Page 9 of I’ll Be There (Montana Fire #4)

She filled a bucket with water, then kneaded the clay until it formed into a large ball. Then, she brought the water and the ball over to her throwing wheel and sat on the stool, the wheel between her knees.

Centering the ball on the wheel, she took a sponge, dripped water over the clay, turned on the wheel and began to smooth the ball so that it rounded evenly on the table, running her hands over it to wet it and get a feel for the clay.

Cool and thick, the clay turned from roughened earth to pliable putty.

She scooped more water from the bucket, her hands sopping, but warming to the texture of the clay as she pressed her thumb gently into the middle, forming a hole.

The clay moved under her prodding, and she pressed her fingers into the side with one hand, the other cupping the form as she pulled the bowl open.

Above, the rain continued to shower her roof, white noise that rose and fell with the wind. Through the undulation, the chimes on the porch plinked out a light melody, a random accompaniment to her creation.

Silently she worked, dipping a sponge into the water, pressing it against the inner chamber of the pot, slowing her breathing as the pot took form.

The water and clay wedged under her fingertips—she kept her nails short for this reason—and coated her hands. She’d come out in an old T-shirt and pajama pants, but despite the chill of the storm, heat suffused her body.

She barely noticed the burn in her arm, the way her muscles, still healing, fought against even the gentle pressure she applied to the bowl. The bowl glistened under the lights.

Holding the rim between two fingers, she pressed down with another finger, just long enough to create a flat lip.

Moving to the outside of the bowl, she pressed her right hand against the base, pulling up with her left to grow the bowl.

She set the lip again, always dousing the bowl with the water from the sponge, keeping it pliable.

That was the key—keeping the pot from leathering out before she finished. Because if it dried, even on the wheel, the clay set and became harder to move. She’d have to break it, re-wet it, and start over.

A song started, deep inside, a hum that built to words, more in her head than out loud, but she heard them all the same.

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

Streams of mercy, never ceasing

She curved the top in, adding more water, continuing to draw the bowl up, taller, thinner. Then she cupped her hands below the rim, added pressure, and the top flared out. She reached inside and widened the body.

Not so much a bowl now, but a vase. Or a pitcher.

“I love to watch you work.”

The voice jerked her out of her muse, her hand catching the pot, deforming it. “Oh!” The bowl collapsed in on itself, wobbling, uncentered.

She glanced over at the door, and in a second, Conner’s smile vanished. “I’m sorry—I—”

“It’s okay. I can remake it,” she said. What are you doing here? She wanted to ask it, but the sight of him stole her words.

How she hadn’t heard him open the door, come in, and stand at the threshold of the room, she didn’t know.

But he wasn’t uninvited. He stood there, his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans.

The storm had darkened his blond hair, and he’d whisked it back, leaving it tousled, water trickling down his temples into the collar of his blue shirt, which did a number on his eyes, turning them dark, fathomless.

He had on a jean jacket, the shoulders soaked through, and flip-flops on his bare feet, as if he’d run out in the rain, believing she needed him.

Oh, she did.

“I saw your light on, and I thought maybe...” He lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep. I guess I was worried about you.”

Really? Her question must have shown on her face because he came in, shut the door.

“I know the wedding details are weighing on you.” He walked toward her, peeling off his jacket and hanging it over the stainless steel sink.

She wasn’t unaware of how the wetness had bled through, plastered his shirt to his amazing shoulders.

Shoulders that, in three days, would belong to her.

He knelt in front of her. “But you need to know that the wedding is already perfect, babe. Because I get to marry you.”

She made to touch him, but stopped at the sight of her hands covered in clay.

He wrapped his hand around hers, weaving his grip into the paste. “What you did for me today—bringing Jim Micah—” Emotion clouded his eyes before he leaned forward and touched his forehead to her knees.

Oh, Conner. “Of course, babe. I’m sorry more of your team didn’t show up.”

He looked up at her, those blue eyes catching hers. “This is enough.” He swallowed. “You’re enough, Liza. In case you were wondering.”

Her eyes warmed and she caught her lip in her teeth. He touched her cheek with his other hand, ran a thumb over her cheekbone.

A shiver of desire shimmied through her, warming her to her core.

Then he kissed her, a whisper of emotion in his nearness, enough to share with her exactly what had brought him to her door.

When he leaned away, she kept her eyes closed, just to savor the lingering touch.

She opened them when she heard the scoot of a nearby stool.

“What are you doing?”

