She nodded.
“He would have done it, anyway,” Ben said dryly.“During the war …” He stopped.
“During the war …?”she urged after a few moments.She was tired of being shut out, of sentences started and stopped.
“We had to kill some horses once.They were pulling caissons, cannon, and the Rebs were about to overrun us.There was no time to cut them loose, and we couldn’t let the Rebs take them.Rafe gave the order to kill them, and I’ll never forget the look on his face as he did it.”Ben looked away.“As you probably know, he does damn little hunting.He hates it.”
“And yet he’s hunting my father.”
Ben’s glance cut through her.“I suppose he considers that necessary.”
“Why?”
“Same reason you stayed here, I guess.It’s something that he feels has to be done.”
“And you?”She wondered whether she would get the same answer from him as she had from his brother.“Why are you here?”
“Why not?”He rose as if bored with the conversation.“If you want to know more, Miss Randall, ask Rafe.”He checked the fish and gave a sound of satisfaction.“Why don’t you go see if he’s awake.”
Shea stood reluctantly.Ask Rafe.That’s all they said.And Rafe said nothing.
Disgruntled, she walked to the cabin, hesitating just inside the door.The candle was now a puddle of wax without fire.A small bit of light from the moon crept through the window, though, and she could see that Rafe once more had rolled halfway off the cot.She leaned against the wall, watching him as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.He looked so uncomfortable, so big for the small cot, so restless for the small cabin.His hair was mussed, and his face, she knew, was thick with a day’s bristles.She didn’t want to wake him, but he needed to eat.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to disturb him.She very quietly walked to the corner where the cub’s bed was at and put the animal down to sleep; then she sat down in the one chair and simply looked at Rafe Tyler.Even in sleep, his face was grim, severe.She wanted so badly to reach out and touch him.She was raw with the emotions she’d felt today: that desperate recklessness with which she’d hit him, the fear that she might have hurt him, the momentary exhilaration of freedom, and then the anxiety while he went to see about the bear.And finally his bloody appearance.Her nursing.Their doctoring of the cub.We.
Failure and success.Grief and joy.And now …
She was incredibly tired, completely confused.How could she care about someone who hated so fiercely, so relentlessly?But she did, and she couldn’t deny it any longer.
Shea had sought a new home, a place where she belonged, and now she felt she had found it.Here in a rickety cabin with an outlaw and ex-convict who thought of nothing but revenge.No, that wasn’t right.He’d thought of that bear cub.He’d worried about her hand.He cared about a mouse.
His eyes opened, as if he’d felt the intensity of her thoughts, and fixed on her.
“Your friend has cooked some fish.You need to eat.”
Rafe moved, sitting up against the wall with a sigh.Then, carefully, he stood, swaying for a moment, and she instinctively held her hand out to him.When her fingers caught his elbow, he stiffened.
She melted.Touching him always seemed to have that effect on her.She was very close; his chest, still naked, was inches away.His breath was ragged, and she didn’t know whether it was because of the wounds or something else.Her breath was also ragged, hard to come by, as it tried to pass through an almost closed throat.
She felt a tremor run though his body, and she looked up at him.His lips so near.“I’ll bring you something to eat.You … you shouldn’t be up.”
“No,” he agreed, and his lips came closer.
Her own body trembled then.Her strength was seeping away, lost in all those soft, wanting emotions.She felt fragile; her control could so easily be shattered by him, broken into a thousand pieces.
“Ah, Shea,” he said.“Why didn’t you leave?”
It wasn’t a question this time.It was a plea, a surrender that was full of pain.
His head lowered, and she thought he was going to kiss her, but he didn’t.Instead, his cheek brushed hers and stayed there a fraction of a moment in a gesture so tender and so sad, she thought her heart might break.
“I didn’t thank you for … taking care of my arm,” he whispered.“I don’t know why—” His voice, husky with emotion, broke off.
She pressed her head against his chest, feeling, hearing, living, that strong heartbeat.She let it linger there, relishing the moment’s closeness, the smell and feel and touch of him.The gentleness he exuded at the moment.
Then he drew away, and Shea moved back.He took several hesitant steps, then seemed to get stronger.He moved toward the door.“I hate being in here,” he said suddenly in a tense, tight voice, and she knew he was thinking of prison again, that his rare moment of tenderness was swallowed by the darkness that usually cloaked him.
He lurched forward and leaned against the doorjamb as he looked up at the sky.He closed his eyes.Remember, he told himself.Remember …
