Page 22 of Rainwater
He’d wanted her from the moment he’d laid eyes on her, but that had been a physical reaction. Now, now he wanted her with a desperate yearning hunger that had nothing to do with his physical needs.
He couldn’t stay here.
He was afraid of the darkness on his soul. His legacy.
He couldn’t stay here.
His demons would find him and in the process, find her. He couldn’t allow that.
He couldn’t stay here.
He didn’t deserve her.
He didn’t know who he was, where he was going. He couldn’t stop running. If he did, he would have to face his fears andthe madness that hovered around them. But, God help him, he wanted to stay. He could brave the madness for her. For Jennifer.
Jennifer came back with soup, crackers and a glass of milk on a tray. She set it in front of him, avoiding his eyes. When she went to pull away, he grabbed her hand and held her, waiting patiently until she finally looked at him with a huffy sigh.
“You don’t owe me anything, darlin’. Not one damn thing,” he pleaded.
Her expression was one of misery. He didn’t want her to feel this way. Damn, he didn’t want her to care.
“Jennifer…please.”
“Eat your soup and then let me look at your stitches.” She lifted her chin, meeting his hard look straight on.
“I wish you didn’t possess so much backbone,” he snarled.
Her eyebrows raised and she looked him up and down. “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black.”
Against his will, he smiled. “You would know about that,” he agreed, his smile widening.
Jennifer felt her world shift precariously as she swallowed, trying to dislodge the awe rising in her. She was staring and she knew it, but couldn’t help herself.
He leaned forward very slightly and asked, “You have a bunkhouse for this foreman you need to hire?”
“The bunkhouse is for the hired hands. We have a foreman’s cottage. The previous foreman had a family, so my father built it for him for privacy,” she whispered, her hopes rising as if someone with complete and irrefutable evidence had just proved there really was a Santa Claus.
“I’ll stay there until I feel able to travel.”
Her hope crashed and she couldn’t hide her disappointment. “Corey, you’d be more comfortable here. The mattress in the cottage is lumpy,” she argued.
The hell he’d be more comfortable here, he thought. Being around her, seeing her move, knowing he was in her bed would only drive him crazy. Yeah, he would be about as comfortable as a porcupine turned inside out.
But he knew when not to argue. He would just go his own way as he’d done for so long. There was only so much that he could take. Finding the woman of his dreams in this one-horse town was not one of them. Nor was seeing her fiery hair and not being able to touch it. Or being close to those tempting curves and resisting the urge to mold his hands around them. That would be more torturous than sleeping on a lumpy mattress. He just shrugged.
“Let me look at your stitches,” she said, rising suddenly, the discussion of where he would be staying obviously settled. He liked that about her. Self-confident without being overbearing. Steady and strong and so very sweet.
She moved around him and tipped his head forward slightly. She smoothed her hand against the nape of his neck and jumped back when he sucked in his breath sharply and moaned softly. His body had tautened like a bowstring, his breathing suddenly harsh and ragged.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she cried.
Corey recoiled, the soft touch to his neck like fire in his loins. The woman was driving him to distraction every time she touched him. Trying to prevent any more mishaps, he shouted, “Don’t touch me!”
Jennifer stiffened her shoulders. She caught her bottom lip in her teeth and worried it. Hurt and pain shone in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I won’t. Call me if you need me.”
“What the helldo you think you’re doing?” Jennifer’s voice cracked like a whip in the stillness of the hayloft. She had been angry and worried when she checked Corey hours later and found the bed empty.
“Pitching hay,” he drawled.
