Miranda Jarrett - Gift Of The Heart

Rachel’s cheeks grew hot. “It’s Rachel. Rachel Sparhawk Lindsey.”

He liked to see her blush, especially over something as foolish as her name, and though he knew he’d no right to do it, he held his silence a moment longer to savor her discomfiture. Strange how she clung to her maiden name, and stranger still that her husband permitted such a thing.

“Well, then, Mistress Lindsey,” he said at last, “a fine good morning to you, and pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”

Her cheeks grew warmer still. He might not say much, but what he did say seemed to disconcert her more than all of William’s grand speeches put together. Not that she intended to let him get the better of her. She couldn’t afford to do that, not for her sake or for Billy’s.

“If you wish no titles for yourself, Jamie Ryder,” she said with determined composure, “then I can live without being called ‘Mistress.’”

“As you please, Rachel Lindsey.” He liked the sound of the name on his tongue, just as he’d liked hearing his on her lips. He had guessed she’d be called something more elegant, more exotic, the way she was herself, but now he’d never imagine her as anything other than Rachel. Rachel, Rachel Lindsey. Rachel Sparhawk Lindsey. Lord, when was the last time he’d gone moony over a woman’s name?

“Rachel Lindsey, Rachel Lindsey,” he said again as he let his bemusement slide drowsily across his face. “You wanted to trust me when I was dead to the world. But do you trust me now, I wonder?”

She didn’t hesitate at all. “Not in the least.”

“Good lass,” he murmured. “Not only beautiful, but wise you are, too, Rachel Lindsey. Don’t you ever trust me, not for a moment.”

Then he smiled, his whole face lightening, and the sudden, devastating warmth of it was enough to steal Rachel’s breath away and her wits, as well. Oh, she was right not to trust him, and it had nothing to do with wars or Tories or long-barreled rifles. If he could do this to her when he was weak and ill, what havoc could he bring when he’d recovered?

Swiftly she stood and reached to take the empty bowl from him, being sure that their fingers didn’t touch.

“You will understand, then,” she said as she briskly carried the bowl back to the table and away from the tempting power of that smile, “that while you’re welcome to stay as long as you need to recover, I also expect you to leave when you’re well. If Alec guesses you were here, he may be back, and I daresay others will come, too, once they’ve heard of the reward. Hard money’s scarce in this county, especially twenty dollars.”

She swallowed hard, longing for him to say something in return. “I have to think of Billy,” she said, hoping she sounded firm, not strident. “With William away, life is difficult enough for us as it is. Surely you must understand that.”

Still he didn’t answer. Impatiently she wiped her palms on her apron and turned to face him again. “Surely you must see my—”

But he wasn’t going to see anything. His eyes were closed, and he was fast asleep, the hint of his smile still lingering on his lips.

With an exasperated sigh, Rachel collected his powder horn and bullet pouch where he’d left them beside the window and set them beside the bed. Gingerly she eased the rifle away from him and laid it, too, on the floorboards. Perhaps letting him keep the gun was not the wisest thing she’d done, but still she sensed it was in her favor. She would put off changing the dressing until morning. Sleep now would be the best thing for him. At last she drew the coverlet over his shoulders, tucking it protectively around him the same way she had when he’d been so sick.

The same, yet different, the way everything between them had changed in little more than an hour’s time. There wasn’t any “same” left now, and the Lord only knew what would happen next.

“Oh, Mama, is he asleep again? ” asked Billy mournfully as he leaned over the edge of the loft.

“Rest’s the one thing now that will help make him well.” She glanced upward, wondering if the boy had been there all along as she’d suspected. “Come down and wash up for supper.”

But now that Billy had her attention, he was in no hurry to move, instead leaning on his elbows as he stared down at the sleeping man. “You said he had to go, Mama,” he said accusingly. “You said he couldn’t stay.”

“Oh, Billy, sweetheart, it’s not up to me,” she said unhappily. “I know he’s been very kind to you, but he doesn’t belong here. Once he’s better, he must return to his own family and friends. I’m sure they miss him very much, and they’ll be glad to see he’s well again.”

“Don’t want him to go,” said Billy, more wistful than stubborn. He hugged Blackie closer, resting his chin on the horse’s worn back. “He made Uncle Alec go away.”

“Not really, love. Mr. Ryder was watching, but that was all. Uncle Alec left on his own.”

“Not ‘Mr. Ryder,’ Mama,” corrected Billy patiently. “It’s Jamie. An’ Jamie made Uncle Alec go away.”

“Well, then, Jamie didn’t make your uncle go home. Uncle Alec didn’t even know anyone else was in our house.”

Unconvinced, Billy shook his head, and Rachel knew exactly what he meant. She might not trust Jamie Ryder, but she had believed him when he said he’d do all he could to keep her and Billy from harm. Why else would she have put his rifle where he’d find it as soon as he woke?

“Uncle Alec’s bad,” continued Billy steadfastly, “an’ Jamie’s good, an’ I like him, Mama, an’ I want him to stay here. ”

“Oh, Billy, that’s simply not possible, you see, because he—because we—” She broke off, searching vainly for the words to explain her reasons to a child. She looked back at the man in her bed, his face relaxed and boyish in sleep. How could she hope to explain how she felt about Jamie to Billy when she couldn’t explain it to herself?

“It’s simply not possible, Billy,” she said wistfully. “Jamie must leave as soon as he can. But I like him, too, Billy. I like him just fine.”

Rachel hurried down the path to the barn, her feet slipping here and there across the packed snow she’d worn slick to ice. With little clumps of ice clinging to the hem of her skirts, she balanced the lantern in one hand and the empty milk bucket in the other, the musket slung on a strap over her shoulders banging against her back. Only the scent and feel of more snow in the icy air, the threat of a new storm, could have brought her out this early at all.

She hated the dark that closed in around her, the black shadows that swallowed up the feeble light her lantern cast over the snow. This darkness that came when the moon had set and before the sun rose, the darkness of the deepest winter morning, made her heart pound and her imagination race to picture all that could be hiding in the murkiness around her.

Fiercely she tried to remind herself this was her land, her home. Nothing could harm her here. She knew every inch of this path, just as she knew exactly how many paces lay between her house and her barn. But all the fierce reminders in the world couldn’t brighten this darkness, and by the time she reached the barn she was almost running, the lantern’s light bobbing wildly and the empty bucket thumping against her thigh. With fingers clumsy from the cold, she tore at the latch, flung back the door and slammed it shut after her as if the devil himself were at her heels.

As crazy shadows from the swinging lantern danced across the walls, the hens flew squawking from their roost, flapping furiously in the air, and the cow lowed and thumped uneasily against the sides of her stall.