Jillian Hart - Stetsons, Spring and Wedding Rings

But more feelings, ones easily hidden at the time, had crawled to the surface. Rejection was one, reinforced whenever he heard but didn’t see her in the house. Sure, he might have caught sight of the swirl of her skirt as she left the room or the hint of rose water in the air when he entered the parlor. But emptiness was another emotion troubling him, carving out a hollow place within him that hadn’t been there before.

Hurt—that was something else he’d felt in the dark of night, in his room at the end of the hall. He’d sat at the window and looked out over the garden where Clara’s front window shone with lamplight, and he’d wondered if she felt as lonely as he did, more than she had ever known before. She had changed everything in his world—what he wanted and what he thought about. His sense of well-being was gone, blown to bits as if with a rifle’s bullet. He couldn’t lay his head on his pillow without wondering what it would be like to have her lying beside him or how sweet it would be to draw her into his arms and love her fully, the way a husband ought to love his wife.

He’d come to realize what he had done wrong. Romancing a woman was harder than it looked. The one thing he did not want was to be the reason she kept turning away from him, the way Lara had done long ago in his school days. That had stung at the time, sure, but this pain he felt right now hit powerfully enough to bring him to his knees. The one thing he couldn’t stand would be to lose the chance to love Clara for all the days of his life.

“I’m not looking for a housekeeper, just so you know.” He fell in stride beside her as she crunched and slid along the worn path away from the house. “I said it all the wrong way. I’ve got to get better at that. I meant I would be eager to come home to the woman. Her coziness, her laughter, her presence.”

“Oh.” She said the single word low and hushed, making it hard to know what she meant, if she understood or if she still thought him insincere. The wind tugged loose airy curls from her coiled-up braids to swirl invitingly against her face.

Everything within him ached to capture those fairy curls in his bare hands, to cradle the dear curve of her chin in his palm and taste her kisses. He longed to savor her heat and her every texture, to unbutton her, layer by layer, and lave kisses down her long, graceful neck and farther still. Blushing, he tried not to think about how much he craved to know more of her, to know all of her. The softness of her bosom, the flare of her hips, and what it would be like to lie intimately with her, to feel her legs entwined with his, to be joined as one.

Need, both sweet and vital, punched hard until it hurt. Just take it slow, Joseph. He veered off the broken path when she did, following the iced-over trail to the water pump. The moonlight fell at her feet, as if privileged to light her way. Feeling the same, he grabbed a bucket from the stack before she could, hung it on the notch and covered her hand when she reached for the pump handle.

She stiffened at his contact and his closeness. “I ought to do this, Joseph.”

He stood his ground. “It might be frozen. Let me get it started for you.”

“It does seem to be stuck.” Her words sounded strained.

Strained or affected? He had to find out. He pressed closer to her until her shoulder blades brushed his chest. The luxury of her hair tickled the underside of his jaw. Please feel what I do, he wished, gathering up all the forces of his soul. Please want me the way I want you.

Was it his imagination or had her fingers nudged his? He relaxed his hand, waiting spellbound and breathless for the smallest movement. It came quietly and sweetly, the tiniest acquiescence as her fingers widened to allow his to entwine with them. His breath caught and held, his heart tumbling irrevocably. In the kiss of moonshine, she was exposed. Wideeyed, she watched him with both fear and hope, emotions he could feel hovering in the crisp air between them and with his every breath.

“Joseph, the water?” A shiver rolled through her, and he could feel every nuance, every worry and wish.

With her fingers between his, he put some muscle into it, and the pump handle gave. Water splashed, drumming into the tin pail as he savored her summery scent. He fought the need to press against her more tightly, enfold her in his arms and never let her go. For whatever reason, she affected him deeply and he was grateful. He’d taken to her from first glance, but every time they met his affections for her expanded like stars in the night sky.

“I’ve got it now,” her gentle alto reminded him, but instead of notes of censure in her voice, there was something hidden.

Something only his heart heard. He did not move. “Maybe I want to help you, Clara.”

“Maybe you are trying to charm me again.”

“Charm you…no longer. My aim is to show you the man I am.” The pail was full, and it was like dying a little to release the handle and take his hand from hers. To step away from her softness when every instinct he owned shouted at him to get closer until there was no way to know where he ended and she began.

“Joseph, surely you know we cannot be friends.” Her plea sounded frail on the inclement wind, as fragile as the ice forming at his feet, cracking beneath his boot as he took a step.

“I do not wish to be friends, pretty lady. Wait here.” He took the pail from her, tossed her a grin and left her standing alone in the star shine. The world around her transformed. Ice crusted the snow and shone like diamond dust. Icicles dangled overhead as he hurried up the icy path to leave the water bucket on the top porch step. He would take it inside later. But for now, he had more information to gather. Did he have a chance? Was he right, did she have hopes and feelings for him, too?

As predicted, she did not wait as he’d asked. She followed him as far as the trail’s fork, one leading to the stables and the other to the maid’s quarters. “I never asked what brought you out in the cold this time of evening.”

“I intended to pay Don Quixote a visit. He and I haven’t gotten in as much talking as we usually do.” All he could see was her. The swish of her skirt. The sway of her hips. The pearled light on her skin. “I was also thinking of sledding.”

“You? Aren’t you too old to play in the snow?”

“Playing in the snow is ageless.” He matched her pace, taking the unbroken edge of the trail and leaving her the cleared pathway. “Surely even a lady as proper as you, Miss Clara, knows that.”

“I’ve rarely indulged in such silliness.” She tried to hold back a smile and failed. “The truth is, I’ve never had much time for play.”

“You have always had a serious life?”

“I ran errands for several businesses in town, swept store floors and boardwalks and cleared snow for most of the day when I was a child.”

“What about school?”

“I never made it past the third grade. I was kept out, to help make what living I could. But one of the hurdy-gurdy dancers at one of the saloons liked to read and taught me what she could. I doubt you can understand how I was brought up.”

“With little to hope for, so it seems to me. With a ma you couldn’t count on, a pa who’d abandoned his responsibilities. I can see why you don’t believe in me, Clara.” His hand settled on her shoulder, drawing her around. He towered over her, both a stranger she did not know and a dream she’d never been brave enough to wish for, all at once. His thumb brushed the dip in her chin. “But you will.”

How did she tell him she was beginning to believe? She felt dazzled by his caring gaze, captivated by his branding touch. This man could enchant her, when no one ever had. His fingers blazed on her skin like the first star in a winter sky, bright enough to light her way. His gaze settled on her mouth and lingered, and the contours of his rugged face changed. His mouth softened. His eyes darkened.