Moonlight on Water (8 page)

“That's the best I can do for now,” Wyatt said as he tied the top rag in place.

“Thank you.” She brushed her skirt back down over her leg and slowly drew on her shoe. It would not close around her ankle, but she could not walk barefoot back to River's Haven.

“You should have it looked at by your doctor out at River's Haven.”

“We don't have one.”

“What happened? Did he smarten up and leave?”

Frowning, she tied a rag around the top of her shoe to hold it in place. Gingerly she rose, holding on to the railing to steady herself.

“I think it's time we left,” she said, scowling at him.

“Go ahead. Don't let us keep you here.”

“Wyatt,” muttered Horace, “she's hurt.”

“Her head as well as her ankle because she's not thinking straight,” he replied as he stood. “Are you sure you didn't get brushed by that carriage, honey?”

It was not easy to maintain her pose of outrage when every inch of her ached as if the carriage really had struck her. “I would need more than a knock in the head to want to stay here.” She raised her voice. “Kitty Cat, let's go.”

“She's getting the wine for you,” Wyatt said, wiping his hands on his trousers.

Horace cleared his throat. “I'll find her, Miss Rachel.”

“Thank you.”

She gripped the railing as she slid her left foot forward a step. Her smile at her accomplishment of that single step vanished when she tried to move her right foot. That put all her weight on her left ankle. She wobbled and collapsed.

Strong arms caught her before she could hit the deck. She moaned as the pain returned, doubly strong. Those arms lifted her up, and she looked at Wyatt's frown, which was too close as he leaned her against his chest again. Knowing that she might be inviting more trouble on herself, she still could not keep her head from resting on his shoulder.

The aromas of sweat and bay rum flavored every breath she took. His shirt beneath her cheek was coarse, but it was not as rough as his unshaven cheek. His ebony hair, which was in need of a cut, brushed her face as he shifted her in his arms. Beneath her fingers on his chest, his heart's steady rhythm accelerated when her other hand slid around his shoulders.

She raised her gaze to meet his. Raw emotions that she should not be viewing shone in his eyes. Was it his pulse or hers that was racing now? She could not tell.

“Are you satisfied yet?” he asked in a near whisper.

“Excuse me?”

“With proving that you're foolish?”

She swallowed hard. If he had had any idea that she had heard an invitation in his question that he had not intended, he would laugh loud enough to be heard up in the village.

As quietly as he had spoken, she said, “I don't think I'm the only foolish one.”

“That's true.” He grinned at her. “Here I am holding you in my arms, and all I'm doing is chattering like a squirrel.”

When he bent toward her, she put her hand up to halt him. It took every bit of her strength not to pull it back so his lips could find hers.

Softly he said, “You look frightened, Rachel.”

“I'm afraid you've lost your mind.”

He laughed. “Is that all you're afraid of?” He set her back on the bench and leaned forward to rest his hands on the railing behind her. “I think you're scared of
me
.”

“Why should I be scared of you?” She tried to look past him. Horace should have found Kitty Cat by now.

When Wyatt's strong fingers brushed her cheek, she stared up at him. In a rough whisper, he said, “I think you're afraid of me doing this.”

“No.” She would not let him guess how his very touch threatened her composure. Then … She was not sure what he might do then, but she doubted if she should bait him enough to find out.

“Or are you afraid of me doing this?” He ran a single fingertip across her lips.

She gripped the edge of the bench as quivers raced outward from his touch. Fighting to keep her voice steady, she said, “No.”

“Then maybe you're afraid of me doing this. …” His finger coursed beneath her chin. When she trembled at the onslaught of sensation, he smiled. “Or maybe you're afraid I
won't
do this.”

“Won't do—?”

Her question vanished beneath his mouth over hers. When he explored her lips slowly, as if he wished to sample a single inch at a time, her fingers uncurled from the bench and slipped up to curve along his back. His muscles were firm and urged her to be more bold. When his tongue stroked hers, her fingers clenched on his shirt.

