. Yet he doubted that his fears for his daughter would allow him any sleep.

Through the bedroom window, the faintest of pink and gray shadows smudged the horizon. Samantha stretched in her chair and pressed her palms into her back. In the bed to her right side, Christine stirred, muttering something unintelligible and flinging one arm outside the covers.

Samantha leaned forward and tucked Christine’s arm back under the wedding ring quilt, then placed her hand on the child’s forehead. Warm, but not burning hot. Only a slight fever. The child’s chest rose and fell, but there wasn’t any congestion or rattling to her breathing.

Samantha picked up a lamp from the table beside the bed, studying Christine’s face. The pale skin of the evening before had given way to a normal rosiness. She took her hand away, releasing her breath in a sigh of relief.

Setting the lamp down, Samantha sat back in her chair. They’d need Dr. Cameron’s opinion to be sure, but she thought the little girl would be all right. She closed her eyes for a moment in a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

Heavy footsteps and the squeak of the floorboards brought her out of her communication with the Almighty. She flew out of her chair, pulling open the bedroom door and beckoning Wyatt inside.

His brown, tousled hair had been ineffectively slicked back, like he’d splashed water on his face to wake up, then, ran his
fingers over his head. He had more color in his skin, but the haggard look from the night before hadn’t entirely left him.

“Wyatt, I think Christine’s better,” she whispered.

The lines on his face lifted; hope sparked in his gray eyes.

“Come see for yourself.” She pulled him over to the bedside.

He took the seat next to the bed, pressing the back of his hand against Christine’s cheek.

Samantha pulled over a wooden chair she’d earlier brought up from the kitchen. In a whisper, she detailed for him Christine’s improvement.

He listened with his whole body, his gaze intent on his daughter. “I’ll still need Doc Cameron to set my mind completely at ease.”

“Of course.”

“But I think you may be right.”

They sat for a while in companionable silence. Slowly, the room lightened from dark to gray. The release from the tension of the last evening relaxed Samantha into an almost dreamy state. Amber fingers of new sunlight angled around the room. One drifted over the sleeping child’s face, brightening her hair to a golden halo.

“My sunshine,” Wyatt whispered. “If I’d lost…if…it would have taken the light from my life.”

Samantha touched his shoulder in sympathy. “I know, Wyatt. But in a few days, she’ll probably be up and racing around with the boys and the Falabellas. That is, if you…”

“It seems we’ve made a truce about the Thompson family crossing the boundaries of the Rodriguez ranch.”

“We almost paid a high price for that quarrel.”

“We did.”

“Wyatt, I realized something last night,” Samantha said in a low voice. “In my marriage…” Her voice faltered.

Christine turned over onto her side.

Wyatt placed his hand over Samantha’s and squeezed. “Come on.” He stood up, still holding her hand, and walked outside the room. Letting go of her hand, he pulled the door almost shut behind them, and with his hand in the small of her back, guided her over to the top step of the stairway. “Let’s sit here. We won’t disturb Christine with our talking, but we’ll still hear her if she wakes.”

Dim light from the windows in the parlor and kitchen penetrated into the hallway, but left the top of the stairway in cozy shadows.

Samantha sat down on the step, sliding close to the wall to make room for him. Wyatt settled in beside her, their shoulders touching. She resisted tucking her head against his arm. She couldn’t afford to lean on him—it might become a habit. But still, she swayed closer, wanting to touch him, even in so small a way.

She glanced up at his face, then lowered her gaze, feeling almost shy. “When I lost my temper, Juan Carlos, my husband, would be so patient with me. He knew when I got angry, I sometimes said things I didn’t mean. He’d allow me to calm down, not fight back. Later, when, as he’d say, my storm had passed, we’d talk.”

“Your husband sounds like he was a good man.”

“The best. I took so many things about him for granted—until I lost him. Then Daniel and I went to live with my father-in-law. That autocratic old man did a lot to anger me. I was forced to conform, hold in my feelings.”

Wyatt reached for her hand, retaining it in his. A small smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “I can’t imagine you doing that.”

She grimaced. “I had no choice. No place else to go. My parents had passed away. I didn’t have relatives of my own in Argentina.” She hesitated. “But that’s another story.”

He nodded, brushing his thumb over the back of her hand. “Sometime, I’d like to hear it.”

She shivered, trying to hold onto the thread of her thought. “I expected you to be like Juan Carlos.” She smiled ruefully. “That somehow you’d know I didn’t mean what I said. That you’d come riding over anytime and things would get back to normal. Although how you’d know to read my mind—”

“You wanted magic.”

“I guess so.”

This time both corners of his lips curled up, and his voice deepened. “I’ll have to remember that.”

Was he flirting with her?
No. He couldn’t be. But he hadn’t released her hand. Heat crept into her cheeks. Her mouth drew up; a schoolgirl giggle almost escaped. With effort, Samantha suppressed his effect on her. She needed to finish her apology. “In the future, I will attempt to control my temper.” The words sounded prim. She almost sweetened them, but stopped herself.

“Like you did with your father-in-law?”

“No, that was a furious bottling up of my anger.”

He tapped a finger on her nose. “Anger isn’t always bad. It’s how you use your anger. I’ve been known to have the same problem. We’re allies now. Maybe we can work together—help each other with this lamentable lapse of control.” He leaned toward her, his gray eyes serious.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’d like that.”

She knew she should stand up, step away, but all her attention centered on his mouth. A slow paralysis seeped into her limbs, pinning her feet to the step. Yet a desperate longing tilted her forward ever so slightly.

He brought her hand up, placing her palm on his chest, covering it with his own. She could feel the thud of his heart, strong and deep, so different from the rapid flutters of her own pulse. With his other hand, he lifted her chin. Then, with the faintest brush of his lips, he kissed her.

Her body flooded with heat, and a distant part of her mind marveled how such a small touch could send her world spinning like a globe.

Pulling back a few inches, Wyatt studied her, obviously looking for permission.

Samantha answered with her eyes.
Yes.
Her mouth, still tingling from his kiss, couldn’t possibly form words.

Seemingly encouraged, he kissed her again, longer this time. His lips, cool from the morning chill, quickly warmed. He lingered, kissing the corners of her smile, then moving onto the middle, pressing his mouth to hers. His tongue gently slid between her lips.

Samantha opened to him, reveling in the touch of his tongue, the shape of his lips. Needs buried for two years, and sensations almost forgotten except in her dreams, sprouted like seedlings in the spring sunshine.

As his tongue explored her mouth, her body softened like warm honey. How could she feel so alive, yet so pliant and weak? She sagged against him. Like Sleeping Beauty, she’d been awakened by a kiss. Her heartbeat quickened. She wondered if he could hear it.