The Rancher's Virgin Acquisition(4)

Chapter Two


Emma slid down from the buckboard with the help of Luke's hands clenched to her hips. She quivered as he balanced her on her feet but didn't let her go. His softly spoken threat from a moment ago was still banging around loudly in her brain.

"You all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Can you walk?"

"I believe so." So now she had taken to lying on a regular basis? Of course she could walk. Not perfectly, but she could definitely walk. Hesitatingly, she took a small step forward in the dark night.

"Maybe I should carry you." There was challenge in his tone that she took as a threat.

"No, I'm able, thank you." Her voice held a trace of alarm.

"You best hang onto my arm." He didn't wait for her compliance but reached out and lifted her hand and put it solidly in the crook of his arm and began to make his way to the door of his home.

She looked around the yard area as she tried to walk without limping, although it was impossible. She saw the glitter of a kerosene lamp coming from what was probably the barn, and several more in the distance, but no lights she could see were coming from the house in front of them.

Trepidation slid through her.

"It's dark," she stated the apparent in a voice that was meant to be strong but came out as little more than a whisper.

"That's because it's night time." His tone was short and mocking.

"Where's your housekeeper?" She didn't want to be rude by not addressing him as Mr. Butler, but if she did, he would try to get her to call him Luke again and she wanted to avoid that particular conversation.

"Maria's with her husband, Jesse."

"But it's completely dark inside. The house looks empty."

"They're not here."

"Not--not in the house?"

"Not in my house. They live in one of the cabins behind the implement barn. It's in that direction." His words came to a halt as he casually lifted his free hand and pointed off in the distance.

Emma's heart began to pound triple time in her chest. "You said she lived with you--"

"Don't believe I did. I said I have a housekeeper. I do. That's all," he negated succinctly.

"But--"

"You sure are skittish for a woman that's been wedded and bedded already."

She gasped at his words. "Mr. Butler--"

They reached the porch and he helped her climb the three steps. He reached out and opened the door and ushered her inside to complete darkness.

He put her hand on a piece of furniture so she could hold herself steady. "Hold still while I get some light in here." His hand came up and pinched her chin in the darkness. "And my name's Luke."

Emma felt the warmth of his touch on her face once again before he let her go and left her completely alone when he moved away. Nerves took over and she began to tremble from the continued shocks she was receiving. The man certainly didn't seem to understand how to keep his hands to himself.

She attempted to keep panic at bay but she was inside an unknown house, with an unknown man she couldn't see, and there wasn't a lick of light to help her adjust. She slowly began to recite the alphabet backwards in her mind in an attempt to calm her nerves. It was a trick she'd learned as a child and--

The flicker of a kerosene lamp came on and relief filled her. She looked around the room and as her eyes began to adjust, she began to make out shapes and objects. She heard a noise from another room and knew he was rattling around in there.

Another lamp came on and then she could see much better.

His boots clicked against the floor and suddenly he was standing in front of her again and she could see him more clearly than she had all evening.

She just managed to cut off the whoosh of air that left her lungs in a much too audible gasp. He had brown hair; she knew that already. But he also had a dark, thick moustache that gave him an exotic appearance. His eyes were slanted beneath hawkish, defining brows. He had power and strength in the sharply defined cut of his lips, and his cheekbones were molded in strong and rigid lines of pure masculinity.

He was extremely handsome and she couldn't ever remember being alone in a man's company before, and certainly not at night and in the intimacy of a private home. A small, rubbery feeling in her knees travelled up through her body and made her tremble slightly as butterflies took flight in her stomach.

He stood before her, studying her as intently as she watched him and finally he spoke. "Why is that?"

Her mind was gone, her emotions all over the place and she was still distressed from the events of the day. She didn't understand his question. "I'm sorry?"

"Why are you so jumpy? You're a widow, right? A woman whose husband has died?" He spelled out the definition of widow and waited patiently.

"Um, yes." She tried to get her slow-moving brain to function.

"So what makes you so jumpy?"

She stalled for time. "Mr. Butler, I--"

"Luke."

"I truly can't call you by your first name, Mr. Butler."

"You can if I want you to." His tone was laced with an arrogance that sounded inborn.

"No, I can't," she argued softly, trying not to rile him but now allowing him to get his way.

"What will it hurt?" His question was simple.

Oh, how to answer that? "Well, nothing, I suppose--"

He interrupted her as if it were settled. "So, if it won't hurt anything, you can call me Luke."

"But I don't think--"

"Sweetheart, you don't need to think on it. Just call me Luke."

Emma sucked in a much needed breath as butterflies took flight in her stomach once again. Never in her life had a man called her by such a personal endearment.

He picked up her hand and led her to a pair of large rocking chairs flanking a cold fireplace. She sat in one, but instead of sitting in the other, he leaned down and put his hands on the arms of the rocker, virtually locking her into the circle of his arms.

Emma was shocked to realize she was so close to him that she could actually smell him. She could smell the masculine scent that was coming from his clothes, coming from his body. It was a provocative notion, being so close to him that she could smell the leather, smell the hint of horses coming from his person.

"I bet I know what the problem is. You were married at such a young age you never had time to adjust to all the male attention, is that right, Emma?

Oh, where was this going? Male attention? "I guess not, no," she agreed, making things up as she went along.

He crouched down on his haunches in front of her, and lifted his hand to pick up a lock of her hair.

Her pulse became erratic as he rubbed her hair between his fingers.

"I suppose with looks like yours and no husband to watch after you anymore, keeping the dogs at bay must have your back up all the time now."

His dark, sultry voice inundated her before she made since of his words. And when she did, she couldn't contain the hiss of air that left her lungs. She was too stunned, too shocked to speak. He thought she looked good enough that men bothered her all the time?

How could he possibly think that? And why was he saying such personal things to her? What could his reasons be? And why was he crowding her? Hanging over her as if he had every right to do just that?

The truth was, Emma wasn't a widow. She'd never been married before. When she'd left the orphanage, the matrons there had convinced her that her plight in life would be easier, because of her affliction as they called it, if she pretended she'd been married before. They felt she'd never be able to get married and have children like other women would, and it would make things easier on her, travelling alone and such, if people thought she was a widow.

She'd never liked the idea of lying, liked the idea of never marrying even less, but had grown used to the small fabrication. And it had, indeed, made things easier for her in her travels. Widows and married women had far more leeway than single women. Even in the west. And until now she hadn't given it much thought.

But she was thinking about it now. Suddenly, she felt like the lie was personal. That she was lying to someone, that she was being dishonest.

She was also more than a little confused. Her heart was pounding away and she was trying to find a reason he would question her about such things. Surely it just wasn't done.

"Answer me, sweetheart," he said in a firm voice.

His eyes tangled with hers and an incendiary heat passed between them.

There was only one answer she could give him without revealing the truth which she wasn't prepared to do. And there was only one answer she could get past the lump in her throat. "I suppose so."

A look that could only be described as pure challenge crossed his features. "We'll start off with you saying my name."

"Start off?" Her voice was shaky as her mind raced. Start what?

"Say my name, Emma," he cajoled.

His eyes held hers and Emma's insides quivered. She couldn't find the strength to deny him this one small thing. And he was right. What would it hurt? "Luke."

His hand tightened on the lock of hair and Emma felt the slight tug on her scalp.

"Why were you going to Denver?" Emma was too stunned, held enthralled under his spell to even realize he voiced that question in the past tense, as if she wasn't going to Denver any longer.

"I've accepted a position as a seamstress there," she answered him in a soft voice.

"You can sew?"

She smiled softly when he asked that question as if she had accomplished a great feat. "Yes, I can sew."