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Emma was shocked to realize she was so close to him that she could actually smell him. She could smell the masculine scent that was coming from his clothes, coming from his body. It was a provocative notion, being so close to him that she could smell the leather, smell the hint of horses coming from his person.
"I bet I know what the problem is. You were married at such a young age you never had time to adjust to all the male attention, is that right, Emma?
Oh, where was this going? Male attention? "I guess not, no," she agreed, making things up as she went along.
He crouched down on his haunches in front of her, and lifted his hand to pick up a lock of her hair.
Her pulse became erratic as he rubbed her hair between his fingers.
"I suppose with looks like yours and no husband to watch after you anymore, keeping the dogs at bay must have your back up all the time now."
His dark, sultry voice inundated her before she made since of his words. And when she did, she couldn't contain the hiss of air that left her lungs. She was too stunned, too shocked to speak. He thought she looked good enough that men bothered her all the time?
How could he possibly think that? And why was he saying such personal things to her? What could his reasons be? And why was he crowding her? Hanging over her as if he had every right to do just that?
The truth was, Emma wasn't a widow. She'd never been married before. When she'd left the orphanage, the matrons there had convinced her that her plight in life would be easier, because of her affliction as they called it, if she pretended she'd been married before. They felt she'd never be able to get married and have children like other women would, and it would make things easier on her, travelling alone and such, if people thought she was a widow.
She'd never liked the idea of lying, liked the idea of never marrying even less, but had grown used to the small fabrication. And it had, indeed, made things easier for her in her travels. Widows and married women had far more leeway than single women. Even in the west. And until now she hadn't given it much thought.
But she was thinking about it now. Suddenly, she felt like the lie was personal. That she was lying to someone, that she was being dishonest.
She was also more than a little confused. Her heart was pounding away and she was trying to find a reason he would question her about such things. Surely it just wasn't done.
"Answer me, sweetheart," he said in a firm voice.
His eyes tangled with hers and an incendiary heat passed between them.
There was only one answer she could give him without revealing the truth which she wasn't prepared to do. And there was only one answer she could get past the lump in her throat. "I suppose so."
A look that could only be described as pure challenge crossed his features. "We'll start off with you saying my name."
"Start off?" Her voice was shaky as her mind raced. Start what?
"Say my name, Emma," he cajoled.
His eyes held hers and Emma's insides quivered. She couldn't find the strength to deny him this one small thing. And he was right. What would it hurt? "Luke."
His hand tightened on the lock of hair and Emma felt the slight tug on her scalp.
"Why were you going to Denver?" Emma was too stunned, held enthralled under his spell to even realize he voiced that question in the past tense, as if she wasn't going to Denver any longer.
"I've accepted a position as a seamstress there," she answered him in a soft voice.
"You can sew?"
She smiled softly when he asked that question as if she had accomplished a great feat. "Yes, I can sew."
"By hand or on a machine?"
"Both."
"Really? You know how to operate a sewing machine?"
"Yes, we had one at the orphanage."
"You worked at an orphanage?"
Her eyes broke from his and she looked down at her lap. "No. I was raised in an orphanage."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"Thank you. It was one of the better ones, and it's in the past. My life is my own." She couldn't help the small amount of satisfaction in her voice. She'd waited a long time for the restrictions of both the orphanage and then the polite society of St. Louis where she had worked for the last few years to be lifted from her shoulders. Denver was supposed to be an adventure, and although the day had been horrific, she was young and strong of spirit and resilient; she would get past it and with any luck, have a decent and happy future.
Luke could tell she was trying to stay strong, but he could hear the fatigue in her voice. She needed rest and as much as he liked sitting here and watching her, he knew he needed to let her rest. A good night's sleep would take away the dark circles under her eyes and the lines of worry creasing her brow.
"I need to let you rest. Let's get you settled in a room. Are you hungry?"
