life of him he couldn't remember where he'd heard it before. She sounded downright irritated though.
His eyes ground open as if they'd had a fistful of sand thrown into them. He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the canvas cover and wondered briefly what he was doing lying in the wagon in the middle of the day.
His first movement answered all of his questions and then some. A blinding pain shot up his arm and through his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. When the throbbing subsided, the memory of last night came flooding back to him.
He fixed his stare on the dust motes churning through the morning sunlight filtering into the wagon and tried to remember how it had all turned out—how he had gotten here. But that part of it flitted teasingly on the edge of his memory, out of reach. The image of the woman—her delicately drawn face and her green eyes, the color of a stormy sea and the way they had flashed at him, first in anger, then in fear—leapt to his mind.
In truth, he hadn't expected either one of them to get out of that situation alive. But somehow they had. The pain in his shoulder confirmed that for him. He lay quietly, recovering his senses one by one.
There was the smell of Jacob's coffee brewing on the fire. It was always strong enough to knock a man on his ass, he mused, but it was infinitely better than his own, so he never complained. Mingled with the coffee smell was the scent of something else that touched off a growling deep in the pit of his stomach. It was broth, whose beefy aroma drifted up tantalizingly into his senses—as readily as did the memories of the woman who had once cooked it for him.
That thought caused him nearly as much pain as his shoulder did and he struggled to put it out of his mind.
But the memory of holding Amanda last night came unbidden. He could still almost feel her warmth against him. He knew he must have dreamed it, but it had seemed oddly real. Holt clenched the fingers on his good hand into a fist in frustration. His brain must be as muddled as the rest of him, he reasoned. Either that or he had finally gone over the edge. Amanda was dead. Dead along with their unborn child. Dead for years.
His grief over their deaths had consumed much of the past three years, but he thought he had gotten beyond that; left it behind him. Why then did he still imagine her touch or her voice encouraging him to fight against the death he would have once welcomed?
A new, hot wave of pain stabbed at his shoulder and he sighed deeply, allowing the pain to take him back to the dark, comfortable place where he had been. To the place without memories.
He woke again as the wagon tilted with the weight of someone's step, though he had no way of knowing if his eyes had been closed moments or hours. The girl moved into his line of vision, and Holt watched her through half-closed eyes, taking in the tiredness of her movements; the worn expression on her face when she leaned over him. Her eyes opened wide as she realized he was conscious.
"Mr. Holt. You're awake. I—I'm so glad."
She seemed truly pleased. He opened his mouth to try to respond, but it was as if someone had stuffed it full of feather ticking and he could not manage more than a muffled grunt.
"Don't try to talk," she admonished. "I've brought you some water. Do you think you can manage some?"
His eyes followed her as she reached over to feel his forehead. The smooth leather of his familiar buckskin shirt molded to the soft curves of her breasts as she pressed her hand to him. Her touch—gentle and blessedly cool—left him wishing she would not move her hand. But in the end she did, seemingly satisfied.
Holt nodded toward the water and tried to ease himself up on his good elbow, but a crashing pain set him flat again.
"Here, let me help you." She lifted his head ever so carefully and he fought down the wave of nausea that swept over him as he gulped down the water greedily.
Finally, she pulled the cup from
His eyes ground open as if they'd had a fistful of sand thrown into them. He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the canvas cover and wondered briefly what he was doing lying in the wagon in the middle of the day.
His first movement answered all of his questions and then some. A blinding pain shot up his arm and through his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly. When the throbbing subsided, the memory of last night came flooding back to him.
He fixed his stare on the dust motes churning through the morning sunlight filtering into the wagon and tried to remember how it had all turned out—how he had gotten here. But that part of it flitted teasingly on the edge of his memory, out of reach. The image of the woman—her delicately drawn face and her green eyes, the color of a stormy sea and the way they had flashed at him, first in anger, then in fear—leapt to his mind.
In truth, he hadn't expected either one of them to get out of that situation alive. But somehow they had. The pain in his shoulder confirmed that for him. He lay quietly, recovering his senses one by one.
There was the smell of Jacob's coffee brewing on the fire. It was always strong enough to knock a man on his ass, he mused, but it was infinitely better than his own, so he never complained. Mingled with the coffee smell was the scent of something else that touched off a growling deep in the pit of his stomach. It was broth, whose beefy aroma drifted up tantalizingly into his senses—as readily as did the memories of the woman who had once cooked it for him.
That thought caused him nearly as much pain as his shoulder did and he struggled to put it out of his mind.
But the memory of holding Amanda last night came unbidden. He could still almost feel her warmth against him. He knew he must have dreamed it, but it had seemed oddly real. Holt clenched the fingers on his good hand into a fist in frustration. His brain must be as muddled as the rest of him, he reasoned. Either that or he had finally gone over the edge. Amanda was dead. Dead along with their unborn child. Dead for years.
His grief over their deaths had consumed much of the past three years, but he thought he had gotten beyond that; left it behind him. Why then did he still imagine her touch or her voice encouraging him to fight against the death he would have once welcomed?
A new, hot wave of pain stabbed at his shoulder and he sighed deeply, allowing the pain to take him back to the dark, comfortable place where he had been. To the place without memories.
He woke again as the wagon tilted with the weight of someone's step, though he had no way of knowing if his eyes had been closed moments or hours. The girl moved into his line of vision, and Holt watched her through half-closed eyes, taking in the tiredness of her movements; the worn expression on her face when she leaned over him. Her eyes opened wide as she realized he was conscious.
"Mr. Holt. You're awake. I—I'm so glad."
She seemed truly pleased. He opened his mouth to try to respond, but it was as if someone had stuffed it full of feather ticking and he could not manage more than a muffled grunt.
"Don't try to talk," she admonished. "I've brought you some water. Do you think you can manage some?"
His eyes followed her as she reached over to feel his forehead. The smooth leather of his familiar buckskin shirt molded to the soft curves of her breasts as she pressed her hand to him. Her touch—gentle and blessedly cool—left him wishing she would not move her hand. But in the end she did, seemingly satisfied.
Holt nodded toward the water and tried to ease himself up on his good elbow, but a crashing pain set him flat again.
"Here, let me help you." She lifted his head ever so carefully and he fought down the wave of nausea that swept over him as he gulped down the water greedily.
Finally, she pulled the cup from
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