Page 13 of Rainwater

Jennifer came back with soup, crackers and a glass of milk on a tray. She set it in front of him, avoiding his eyes. When she went to pull away, he grabbed her hand and held her, waiting patiently until she finally looked at him with a huffy sigh.

“You don’t owe me anything, darlin’. Not one damn thing,” he pleaded.

Her expression was one of misery. He didn’t want her to feel this way. Damn, he didn’t want her to care.

“Jennifer…please.”

“Eat your soup and then let me look at your stitches.” She lifted her chin, meeting his hard look straight on.

“I wish you didn’t possess so much backbone,” he snarled.

Her eyebrows raised and she looked him up and down. “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”

Against his will, he smiled. “You would know about that,” he agreed, his smile widening.

Jennifer felt her world shift precariously as she swallowed, trying to dislodge the awe rising in her. She was staring and she knew it, but couldn’t help herself.

He leaned forward very slightly and asked, “You have a bunkhouse for this foreman you need to hire?”

“The bunkhouse is for the hired hands. We have a foreman’s cottage. The previous foreman had a family, so my father built it for him for privacy,” she whispered, her hopes rising as if someone with complete and irrefutable evidence had just proved there really was a Santa Claus.

“I’ll stay there until I feel able to travel.”

Her hope crashed and she couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Corey, you’d be more comfortable here. The mattress in the cottage is lumpy,” she argued.

The hell he’d be more comfortable here , he thought. Being around her, seeing her move, knowing he was in her bed would only drive him crazy. Yeah, he would be about as comfortable as a porcupine turned inside out.

But he knew when not to argue. He would just go his own way as he’d done for so long.

There was only so much that he could take.

Finding the woman of his dreams in this one-horse town was not one of them.

Nor was seeing her fiery hair and not being able to touch it.

Or being close to those tempting curves and resisting the urge to mold his hands around them.

That would be more torturous than sleeping on a lumpy mattress. He just shrugged.

“Let me look at your stitches,” she said, rising suddenly, the discussion of where he would be staying obviously settled. He liked that about her. Self-confident without being overbearing. Steady and strong and so very sweet.

She moved around him and tipped his head forward slightly. She smoothed her hand against the nape of his neck and jumped back when he sucked in his breath sharply and moaned softly. His body had tautened like a bowstring, his breathing suddenly harsh and ragged.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she cried.

Corey recoiled, the soft touch to his neck like fire in his loins. The woman was driving him to distraction every time she touched him. Trying to prevent any more mishaps, he shouted, “Don’t touch me!”

Jennifer stiffened her shoulders. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and worried it. Hurt and pain shone in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I won’t. Call me if you need me.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jennifer’s voice cracked like a whip in the stillness of the hayloft. She had been angry and worried when she checked Corey hours later and found the bed empty.

“Pitching hay,” he drawled.

“You exasperating man.” She felt irritation curl inside her.

“I know you’re pitching hay. You’re supposed to be in bed.

Now let’s go.” She struggled not to stare.

His hair was braided and the dark wisps at the ends tumbled against his tanned flesh every time he moved.

A red bandanna was tied around his forehead to catch the sweat. She lost the fight and openly stared.

In the act of sticking the pitchfork back into the hay, he grunted, clutching his ribs. She jumped forward and wrapped her arms around him, lowering him gently to the unbundled hay. She snatched the pitchfork out of his hands.

“Corey, why are you doing this?”

“I don’t want your charity, Jennifer,” he muttered quietly.

“It’s not charity.”

“Then what do you call it?” he asked, his voice raised.

“I call it being human, and from what I can tell in the short time that I’ve known you, you haven’t met many of those.”

His mouth tightened, and his breathing seemed labored.

She sat down next to him. “It’s not charity. You’re going to work for me once you’re well. We’re just delaying payment. God, Corey, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“So it’s guilt.”

“Yes, partly.”

“What’s the other part?”

She wouldn’t touch that question with a ten-foot pole.

