“I don’t want you here, Mr. Trouble.” She nestled her head in the pillow and sniffled. Big, wet eyes, pools he could drown in, held him transfixed. “What if there’s no home for me left when I get back to my village?”
Enough. He jumped to his feet. He had to do something. “I’ll fix your window.”
“Really?”
He tiptoed over to the sash and fished his pick out of his pocket.
The forest-green drapes hung off to the sides, revealing a moonlit night through the half-barren branches of the cottonwood.
Morning Fawn plodded over.
He grimaced at the sound of her feet. If anyone below was awake listening?—
“It’s there.” She stumbled up beside him and planted her finger over a dent in the window rail. “See.”
He sucked in a breath. The heat of her seemed to permeate his sleeve even though at least an inch separated her arm from his. Tensing, he kept his gaze trained on the window. “Move your finger.”
The scent of lavender mixed with a sickly sweet smell stung his nose. The brute had probably spilled some of the medicine on her dress.
Her hand dropped, and she swayed against the wall, head tilted against the sash. Oh my goodness. The last time he’d been alone with a woman this close, he’d been a married man.
Isabelle.
Did Morning Fawn think she was the only one who’d lost their sunset? Isabelle’s locket pressed against his sternum. He’d lost everything.
Best get his work done and get out of here. He moved his hand over the wood. Sure enough, a nail, and another one on the other side. Hammered in at an angle, a slim edge of each cap protruded. “I found them. You go lay down, and I’ll take care of it.”
“My people used to dance beneath a moon like that.” She rolled her eyes toward the pane. “Huge bonfire. Drums?—”
“You need to go to bed.”
“I’m too tired to move.” Foreign words, Comanche, drifted across her lips as she wove a quiet melody beyond his comprehension.
He exhaled and pressed his lips together. The nail was snug. Someone had done their job well. Devon wedged his thin, pinky-length pick in at the nail’s edge and pried into the wood beneath the cap. A few splinters and a mashed finger later, he managed to wedge it free.
“You got it. Let me have it.” She leaned against his arm.
Sweat broke out along his hairline. “You don’t need it. Youstay put there.” He nudged her back with his elbow and jammed his pick beneath the rim of the second nail.
His jabs left a mess of scratches. Hopefully, no one would look too close. He blew off the shavings and turned to her.
Although she attempted to steady her upper body against the wall, her feet slid out a foot or more. Like molasses, she was slowly inching her way down to the floor.
“Morning Fawn,” he whispered.
Her eyes flew open. “Yes?”
He held up the two nails.
A muffled squeal. “You did?—”
“Shshsh.” He leaned down to meet her gaze. “If you wake them or tell them…they’ll put the nails back and kick me out of the house. Maybe out of the whole county.”
With a smile, she pinched her lips as if applying a clothespin. “Not a word, Mr. Trouble.”
“You need to go to bed, and I’ve got to leave.”
“I don’t think I can make it. My legs are like jelly.” She slipped another inch.
