In three long strides, Hank reached her. He pulled her away from the wall and into the strength of his arms. “Billy Sims is just a drunken fool,” he said. “He wouldn’t have hurt you.”
“I know. I don’t know why I’m overreacting, but I can’t help it.” She leaned against Hank, finding comfort in the strong arms surrounding her, the sunshine scent of his cotton shirt and the familiarity of his spice cologne.
His embrace wasn’t threatening in any way. He held her lightly, without intimacy, and yet she fought a crazy impulse to lean into him, press against the hardness of his chest. Threatened and confused by her own thoughts, she broke the embrace and stepped away from him.
“I’m so grateful you appeared when you did,” she said, moving over to the table where Brook still peacefully slept. “I wasn’t sure what he might have been capable of.”
“I’ll make sure Sims stays away from you,” Hank said, the words a promise she knew he’d deliver.
“Thank you again, Hank.”
He nodded, then turned on his heels and left.
It wasn’t until later that Colette thought back over the scene with Billy Sims. She recalled the horrifying fear that had choked her as Billy Sims had leaned against her.
The fear, the horrible sensations, had all been sofamiliar, something she’d experienced before, but had hidden in her obscure memories. She looked at her baby. Brook. Her sweet baby girl. Why couldn’t she remember conceiving Brook? Why did she have no memory of the man who was Brook’s father?
Was I raped?she wondered. Was it possible the man who’d fathered Brook had done so in a vicious violation? Was that what had stolen her memories?
* * *
“OKAY, EVERYONE, let’s load up,” Abby yelled to the group crowded near the huge hay-laden wagon. The evening sunshine cast golden hues on the guests and ranch workers as they climbed onto the bales of hay, their laughter seeming to hold back the shadows of approaching night.
Colette wished she could get caught up in the high spirits that infused everyone, but she’d spent the past day and a half wondering, worrying about all she couldn’t remember. And she feared she’d made an enemy in Billy Sims. Abby had told her the night before that she’d had a talk with Billy, warned him that the next time he drank or got out of line, he would be fired. Abby had explained that Billy had a family, was paying child support and she was reluctant to fire him and indirectly harm his children. Colette hadn’t told her sister about the frightening scene with Billy, but Hank had.
From the moment Colette had joined the group for the hayride, she’d felt Billy’s gaze on her, dark and resentful. As she climbed into the wagon and took a seat, she was grateful Billy was at the front of the wagon and some distance from her.
Her face warmed as Hank sat on the bale of haynext to her, his thigh pressed against hers. “You look like you’re going to an execution rather than a hayride,” he observed as the scent of his evocative cologne filled her senses.
“I’ve never been on a hayride before,” she admitted, then added, “at least none that I remember.” She looked toward the front of the wagon, where Billy returned her scowl. “I wish you hadn’t gone to Abby about the incident. I think I’ve made an enemy.”
Hank followed her gaze to the front. “Don’t let him get to you. Billy hates everyone, most of all himself. He should be grateful Abby gave him another chance. She could have fired his butt without hesitation. A ranch is no place for a drunk.”
“I’m sure you’re right about that,” Colette replied, wishing he wasn’t sitting so close, wishing the heat of his body didn’t feel so good next to hers, that the scent of his cologne didn’t muddy her mind with crazy thoughts.
Maybe it’s a hormonal anomaly, she comforted herself. Maybe all women after giving birth had bursts of irrational desire toward handsome cowboys who smelled nice.
Within minutes, the wagon began its trip and Abby led the group in singing camp songs. Tension slowly ebbed from Colette as one song followed another, laughter a frequent chorus. It felt good to be out with adults, knowing Brook was safe and sound with Maria at the ranch house.
By the time they got to the place where Roger Eaton and several of the other ranch workers awaited them with a roaring campfire, evening had gasped its last light and night had fully descended.
The full moon’s silvery light accented the rugged terrain surrounding them. The campsite was sheltered on one side by a huge, reddish brown butte, a towering monolith reaching toward the sky. The roaring fire cast dancing shadows on its wall, creating an otherworld setting that invited intimacy.
Laughter once again filled the air as the group descended from the wagon and crowded around the warmth of the fire. The guests, four couples, immediately found seats on the hay bales the men had placed around the fire.
As Abby directed the men to begin unloading a second wagon filled with the workings for a barbecue, Colette sat on one of the bales. Roger waved a friendly hello to her from across the fire and she waved back, his pleasant smile in direct contrast to Billy’s glower.
For the first time Colette saw all the ranch hands together and tried to put faces to names. She recognized Rusty Maxwell, the foreman who Abby said was her right-hand man. Bulldog had become a familiar character in Colette’s time at the ranch. Although as big as a mountain, his mind was that of a child’s, filled with innocence and a bigheartedness that had made him one of Colette’s favorites.
Philip Weiss manned the fire, the flame’s illumination playing on his grizzled features and underscoring his gnarled, arthritic hands. Colette knew Abby had been encouraging Philip to retire, but Philip refused to admit he was getting too old to be effective help on the ranch.
Bob Sanderson was a tall, thin man, his facial features tormented by a livid scar that puckered his skinfrom the corner of one eye to the side of his mouth. Colette knew he worked directly under Rusty with the care and maintenance of the cattle, and she’d had little contact with him.
Finally, there was Hank. Colette watched as he lifted a cooler from the back of the wagon, his biceps taut beneath the strain of the heavy load.
His gaze met hers across the expanse of the fire. A log popped, sending embers showering. It wasn’t the embers that created a burst of warmth inside her. Her internal heat had nothing to do with the physical flames, but rather grew from the heat of his eyes.
She averted her gaze, wondering why it was he had the power to look at her and make her feel like he stroked the flesh of her inner thigh, breathed a whisper into her ear, knew the intimacies of her body better than she knew them herself.
