After the Storm by Jo Ann Ferguson Page B

husband was dead—”
    â€œHe’s dead?” He set the box on a stump.
    â€œYou didn’t know?”
    â€œNo.” Putting one boot on the side of the stump, he said, “I wonder what other things she hasn’t gotten around to telling me.”
    â€œShe didn’t act as if she were trying to hide anything. It just came up in conversation.” She patted the horse on the nose, then called, “Sean, it’s time to head back to Haven.”
    The children swarmed over them, all talking at once. As he tried to separate one’s words from the others, he swung Lottie up onto his shoulders. The little girl squealed, getting everyone else’s attention.
    He put Lottie back on the ground as soon as the black wagon was disappearing toward Haven. Picking up the crate, he saw Brendan eyeing it, and said, “Don’t get any idea about catching more rabbits. One rabbit is one rabbit. More than one is too many.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” asked Megan.
    â€œAsk your mother about more than one rabbit when she’s feeling better,” he said gruffly.
    The children stared at him in astonishment, but as he carried the box to the house, he heard them laughing and running toward the swing he had hung in the biggest tree.
    Samuel left the box on the table in the kitchen and walked to the guest bedroom. He started to open the door, then rapped his knuckles against the raised panel.
    â€œWho is it?” he heard.
    â€œSamuel.” There was a pause and the sound of fabric rustling, then he heard, “Come in.”
    The moment he opened the door and saw her sitting primly on the chair, he knew he should have gone back to his chores instead of coming here. She was wearing his shirt, a sight so enticing he could not help staring. Its collar pushed up through her fiery hair, but drooped deeper than her prim dress’s neckline. In spite of himself, he could not keep from thinking about how soft her skin had been when he rolled her stockings down her legs—legs that were bare beneath the shirt that must not reach her knees.
    â€œYes?” she prompted.
    The wavering in that single word warned him that she had pushed herself too hard by sitting in the chair this long. “You should be back in bed!”
    â€œI know.” She sighed. “I tried.”
    How many more ways could she tempt him to forget his vow not to let another woman invade his life? Crossing the room in a trio of steps, he scooped her out of the chair. He thought she would protest, but she leaned her head against his shoulder with another sigh. He hoped it was with relief or fatigue, not a sensual sigh because he held her.
    Cailin closed her eyes when Samuel placed her on the bed. The straw in the mattress below the featherbed whispered a welcome. She rested her head back against the pillows and opened her eyes.
    He was too close. She mumbled something about being fine, but he did not move away. When he put one hand on either side of her and leaned toward her, she could not pull her gaze from his lips coming ever closer to her.
    By all the saints! Was he thinking of kissing her? Had Emma said something to him that made him think Cailin would welcome his kisses? Honesty pounded through her. Emma had not needed to, because Cailin had curled up against his chest when he carried her here to the bed.
    â€œCailin …”
    She waited for him to say something else, anything else that would send his warm breath along her lips like a tentative caress. She spoke his name as faintly as he had hers, but all other words faded into silence as his finger beneath her chin brought her eyes up to his.
    His mouth on hers was gentle. Other kisses in other times had not been like this. He was asking her to share her pleasure with him, not demanding. When her arm curved along his shoulders, he drew her up to him. His kiss deepened, thrilling her with its invitation and yet its restraint. A restraint she knew that