Page 3 of The Mountain Man's Second Chance Bride
Christ. The memory of her teenage confession flashes through my mind—her nervous voice, flushed face, the painful task of letting her down gently. "You're like a little sister to me, Wynonna. You'll find a boy your own age who deserves you."
She'd blinked back tears then. Today, she walked in with determination blazing in those same eyes, no trace of that girlish uncertainty.
God help me, but that confidence affects me in ways it shouldn't.
I scrub a hand down my face, disgusted with myself. This is Frank Crow's daughter. I've known her since she was a child.
And my body doesn't seem to care about any of that.
The old floorboards creak under my weight as I pace the kitchen, my reflection ghostly in the window against the darkening forest beyond. The rational move would be to drive her straight to town, put her on the first bus east. But the mountain roads twist treacherously in the dark, especially with spring rains making the shoulders unstable.
One night. That's all. In the morning, I'll take her to Silver Ridge and make sure she gets a ticket back to Manitoba. End of story.
A soft noise from the spare room draws my attention—she's moving around in there, probably unpacking as if she's staying. The thought sends an unexpected wave of heat through me. Wynonna. Here. In my home. For the night. The cabin I built with my own hands suddenly feels like unfamiliar territory.
I slam the brakes on that train of thought.
She's changed, sure, but this can't be rational. No grown woman crosses the country for a man who rejected her feelings a decade ago. It doesn't make sense.
Then again, nothing about this situation makes sense.
The spare room door opens, and I tense. The lamplight catches copper highlights in her dark hair as she appears, having removed her jacket and boots. Her feet are bare against my hardwood floor, and something about that simple intimacy makes my throat go dry.
"Sorry," she says, catching me staring. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"End of the hall." My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Left door."
She nods, moving past me with a grace that knocks me off-balance.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, the question surprising me as much as her. The fire crackles in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls. "Made venison stew this morning."
A smile breaks across her face, lighting up her eyes. "Starving, actually. Haven't had a real meal since yesterday."
Something protective stirs in my chest. "Should've said something sooner."
She shrugs, and the movement draws my attention to the delicate line of her collarbone visible where her shirt dips. "Didn't want to impose more than I already have."
"Not imposing to eat," I grunt, turning to the stove to reheat the stew, grateful for something to do with my hands. The iron pot clanks against the woodstove, the rich aroma of herbs and game filling the kitchen. "Sit. Water's in the pitcher."
While the stew heats, I covertly watch her move around my kitchen. She pours water with the comfortable familiarity of someone at home, not a stranger in a new place. Finds the napkins in the second drawer she tries. Notices the fresh breadon the cutting board and looks to me for permission before cutting two slices.
The sight of her, eyes closed, pleasure on her face from something I made, sends a jolt of heat straight through me. I turn back to the stew, stirring with more force than necessary. The spoon scrapes against the pot, an abrasive sound that matches my fraying nerves.
What the hell is wrong with me? She's not little anymore, and the questions in her eyes now are ones I have no business answering.
We eat in relative silence. The only sounds are the clink of spoons against bowls, the pop and hiss of the fire, and the distant call of an owl beginning its night hunt. I keep my responses to her conversation attempts brief. Distance is better. Safer.
Still, I notice things. The way she savors each bite as if it's something special. How she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's thinking. The slight calluses on her hands that tell me she's no stranger to work, despite her city clothes.
"So," she says finally, setting down her spoon. "Are we going to talk about the mail-order bride situation, or just pretend it isn't hanging over us?"
Direct. That's new too.
"There's nothing to talk about." I push my empty bowl away. "In the morning, I'll take you to town. Get you a ticket back to Manitoba."
Her chin lifts slightly. It’s a gesture I remember from when she was young and digging in her heels about something. "I'm not going back."
"Wynonna."
