“But I’m only a little girl. I can’t be an angel.”
“You certainly can. And so can Nathan. When a group of people live in a house together, they help each other. It doesn’t matter how old or young you are.”
Catherine pulled her children to their feet. “Remember how you helped me save Mr.
MacBain’s life up on the mountain? Well, this is your chance to be strong and brave again and chase the black cloud away from the house. Go,” she said, urging them toward the door. “And don’t forget to take Cody some stew. Have Gunter carry it,” she added, thinking of her clean floor.
They slowly headed toward the door at the other end of the barn but stopped when Robbie stepped out of the shadows halfway down the aisle.
“M-Mr. MacBain,” Nathan said.
“Nathan, Nora,” he returned with a nod.
Catherine watched, her breath suspended, as Nathan squared his little shoulders and looked up at the towering giant. “The hens need grain, sir,” he whispered. “And the water bucket leaks because it got all rusty.”
Robbie nodded and set his hand on Nathan’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll pick up some grain and a new bucket tomorrow. I’ve never much cared for tending the hens myself, and I appreciate your taking over the chore for me.”
Even under the weight of that large hand, Catherine could see Nathan’s shoulders straighten even more. “I don’t mind doing it,” her son said. “And the hens have got used to me.”
“I’m taking Cody some stew,” Nora piped up, not about to be left out. She scrunched up her face at Robbie. “Do you know what the Tooth Fairy does with all them teeth?”
Robbie looked at Nora, clearly nonplussed, and shook his head. “I think you should take your mother’s advice and ask the boys,” he suggested, releasing Nathan. “They’ll likely know.”
Nora grabbed Nathan’s hand and pulled him out of the barn behind her. Robbie watched them leave, then turned to Catherine.
“How long have you been standing there?” she asked.
He didn’t answer but walked down the aisle toward her, and Catherine finally noticed the long, thick stick in his hand. He came within two paces and stopped, tucked his hands and the stick behind his back, and silently faced her.
Catherine took a step back. “You’ve been drinking,” she said, taking another step back.
“Aye, some. But not nearly enough to be drunk, Catherine, so ya needn’t look at me that way. I have never, nor will I ever, get drunk, as I don’t much care for the feeling of being out of control.” He matched her retreat with a step of his own. “And woman,” he whispered, “that is exactly how I felt this afternoon in the kitchen.”
She had backed all the way up against the end wall of the barn, and still he advanced, until he was so close she could feel the heat of his body. He leaned the stick against the wall beside her, placed his hands on either side of her head, and stared down at her so intensely that Catherine had to lock her knees to keep them from buckling.
“And if I ever again catch you standing in the middle of a fight between anyone bigger than your children, I will not be your guardian angel, Catherine, but your worse nightmare.”
He leaned closer, lowering his head so that his face was only inches from hers. “Do you understand what I’m saying, little Cat? You will not put yourself in that position again.”
She would have nodded, if her nose wouldn’t have bumped into his. “Wh-what’s the stick for?” she whispered, turning her head to look past his hand, deciding it was safer than looking into his fiercely disturbing eyes.
He straightened without stepping back, took his hands off the wall, and held them out from his sides, palms toward her. “Ya told me up at the cabin, when I woke up and found myself tied to the bed, that ya didn’t care to feel defenseless,” he said, his brogue thick with… with… Catherine couldn’t decide if it was anger weighing his words or some other emotion.
“So I’ve brought ya a stout stick,” he said, standing there with his arms open. “And giving ya the choice of how ya wish to end this conversation.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
He spread his hands wider. “You can either walk into my arms, Catherine, with your promise never to do anything like that again, or ya can take that stick and finish bringing me to my knees.”
She was finally scared to the point that she started to tremble. “I’m not going to hit you.”
“Then walk into my arms. Prove your words to your children that ya trust I’ll not hurt ya.”
“I-I don’t want to do that, either. I just want to walk away.”
“Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not one of the choices I’ve given you.”
“But why? Why are you doing this?”
“Because I need to hold ya,” he whispered. “And feel for myself that you’re okay.”
“But I am okay. Gunter didn’t hurt me.”
“Walk into my arms, Catherine,” he softly repeated. “Give me the same trust ya gave Gunter.”
She dropped her gaze to his shirt. “I can’t. It’s not the same thing. Hugging leads to… it leads to other things.”
“Aye. It quite often does.”
“I can’t do it.” She looked up at him, her eyes entreating. “Don’t you understand? I can’t ever trust my… my… another man that way.”
“Then pick up the stick.”
“No!” she snapped, feeling provoked. She crossed her arms under her breasts, refusing to touch that darn stick. “I am walking out of here, Robert MacBain, without hittingor hugging you!”
“And just how are you going to do that?” he asked, crossing his own arms over his chest. “I seem to be standing between you and the door.”
She stamped her foot. “This is silly. You can see I’m okay.”
“But can’t ya see that I’m not?” he whispered, holding out one of his hands.
She glared at him. “That’s the liquor making you shake.”
“Nay, little Cat. It’s you.” He spread both hands again. “Walk into my arms, Catherine.”
She stared up at him, into his unfathomably deep, pewter gray eyes. What did he want from her? More than trust, she’d wager. But what?
“J-just a hug?”
“Aye. Just for you to allow me to hold you in my arms.”
Catherine leaned away from the wall, hesitated, inched closer, took a deep breath, and slowly reached around his waist.
Ever so gently, and somewhat tentatively himself, he closed his arms around her and cupped her head to his chest.
“Ah, Catherine,” he whispered with a sigh. “Ya’re the bravest person I’ve ever been privileged to meet.”
She stood there, stiff in his arms, and waited for the panic to overwhelm her. But all she felt was his powerful heat and the steady, strong beat of his heart. The taut muscles of his back slowly relaxed as he tenderly engulfed her, one of his hands lightly caressing her spine.
Catherine released her own sigh and melted against him.
His chest rumbled softly. “Aye, Cat, ya feel just fine.” He touched his lips to her hair.
“And so delicate for one so strong.”
A lump rose in her throat, making it impossible to respond other than by digging her fingers into his back. It had been a hundred thousand years since she’d been hugged.
“I can die happy now,” he whispered, responding to her touch by tightening his arms.
“It’s only a hug,” she was finally able to say, although it came out muffled against his chest.
“Aye, but I understand how special it is. Providence is smiling on us both tonight.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, looking up.
He allowed only her head to move, not her body, and smiled down into her eyes. “Do you believe in magic, Catherine?”
“Of course I do,” she said, smiling up at his shining eyes. “Magic is what makes the sun rise every morning.”
“Nay,” he whispered, slowly shaking his head without taking his eyes off hers. “That would be physics. Magic is what brings a woman to my mountain, when she had a million other mountains to choose from, and then lets her pull me back from the brink of death. And magic moves her into my house and then gives her the courage to walk into my arms.”