“I’ll pay.”
“I know.”
“Then why offer?”
His gaze moved over her slowly.
Not lewdly.
Not apologetically.
“Because I would prefer you stay.”
There it was.
Rosalie’s pulse changed.
She crossed her arms.
“You barely know me.”
“Yes.”
“You met me while half a town laughed.”
“Yes.”
“You think that makes you interested?”
“No.”
“What does?”
Silas stepped one pace closer.
Rosalie did not move.
His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.
Then back.
“You looked Clyde Mercer in the face while he tried to shame you and made him look smaller without raising your voice.”
Rosalie swallowed.
Silas continued.
“And because I’m a man, Rosalie.”
She felt heat rise along her neck.
“I noticed.”
His mouth almost smiled.
“You asked what interests me.”
His eyes moved deliberately over her full figure.
“I’m answering.”
Rosalie’s breath became slower.
More careful.
Every man who ever expressed desire toward her seemed to need darkness, secrecy, or a joke afterward.
Silas Blackwood stood beneath a hotel lamp and looked at her like hunger was nothing shameful.
That frightened her more than ridicule.
She whispered:
“I’m not coming to your bed because you defended me.”
His eyes hardened with something unmistakably masculine.
“Good.”
The single word sent warmth low through her belly.
She hated that she liked it.
He added:
“If you ever come to my bed, I want you there because walking away felt worse.”
Rosalie stared.
Then turned before he could see exactly how deeply the sentence landed.
She slept badly.
Not because of the train.
Because every time she closed her eyes she saw Silas standing too close on the depot platform, one hand braced against the post beside her, his body enormous and controlled, his face dark with desire he refused to use as leverage.
The next morning Rosalie considered leaving.
By noon, she decided to stay one week.
By evening, she had found work.
Mrs. Finch needed help reorganizing the hotel accounts.
Rosalie offered two weeks.
Mrs. Finch accepted immediately after discovering Rosalie could identify three bookkeeping errors before finishing her first cup of coffee.
The arrangement gave Rosalie independence.
It also gave Mercy Hollow time to watch her.
Some people were kind.
Some overly kind, which she found worse.
Others whispered.
Then Silas started coming to town more often.
At first for legitimate business.
Feed.
Telegrams.
Banking.
Then he began appearing at the hotel dining room suspiciously close to supper.
Mrs. Finch noticed.
Rosalie noticed Mrs. Finch noticing.
“You say one word,” Rosalie warned.
Mrs. Finch smiled.
“I would never.”
“That smile counts.”
Silas did not court like ordinary men.
No flowers.
No poetry.
No exaggerated compliments.
He brought useful things.
A new ledger because Rosalie complained the hotel books were falling apart.
A jar of salve after noticing a burn on her wrist.
A winter cloak after she mentioned Montana evenings were colder than St. Louis.
Rosalie tried to refuse the cloak.
Silas said:
“Give it back after winter.”
“That defeats the purpose.”
“Exactly.”
She kept it.
Their first kiss happened three weeks after the depot.
Not in his house.
Not after some dramatic confession.
Behind the hotel kitchen while Rosalie was carrying flour.
Silas had come looking for Mrs. Finch about a supply order.
He found Rosalie instead.
“You’re avoiding me.”
She shifted the flour sack against her hip.
“I’ve seen you four times this week.”
“You leave whenever we’re alone.”
“Perhaps you’re unpleasant.”
“Possible.”
Rosalie tried to pass.
Silas moved enough to block the narrow doorway.
Not touching her.
Never that.
She looked up.
“Move.”
“If you mean it.”
Her heart thudded.
“Silas.”
“Yes.”
“You enjoy this.”
“Yes.”
She almost laughed.
“You could at least pretend to be ashamed.”
“Why?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth.
“There it is again.”
“What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re wondering if I’ll kiss you.”
Rosalie’s breath stopped.
“You are outrageously certain of yourself.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I’m hoping.”
That honesty undid her.
She set the flour sack onto a crate.
Silas watched.
Rosalie stepped close enough that her full breasts brushed the front of his vest.
His jaw tightened.
She whispered:
“You talk too much.”
Then kissed him.
Silas did not move for half a second.
Perhaps surprise.
Then one hand settled carefully at her waist.
Not grabbing.
Asking.
Rosalie leaned closer.
That was permission.
The kiss deepened.
Slow.
Adult.
Hungry without becoming careless.
Rosalie felt eight years of restraint in the way Silas held himself back.
She also felt three years of loneliness inside herself.
When they separated, both were breathing harder.
Silas rested his forehead briefly against hers.
“Walk away now.”
Rosalie stared.
“What?”
“If you want this to stop.”
Her body still burned from the kiss.
She whispered:
“I don’t.”
His hand tightened at her waist.
“Then don’t make me guess.”
Rosalie looked directly into his eyes.
“I want you to kiss me again.”
He did.
Afterward, she carried flour into the kitchen pretending nothing happened.
Mrs. Finch looked at her swollen mouth.
Then at Silas leaving through the side door.
“I would never say a word,” the older woman whispered.
Rosalie threw a dish towel at her.
Desire became easier after that.
Trust did not.
Silas invited her to Blackwood Ranch.
Rosalie visited.
The house stood in a wide valley beneath pine-covered mountains, built of dark timber and stone. It was large without being elegant. Saddles hung beside the mudroom. Ledgers covered one desk. A rifle rested above the fireplace.
There were no feminine decorations except one framed photograph.
Margaret.
Rosalie looked.
Beautiful woman.
Slim.
Fair-haired.
Everything Rosalie was not.
Silas entered behind her.
“You can ask.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Yes, you were.”
Rosalie turned.
“She was beautiful.”
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
Silas did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
That startled her.
Rosalie folded her arms.
“You’re not supposed to agree that quickly.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
Silas approached.
“You think wanting you insults her?”
Rosalie softened.
“No.”
“Then?”
“I think men compare.”
“I don’t.”
“Everyone compares.”
Silas stopped in front of her.
“Margaret was Margaret.”
His hand lifted.
He touched one loose curl near Rosalie’s cheek.
“You are Rosalie.”
His thumb brushed the edge of her jaw.
“I’m not looking for the same woman twice.”
Rosalie’s throat tightened.
He kissed her more gently than behind the hotel.
That evening she stayed late.
Too late.
Snow began unexpectedly.
Light at first.
Then heavy.
Riding back became foolish.
Silas offered the guest room.
Rosalie accepted.
At midnight, she was still awake.
She heard him moving downstairs.
She wrapped herself in the borrowed cloak and found him beside the fireplace.
Silas looked up.
“Cold?”
“No.”
“Then?”
Rosalie stood beside the couch.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He nodded.
She sat.
He remained in the chair.
Too far away.
Rosalie studied him.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Silas almost smiled.