“I’m thinking we should stop now,” he whispered. “Before I forget my noble intentions.”
Catherine would have sighed herself if his impassioned embrace would have let her.
She’d somehow ended up straddling his lap, and the indecent position—and the blatant evidence of his not-so-noble desire pushing intimately against her—finally unnerved her.
She tested those very intentions by trying to wiggle free. He groaned quite loudly, picked her up, and stood her on the floor before she could gasp.
She faced him, clutching the front of her sweater in her fists, her forearms pressed against her sensitized breasts, her face feeling as if it was about to combust.
“No more choices, Cat. Just turn around and walk away.”
“I… this was… that kiss wasn’t… ”
“Go in the house, Catherine.”
She spun toward the door.
“And take the stick with you.”
Catherine turned back, shaking her head. “I don’t want it.”
He slid off his perch and walked to the stick, and picked it up, then came over, put it in her hand, and closed her fist around it. “But I do want ya to have it. Stand it next to the clock in the kitchen, and if another fight ever breaks out and I’m not home, use it.”
She tried to shove it back at him. “I won’t hit anyone.”
He continued to hold her fist closed over the stick. “If a stranger comes to the house and threatens your children, will you waggle your finger at him?”
“Of course not.”
“If Rick starts fighting with Peter and won’t stop, and there’s no one else around, what will you do?”
“I… I would… I’d… ”
He gently ran a finger down the side of her face. “It’s only a weapon, Cat. An equalizer that can multiply your strength times ten. A stout stick can make the difference between being completely defenseless against someone twice your size or being victorious.”
“It’s also a weapon that could be turned against me.”
“Aye. But tomorrow I’ll begin teaching you how to keep that from happening.”
“What?”
“Weapons are only as effective as the person using them, Catherine. But with the proper training, you could drop a bear in its tracks with only a stick.” He smiled and lightly tapped the end of her nose. “And I’m going to show you how to do that. You can always find something for a weapon, be it a baseball bat, a broom handle, or a tree branch.”
She pulled free, clutched the stick to her chest, and rubbed her nose on her sleeve. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out, so she snapped it shut, spun around, and marched toward the end of the barn.
“Sleep well, little Cat,” he softly called after her.
Catherine stopped at the door and turned back to him, still clutching the stick to her chest. “I—I would like for you to set an example for Nathan and Nora,” she quietly told him. “And I do want to help with the boys.” She lifted her chin. “But I also want you to stop whatever you’re doing up on that mountain.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re going to have to settle for two out of three.”
“I could stop you by telling your father.”
“Aye, but you won’t. It’s not adventure that takes me up the mountain, Catherine, but duty. And the one thing you must never do is interfere in my duty.”
“Your duty,” she repeated, glaring at him. “What kind of duty compels a man to get beat up and nearly killed? That’s not duty, that’s foolishness.” She waved her hand in frustration. “And if you know you’re going to get in a fight, why in heck don’t you carry something better than that stupid sword you had when I found you?”
He softly chuckled. “That stupid sword is my weapon of choice, just as that stick will be yours once I’ve instructed you. Go in the house, Catherine. You’ve dealt with enough for one day. In time, you’ll come to understand why I do what I do, but not tonight.”
She stared down the long aisle of the softly lit barn; he stood with his feet planted firmly, his arms crossed over his chest, and his piercing gray eyes focused directly on hers.
Catherine turned and quietly walked out of the barn.
Chapter Fifteen
He didn’t knowwhy he was surprised that when Catherine Daniels set her mind to something, she approached it with the fierceness of a lion protecting her cubs. But as she again tried to split open his head with her stick, Robbie wondered if he was creating a monster or merely providing an outlet for six married years of abuse.
He robbed Catherine of her target by simply ducking her impressively vicious swing.
“You’re letting your emotions rule your actions,” he pointed out as she turned to face him, her stick raised for another strike.
He held up his hand to stop her. “This is what I was trying to explain earlier, Cat. You started with calculated moves, but now you’re just taking wild swings out of sheer frustration. If you become emotionally involved, you’ve lost the fight.”
She stood the stick on the ground and leaned against it as she wiped a shaky hand over her brow. “When someone’s trying to knock your teeth out, itdoes get emotional,” she said, her face red with exertion.
He walked up and disarmed her, then balanced the stick on one of his fingers. “Nay, it’s about control. Your weapon is your lever, you’re the fulcrum, and your strength is multiplied when you power your swing through your body.”
“My high-school physics is rusty.”
“But you still use it every day. You pry the stubborn lid off a jar or displace your weight when you lift a twenty-pound roast out of the oven. Use your body, Cat,” he said, positioning her hands, putting one in the middle of the stick and one about eighteen inches off center. He moved to stand behind her and placed his own hands over hers.
“Don’t swing it like a baseball bat.Push the stick away from yourself,” he instructed, thrusting her right hand forward.
He followed that move by pushing her left hand in a downward arc and then up, stopping with the shorter end of the stick about level with a man’s jaw.
“There,” he said. “You smack him on the shoulder first and quickly follow through by using the momentum of his reaction—which will be to push the stick away—and come up and strike him under the chin. Or here,” he suggested, jabbing the short end forward again. “You can aim for either his throat or his sternum. One quick, powerful thrust, and he’ll be gasping for breath.”
“But what if the person I’m fighting knows how to fight?” she asked, stepping out from his embrace and turning to face him. “What if he’s someone like you and knows all the tricks?”
Robbie gestured toward the pasture. “Then you revert to your trusty old standby. You run like hell.”
“And if I can’t run? If I’m cornered?”
He nodded at the stick in her hand. “You’ll at least be able to fight your way out of a corner by the time we’re done. But Cat, most of the people you encounter won’t be trained in hand-to-hand combat.”
“And they’ll think I don’t pose a threat, because of my size and gender,” she repeated from his earlier lecture.
“Aye. Surprise is your greatest weapon.”
She looked down at the stick, then back up at him, and broke into a brilliant smile.
“Thank you. I never thought violence could have a bright side, but being able to defend myself sure beats the heck out of spending three weeks in the hospital.”
“Aye. But it’s only violence if you allow your emotions to get involved. Properly used, a weapon is nothing more than a tool. You don’t want to kill anyone but protect yourself.
And you accomplish that by being the one who is in control.”
She twirled the stick in her hand like a baton and shot him a smug smile. “I rather like that idea. What other tricks have you got up your sleeve?”