And late at night he could picture Ashleen in his arms, so eager, so willing, he would never be cold again.
The vision was fragile. So infinitely precious he expected it to shatter. It was more than he'd ever dared hope for. He wanted it, wanted her, more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.
He shifted toward her, a deep ache in his ribs reminding him of how close he had come to losing her forever. The thought of her stranded on the prairie, at the mercy of Indians, animals, outlaws, made his skin crawl, his whole body trembling with the hideous sensation of helplessness. Unable to stop himself, he reached out to pull her hand into his. Her fingers were chilled, shaking, and in the faint glow of the lamp Garret could see her lips quivering, her whole face shadowed with the pain of loving him, seeing him hurt.
He traced one thumb over the rosy curve of her lower lip, petal-soft, moist, agonizingly sweet. And he knew there could be no more secrets, no more denial between them.
"Ashleen, I love you." The words were simple. So terrifying.
"Garret, I love you, too. So much, I—"
"No, Ash," he said, laying his fingers against her lips to stop her. "Hear me out."
She stilled, and he sensed he had somehow hurt her again. He knew that if they spent the lifetime he dreamed of together, he would hurt her many times. He could only vow to bring her joy as well.
"I'm not very good at this, lady. This loving. It seems to come so easy to you. But it'll never be easy for me, Ashleen. It will always scare the hell out of me."
"But you are good at loving me. Loving the children. Better than you can ever know. Liam worships the ground you walk on, and so does Shevonne. And Meggie... she trailed after you like a puppy dog before..."
She faltered, both remembering with stark clarity the day Meggie had ceased doing anything at all, save scour the ground for the doll she had lost. Ashleen flushed and fell silent.
Garret curved a finger under her chin and raised her face to his. Her eyes glistened with tears, shimmered with love, but the man he saw reflected in those eyes was as much a fantasy as the knight whose adventures she had spun night after night by the campfire. He wasn't any damn knight errant, wasn't some hero from one of her ancient Gaelic tales. But he wished to hell he could be. For her.
Sweat dampened his palms, and he felt as awkward, as clumsy as a boy with his first woman. Yet wasn't she the first? The first who had touched his heart?
"Ash, I don't know how to... to say pretty words a woman wants to hear. Don't know how to tell you how I feel. It's too painful, Ash. Too frightening. I should ride away, lady, and never come back. Should let you find some good, steady man with no goddamn temper. Someone who deserves a woman like you."
"I don't want anyone but you."
"Well, you damn well should. I'll make your life pure hell. Stomping around and yelling. And when I'm painting—God, what a son of a bitch I can be."
Her knuckles brushed butterfly-soft across his cheek, and she looked at him with so much tenderness he melted inside. "Garret MacQuade, you're the closest thing to heaven I've ever found. I love you. Even when you're stubborn and domineering and temperamental, and so... so very gentle..." Her voice broke, a tear spilling from her lashes to trek in a crystal path down her cheek.
"Well, then there's no blasted help for it," Garret said between gritted teeth. "Damn it to hell, woman, you're going to have to marry me."
"M-marry you?" She couldn't have looked more stunned if she'd just been struck by lightning.
"What the hell else can we do? We can't go living in sin in front of all these young'uns. And with the way I want you all the time... well, there'll probably be a dozen more before we're through."
"B-but your painting... you said you couldn't do it if you were tied to a patch of ground."
"There are a million pictures to be painted on MacQuade land. And when I run out of those, I've got a million more in my memory—I don't need to see an eagle soaring to paint it anymore. I feel it now—that wild sweet freedom whenever I kiss you. I want to feel that way forever, Mary Ashleen O'Shea. If you'll have me."
"I'll have you, Garret." She choked, her whole face alight with love. He wanted to bury himself in it forever. Wanted to heal. She flung her arms around his neck, and he groaned as pain shot through him, but when she tried to draw away he held her fast against him, stroking her hair, the pain in his bruised ribs nothing compared to the precious ache of love in his heart.
She was crying, and he loved her for it, loved the feel of the joy thrumming through her. She raised her face to his, capturing his cheeks in her soft palms. "I want at least a dozen of your children, Garret MacQuade. I want them, want you, so much."
Garret's throat constricted. "I don't know what kind of a father I'll make. But I'll always be there for you, for the little ones. There's an old mission three days ride from Stormy Ridge. As soon as I come back I'll go there, bring a priest, and—"
"Come back?" The words sounded hollow, echoing through him. The eyes that had glowed with love were suddenly clouded, the lips that had been so eager stilled.
Garret felt something knot in his stomach, but he met her gaze levelly, his voice quiet. "Ashleen, I want to build a new life with you," he said. "To do that, I have to close the door forever on the old one."
He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, saw the swift flash of denial. "You mean you have to finish your commission? Paint?"
"I have to kill Cain and Eli Garvey."
In the lamplight her face waxed as pale as the thin lawn nightgown clinging to her breasts. She stared at him, a frightened ghost, looking achingly young, vulnerable. "No."
