When she was finished and seated back on the bed, he looked down at her.
“Bet you’re getting a little bored. Got cabin fever yet?” he asked kindly.
“No, not really,” she said. “I still get tired pretty fast. And I can always read." She gestured at the stack of books on the bed. "But, I was wondering if you had a needle and some thread. Oh, and maybe a nail file; I lost mine somewhere out there.” She gestured widely.
“Sure.” He went behind the curtain and returned with a manicure set and a well-appointed sewing kit. “What do you plan to sew?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” she answered, a mischievous gleam in her eye.
Later when he returned, he found her wearing a modified version of his clothes. They fit her quite well.
“I ruined your things,” she said, standing on still-painful feet to model her alterations. She had cut and sewn, taking up places here, trimming them away there. The seams were whip-stitched, the best she could do with the tools at hand.
“If that’s ruining them,” he said, his voice husky with some unnamed emotion, “maybe I should give you some more to wreck. Seriously, though, they look nice on you. In fact, I didn’t know those clothes could ever look so good.”
She blushed at the compliment. “Well, now that you mention it, I wouldn’t mind having at least one other set of clothes. You know, wash one and wear one.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
He went quickly to the kitchen where he began pulling food from the cold pantry and busying himself with the old cook stove. She lowered herself back onto the bed, feeling strangely pleased with herself.
The rest of the day passed in quiet pursuits for Brook; reading, napping, thinking. Lance disappeared behind the curtain for long periods, coming out once in a while to check on her, and once to set some more clothes by her bedside. He noticed as he did so that her nails were now short and even, all the jagged edges tamed by the file.
Outside the windows, the snow fell, deepening its blanket over earth and tree, its soft cold embrace locking them away from the world.
That evening, after a supper of browned potatoes and carrots steeped in the juices of a succulent roast, Lance got up from the table and stood by the outside door. “Come here,” he said.
Brook stood tentatively. Lance waited patiently at the door, but made no move to help her. He wanted to see how well her feet were healing by watching her walk. She stepped gingerly, but did better than he'd expected. It’s time she has a pair of shoes. I’ll have to see what I can come up with. As she drew near, he opened the door.
Brook shivered as the cold wind raced through the cabin, slicing through the heat from the roaring cook stove. She pulled her shirt tighter around her body and moved to his side.
“Look.” He turned her to face the open doorway and gently tilted her head slightly. The snowfall was in a temporary lull and the clouds had parted, revealing a large black patch of sky. Distant heavenly lights shone and flickered with cold brilliance against the inky blackness. Brook inhaled sharply at the sight.
“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed. “There are so many stars. They look almost as if I could reach out and touch them with my fingers.”
“I think it’s because we’re closer to them up here on the mountain,” Lance said, a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s my own little piece of heaven. Some nights, in good weather, I take a blanket out, lie on the ground, and just look up into the starry space. During meteor showers it looks like fireworks in the sky.”
Brook shifted her attention to his profile; his strong jaw line covered with a soft dark beard, the wisp of black hair that curled just slightly in front of his ear, the lashes too long for a man, his straight even brow over mercurial brown eyes that could shift from passion to tenderness in a second. Something rolled inside her, a warm spreading sensation.
He felt her gaze and turned to face her. When their eyes met, she thought she perceived a glimmer that told her he, too, felt the connection. He placed a hand on her shoulder and Brook wondered if he planned to kiss her, but he only guided her back into the house and closed the door.
She shivered, wondering if she would have let him kiss her if he had tried. She didn’t know. She was confused and needed to decipher her feelings.
“You’d better get back in bed and cover up. It’s cold.” His voice was throaty, revealing that she was not the only one affected by their closeness. He eased an arm around her waist and helped her across the floor. She leaned against him and breathed in the clean scent of his skin. Her feet ached, but not as much as her heart. Tears threatened, but the reason for it was beyond her understanding .
Once Brook was restored to bed, Lance arranged the blankets over her. He appeared reluctant to meet her eyes, distant, although his body radiated warmth like a fever. He seemed to be struggling with his emotions; she could feel it and it made her feel sad, somehow.
Lance went to the kitchen and busied himself with trivial tasks as Brook relaxed into the mattress. She wanted to examine that moment, that wordless exchange at the door. Delicious warmth stole over her at the mere thought, followed quickly by a surge of guilt, and then sudden panic. How could she possibly feel affection for a man after what those men, those devils, did to her? And, what about Clark? She loved Clark. Didn’t she? She needed to redefine her feelings for her husband, too. There was something there. Something just beyond reach, some niggling thought that she needed to remember. But it was slippery right now. Her thoughts moved to her attackers.
Brook fought against remembering those life-altering days. Three days, and her life was irrefutably changed forever. Squaring her shoulders, she shook the thoughts away. She would forget those horrible days. She'd even forget Clark for the time being; he seemed part of a different life, a past life. She would focus instead on the feelings that had passed between her and Lance. Warm feelings.
But, much as she wished to analyze and dissect these new feelings, her body had other ideas. Weariness, along with the warm bed, won, and she drifted into a sleep filled with vague but sensuous dreams. That night, anyway, memories of terror did not intrude on her rest.
Lance, however, lay awake a long time, staring into the darkness of his room, trying to remember Ellen’s face, and wrestling with guilt for he couldn't stop thinking of Brooklyn. He played the moment at the door over and over in his mind, and found himself resisting an urge to wake her from slumber, and take her in his arms. He had only known this woman for six short days, and under bizarre circumstances. He couldn’t understand the workings of his own mind. Finally, he punched his pillow a few times to fluff it, rolled over, and closed his eyes. Sleep was slow to come.
Chapter 36
Lance looked up and saw Brook’s face in the frost-framed window, her image indistinct. He found the sight strangely moving. As he turned to his chores, it was with disquieting sensations in the pit of his stomach and a kaleidoscope of images and remembered feelings: The sight of her tender bruised flesh that saddened him, the softness of her hand that he could still feel on his skin if he allowed himself the indulgence, unwanted tenderness that stole through him in her presence, the feathery feel of her arms draped over his shoulders when he lifted her, the brush of her hair against his beard, the quickening of his heart when she spoke, the deep blue color of her eyes. Just knowing someone waited for him a few short steps away. Not what he wanted. Not. Not. Not.
He gripped the shovel and set to work clearing a path to the sheds. Opening the small pen, he scraped a clearing for Gilbert before releasing her from her shelter. Overcome with goat joy, she braced herself against his shoulders for a Gilbert hug. Laughing, he wrapped her in his arms, and then tussled with her a few minutes. Finally, he pushed gently away from her to resume his chores. Ducking into the shed, he broke the ice on her water and added a fresh supply into her bucket before tossing more feed into her trough.