He lifts them slowly, and I guide the sleeves over his shoulders, fabric dragging across scarred skin. The nearness of him overwhelms me—the scent of rosemary soap and heat, the brush of my knuckles against the soft hair of his chest as I button him. At the last button, my fingers falter. His breath is there, warm against my hair.
“Feels better already,” he whispers.
I busy myself with smoothing the fabric, as though the work itself can shield me from the weight of my unwanted attraction.
He’s watching me, his attention prickling my skin. God help me. One look and the air in this room will combust.
Before the devil can tempt me any further, I jerk my hand back and blurt, too fast, too loud, “You can come back now!” My voice cracks in the quiet.
The door hinges squeal. Lucas and Gideon step in, their boots heavy on the floorboards.
“All finished?” Lucas asks, his attention cutting from the basin to the damp rags, then to me. He lingers a touch too long, suspicion tightening his features.
Arch leans back against the headboard, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth, as if he’s daring me to blush under their stare.
“He’s clean and bandaged,” I say quickly, forcing my voice steady. “You can see he’s no danger tonight.”
“Mr. Sherman said he’s to be secured,” Lucas replies.
Gideon moves forward with the iron, and it clanks against the brass bedframe.
Arch doesn’t resist. “Don’t worry,” he drawls, tipping his head toward me, hazel eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “I’ll manage.”
When the men leave, I cross to Arch and press my palm to his cheek. He’s warm but not fevered.
“Touch a man’s face that soft, Alice, and he’ll start wonderin’ how the rest of you feels.”
Heat rises from my collar to my ears, and his words land low in my belly. He’d spoken them as if he knew exactly where they would land. My palm lingers half a beat too long before I snatch it away with a gasp, as if burned.
His grin deepens into something wolfish.
I smooth my apron, stepping back under the pretense of giving him space. “I’ll see you’ve water for the night.”
“That star business—superstition of yours?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you’d seen two this week. You reckon it means something?”
“Maybe. I’ve read they can be warnings or signs of hope. I’d rather think the latter.”
“What do you believe?”
“I…don’t rightly know.”
He turns to the window, the sky beyond wide and star-strewn. “The night before—however I ended up here—I seen one myself.”
My hand lingers on the door, though I ought to go.
“Tell me something, darlin’—how’s a woman in a place like this know about fallin’ stars?” He leans forward, elbows to his knees, chain drawn taut. His genuine curiosity holds me still.
“I read,” I say. “And I listen. My father had an old almanac. When I was a girl, I’d sneak out with it, match the drawings to the sky.”
“That so?” His mouth tugs upward. “So you fancy yourself a stargazer?”
I almost smile. “Falling stars aren’t stars at all. They’re stones from the heavens, burning up as they pass through the air. Some folks think they’re omens.”
“Sounds prettier the way you tell it. Me, I don’t care what they’re made of. I just watch ’em fall.”
