Remember My Touch. Gayle Wilson
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up.
For the birdseed, she realized. She placed the tiny package on his outstretched hand.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to manage the ribbons,” he said. “If you wouldn’t mind doing that for me?”
Because his fingers are too big? she wondered. The narrow satin streamers she and Samantha had tied did look absurdly small in comparison to his hand. And absurdly feminine against its hard masculinity. Without comment, she pulled on one end of the bow and slipped the ribbon from around the gathered neck of the tulle, which fell open.
“Unless you think the newlyweds would like to be showered with the net as well as the seed, you might want to remove that, too,” he suggested.
She lifted her eyes to his, questioning. Whatever hint of amusement had been in his face and in his voice was gone, wiped out and replaced by an emotion she couldn’t read. She shook her head, her eyes still questioning.
“My right hand doesn’t work too well. Certainly not well enough to pick up something that small. That demands a kind of coordination my fingers no longer have.”
Again she was forced to fight the revelation of her feelings. There was a hollowness in the pit of her stomach when she heard those words, created not by the words themselves, but by whatever had been in his eyes when he’d said them. She fought to keep her gaze on his face, and not to let it drop to his other hand.
He would hate that, she knew instinctively. It was obvious that he wasn’t comfortable even talking about whatever was wrong with his hand. Jenny was sensitive enough to realize that that quiet confession hadn’t been lightly made.
“Of course,” she said. She lifted one corner of the tulle and slid the small pile of seed into his palm.
“Thank you.” The tightness in his deep voice had eased, and she took a breath in relief.
“You’re very welcome.”
She knew that it was time to leave, although, since he was blocking the outside door, she hadn’t quite figured out how she was going to accomplish that. She had already begun to turn back toward the interior of the club, deciding that discretion might really be the better part of valor in this case.
“Was that Mr. McCullar?” he asked. “The blond man you were dancing with?”
She hesitated, again schooling her features before she turned to face him.
“My husband’s dead,” she said. Her voice spoke the words evenly and calmly, words she had learned to say during the past five years without revealing any emotion. It was something that should have gotten easier with time, but it really hadn’t. “I’m a widow,” she added, finishing the rest of that practiced explanation.
There was a minute movement of his head, almost a nod of agreement. For what seemed to be an eternity their gazes held, and then, again breaking the spell, Jenny turned and retreated. She looked back when she reached the shadowed sanctuary of the door on the other side of the big reception room. The man was still standing in the other doorway, looking out on the milling guests, his left hand closed around the birdseed she had poured into his palm.
But by the time she reached the front of the club once again, the doorway where he had stood was empty, and no matter how often her eyes searched the crowd of guests, she couldn’t find any sign of the stranger.
CHAPTER TWO
“THIS IS MATT DAWSON, Samantha. He’s an old friend of mine. He’s going to be staying with us.”
As Chase McCullar made the required introduction of the man he had brought home with him from the wedding, his face was almost guileless, but his wife knew him too well to be fooled by that look of innocence.
Samantha and Amanda had stayed behind in San Antonio to help Jenny with the presents that had thoughtlessly been brought to the wedding and to decide what to do with the food left over from the reception. The arrangement had been that Chase would drive back to the ranch alone, and she and Mandy would ride with Jenny.
Which would give her a good excuse to go home, Jenny had explained to Samantha, without having to chance hurting Trent’s feelings. Having been in San Antonio for several days before the wedding, Jenny was obviously more than ready to get back to the ranch.
All those arrangements had been understood by everyone involved. Samantha and Chase had certainly discussed them beforehand. What she didn’t understand was why Chase had brought home a guest without giving her any warning. The small house was big enough for the three of them, but there was no room to spare, and certainly no spare bedroom.
Samantha remembered the condition in which they’d left the bathroom this morning, all three of them in and out of it, trying to get ready for the wedding. She also remembered that the dirty breakfast dishes were still in the sink. Her green eyes met Chase’s with an “I’ll-get-you-later” look, before she smiled and held out her hand to the tall man who was standing beside her husband in her suddenly narrowed kitchen.
“Mrs. McCullar,” he said, nodding slightly. He didn’t return her smile.
When Samantha realized he was ignoring her outstretched hand, her eyes flicked to Chase’s face again, just in time to catch the barely discernible sideways motion of his head.
“What Chase is trying to tell you, with his usual lack of subtlety,” the stranger explained, “is that I don’t shake hands.”
Her eyes went back to his face. Samantha had noticed the patch, of course. She would have to be blind not to have noticed. And she wondered what other surprises were in store. I’m going to kill you for this, Chase McCullar, she thought, before she smiled at the man again, allowing her own hand to fall—naturally—she hoped, to her side.
“Did Chase offer you something for supper, Mr. Dawson?”
“Matt,” he said. “And Chase has already taken care of supper.”
Samantha’s eyes moved to the sink. More dishes had been piled on top of the ones that she had left there. Matt Dawson was probably feeling sorry for Chase right now, saddled with such a wife.
“I’m surprised you survived that experience,” she said with a touch of asperity. Chase could boil water, but just barely. To his father, anything that went on in the kitchen had been women’s work. Chase and his brother Mac had worked like dogs on their father’s ranch, but none of that work had ever been done in the kitchen.
“I’ve survived worse things than Chase’s cooking,” Matt Dawson said, his voice amused. One corner of his thin mouth moved upward, inviting her to relax and stop worrying.
Yes, you certainly have, Samantha thought, trying to keep that conclusion from being reflected in her face. It was good, she supposed, that he could smile about whatever had happened to him. And something obviously had, although it was just as obvious that whatever had occurred had been a long time ago and someone had done some good repair work. Except for his hand, she supposed.
“We had hot dogs,” Chase said. “I stopped for the stuff on the way home.”
At least she’d been right about the boiling water, Samantha thought—all the cooking skill that had been required for Chase’s choice of menu.
“We’ll try to do better than that for breakfast, Mr. Dawson. Are you going to be in our area long?” she asked, trying to think about sleeping arrangements. She supposed she could move Mandy into their room on a pallet if this was only for tonight.
“Matt’s going to sleep on the couch,” Chase explained.
“Which couch?” Samantha asked, her eyes deliberately surveying Matt Dawson’s height.
“We don’t have but one,” Chase said.
“I thought maybe you’d picked up one of those on the way home, too. He’s not going to fit on the couch, Chase. You couldn’t.”
“I’ll be