Rocky Mountain Match. Pamela Nissen
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how she could keep this job.
She couldn’t bear the thought of going home already—too many dark clouds threatened on the horizon there. Here, she had hope that the sun’s warmth would shine on her face again. With or without a job her aunt and uncle would welcome her to stay, but Katie would never think to impose on their goodness overly long, especially if she wasn’t earning her keep.
“Mr. Drake, could I get you a cup, too?”
He shifted nervously, then reached out to his adorable dog who sauntered up beside him, his big, furry feet sweeping across the wood floor as though he wore heavy boots. “Sure. Thanks.”
As she scanned the cupboard shelves for two mugs, she wondered what had come over Mr. Drake. The contempt he’d readily shown yesterday was barely visible today—in fact, she might even go so far as to say that he was congenial.
Spotting a row of mugs on the third shelf, she said, “They’re a little out of reach.”
He stood, quirking one brow. “What?”
“The mugs… I’m not tall enough to reach them.”
Lifting his head in silent recognition, he moved toward her, his movements jerky and uncertain. When he’d pulled them from the shelf, he turned, almost knocking into her.
“Here you are,” he said, holding the mugs out to her.
Katie squeezed back against the counter as he towered over her. An eerie chill crept up her spine as she struggled to block out the haunting memories that assaulted her. But the way Mr. Drake stood over her, trapping her and closing her in like he was, she wanted to scream and escape from the suffocating confinement.
Gulping back the bile that rose in her throat, she snatched the mugs from him with trembling hands. “Thank you.”
She slipped around him and crossed to the stove. As she steadied her hands enough to pour the steaming liquid, she willed her heart to stop pounding. Setting the pot back on the burner, her brow beaded with a cold sweat and her vision narrowed. She fought to even out her short gasping breaths, clutching the stove handle as though it were some lifeline.
Katie reminded herself over and over that he was not Frank Fowler, the man who’d set into motion a year of turmoil that she could share with no one. She’d had to carry the burden alone and at times it threatened to shatter her under its weight.
Frantically grasping for some thread of hope, she struggled to drag herself away from the edge of despair. Like a faint, saving call, she could hear a comforting voice, reminding herself that she was safe now. Hundreds of miles away from Fowler and from the wicked sneer that would stretch across his face each time he’d see her.
Squeezing her eyes shut against the images, she felt her stomach tense. She’d thought that putting distance between herself and home would eliminate moments like this, but the miles had done nothing. The memories were stronger than ever. The fear, consuming. The images had struck with the force of a landslide, unearthing every raw emotion she’d attempted to bury.
“Miss Ellickson?” Mr. Drake’s tentative voice broke through her swirling thoughts.
Rising above the fray of images barraging her mind, Katie slowly spun back around. “Here you are.” Her voice was thin and strained. Her hands still quivered as she set down the cups of coffee. “Here’s your coffee—be careful, it’s hot.”
She lightly grasped his hands and directed them to the stone mug. His hands, large and work-worn in hers, felt strong enough to ward off any enemy, yet gentle enough to soothe a baby.
And brought an immediate, tangible calm to Katie.
The fear that had mounted so quickly, rocking her off kilter, dispelled just as fast. A shaky sigh escaped her lips.
“Miss Ellickson?” His brow furrowed. “Are you all right?”
Sinking into a seat across from him, she took a slow sip of coffee. “Yes, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? I’d get you something to eat,” he said, gesturing toward the cupboards, “but I’m not sure of what’s here anymore. If you can find something…”
“Thank you, but Aunt Marta made sure I ate this morning,” she managed, cupping her hands around the warm mug and staring at him from over the rim. She noticed, for the first time, how his deep chestnut hair hung in playful waves across the white bandages on his forehead, and the way a stubborn cowlick kicked a thick clutch of hair to the side, giving him an innocent look.
Something about him was so captivating, intriguing, almost demanding of her attention. Was it the confidence he exuded in spite of his fear? Was it the way he filled the room with his strong, quiet presence? Or was it his undeniable good looks?
Eager to distract her thoughts, she looked away, noticing a long cane leaning in the corner. She hadn’t seen it there yesterday, but then with all of the commotion she easily could have missed it. “I see you have a cane?”
When he paused, she couldn’t miss the way he turned his head away from the object as though it were an offending image in his home. “Ben brought it by this morning.”
Her heart pulled tight. “Well, if you’re up to it, maybe the best use of our time today would be to help you get more comfortable around your home. We’ll count out steps between rooms and furniture—that sort of thing.”
Bowing his head, he fingered the edge of the mug. “So the walls and furniture don’t find me first?”
“Exactly.”
He raised his chin. “We might as well get it over with.”
Although resignation hung heavy in his voice, Katie could hardly believe he’d so readily agreed. She stared for a long moment, not quite sure how to take his cooperative agreement.
“You’re awfully quiet. Are you still there?” He traced his fingertips slowly over the table’s smooth surface.
Katie shook off her surprise, then pushed up from the table. “I’m sorry. I apologize if my mind is elsewhere this morning.”
Nodding, he rose from the table.
“We’ll begin at your front door, counting steps from there first. You can use the cane for—”
“For firewood, maybe.” He threw a scowl her way, then shuffled toward the door.
“Well, now, that’s not a very agreeable thing to say,” she threw back at him.
“That’s because I’m not feeling overly compliant, Miss Ellickson.” He leaned a shoulder against the door. “At least not as far as that thing goes.”
“Using that thing might prevent you from a mishap.” She perched her hands on her hips, surprised and strangely relieved at his show of stubbornness. “Back at the school we liken a cane to eyes. It will help you see where you’re going.”
He gave a sarcastic laugh. “Well, we’re not at the school and I don’t plan on being this way forever, thank you.”
Crossing her arms at her chest, she eyed him. “Stubborn, aren’t you?”
Her heart squeezed at his insistence that things were going to change for him. She hoped, for his sake, they would.
He raised his chin the slightest bit. “So I’ve been told.”
“Then you can take my elbow, like we did yesterday. It’s the preferred way to navigate as opposed to holding one’s hand or being pushed along. But if you use the cane, as well,” she added, hoping to appeal to his greater sense of reason, “you’ll be able to tell what might be lying in your path.”
“No, thanks.” His curt response and the way his jaw tensed left her void of any argument.
“Why don’t you tell me about the layout of your home? Don’t be vague about where your furniture is located,