Gretta pulled the saddle from her mare and hauled it around the fence to the area where they stored tack in the lean-to. It’d been nice to get out and ride down to the lake in the valley. Its sky-blue water had a way of filtering peace through her as she stared at the snow-capped mountains surrounding the lake.
In moments like that, she could see the handiwork of the God who had created this world. And it was easier to think that maybe He still watched from above, maybe He cared about what happened here. That maybe she could have the connection with Him Mama and Nonna had talked of. After all, hadn’t He helped Zeche wake up when she’d prayed?
Gretta grabbed a rag from the shelf above the saddles. She turned back to Roma and rubbed the cloth over the mare’s sweat-dampened coat. “We need to get you dry, don’t we, girl? Then I’ll tuck the three of you in the lean-to with hay. It looks like it might snow any minute, eh?”
“Yes, it does.”
Gretta whirled at the voice, slapping a hand over her chest to still her galloping heart.
There stood Zeche, not five feet behind her, a sheepish tilt to his mouth that made him look like part schoolboy, part mountain rogue. “Sorry.”
“What are you doing outside?” She had the unwelcome urge to step into his arms, to wrap herself around him and snuggle into his warmth. But wouldn’t that be inappropriate? So she clasped her hands together in front of her to keep from reaching out to him.
He shrugged. “I saw you come back. Had to get out of that room. Did you enjoy the ride?” The bit of twinkle in his eyes tried to capture her, but she turned away to look at Roma.
“We did.” She patted the mare’s shoulder. “There’s a lake about an hour’s ride, nestled in the middle of a cluster of mountains. I haven’t been able to sneak out there for a while.”
“Sounds nice.” His voice held a reserve. Maybe even a tinge of sadness. “I’m sorry I’ve been so much trouble for you.”
She spun to face him. “You’ve said that before, and I wish I could get it through your head that you’re not trouble. I’m glad you’re here. I want to help you.”
His face blanched a little, and his silence made her realize just how forceful her tone had been.
She tried again, this time softer. “I mean…I’m not glad you’re hurt, but I am glad I can help.”
He offered a half-hearted smile. “It’s nice to have you as my nurse, but then I hate for you to see me so weak.” His gaze dropped to the ground, and he slipped his hands in the pockets of his coat as he toed the muddy snow. Was he thinking back to the time he’d lost his breakfast on the cabin floor?
But that had been because he pushed himself harder than he should have. Not because he’d been weak.
She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. If she could only make him see how strong he was.
He stood a half-head taller than she, despite her own more-than-average height, so that she had to look up to see his eyes.
She gripped his arm. “Zeche, you’re the strongest man I know. Watching you recover from the brink of death only proves it.”
He met her gaze then, his eyes squinting a little as they tried to focus. “When you say it like that, it makes me almost believe you. It makes me want to be what you see.” His voice graveled in a low tenor, and his eyes gently perused her face. That look. That chiseled jaw with its week’s growth of beard, the way his hair tousled in the breeze. Every line she’d come to know and love. Love for him filled her chest so full, she ached with a physical pain.
His hand cupped her cheek, and she leaned into it. Would he kiss her? If he didn’t, she might initiate it herself. Everything in her wanted to step into this man’s arms and hide herself there. To take haven in his protection, to feed off his strength.
And he must have read her thoughts, because his other hand slipped around her waist, pulled her closer. Only inches separated them now, and the warmth of his breath slipped over her. She breathed it in, letting her eyes drift closed.
His thumb traced her jaw, over to the edge of her mouth. And then his lips brushed hers. Just a whisper. And then again, a taste. His warmth, the strength of his touch, drew her. Pulled her in, and this time, finally, he deepened the kiss.
She responded with a little of the emotion clogging her chest, wrapping her arms around his neck, breathing him in. She fingered the hair at his nape, running her fingers through the softness of it.
He winced, and she jerked back, pulling away. “What…?”
But his hand at her back locked her in place. “I’m sorry. My head…the bump.” His breaths came as thick as her own, and he lowered his forehead to hers.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I…” How could she say his kiss had obliterated every responsible thought from her mind?
He cupped her cheek again with his palm. “Don’t be sorry.” He kissed the tip of her nose and then pulled her closer, enfolding her in his arms.
She snuggled in, resting her head on his shoulder, and let him wrap himself around her. Then she closed her eyes and simply breathed.
“I shouldn’t have done that.”
The depth of his voice rumbled in her ear, and she nestled her face deeper in his neck. “Hmm…?”
She had no complaints. None at all while he held her. The rest they could figure out later.
“I can eat at the table.”
Gretta gave Zeche her sternest glare. “You’ll stay in that bed and be happy about it.” He’d been up too much that afternoon. He’d even insisted on helping her settle the horses in the lean-to. By the time they trudged back into the cabin, fine lines had settled under his eyes, and his mouth had pinched in that look of pain she’d seen too often lately.
She’d sent him to bed while she prepared dinner, and there was no need for him to overtax his healing body just to sit in a chair at the table. He needed to build his strength to kiss her like that again.
Her stomach took up its fluttering, and she fought the urge to smile as her gaze flicked to his lips. She’d not imagined a kiss would be so…consuming. Heat rose up her spine, and she forced her gaze from his mouth. She braved a quick glance at his eyes to see if he’d noticed.
