Jillian Hart: The Horseman

He held the rifle steady, aiming just at the edge of the trees, anticipating that first glimpse of a shadow. He hugged the trigger, ready and alert, as the shadow nosed toward Katelyn.

It wasn’t the fast strike of a cougar. Dillon took a breath, waiting, as Katelyn’s melodic voice lifted up to him on the wind.

“That’s it. See? No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe. Come closer. That’s right.”

Sweet as a hymn. She could coax the wildness out of a cougar, he figured, with a voice like that. It wasn’t just the voice-it was her, the goodness in her, the heart of her. He could see it as plain as the woman and she waited while the first doe broke from her cover and eased forward to eat the grain Katelyn had spread on the ground. Grain, not birdseed.

Dillon couldn’t believe it. The wild deer came right up to her. Two smaller animals joined her-yearling fawns, he figured, judging by their size and markings. Young, not fully grown. They, too, scented the air, considered Katelyn standing as still as a statue and bent their dainty heads.

Shrouded in snow, like poetry and fairy tale, the woman watched the delicate creatures eat. The wind gusted, ruffling Katelyn’s long gold locks against her back, caressing the curled ends like a lover’s fingers.

What would it be like to touch her hair? Dillon lowered the rifle, thunderstruck by the notion. He imagined lowering his fingertips to that lustrous fall of gold, and he knew she would feel as soft and fine as silk, the fancy kind in the stores only the rich could buy. She would be like that, and satin everywhere…

Whoa, now, that was not a respectful thought. He took a deep breath, banishing further inclinations from his mind. He was a man and he couldn’t help desiring her, but that didn’t mean he ought to give those thoughts free rein. He had no right to look upon her like that. She was not his wife.

She never would be.

No, she’d find herself courted by one of the rich dandies in town. The kind with an enormous house on Elm Street, the finest lane with the fanciest homes. The sort of man who sat inside all day, didn’t wear Levi’s and smell of horses and leather. The sort that sipped brandy after dinner in the parlor.

Not the kind of man who drank a pint of ale in the bunkhouse.

It saddened him. If he had a dream, then it would be Katelyn Green.

Dillon couldn’t talk to her. The tightness was working its way up from his chest into his throat. By the time he made it to her side, the tightness would have worked its way up to his paralyzed tongue, and there would be no way in hell he could make an intelligible sound.

He’d be best to keep quiet, turn the horse around and ride the long way back before he made an embarrassment of himself.

The saddle creaked as he shifted his weight to draw the gelding around, and the sound traveled like thunder above the whisper of the falling snow.

Katelyn jerked in his direction, her eyes wide with the same surprise and fear as the deer, frozen, ears pricked, heads high, scenting him. Woman and animals stared as if he were evil incarnate.

Katelyn Green’s gaze scorched him like blue flame. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She sure sounded mad. She looked it, too. Dillon’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. And it was a good thing, too, since he didn’t know what to say anyway. Did he apologize for intruding? Was that why she was so angry?

“How could you? What kind of man are you?” She marched toward him, pure fury, and he had no notion what he’d done.

“I, uh…” Damn it, Hennessey. You can do better than that. “I’m, uh, sure am s-sorry, ma’am.”

“Sorry? For trying to kill the deer when I was feeding them? What did you think? That I wouldn’t mind if you just started shooting?”

“No, uh-” Dang it all, but he was tongue-tied. She flustered him worse than any woman ever had, the way she was flying up the hill toward him, focused anger and indignation.

She was pure beauty, with her face pinkened from the cold and high emotion, her small fists clenched, her hair flowing out behind her like a mare in full gallop. The passion in her showed.

No wonder he was speechless.

Then he realized he was holding the rifle still aimed in the direction of her deer, which had already fled into the trees and disappeared. There was only the two of them, and, flushing, he eased the hammer back and slid the weapon into its leather casing. “S-sorry about that, ma’am.”

“You’re sorry?” She looked ready to hurl sharp objects at his head. Good thing there weren’t any handy. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, taking advantage like that. You’re a man. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised-”

He knew what she thought. “You’re wrong, ma’am. I s-saw some cat tracks back a ways and thought…” He couldn’t find the right word. What the hell was he going to say? She lifted her chin, staring at him expectantly with those fiery blue eyes accusing him of being the worst sort of man, and he just couldn’t think.

“I, uh, didn’t want to see you get hurt, ma’am,” he finished, but it wasn’t what he intended to say.

Had she noticed? All that stammering had to make him look bad.

“A cougar?” She seemed to be debating whether or not he was telling the truth.

Well, that was progress. Leastways she wasn’t ready to give him a lashing. And she wasn’t staring up at him like he was a stammering numbskull. That had to be a good sign. He sat straighter in the saddle.

“I’m Dillon Hennessey. I’m the horse trainer your stepfather brought in.” He tipped his hat.

White tumbled down his face and fell in a heap on his lap. Damn. He should have knocked the snow off before he tried making advances at the pretty lady. Had she noticed?

Sure she had. Her top teeth dug into her lush bottom lip to keep from laughing, and her eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement.

He withered a little inside. He’d acted like this before with women, but not in front of one that mattered so much. If he didn’t get over this blasted shyness, he would never find a wife. Never have a family of his own.

“Well, thank you for protecting me.” She was trying to be polite. A different light sparkled in those blue depths and the sadness in them, the pervasive sorrow he’d noticed before, had ebbed. “I’ll just fetch the feed pail and head home. I wouldn’t want to be cougar food.”

“Guess you probably don’t need to worry about that. Seein’ as you’d be too sweet for ’em.” Good job, Hennessey. He moaned internally at the words that just popped out of his mouth.

He had not said what he just said. He would never say anything as ridiculous as that. Right? If he tried hard enough, maybe he could forget he’d said it.

First he couldn’t speak, now he couldn’t shut up. He might as well have said, I’m sure interested in you, Katelyn Green. It would have left him with more dignity.

“I mean, I’ll keep watch as long as you’re out here.” He cleared his throat, trying to sound gruff, because he was a fearless rugged man, raised in the wilderness, half Nez Percé and a warrior.

She picked up her feed pail and brushed a lock of gold behind her ear, looking up at him through her thick lashes. “Then I guess I should apologize for being angry at you. I saw the gun and thought the worst. I’m sorry.”

She lifted her face, and in the soft daylight he could see plain as day the faint impression of a bruise on her far cheekbone the size of a man’s fist. The wind ruffled her hair and a thick shank of hair fell forward, hiding the mark.

Rage came to life in his chest. Hot and hard, like a kerosene fire until it threatened to burn out of control. His jaw clamped tight. His hands fisted. If the man she’d been married to was here right now, Dillon would be glad to teach him a lesson.