At one time today, looking at the lifeless body of the stagecoach driver, Emma didn't think she'd ever want to eat again. But now, with warmth and relative safety again, her stomach chose that exact moment to make itself known by growling with hunger.
And for the first time, she saw Luke's smile as he quipped, "Guess that settles that. I'll get you something from the kitchen."
Emma made a move to stand. "I can help. Please, I don't want to be a burden."
He rose to his full height in front of her. "Rest. Stay there."
Emma couldn't remember a time when she had been completely waited on in this manner. She didn't know if it was the manner of the order he had given her or the feeling of comfort resting in the rocker induced, but she closed her eyes and did, in fact, rest.
Luke cut a slice of cheese and two thick pieces of bread and quickly spread freshly-churned butter on each. The sandwich he prepared was rudimentary, but it would do the trick.
It looked and smelled good, so he quickly made one for himself as well.
He inhaled his food in four quick bites while he moved around the kitchen, pouring Emma a glass of milk.
He hadn't been able to stifle the arrow of pleasure he had felt when he saw her face and form clearly for the first time after he'd lit the lamps.
He didn't know what he'd been expecting exactly, hadn't given it much thought at all. He'd been relieved to find her alive and hiding after he'd seen the sewing and other feminine fripperies in the coach. He knew there was a woman, and after a quick, cursory look around, knew immediately the driver was dead from the ambush.
He'd been afraid he'd find her dead and naked body not far from the coach, and was inordinately relieved when he heard the small noises she was inadvertently making where she was hiding in the brush.
He'd quickly estimated that her state was fearful but not hysterical, so she'd probably not been violated. Even now, moving around the kitchen, he felt a sudden inexplicable rage toward the men that had even looked at her and held her fate in their hands for that small moment in time.
It was a good thing they hadn't touched her.
Because if they had, they would have to die.
They'd hang anyway for the murder they had committed; the sheriff and posse would take care of that. He could stay here, on his ranch where he belonged, and protect the woman that knew the faces of the outlaws. It was a small relief that he wouldn't personally have to chase them down and make sure justice was handed out, as it would have been if they'd touched her.
Why he had that feeling he couldn't explain and didn't even try.
He walked back to where she was sitting and placed the drink and plate on the edge of the fireplace and turned to study her.
She'd quickly fallen asleep; he could tell her eyes were more than just closed by the deep inhalations of her chest underneath the coarse cotton fabric of her dress. It was buttoned firmly to her throat, and covered her arms all the way down to her wrists.
Her hands were small and white. He carefully picked one up and ran the pad of his thumb over her palm. He grimaced when he found the small calluses on her hands.
He couldn't explain
it but he knew he didn't like it. Her hands should be smooth and soft, not roughened from work.
He'd already felt her body pressed against his. Granted, there had been two layers of clothing between them, his and hers, but he could still remember the soft, tempting way her body had given to accommodate his chest pressed into her back when he'd had to chase her down. That smooth, soft spine had curved inward, and he clearly remembered his body surrounding the softness of hers.
It made his groin clench with need when he thought about that sweet body fully giving into and accommodating his.
His eyes ran from her torso up to her face. Her skin was alabaster smooth, and her hair had long ago fallen from the knot of restraint she had probably put it in that morning. Her hair wasn't dramatic in color, but a warm brown filled with lights and streaks that had a honey look about it. She was softly pretty, plain at first glance, until you looked more closely and you saw the fire in her slanted eyes, the high cheekbones that defined the very feminine lines of her face. Her cheeks were almost plump, full and healthy, and in direct contrast to the many women of the west who were haggard, drawn and tired, valiantly fighting a life in this rough part of the country.
He hoped like hell she never had that pinched, compressed look to her face. He hoped she always had the healthy, open shine to her face that he saw now.
And by God, while she was under his care, she would retain that healthy, almost innocent glow.
She would eat now.
He placed his hand on her slim arm and shook her softly. "Emma."
He received no response so he shook her a bit more. "Emma, wake up, honey."