Lost in the thrill of his bold kiss, she was not sure when he had moved to sit beside her on the bench. His arm cradled her against him as it had when he had lifted her off her aching ankle.

“That's what I suspect you're afraid I won't do,” he whispered as he caressed her cheek.

“How could you know unless …?” She blushed as she realized she was begging him for another kiss.

When she inched away, he laughed and drew her back to him. “How can I know until I try these delicious lips again? Is that what you were going to ask me?” His gaze stroked her face. “You could prove to be quite a temptress, Rachel.”

“You have proven to be intolerable.” She arched her shoulders. As soon as he released her, she felt bereft. She could not understand how she could want to be in his arms and yearn to escape at the same time. What baffled her most was that she longed for more of Wyatt Colton's kisses.

Instead of the insolent smile she had expected, he was serious. “Intolerable wasn't what I intended to be.” The grin she had anticipated returned as he added, “Nor did I intend to kiss you today.”

“We can pretend this never happened.”

His finger stroked her cheek gently. “I don't think that's possible.”

“No?” she asked. When he put his arm around her waist, bringing her closer again, she whispered, “This is crazy, Wyatt.”

“It is, isn't it?” He traced her lips with his tongue and smiled when she quivered.

She was not sure what else he would have said because he looked past her. Turning, she saw Kitty Cat proudly carrying a black tray with a wine bottle and glasses on it. Horace followed close behind, his hands outstretched to catch anything that fell off.

While Wyatt took the bottle and poured wine into a glass, Rachel tried to collect herself. It was all for naught, she realized, when he handed her the glass and his gaze held hers again. She tried not to think what he might have said if they had not been interrupted, but she was very certain of what he would have done. She tried not to think what she would have done when he pulled her back into his arms and against his lips, but she could imagine nothing else. And
that
frightened her.

Six

“This is quite a predicament,” Wyatt said as he put the empty bottle onto the tray. “You can't walk back on that foot.”

Rachel nodded, then wished she had not. Her head was light, although her left ankle was weighted with pain. She should not have agreed to let Horace refill her glass. She needed all her wits to figure a way out of this dilemma. “I think that much is obvious.”

He frowned. “You could hire a carriage at the livery.”

“I don't have the money to do that.”

When Wyatt looked at Horace, the older man drew out one of his pockets and said, “They all are just as empty at the moment. You borrowed five dollars to get even the few parts we ordered from Louisville.”

“What sort of parts?” Rachel asked, handing Kitty Cat her glass to set next to the bottle.

“Parts for the boiler that cracked when the boat hit that sandbar.” Horace gave Kitty Cat a smile as she picked up the tray and turned toward Wyatt.

“Metal parts?” asked Rachel, struggling to make her mind work.

He nodded.

“You didn't need to send all the way to Louisville for them. There's a metal shop at River's Haven.”

Wyatt finished the last of his wine and gave the little girl the glass to put on the tray. “Rachel, we're not interested in gewgaws. We need real parts that will fit in this boiler.”

“The metal shop at River's Haven doesn't make—as you put it so delicately—gewgaws. The craftsmen are very skilled and have been doing work for the railroad for more than a year now. If they can make parts for the steam engines in a locomotive, I'm sure they can make ones for the boiler of a steamboat. How different can they be?”

“She has you there,” Horace said. He chuckled. “Again.”

Wyatt waved him to silence. “They've been making parts for the railroad?”

“Yes.” She did not nod again, afraid her head would drift off her shoulders.

He went through a doorway shadowed beneath the stairs. When he came out, he asked, “Can they make parts like these?”

Rachel took the small pieces of metal and turned them over and over in her hand. “Yes, they can make these. These parts are simple. Threaded screws and bolts present a bit more of a problem.”

“How soon can you have them made?”

“It depends on how many parts you need.” She dropped the pieces to her lap and pressed her hand to her aching head. “Can we talk about this some other time?”

Wyatt reached to pick up the parts. When his hand brushed her leg, she shivered with the sensation she could not control. She shifted away. Pain shot up her leg again, warning her not to forget her ankle. Gathering up the pieces of metal, she handed them to Horace.

