Jillian Hart - Night Hawk's Bride

“Easy, boy.” Night Hawk stepped into the light, circling around the nervous animal that watched him defiantly. Almost viciously.

How powerful and wild the gelding looked up close. He stomped one huge front hoof and tossed his enormous head in the air as high as the ropes would allow. His ears flattened against his head. She recognized the horse now. It was the same one that had almost hurt her and little Cassie Ingalls.

“That’s no way to behave, boy.” Night Hawk’s words held no trace of fear.

The warmth in his voice made the sensitive skin at Marie’s nape tingle.

“You can be a gentleman, I know you can.” Night Hawk spoke with the hush of a lullaby and the power of a summer storm.

The horse responded with uneasy trust. She couldn’t believe her eyes. The untamable runaway that had nearly turned killer today stood quietly for Night Hawk.

The big man knelt and ran his hand along the gelding’s front leg, never losing touch with him. Night Hawk’s words became too low to hear, but the gelding’s head drifted down to eat from a small tin bucket on the floor.

The scent of corn and molasses tickled Marie’s nose.

What kind of man was Night Hawk? Saver of women and children and wild-horse tamer. How could he be real? He had to be a dream, a figment of her imagination, the fantasy of a perfect man. Yes, that was it.

Except she was wide-awake and this was no dream. She could smell the straw and horse scent of the stable, see the flicker of light on the man’s hands as he inspected the gelding’s fetlock. And hear the beat of her own heart.

He stood—all flesh-and-blood man—and his gaze pierced the shadows and pinpointed her. His eyes were dark like the night. “Miss Lafayette. What are you doing out of your father’s house?”

How long had he known she was there? “I didn’t make a sound.”

“Your skirts did.” The light flickered over him, worshiping high, sharp cheekbones, a well-proportioned nose and a hard, carved jaw.

Marie felt a lightning bolt strike her, but there was no storm, no thunder. Her feet left the ground, she was sure of it. When she looked down, she saw the straw-strewn earth directly beneath her shoes.

The wind gusted, snapping her skirts. The gelding trumpeted, loud and shrill and sidestepped violently, fighting his restraints.

Night Hawk spoke, gentle soothing sounds of his native tongue while holding tight to the gelding’s halter with one hand. He stroked the horse’s gleaming coat with the other. The animal fought, and the man’s muscles corded beneath the deerskin shirt, holding him steady.

Night Hawk’s touch was magic, and the dangerous horse calmed.

Unbelievable.

“He cannot harm you. I have him cross-tied and hobbled.” Night Hawk caressed one bronzed hand down the gelding’s neck with the ease of a natural-born horseman. “Devil is not used to a woman’s skirts.”

“Should I leave?”

“No. I can control him. You have nothing to fear.”

Something within Marie’s heart clicked. Just like that. As a lock finding its key at the right moment.

Could he be the one, she wondered. The one she’d been waiting for all her life?

Excitement flickered through her in hot, bright flames. She dared to step forward, wanting, no—needing—to be closer to him. “I saw you save the little girl’s life. How badly were you injured?”

He didn’t meet her eyes. “I will heal.”

“I saw the blood on your shirt. In the mercantile. When you spoke to me.” She felt breathless, as if there wasn’t enough air in the building.

“Cassie Ingalls is my friend’s daughter. I would trade my life for my friend.”

“Or for any child.” She could feel it, the kind of man he was at heart—brave, noble and humble. A dream man who couldn’t possibly be real.

But the real flesh-and-blood man stepped out of the shadows and into the light. “Does your father know you’re here?”

What did she look like, a girl and not a woman grown? Heat flamed her face and it took all her self-control to modulate her words. “I’m my own woman, Mr. Night Hawk.”

“Just Night Hawk.” He spoke deep like rolling thunder and as gentle as twilight.

Another jolt spiraled through her.

He cupped the stallion’s front hoof in one hand, leaned his solid shoulder against the horse’s side and lifted.

Marie saw the rivulet of blood streaking the animal’s delicate fetlock. “He’s injured.”

“That’s why I’m here. No one under your father’s command could get close enough to treat him.”

“Then you work for my father?”

“No. I came as a favor.” Night Hawk reached up to reposition the lantern and didn’t look at her.

Bright light illuminated the angry gashes on the gelding’s neck and the man’s big, healing hands. Such gentle, masculine hands.

Marie shivered deep inside. She couldn’t move away. “It looks to me as if you need some help.”

“Does it?” He lifted one dark brow, measuring her. “You’re not afraid of Devil?”

“Not with you here.”

He nodded toward the shadows. “You can fetch that basin for me.”

She lifted the hot enamel container from the shadowed dirt floor. Mossy-smelling steam brushed her face as she knelt in the crackling straw beside the horse.

“Closer to me,” Night Hawk urged.

Closer? She was already near enough to see the bold, high cut of his cheekbones and the wide, lean cut of his shoulders. He smelled pleasantly of night and wind. She managed to crawl a few more inches on her knees.

He dipped a cloth into the steaming basin and wrung it well. He was big but his ministrations were gentle as he cleaned the blood from the horse’s wounded fetlock.

She had never seen tenderness like this in so strong a man.

“Now that the wound is cleaned, come closer,” he said. “Help me with the bandaging.”

Unable to speak, Marie obeyed. Kneeling together in the shadows, she could feel his body’s radiant heat.

Night Hawk held a roll of muslin to the gelding’s fetlock. “Hold this in place for me. Right here.” He caught her hand and pressed it to the bandage just above the gelding’s hoof.

His touch was like sunlight, his nearness like dawn. New sensations burst to life within her.

Then Night Hawk released her hand, but the sensations remained. He bent over his work, wrapping the horse’s wound. His rock-hard biceps brushed Marie’s shoulder. His jaw grazed the crown of her head. Bright, hot yearning ripped through her, leaving her trembling but not weak.

He knotted the muslin strip and eased the hoof back to the ground. The gelding nickered, as if in thanks.

“You have a gift.” She breathed the words, and embarrassment warmed her face. Couldn’t she hide this admiration for him better than that?

“A gift? No, nothing special. Not like my father had.” Night Hawk straightened, towering over her, tall and proud, and then extended his hand to her. “I merely have a love for horses.”

“So do I.” She placed her palm against his and climbed to her feet. Touching him this way felt unreal. As if it were part of an amazing dream.

If only he would look at her. If only some of what she was feeling reflected in his dark, mysterious gaze. But she could tell he wasn’t interested in her. Not one bit.

He thinks I’m too young. She bit back the urge to ask his age. To ask a thousand burning questions about him.

Night Hawk spun in the direction of the door. “Here comes your father.”

She didn’t hear anything. A few seconds later footsteps tapped on the path outside and a tall, imposing man marched into the dark stable.

“Papa!” She launched herself past Night Hawk and Devil, skirts rustling, heart lifting. “I’m so glad to see you. I’ve been waiting all day. I knew you were busy—”