Was it? she wondered. Odd, but she'd barely noticed, hadn't really cared. The weather was the least of her problems. Her gaze dropped to the hand Jake had extended. With concentration, her gaze managed to pull into focus the leather strips draped over his big copper hand. "Thank you," she mumbled, reaching for the reins.

Her trembling fingers grazed his roughened knuckles. The contact, though slight and blessedly brief, was electric.

Amanda snatched her hand back. Curling it into a fist, she hid it in the folds of her skirt. Her determination that Jake not see how deeply even that accidental touch affected her made her tilt her chin up proudly. Her gaze met his.

Jake saw the telltale moisture clinging to her lashes. Not all of the wetness could be attributed to melting snow. If he'd ever seen anything more heart-wrenching than the hurt shimmering in Amanda Lennox's big green eyes, he couldn't remember it. If his heart had ever fisted so painfully in his chest, he couldn't remember that either.

Amanda noticed Jake's wet, clinging clothes, his snow-damp hair and skin. She also saw the proud way he sat atop the white, the determined line that etched his hard jaw. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask where he was going, how he planned to spend his time until the storm passed. She bit the words back. That type of questioning smacked of caring, and instinct said Jake would shy away from that. Instead, she said, "When the storm ends, you will meet me back here, won't you?"

"I said I would."

"That isn't an answer, Mr. Chandler."

The muscle in Jake's cheek jerked, and he shifted his gaze to the falling snow. Why was she calling him Mr. Chandler again? It wa

sn't hard to guess. He'd reverted into a cold-hearted bastard. Why shouldn't Amanda retreat behind the polite facade of his surname?

He didn't know why he should care what she called him, but he did. It was annoying that she no longer felt comfortable enough to call him Jake. He told himself it didn't bother him—distance was, after all, what he wanted, what he'd gotten—but it did. It bothered him a lot.

"Believe it or not, Amanda, I'm a man of my word," he said finally, his voice giving away none of his inner turmoil. "I said I'd be back for you, and I will be. I can't help it if you don't trust me enough to believe me." He nodded to the downward, wooded slope of the hill. "Go."

Amanda went. She really had no choice. Huddling inside the warmth of her cloak, she went to the mare and climbed into the saddle. Having come from Jake's horse, the saddle felt hard and uncomfortable beneath her. There were other reasons for her discomfort, she knew, but none she would let herself dwell on.

She sent Jake one last, confused look, then flicked the reins and started picking her way down the hill.

Jake watched her go and, try though he did to deny it, he felt a part of him winding its way down that hill with her. What was it about that woman that affected him so strongly? What? Though he searched himself for a reasonable answer, he came up dry. Plain and simple, he didn't know.

He watched Amanda rein in the mare next to the door and dismount. She knocked, waited, then eventually the door opened. She shook off the snow and cold before entering the sweet, beckoning heat of the house.

Still Jake didn't leave. The snow swirled around him long after Amanda had been swallowed up by things he'd put in his past long ago—hospitality, shelter, friendship... love. They were foreign terms to a man like Jacob Blackhawk Chandler. But they weren't foreign to gently reared ladies like Amanda Lennox.

No matter what he'd told her to drive her away, Amanda was a lady to the core. That was why he'd had to anger her, had to let her go. Watching her pick her way down that hill had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he'd proved to himself he could do it. Jesus, how he'd needed to know that!

Jake sat atop the white, which was growing restless from the inclement weather, and stared at the cabin until a flutter of movement caught his attention. He glanced down, and was surprised to see that he'd removed Amanda's handkerchief from his pocket and was now clutching half of it in a white-knuckled fist. The linen flapped in the breeze and slapped at his thigh. It wasn't possible, but he could have sworn he felt that daintily embroidered A sear right through his pants leg, right into his skin and bloodstream.

Fifteen minutes later, Jake turned the horse away and rode into the storm.

Chapter 13

Amanda had assumed the couple living in the cabin were settlers from back East, people she would be comfortable staying with. Wasn't that what she'd been led to believe? Either she'd severely misunderstood things, or she'd again misjudged the ever-perplexing Jacob Blackhawk Chandler.

The man who opened the door to Amanda's insistent rapping was not the eager homesteader she expected. Oh, no. This man was a full-blooded Indian. Unlike Jake, he dressed the part.

Amanda had been studying the scuffed toes of her ankle boots. Her gaze shifted to the man's feet. She scanned the red-and-white beaded moccasins he wore, then traced upward over his thigh-high leggings. The weather-softened deerskin left no doubt as to the heavily muscled legs beneath. His britches were made out of the same material, and they were snug. An unadorned, tuniclike shirt, also deerskin, hung from his shoulders. While the garment was loose fitting, the slackness couldn't conceal the solid bands of muscle in his chest and biceps.

Like Jake's, this man's hair was long and straight and pitch-black. Unlike Jake's, his was gathered into two neat plaits that ribboned down over each broad shoulder.

His face was comprised of hard copper planes and angles. The high-bridged nose and wide brow Amanda recognized from Jake. The rest of his features were foreign to her. Weathered creases bracketed his thin mouth and suspicious brown eyes. The creases didn't look like they'd been put there from years of smiling.

Amanda took an instinctive step back, her gaze lifting those final few inches. She swallowed hard, and her hand fluttered at her throat when her attention was captured by a pair of eyes as cold and as shiny as shards of polished ebony.

"Jake Chandler sent me," she said, and it was a fight to make her voice sound calm and rational—not high and panicky, the way she felt.

The man's gaze narrowed. He assessed her in one cold, sweeping glance, then his attention snapped over her shoulders. He looked marginally relieved to see that she was alone.

Amanda forced a smile when his gaze returned to hers. He didn't return the gesture, but stepped aside, opened the door wider, and waved her in. One inky brow slanted high when she shook the snow off her cloak and head and then immediately complied.

Mustering up her courage and filing away what she was sure was—she hoped—an irrational fear born of surprise, Amanda stepped over the threshold. She told herself that Jake wouldn't have suggested she stay with these people if he didn't think they were safe. No, of course he wouldn't.

Tags: Rebecca Sinclair Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net