He brought the stool in behind her, climbed on, nestling her between his thighs, wrapping his arms around her.

“That summer we met, you showed me your studio and offered to teach me how to throw a bowl. The scene from Ghost flashed in my mind, and...well, I’ve never forgotten your offer.

” He pressed a kiss to her neck. “Teach me, Lize. I want to feel your hands with mine, working the clay, creating something beautiful.”

He slid his hands over hers, entwined her fingers.

He’d scooted up until his chest pressed against her back, cocooning her in his embrace. He smelled of the rain, tonight’s campfire, and his own musky fragrance.

Muscle memory had her reaching out, wetting her hands, then moving them to the clay.

“You have to center it, or it will be lopsided on the wheel, and you won’t be able to form it.

” She moved her hands over the clay body, then she slipped them out from beneath his and pressed his hands lightly against the form.

“Gentle. It doesn’t take much pressure, just steady and kind. ”

He had amazing hands. Strong, the nails trimmed, the skin slightly tanned. Scarred from the nightmare of the accident that took his parents. She squeezed out the sponge over his grip, then guided his hands, helping him cup them over the clay, forming a ball.

“Can you feel the rhythm of the wheel, how the clay moves under your hands, ready for forming?”

He hadn’t shaved, and his beard rasped against her cheek as he nodded.

“Now, you simply work it into the shape you want.” She pressed his thumb into the center of the form, repeating her previous movements, drawing out the bowl with his fingers, then positioning them across the lip, his forefinger smoothing it out.

“Sometimes I can’t believe you agreed to marry me.”

“Why? You’re an amazing man. Brave, smart, a man of faith.”

“No, babe, you’re the brave one. And you’re the one with faith. Watching you, loving you, makes me love Jesus more.”

It did? She cupped his hands, drawing them over the top, building the walls of the bowl into a strong foundation.

“With you, I see the future I want. The future that’s waiting for us.” He dipped the sponge in the water, squeezing it out over her hands as she drew the bowl up, his other hand still entwined in hers.

“Me too,” she said in the quiet of the work, her heart settling into a beat with his.

She barely noticed as he ran his hand over her arm, his thumb riding her scar.

The wetness in his grip soaked into her skin, the clay hardening there.

Despite the plastic surgeon’s attempts to minimize it, the scars on her right hand betrayed the way the animal had held it in his mouth, crushed the delicate bones.

Another scar started just below her elbow, ran up her arm, dark pink, as wide as her pinky finger in places where the claw had dug bone deep.

She stilled, her hands on the bowl as Conner traced her scars with light fingers, first her hand, then the trail up her arm as they curved around her elbow, then through her bicep. He leaned forward and kissed the puncture scars on her shoulder.

She swallowed, her pulse thundering in her ears.

“Does it still hurt?”

She loosed her breath. “Sometimes.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her neck. “You’re safe now, Lize. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

She turned in his arms and found his gaze roaming her face, falling to her lips.

When he didn’t move, she nodded, aching for him to kiss her. Touch her. Calm her racing heart.

He swallowed. “I should go.”

Oh. “Um...”

He pushed away from her. Got up, and the separation raised gooseflesh across her chilly skin.

“Conner—”

He looked down at her, gray paste up to his wrists.

“Could you—” She closed her eyes, looked away. No, he needed the Liza he knew. Put together, healed.

He crouched in front of her. “What?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

A hint of a frown creased his face, and he didn’t move.

She forced a smile. Leaned down and pressed a kiss to his lips. Longed to linger there, to fall into his embrace, let him take her deeper.

Two days, now.

So she broke away, even as he followed her, needing more. She put her hand on his chest, leaving a moist, dusky mark. “Go home, hotshot, before we get into trouble.”

He caught her eyes a long moment before he got up. Washed his hands in the sink and picked up his jacket. He tossed it over his shoulder, turned.

“You sure you’re okay?”

She nodded. “Have fun at Fort William.”

Something flickered on his face, an emotion she couldn’t place, but before she could chase it—

“The ice arena, tomorrow afternoon, right?”

She nodded.

“I’ll be there,” he said and winked. Then he ran out, into the dark and rain.

Fort William. The fact that he’d chosen a historical monument for his bachelor party...so maybe the man didn’t need danger in his life to have fun.

Huh.

She scooped up the clay and dumped it back into the bag. Ran water over her wheel, scraping it clean, emptied the water, and washed her hands.

She stood at the threshold of her shed, staring through the darkness to the light. It fanned out through the rain, beckoning.