Heartland Courtship by Lyn Cote Page A

temptation.
    “It’s a relief that the bone isn’t broken,” Rachel said with force. “The wrist is sprained, I think.”
    “Take a week to ten days to heal,” Noah added.
    “It’s good I’m right-handed,” Brennan said through gritted teeth. He looked to the young man. “Glad you came along to help Noah.” Though Noah wouldn’t talk, this lad probably would. Everybody in town would soon hear about his foolishness.
    “I am Gunther Lang,” the young man introduced himself to Rachel. Then he glanced down at Brennan. “Sorry you are hurt.”
    “I think soaking the wrist in cold water may help,” Miss Rachel said, rising. “I’ll get a basin. Brennan, come sit inside.” She nodded toward the door.
    “I must go,” the young man said and hurried away.
    Noah reached for Brennan’s good hand. “I’ll help you up and then I’ll hook up the stove.”
    Looking away, Brennan accepted the hand, managed to get to his feet and followed Noah inside where he sank into the rocker by the cold hearth. The pain was weakening him.
    Rachel entered with a basin of water from the well and set it on her small sewing table. She reached to lift his hand in.
    “I can move my hand,” he said gracelessly. He folded up his sleeve and lowered the hand into the cool water. His gaze met hers over the basin. The concern he saw there chastened him.
    “Very well.” Rachel turned away. “Noah, is there anything I can do to help thee?”
    Brennan toughed it out, the cold water making his bones ache more.
    “Yes.” Noah and she worked together, connecting the stovepipe sections and sliding it through the hole Brennan had cut for it this morning. Noah accepted Rachel’s thanks, commiserated briefly with Brennan and headed home with his wagon and team.
    Rachel retrieved her jar of arnica, pulled the bench over and sat down near him. She opened the jar and began tenderly rubbing the ointment into his wrist.
    Even her gentle touch caused him pain and he didn’t like her having to care for him again. Her nearness worked its way through him—even in his pain. Her tender touch awakened something within that he didn’t want to acknowledge. He lowered his eyes, not wanting to let her know her effect on him. Finally she brought out a large white dishcloth and folded it into a triangle.
    “I don’t need a sling,” he objected irritably, knowing that he sounded like a boy.
    She just stared at him, waiting.
    “Oh, all right,” he finally conceded and rose, cradling his arm.
    Their faces a hairbreadth apart, Miss Rachel efficiently looped the sling around his arm and tied it behind his neck.
    The scent of the lilac soap she always used filled his head and again he yearned to lean his head on her soft shoulder.
    Obviously unaware, Miss Rachel adjusted the sling. “I know why thee couldn’t wait for Noah.” Her tone did not scold, merely informed. “Why are thee so fretful and champing at the bit to leave?”
    Brennan wouldn’t meet her gaze.
    “Rest. I’ll make some willow bark tea for the pain.” She went to her new stove.
    He sat down, watching her from under his lashes. Was she unscathed from contact with him? Her cheeks glowed pink—from touching him, from imagining his touch?
    He turned his mind from this foolishness. How could something like this sprain take so much out of him? He closed his eyes and leaned back against the rocker. His wrist throbbed. He’d been so close to leaving, and now this. In his mind, old Aunt Martha’s voice hectored him. Worthless, thoughtless boy. He couldn’t argue with her.
    And why was he so fretful and champing at the bit to leave? For the first time in a long time, he had a place to stay, a job, good food, new clothes... But he didn’t belong here. He needed a new start far from...everything, especially this woman who continued to surprise him, to pull him to stay.
    * * *
    The next morning, Miss Rachel hummed to herself as she scattered chicken feed. Brennan sat in the shade against a