When Lightning Strikes

"You must be tired. Lean on me and go to sleep."

The longing came back, wrenched through her body so hard, she had to close her eyes against it. She wanted to lean on him. God help her, she wanted it.

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"Lean on me, Lainie," he said again, softer this time. "Go ahead."

Her resistance crumbled. Slowly, biting her lip, she leaned forward and pressed her cheek to his back. His shirt was soft against her skin and smelled of sunshine and dust and sweat. She exhaled evenly.

After a few moments, she felt herself begin to relax. The swaying, rocking-chair motion of the horse lulled her. The back of Killian's hat shaded her face, cast it in a cooling darkness that soothed her weary body.

She sat that way, pressed against him, for miles, until it was no longer enough. Suddenly she needed more. Gingerly, almost hoping he wouldn't notice, she curled her arms around his body and clasped her hands at his waist.

She tensed for a second, waiting for his response.

His big gloved hand settled atop hers. The sun-warmed leather of his glove coiled around her fingers and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

It was the most tender touch she'd ever known.

Night fell across the desert slowly, turned their small campsite into a warm and welcoming enclave of flickering light. A heavy mist hung in the dark air, heralding a coming rain.

Cottonwood trees curled protectively around the little site and kept the moist breezes at bay. Beyond the trees lay a thin stream that fed into a glassy, starlit pond. The moon was the barest of crescents, no more than a blue-white parenthesis against the jet black sky.

Lainie sat huddled alongside the fire, her legs drawn tight to her chest, her chin resting on one bent knee. The leftover scents of coffee, bacon, and biscuits lingered in the cool night air. Across the fire, Killian sat alongside the tent he'd erected a few moments ago.

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Firelight leapt and danced across his face and slid down the concave surface of the tent.

They hadn't spoken in more than an hour. They sat apart, in their own solitary worlds, gazing at the fire. It had been awkward at dinner. The quiet, repetitive scraping of tin forks on tin plates grated on Lainie's nerves, left her somehow hoping he would look up, would say something. But he hadn't.

His silence tore at her, even frightened her. She had this strange, inexplicable sensation that he was waiting for her to say something, for her to reach out to him.

It was ridiculous.

And yet, not so ridiculous.

Today as she'd pressed against him on the back of the horse, she'd felt a confusing jumble of emotions. At first she'd been tense and wary, waiting for him to ridicule or humiliate her. When he'd remained silent, and given her that incredibly gentle touch, she'd begun to relax. The pent-up breath released from her lungs, her eyes fluttered shut, and she'd felt the most unexpected, most exhilarating sense of peace she'd ever known. For a few precious hours, she'd felt safe.

The moment she realized it, the fear set in. She'd drawn back sharply, pulled her hands into her own lap, and stiffened.

"You okay?" he'd asked.

She'd heard so much in his voice, and it frightened her even more. It was as if, impossibly, he understood why she'd drawn back. As if it had hurt his feelings.

"Fine," was all she said, but there was a brittleness to her voice that betrayed every emotion he aroused in her. In that instant, sitting behind him, completely hidden from his penetrating gaze, she felt naked and totally exposed. And it scared her to death.

She couldn't imagine what he wanted from her. Time

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and again, she tried to convince herse

lf that his gentleness was all an act, a pretense to get her guard down so that he could take advantage of her.

But, God help her, she couldn't make herself believe it anymore. The more often she tried, the more thoroughly she failed.

She felt safe in his arms.