He looked at her with brows raised and a mischievous curve to his lips that brought back the feelings of his kiss in a rush of sensation. Her whole body felt the memory of his touch, his nearness, the heady security of being in his arms. She stepped back to shield herself from the memories—to stop herself from stepping into his embrace again.
And from the way his grin deepened, the scoundrel could read every bit of what she was feeling. “I suppose I’ll eat here if you insist. I need to save my strength.” The cad.
She whirled and retreated to her work counter beside the fire place. Taking up the bowls, spoons, and serviettes, she strode across the room to the table, careful not to spare Zeche a glance as she walked. But it didn’t stop the burn of his gaze as he tracked her.
Father sat at his place at the table, scribbling furiously on paper with his charcoal pencil. He’d filled more than three quarters of the sheet, and she couldn’t tell if the stack underneath were fresh or covered in writing.
“What are you working on?” It had been a while since he’d taken pencil to paper. Not even to write a letter, as he’d broken all ties with old friends and compatriots from the war.
“Hmm?” That absentminded tone took her back to her childhood days. The tone he used when he was so caught in his thoughts he didn’t hear a word she said. She’d learned long ago to hold her tongue until he’d finished his work and re-emerged into the present.
As she set two places at the table, she peered over his shoulder. In his chicken scratch, she made out the words round, oval-shaped leaves and cluster of berries. She leaned closer to read more.
…recognizable by being a dark shade of red, with tiny white dots covering their surface. They are rough to the touch and quite bitter, although seeming slightly sweeter after the first frost.
A little thrill ran through her chest. He’d taken her suggestion? She touched his shoulder. “You’re writing articles about the plants you’ve found here?”
“Just jotting down thoughts.” His tone was gruff, probably more from his focus than anger.
She straightened the serviette where she’d positioned it beside his papers, then turned back to the counter to work on Zeche’s tray. And as she spooned stew into the bowl, she couldn’t stop her heart from floating a few inches above her chest. Zeche had kissed her, and Father seemed to be finding a renewed focus for his energies. Things were looking up, indeed.
A sound pierced the sleepy shell around Zeche’s brain, but he held himself perfectly still. Carefully, he cracked his eyelids, squinting to bring the mass of dark blur into some kind of focus.
There it was again. A soft, high moan. Almost a keening. Across the room, Mr. Michelly’s covers rustled. He must be in the throes of another nightmare.
Zeche turned onto his side and used his arm to lever himself up, keeping the strain off his damaged ribs. When he’d made it to a sitting position, he paused to let his head settle and refocus his vision. Now that the bump behind his ear had lessened, he could see almost like normal, except for the haze his eyes placed around everything. And the extra effort it took to make his mind process what he saw.
Another moan drifted from the other side of the room. Mr. Michelly’s head rolled from one side to the other.
Should he wake him? The last time, Gretta had insisted on doing it herself. Said her father wouldn’t do well waking to a stranger. So maybe he should call her to help? But no, Zeche wasn’t a stranger any longer. And she needed sleep. Besides, that other time, her father had practically attacked her as she’d wakened him. He couldn’t risk that again.
Maybe he should leave the man alone. See if the dream worsened.
He sat on the edge of the bed waiting, absorbing the gentle howl of the wind weaving around the eaves outside the cabin. This place was built decently well, although it could use a little more chinking where the logs had weathered. Maybe he could do that for them in the spring. Would he still be around then? Could he?
He’d sometimes imagined he would bring his wife, if he ever married, to the stage stop to build a life there. But marriage had never seemed a realistic possibility until now.
But now the Rocky Ridge, where he’d lived for almost seven years, seemed less like home than ever. If he were honest with himself, that feeling had been taking root for a while now. Maybe it started with Pa’s death. Then Mara’s marriage and the home she and Josiah built across the Sweetwater River. For a year and a half now, it had only been he and Ezra in the rambling cabin—two bachelors making do and biding time.
But now… He could easily imagine himself making a home in a mountain cabin like this. The Rocky Ridge stage stop had never captured him like this place did. If only that didn’t mean leaving Ezra alone permanently to manage the stages that came by every day. To cook for the passengers and tend the horses. Maybe they could shut the place down entirely, and Ezra would move into the mountains with him. Or he could join onto Josiah and Mara’s ranch.
Another groan sounded from across the room, then a mumbling that he couldn’t make out. Was it better to wake the man or let his dream play out? He hated sitting here waiting. Impotent.
The mumbling continued but didn’t seem to escalate. After a moment, Mr. Michelly tossed on the pallet, crooking a long arm around his head, as if shielding himself from a blow—or from shrapnel exploding from the blast of a cannon ball.
But the pose shifted into a crouch, almost a fetal position as a whimper sounded from the man. Poor fellow. What agony had brought such a stately gentleman to this condition?
Even as curiosity stirred in his chest, it settled into a dread that seemed to coil inside him. No, he didn’t want the details.
But then another thought stilled him. Did Gretta know the specifics of what her father had endured? Had he recounted the bloody stories to her? His gut turned to stone. He probably had. The man obviously depended on his daughter. Not only because she practically ran the place, but also because she seemed to be his emotional stability.
Gretta had a strength about her that drew people. And a depth. A wisdom. The way she looked at him…it made him want to be the man he saw reflected in her eyes.
The tossing and murmuring had stilled on the pallet against the wall, so Zeche eased himself back onto his pillow. He should give Mr. Michelly back his bed now that he was strong enough to get up and down from the floor. Tomorrow.