Jillian Hart: The Horseman

He’s a man, Katelyn. Don’t be fooled by appearances. All men are the same within.

And yet he still made her breath catch and her pulse skip through her veins. He drew his horse to a halt at the paddock gate and seemed to be peering at her bedroom window. Instead of a prickle of fear, a jolt of heat arrowed through her, like lightning striking from sky to earth. Could he see her, even through the darkness? Was he watching her?

It was as if the entire world silenced. The anger at her stepfather faded. Why did it feel as if there were only the two of them, and no one else, in existence? And how, when she could not even see his face?

Seconds passed, and they beat within her as the shadowed man looked in her direction, and she in his. What was this strange tingle in the center of her chest? And why were her palms damp from heat, not fear?

He agitated her, that was true, and drew her like a falling star to the ground. Her feet shifted, moving her toward the window. She clutched the cool sill and watched as he lifted one strong arm to tip his hat, a polite countryman’s greeting, before he nudged his mount from the edge of the fence and rode off. Back straight, shoulders proud, becoming one with the night.

The bond between them snapped, and Katelyn’s senses filled again with the world around her. The icy draft from the windowpanes, the scent of hot candle wax and the sharp voices arguing in the other side of the house. A booming crack told her the argument had become violent.

What was it with men, that they had to be in control? In charge of his own castle, as Brett used to say. And what did that make the women they married, the women they courted so gallantly to wed before God with vows to cherish? The horseman, despite his shyness earlier and the mythical look of him this night, could be no different. He wore spurs, didn’t he? He broke horses’ spirits with lashes from a whip.

Disappointed in him, she sank into the wooden cane rocker in the corner. The book she’d been reading slipped to the floor with a thud, but it was hardly audible over the voices rising and the sound of violence piercing the walls. This was marriage. Most of the marriages she’d seen, including her own.

She buried her face in her hands. She would not remember. She would not allow her thoughts to drift backward. Agony twisted through her, braiding her into a tight, hard knot until she couldn’t feel anything. Not one thing. It was better this way, not to feel.

When she lifted her face, she saw him through the window. This time he was a distant figure, a man and his horse, small against the great steeple of the sky but not insignificant. He rode tall and straight in his saddle. He looked as if nothing could scare him, as if he were in authority above all living things on the plains. She felt the charge of it like the burn of a fire to her fingertips. Like a flame reborn on the blackened end of a snubbed-out wick.

What was it about this man? She was no longer a schoolgirl, wishing for the magic of a man falling in love with her. It made her feel old and disillusioned to remember how once she’d melted and sighed in hope that a man might truly love her. A fine, wealthy man like Brett Green, with the finest set of high-stepping bays in the county. A man who had treated her with respect, courted her with gentle words and romantic intentions, and who had proposed to her with a bright sparkling diamond when her other girlfriends wore plain gold bands.

There was no romance. No gallantry. No man’s love to gain in this world.

Bitterness soured her mouth and ached like a wire barb in her chest. Why did she still dare to hope? With a wrist wrapped in a splint and bruises fading from her face, with a barren womb and an obliterated heart? Why did she sigh when she gazed at the horseman?

Because it was human nature, she supposed, to want to be loved and loved truly. No matter how severely Brett had hurt her and no matter how broken her heart, she wanted to believe that a great, worthy man existed. And that he could love her.

That she could be lovable.

The horseman drew her attention again. He’d come back. He was not alone.

Awe filled her as Dillon dismounted in a slow, smooth movement and, dropping the reins, stepped away from his mustang. The starlight revered him, blessing the bow of his head and honoring the gentle invitation of his opened palm.

The wild stallion eased out of the shadowed draw, bold head held high, ears pricked, tail high, every muscle poised for flight. The stardust shimmered along the glossy slope of neck, back and hindquarters, and the only movement was the wind flicking the long mane and buffeting the brim of Dillon’s Stetson. Man and horse faced each other, both as still as statues.

She couldn’t believe her eyes when the stallion moved. He lifted one powerful hoof and stepped forward, toward the still horseman. His hand remained extended in offering. Why wasn’t the stallion running?

Katelyn’s fingers had curled around the top rung of the paddock fence before she realized she was outside, the window open behind her and the bitter night’s chill creeping through her flannel petticoats. She shivered, but she didn’t care if the blood froze in her veins. She had to watch. She had to see what would happen.

The night around her waited as well. A hooting owl silenced, as if listening to the low, melodic rumble of the horseman’s voice.

Rising now, slow and peaceful, the faintest strain of sounds she couldn’t put into words. What was he saying? Whatever it was, it held the stallion trans-fixed, and she, too, was drawn by the masculine baritone and gentle sounds. She’d never heard the like of it. In his words tolled a tenderness, a respect as holy as the starlight, and Katelyn slid down the top rail and into the paddock. She was drawn to the horseman’s voice just as the wild stallion was.

The animal nosed forward, stretching the magnificent length of his neck. The white mane lifted and fell in rhythm with the breeze, and his tightly coiled muscles trembled and flicked beneath his dappled coat. The Appaloosa leaned an inch toward Dillon’s steady hand.

Katelyn’s slipper crunched on a twig in the grass, and the crackle jerked through the stallion. She froze, but it was too late. The great animal pivoted, springing sideways as if under a cougar attack, already fleeing.

The horseman spoke, a cautious and interested sound, a combination of vowels Katelyn had never before heard. Whatever the meaning, the stallion halted, turning again to take the man’s measure and listen to more of that soothing language.

As if he were unaware of her, as if he hadn’t heard the crack of wood that had startled the animal, Dillon remained as he was, feet planted, spine straight, focused solely on the horse. He was like a strange, lone, rugged magician casting a spell that held captive the wild animal more completely than hobbles and a noose ever could.

What a man. She’d never seen the like. The gun at his belt remained untouched. The leather-gloved fingers of his free hand were not inching toward the lasso at his hip. He simply lured the stallion closer, not to catch him, but to know what it was like to be near him.

The Appaloosa took a wary step closer. Only a few feet separated man from beast. Both stood like legends cast in pewter and glazed by star shine.

The lure of Dillon’s words was like sunrise after a cold, bleak night. A kind, gentle light she hungered for, when her defeated heart hurt with darkness. Her chest ached, as if a bullet had torn her apart. Deep and sharp and raw.

The sight of the wild stallion reaching out to the humble man made her want to reach out, too. She longed to place her hand in Dillon’s open palm, to know the warmth of his touch and lose herself in the beauty, the gentleness. Could there be one man worthy enough to trust?