Seduced by Molly O'Keefe Page A

place her thoughts had gone. “He was going to die, by your hand or mine, it didn't matter. So if your guilt—”
    “I didn't know I wanted that,” she whispered, interrupting him. “How did you?”
    He blinked, but did not look away. Did not seem discomfited by the sudden familiarity between them. That act—him handing her the gun and her using it to shoot Jimmy—it stitched them together in an ugly violent seam. “I thought you should have the choice.”
    “Choice?” A raw bubble of mirth exploded from her lips. There had been no choice but survival for many years. And now suddenly she had too much.
    Choice was a burden she didn’t want to carry.
    “My brother and I discussed your intention to leave in two weeks,” Cole said. “But my brother has to travel back to Denver to receive a shipment a month from now, which I know extends your stay, but it would save us a trip.”
    She struggled not to take a giant, relieved breath. A month was a fine reprieve. “I'll have to talk to my sister, but I think that's agreeable.”
    “Your . . . ” he gestured up to his own eye. “Your face looks better. Not so swollen.”
    “That’s too bad, I was thinking of a career on the stage as a monster. Scaring children.”
    “We’ll, we’d better get you back to Denver quick, before it all fades and you are beautiful again.” As far as flattery went, she’d had better. Christopher had been silver-tongued. Poetic, nearly, in his appreciation for her hair and eyes and lips. But still she felt a wild, hot blush sweep up her neck and across her cheeks.
    She lifted the pail. “I . . . I need to get water. I’m making biscuits.”
    Cole smiled and there was something boyish in his expression. Something young and happy. She had not seen that in their short acquaintance and it left her off-balance. “I haven’t had biscuits in a long time.”
    “You shouldn’t get your hopes up. I haven’t made them in a while. I might have forgotten how.”
    “I’m sure they’ll be wonderful.”
    “I wish I had some plum preserves to put on them for you.”
    His surprise should have been embarrassing for both of them. She’d been too forward with her sudden strange consideration. Too eager. But it was only kindness.
    Which was why it seemed so odd, because kindness was an animal neither of them had seen in such a long time.
    “What are you doing with this land?” Cole pointed to the soil she and her sister had turned what felt like years ago.
    The plot was so pretty, a fresh black rectangle in a sea of green. “A kitchen garden. We wanted to grow something,” she said. At his silence, she realized how presumptuous that was. And all that embarrassment she refused to feel was a wave sweeping her up.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered. The thin cotton of her skirt clung to hands that were suddenly damp. “Truly. Perhaps we could—”
    “Put it back?” He laughed and she smiled at the thought. What a surprise this man was. “What were you going to grow?”
    “My . . . my sister and I brought seeds from home and gathered more along the way.” She could feel him looking at her, the heat of his gaze like the sun against her skin. “Carrots, beets, peas, strawberries, corn. Some fruit trees. Plums, mostly. Peaches.”
    “Plums,” he said. Actually, he nearly gasped.
    Her smile was real; she felt its pleasure all through her body. “We will give you a seed to plant. The trees take a long time to grow, but eventually you will have your plum.”
    “That . . . that is very kind. Once, on the march in Georgia, I found a jar of plum preserves in a cellar. I ate it with my fingers and nearly cried.”
    She went cold at his words.
    “You marched with Sherman?” she asked, and he stilled as if he realized what he’d done. He’d opened the door everyone preferred would stay shut.
    Slowly, he nodded.
    “My home was near Savannah.”
    Sherman’s Christmas present to Lincoln.
    “I’m sorry.” His words were as naked as he’d