That Loving Touch. Ashley Summers
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to intervene. Was she glad that he had intervened? Did she find his actions even a little heroic? A cynical inner laugh mocked his schoolboy thought, yet there was an unsettling edge of longing in it.
“All that red hair kind of threw me when I first saw you,” he said. “I feared you had a temper to match.”
“No, I’m pretty even-tempered.” Her head tilted. “Why did you fear?”
“Because of what you might do when you began thinking clearly again!” he quipped. “You might decide that I undressed you, did God-knows-what to you, then just threw a blanket over you. I guess, basically, that’s what I did. Except that God does know what I did, and even approves, I think.”
“I’ll take your word for that.” Her voice hardened. “Besides, what’s past is past, so why keep on about it?”
“Because it’s important, at least to me. After all, my word’s my bond—” Sam broke off as she yawned. “You need your rest. Go on to bed, I’ll clean up in here.”
The fire’s crackle was loud in the hush. Wind-driven snow pelted the window like a handful of pebbles. Sam slapped down his cup. A glance at her aloof profile replaced annoyance with chagrin as he discerned the reason for her silence. “I guess you’re apprehensive about staying with a stranger,” he said gruffly. “But there’s not much I can do about that right now. Like it or not, you’re here for the night.”
She shot him a glance. “Well, we’re two adults. I guess we can sleep under the same roof without the sky falling,” she murmured with a touch of wry humor. “Thank you, Mr. Holt. I accept your gracious invitation to spend the night.”
His luxurious guest bedroom was blue and white, deepcarpeted, softly lit. Turning off the lamp, Carrie nestled under the puffy down comforter and closed her eyes. Thoughts swirled around her mind like images from a kaleidoscope. She felt tired and sleepy, but her senses were alert to sounds outside her door.
The man sharing this beautiful cottage made it cozy just by his presence. Yet, were it not for footsteps going down the hall, she’d wonder if he wasn’t a figment of an overactive imagination. He had loaned her a T-shirt to sleep in, laundered, of course, but that same imagination insisted that she still detected his masculine scent.
Carrie’s smile held a twist of irony. She felt much better knowing he was there. But that in itself was unsettling. After months of anguished turmoil, she had hoped to come to this quiet, remote place and find peace within herself while awaiting her baby’s birth. Sam Holt was a wild card she neither wanted nor needed.
He made chicken soup for me. Carrie’s crooked smile encapsuled her feminine reaction to that—even if it was canned. It felt so good to be taken care of. Her nerves were raw from going it alone. Not that he was thrilled about taking care of her. He’d been positively bearish at times. Still, even that side of him pleased some crazy little part of her.
Feeling achy and needful, she rolled over and filled her arms with a pillow. Despite her exposure to the Kinnard social circle, she was not a sophisticate, and there was something deliciously wicked knowing that Sam slept just a door away.
“A something far too potent for a woman in my condition,” she muttered. Sick or not, she’d had no trouble noticing his appeal. He had enough masculine allure to stock a pharmacy.
But there was a defensiveness about him, an underlying wariness she couldn’t quite define. Each time his manner softened towards her he caught himself, as if tenderness was dangerous. Well, in a way it was. “Lord knows how susceptible I am to it,” she acknowledged with a rueful sigh.
She had also noted his natural air of authority. Of course, she thought derisively, he’s a big shot. She knew all too well how dangerously easy it was to mistake smooth self-assurance for character. Her ex-husband had taught her that. He’d been a big shot, too, although in Justin’s case, the Kinnard money had long since been squandered by wastrel sons.
Still, he’d been considered quite the catch. Tears stung her eyes as she pictured the handsome face of the man she once trusted to the point of blind folly. She’d wanted so much to believe in Prince Charming that she’d been putty in his hands.
Smarting from her memories, Carrie reminded herself that she was twenty-eight, clear-eyed, and reasonably notstupid. In five months she would be a single mother. So I’m certainly not looking for romance, she defied Sam Holt’s potent impact on her psyche. She wasn’t even looking for the respite from personal problems he could provide with those strong arms, that firm mouth.
“Not that it would be long lasting,” she whispered into the darkness. As soon as he heard her ex-husband’s name he’d likely remember it from newspaper or television reports, and want nothing more to do with her. After the divorce she’d reclaimed her maiden name, but still, the ugly mess could resurface if their acquaintance deepened.
And she’d feel the humiliation and shame all over again.
Carrie shuddered. “No way!” she muttered fiercely. She’d had enough of that. She’d also had enough of bloated egos masquerading as men. Love, honor and cherish? Empty words. Forsaking all others? Yeah, sure, Carrie.
She pounded the pillow she’d been hugging. Men and their lying, cheating ways! Any woman who believed a thing they said had to have a screw loose.
Her face-saving defiance collapsed in the resurgence of a bleak, piercing ache. “Justin. I thought you were something and you were nothing.” The sorrowed whisper was barely audible in the storm-torn night.
Three
Carrie awoke with a jolt. Her gaze flew to the window, still black with night, and in swift succession, she oriented herself. Recalling the circumstances that had brought her here, she skirted thoughts of Sam. She was tense enough already.
Her cheeks were wet. Apparently she’d been crying in her sleep again. Remnants of her nightmare still clung like the spiderweb in which she’d been entrapped, helpless to defend herself against the circle of angry people. Contorted faces, pointing fingers, accusations flying at her like metal-tipped darts...
Carrie shuddered. Leaving Keedysville so precipitously had probably undermined her claim of innocence, but she couldn’t subject her child to the reality of that nightmare.
She startled as a tree limb scraped the windowpane. She was too anxious about the future to worry about the past. Too scared, she admitted. She didn’t consider herself a brave woman, yet she had left behind all that was safe and familiar to challenge the unknown, an act that filled her with misgivings. Only the precious new life she carried gave her the courage to strike out on her own.
What if she couldn’t make it? Plagued by self-doubt, she ran through a mental list of her assets. She was strong and capable. She had a year’s lease on a cottage, and a job beginning in January. The interest on a small, protected trust fund, though inadequate alone, would be sufficient combined with her salary.
“We’ll do okay,” she insisted, wiping tears. Chastising her weakness, she cradled the barely detectable curve of her belly. Oh God, could a baby sense its mother’s moods, even be affected by them? Appalled at the possibility, she whispered warmly, “All is well, love. Tomorrow we’ll see the doctor, just to make sure.” The realtor who found the cottage for her had also introduced her to a local physician.
“He’ll take good care of us,” Carrie assured her baby.
The sudden intrusion of Sam Holt’s image evoked another kind of warmth. She pushed it away—she had no use for feathery little feelings. Or any other kind, for that matter. Spending Christmas alone in a rented cabin at a frozen lake wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but that’s the way it was. “So deal with it, Carrie,” she muttered.
Her attention snagged on the man who slept just a wall away. Sam Holt probably had big plans for the holidays—he’d be gone in a day or two. But she wouldn’t. She had nowhere to go. Her sister had died years ago, and