“Jennifer?”

“What?”

“What’s the other part?” he asked insistently.

“Oh, do you have to know everything?” she groused loudly. She got up but didn’t go far.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her around. He rose painfully, awkwardly. She ached to help him.

“Yes, I want to know. I want desperately to know,” he said, as if her next words could shatter him.

She looked up at him, the need in his eyes almost buckling her knees. Tears pricked the back of her eyes, the pain below the surface. Just a little kindness, she thought. She wouldn’t lose herself if she was just a little bit kind. “Because I care what happens to you.”

“What did you say?”

She screwed up her courage. Her voice rose with each word. “I said that I care what happens to you.”

He turned away, his body so rigid that Jennifer backed up slightly. What had she said that would make him so angry?

He picked up the pitchfork and started to pitch hay with ferocious energy.

She was mesmerized by the way his back muscles flexed, the way his arms bulged.

The tingling in her body intensified until it was a profound ache.

The guilt rose in her, too, at the sight of the mottled flesh of his ribs and tight stomach.

The huge black and blue bruise that marred his lower back made her want to touch it and make it better.

“Corey, you asked.”

“I’m sorry I did!” The tone of his voice was strange, choked, and the steely edge spoke of his need.

What did he want her to feel? She thought suddenly. What more did he want from her than her sympathy?

This time she grabbed his arm and made him face her. He winced and she let go. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don’t understand what’s going on here. Maybe you should explain it to me,” she demanded.

His eyes blazed into hers and he swore softly, glancing away. “I don’t need your pity. I don’t need anything.”

“It’s not pity.”

“It’s not pity, hell! What else could you feel for me, Jennifer?” He laughed harshly.

“How about compassion, Corey? What’s so wrong with old-fashioned compassion? You protected me. You stopped Jay from hitting me in the face. They beat you, stole your money and smashed your motorcycle because of me, because of what you did for me. I’m grateful. I want to thank you.”

“Grateful?” he said bitterly.

“That’s not a nasty word, Corey. What do you want me to feel?”

The air suddenly stilled in the barn. His body was so taut and immobile that Jennifer felt a slight bit of panic.

The tension built slowly, becoming almost tangible.

She shivered inside when she looked at him again.

The shadows cast his tight muscles in relief as though he were a living statue, a magnificent work of art.

His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened with hunger.

What had she inadvertently said? She never should have asked him what he wanted her to feel.

She could see him fighting himself, warring with the need that had manifested itself the moment she had met those turquoise eyes.

It whispered in the still air like the soft voice of seduction.

He moved forward and grabbed her, pulling her body close to his.

His eyes darkened further with pain and bitterness, need and a helpless plea.

“This, Jennifer! I want you to feel this.” His mouth captured hers, his kiss savage and hard.

A bruising pleasure that Jennifer opened to—unable to deny the passion building inside of her. Passion they both denied.

In the stillness of the loft, every little sound seemed to intensify.

She could hear the soft cooing of the doves in the rafters, the stomping of horses below her, the gentle play of the wind through the open door.

And at the sound of the wind, she panicked.

Suddenly she was afraid that she would feel him slip through her fingers and disappear like the elusive wind.

She clasped him tighter, never wanting to let him go.

It had been so long since she’d held a man.

His breathing was harsh in the silence, telling of a man who had fought himself for days and nights in anguished loneliness. In sheer desperation. His kiss said it all. His hard hands on her upper arms broadcast the unreasonable desire that had sprung between them.

He probably would never believe her, but she knew about that loneliness.

She had lived with it for a long time, but she had had Ellie to keep her company.

He had no one and the rigid torture in his posture spoke more loudly than his words ever could.

The need to soothe and comfort rushed over her with powerful, fierce need.

This man had done everything he could not to shatter her peace.

He’d reined in his desire so that he wouldn’t hurt her when he left.

Because she was sure that he wanted her even before now.

He’d wanted her last night in her driveway when he had taunted her into anger. Anger that had sent him away.