Pamela Nissen - Rocky Mountain Match

“Easy for you to say.” Joseph ground out the words, his frustrated gaze set down the road.

Katie took a step closer, then gently grasped his hand, inwardly cringing when he jerked at her touch. “Please,” she whispered. “Let me help you.”

When Joseph didn’t pull away, she placed his hand at her elbow and led him home, acutely aware of the stiffness in his touch. And when they reached his porch, she turned to find his unseeing gaze fixed on her, his eyes the most beautiful golden-brown she’d ever seen.

For a moment neither one of them moved. Delicious, comforting warmth spread through her when he swept his thumb over her hand in a light caress. Her heartbeat quickened at his comforting presence. Stirred at his soothing voice, she found herself longing for his nearness to lend her hope and confidence. And longing for his touch…

loves creating. Whether it’s characters, cooking, scrapbooking or other artistic endeavors, she takes pleasure in putting things together for others to enjoy. She started writing her first book in 2000 and since then hasn’t looked back. Pamela lives in the woods in Iowa with her husband, daughter, two sons, Newfoundland dog and cats. She loves watching her children pursue their dreams, and is known to yell on the sidelines at her boys’ football games, or cry as she watches her daughter perform. She relishes scrapbooking weekends with her sister, coffee with friends and running in the rain. Having glimpsed the dark and light of life, she is passionate about writing “real” people with “real” issues and “real” responses.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Having the eyes of your hearts enlightened, that you may know what is the hope to which he has called you, what are the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints.

—Ephesians 3:18

For my lovely daughter, Mary Anna, whose strength and perseverance inspires. You are a heroine in the very truest sense of the word.

Thank you to my friends and family: your encouragement has carried me through seasons of doubt. And to Melissa and the Steeple Hill family, thank you for believing in me and loving my characters as much as I do. Sincere gratitude goes to my amazing critique partners: Diane, your words and friendship are life-giving; Jacque, your tenacious loyalty is comforting; and Roxanne, your gentle expertise coaxes me out of my comfort zone. To my wonderful children, Mary Anna, Noel and Elias: thank you for being so supportive, and for tolerating more than one “cold cereal dinner” on this journey. And special thanks go to my husband, Bill, who (when I couldn’t get these characters and story line out of my head) said, “Why don’t you write a book?”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Boulder, Colorado—1890

Inky darkness crowded Joseph Drake from every side. It shrouded him like a thick coat, with power so substantial that it was almost suffocating. Its bleakness mocked his vulnerable state, sending humiliation barreling through him with avalanche force.

He hated this. Every bit of it. He could barely stomach the thought of asking for help or being pitied. And he loathed the idea that those helping him would be monitoring his each and every pathetic move.

Drawing in a steadying breath, he braced himself against the pitch blackness as he sat on the edge of the feather mattress, clutching the thin sheet in his hand. He was so dizzy. His head swam and his ears rang incessantly, deepening his bad mood. He couldn’t have imagined how unsettled he’d still feel after being on bed rest for three weeks. Raising his hands to his head, he slid his fingers over the fresh bandages shrouding his eyes. How he wished he’d just wake up and find that his accident in the woodshop had been a horrible nightmare.

“God, please,” he pleaded, his throat thick with emotion. “I need my sight back.”

When Ben, his older brother by two years and a doctor in Boulder, had removed the wraps yesterday, Joseph had been confident that he’d be able to see again. But that confidence had vanished like some taunting wraith as he’d frantically grabbed for any image through the thick, dark cloud.

He’d tried to stay calm, but deep down he’d felt a crumbling begin at the very base of who he was. All along he’d minimized his injury. After all, it could be too soon to tell any permanent outcome—and Ben was new to doctoring. The thought had crossed Joseph’s mind more than once that maybe Ben was a little green around the edges and lacked experience.

He’d reasoned it all, but the prospect of being permanently blind staked out his soul like a dank, stony grave marker. And the huge furniture order he’d taken on just days before his accident lay like dead flowers crushed into the fresh turned dirt. He’d cushioned the deadline when he’d signed the contract, but with his brother, Aaron, being the only one working in the woodshop for the past three weeks, the padding had been jerked away hard and fast.

Fighting to remain hopeful, he pushed himself off the bed, his cracked ribs protesting with the movement. He inhaled sharply, digging his toes into the rag rug’s nubby texture.

His jaw ticked with instant irritation as a distant chorus of giggles wafted through his open window. It didn’t take much to conjure up the origin of the twittering noise. He could see it now…a cluster of bonneted women standing in front of the hotel. Lined up like flowers for the picking, just another batch of mail-order brides brought in to help populate the west.

It was downright demeaning, in his book, the way they’d set themselves on display like that.

When a knock sounded on his front door, he startled. Clad in just underclothes, he lurched forward, struggling for balance as he probed for the wall where his clothes were hung.

Ben’s strong urging that Joseph gradually ease back into life on his own whipped through his mind like a warning knell. But bandages over his eyes or not, Joseph was a twenty-seven-year-old man, and like a caged animal, he craved independence and freedom. Privacy.

“I’ll be right out,” he yelled after another knock sounded.

His fingertips brushed against sturdy cotton fabric and he sighed with relief. He pulled on his britches and boots, then shrugged into his shirtsleeves, although a new level of frustration assaulted him as he intently focused on lining up the five wooden buttons with buttonholes.