The older man said, “She's right. As bad as that leg was twisted, she can't be thinking very straight just now.”

Rachel wanted to give Horace a grateful hug. He was right about her head being all ajumble, although her befuddlement was not caused by either her leg or the wine. It came from Wyatt's beguiling touch.

Grasping the rail behind her, she struggled to her feet. She nodded her thanks when Horace put his other hand under her elbow. Kitty Cat rushed to her side and put her arm around Rachel's waist.

“We really should be going back to River's Haven,” Rachel murmured.

“How?” asked Wyatt.

Horace jabbed him with an elbow. “She ain't too heavy, Wyatt, and you were bemoaning the fact that you'd get weak when there weren't any crates to stack on the deck.”

“What a silly idea!” Her laugh was stilted. “If you'll help me up the hill to the train station, someone will surely come by and give us a ride.”

“At this hour?” Wyatt pointed toward the first stars peeking through the twilight.

“Maybe there's a meeting at the church or the Grange Hall tonight.”

“And if there isn't? Are you going to sit there all night with K. C.?”

“It's going to be plenty warm enough tonight.” She kept her chin high so he could not guess how she dreaded the thought of sitting on a hard bench while her ankle throbbed. “And it doesn't look like rain.”

Wyatt shook his head. “There's no way in he—no way in perdition,” he corrected when Horace scowled at him, “that I'm going to leave you and the kid sitting in front of the station when we've got plenty of empty rooms here on the boat.”

“No! We can't stay
here
!” Before Wyatt's brows could lower in another fierce frown, she added, “I could go to Reverend Faulkner. He'll help us.”

“Reverend Faulkner!” Horace smiled, obviously relieved. “That's just the answer!”

“K. C., c'mon,” Wyatt said. “We're going to make a call on the preacher.”

As he swept Rachel up in his arms without warning, she said, “I'd wager those are words you never thought you'd say.”

Horace roared another laugh. “You have that right, Miss Rachel.” Without a pause, he said, “I'll clean up here, Wyatt, so we can get a good start in the morning.”

Wyatt grunted something before carrying Rachel toward the board to the shore. Kitty Cat bounced across it, and he followed with more care.

Climbing the hill, he said, “It would be easier to carry you if you weren't as stiff as a corpse.”

She was tempted to retort, but forced herself to relax against him as she had before. All she had to do was keep her own wayward thoughts from wandering too far and leading her into trouble. When she leaned her cheek against his shoulder, she had to fight her own longing to reach up and tease the hair brushing his collar.

“Better,” he murmured.

Again she did not answer. She did not want to get into a discussion of how much better being in his arms was. As she listened to his heartbeat, she watched Kitty Cat skipping ahead of them along the quiet street. The buildings on either side of the street were dark, save for a window or two. She hoped no one was sitting on a porch and able to see Wyatt toting her toward the green.

The minister's house was set to the right of the church. The white church glowed in the light of the waning moon. Lamps were lit in the parsonage's front windows.

“Knock on the door, K. C.,” Wyatt ordered.

She did, and the door opened almost immediately. A short man with graying hair motioned for them to enter. His somber coat and backward collar identified him as the minister.

Rachel had no chance to look around the dusky foyer before Wyatt carried her into a room on the right. The dark red upholstery on the furniture showed signs of long use, but the rosewood arms and legs glistened with care. Several tables and a piano nearly filled the room to overflowing. On top of them, books and papers and knickknacks threatened to tumble in the slightest breeze.

Wyatt placed her on her feet. She started to thank him, but agony ripped along her leg. The room contracted into darkness as she struggled to hold onto her senses. A soft voice, as lush as sun-warmed moss, urged her to sit. She did so with the help of a hand beneath her elbow.

“Are you all right?”

At the question, she blinked and focused on Wyatt's face, which was shockingly close to her. The shadow of every whisker emphasized his straight lips and the firm line of his chin. Wanting to tell him that he should not be leaning over her like this—it simply was not polite—she rested her head against the knobby antimacassar on the back of the chair.