"By hand or on a machine?"
"Both."
"Really? You know how to operate a sewing machine?"
"Yes, we had one at the orphanage."
"You worked at an orphanage?"
Her eyes broke from his and she looked down at her lap. "No. I was raised in an orphanage."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart."
"Thank you. It was one of the better ones, and it's in the past. My life is my own." She couldn't help the small amount of satisfaction in her voice. She'd waited a long time for the restrictions of both the orphanage and then the polite society of St. Louis where she had worked for the last few years to be lifted from her shoulders. Denver was supposed to be an adventure, and although the day had been horrific, she was young and strong of spirit and resilient; she would get past it and with any luck, have a decent and happy future.
Luke could tell she was trying to stay strong, but he could hear the fatigue in her voice. She needed rest and as much as he liked sitting here and watching her, he knew he needed to let her rest. A good night's sleep would take away the dark circles under her eyes and the lines of worry creasing her brow.
"I need to let you rest. Let's get you settled in a room. Are you hungry?"
At one time today, looking at the lifeless body of the stagecoach driver, Emma didn't think she'd ever want to eat again. But now, with warmth and relative safety again, her stomach chose that exact moment to make itself known by growling with hunger.
And for the first time, she saw Luke's smile as he quipped, "Guess that settles that. I'll get you something from the kitchen."
Emma made a move to stand. "I can help. Please, I don't want to be a burden."
He rose to his full height in front of her. "Rest. Stay there."
Emma couldn't remember a time when she had been completely waited on in this manner. She didn't know if it was the manner of the order he had given her or the feeling of comfort resting in the rocker induced, but she closed her eyes and did, in fact, rest.
Luke cut a slice of cheese and two thick pieces of bread and quickly spread freshly-churned butter on each. The sandwich he prepared was rudimentary, but it would do the trick.
It looked and smelled good, so he quickly made one for himself as well.
He inhaled his food in four quick bites while he moved around the kitchen, pouring Emma a glass of milk.
He hadn't been able to stifle the arrow of pleasure he had felt when he saw her face and form clearly for the first time after he'd lit the lamps.
He didn't know what he'd been expecting exactly, hadn't given it much thought at all. He'd been relieved to find her alive and hiding after he'd seen the sewing and other feminine fripperies in the coach. He knew there was a woman, and after a quick, cursory look around, knew immediately the driver was dead from the ambush.
He'd been afraid he'd find her dead and naked body not far from the coach, and was inordinately relieved when he heard the small noises she was inadvertently making where she was hiding in the brush.
He'd quickly estimated that her state was fearful but not hysterical, so she'd probably not been violated. Even now, moving around the kitchen, he felt a sudden inexplicable rage toward the men that had even looked at her and held her fate in their hands for that small moment in time.
It was a good thing they hadn't touched her.
Because if they had, they would have to die.
They'd hang anyway for the murder they had committed; the sheriff and posse would take care of that. He could stay here, on his ranch where he belonged, and protect the woman that knew the faces of the outlaws. It was a small relief that he wouldn't personally have to chase them down and make sure justice was handed out, as it would have been if they'd touched her.
Why he had that feeling he couldn't explain and didn't even try.
He walked back to where she was sitting and placed the drink and plate on the edge of the fireplace and turned to study her.
She'd quickly fallen asleep; he could tell her eyes were more than just closed by the deep inhalations of her chest underneath the coarse cotton fabric of her dress. It was buttoned firmly to her throat, and covered her arms all the way down to her wrists.
Her hands were small and white. He carefully picked one up and ran the pad of his thumb over her palm. He grimaced when he found the small calluses on her hands.
He couldn't explain it but he knew he didn't like it. Her hands should be smooth and soft, not roughened from work.
He'd already felt her body pressed against his. Granted, there had been two layers of clothing between them, his and hers, but he could still remember the soft, tempting way her body had given to accommodate his chest pressed into her back when he'd had to chase her down. That smooth, soft spine had curved inward, and he clearly remembered his body surrounding the softness of hers.
It made his groin clench with need when he thought about that sweet body fully giving into and accommodating his.
His eyes ran from her torso up to her face. Her skin was alabaster smooth, and her hair had long ago fallen from the knot of restraint she had probably put it in that morning. Her hair wasn't dramatic in color, but a warm brown filled with lights and streaks that had a honey look about it. She was softly pretty, plain at first glance, until you looked more closely and you saw the fire in her slanted eyes, the high cheekbones that defined the very feminine lines of her face. Her cheeks were almost plump, full and healthy, and in direct contrast to the many women of the west who were haggard, drawn and tired, valiantly fighting a life in this rough part of the country.
He hoped like hell she never had that pinched, compressed look to her face. He hoped she always had the healthy, open shine to her face that he saw now.
And by God, while she was under his care, she would retain that healthy, almost innocent glow.
She would eat now.
He placed his hand on her slim arm and shook her softly. "Emma."
He received no response so he shook her a bit more. "Emma, wake up, honey."
A soft moan came from the back of her throat and the rigid shaft in his jeans swelled more fully from the small sound she made.
The primal lust that consumed him put him on edge and his voice was sharper than he intended, "Emma!"
Her eyes flew open and she jerked in her chair when she came suddenly awake and saw him looming over her. Recognition was slow in coming and he saw the panic and fear that shone from her eyes as she whimpered.
"Shh, it's me. It's all right, you're safe," he soothed at the same time trying to tamp down the arousal sliding insidiously through his body.
He needed to get her fed and into bed.
Into her bed, alone.
Emma came fully awake as she recognized the man in front of her. Her muddled brain tried to understand the differences she saw in him. Anxiety heightened her senses as she took in his pointed gaze, the ropes of tension bracketing his mouth and his strong legs braced apart as if prepared to ward off an attack. But that made little sense.
A wave of apprehension burned through her and she had to physically get a hold of herself. He was the same person. Demanding and arrogant, yes. But the same person. He wasn't going to hurt her. If his intent was to hurt her, he would have done so already.
She studied him as she tried to understand the changes in his demeanor.
"What's wrong?" she questioned him in a voice husky from interrupted sleep.
"Nothing's wrong," he bit out as he turned to pick up the plate and put it on her lap.
Emma reached out to steady the plate and jumped when her hand brushed his against her thigh. It was ridiculous to jump, she knew. It wasn't as if she was naked. She had on a dress and two petticoats. But still, the brush of his hand against her was like a streak of fire running through her.
Her eyes flew to his and were ensnared by the heated look in his eyes. His nostrils flared as he lifted away from her and stood back to his full height.
"Luke, I--"
Luke felt her voice hit him on another wave of arousal. She had to choose this moment to spontaneously call him by his first name?
He cut her off. "Eat."
She licked her lips and glanced down at what he had placed in front of her. The bread was yeasty and fresh and the cheese was a warm yellow color that made her mouth start watering. She hadn't eaten since early that morning. And that had only been a hurried snack while on the road.
Luke watched her as she picked up the sandwich and with greedy little bites silently devoured the simple meal. He stood in front of her until she had finished every scrap and then handed her the milk.
She drank half the milk down and rested the glass lightly against the chair and slowly lifted her eyes to his.
"Finish it."
Dismay spiked through her at his tone. "Finish the milk?"
"Yes," his answer was succinct.
"I can't right now."
"Yeah, you can."
Alarmed at his possible intent, panic filled her. Being told to eat or drink something when she was full or when she absolutely couldn't stand the taste was one of her biggest fears. It was ridiculous, she knew. But for two miserable years in the orphanage, she and the other children had been terrorized by a controlling matron who took pleasure from forced consumption.
The knot of panic in her throat grew and she knew she wouldn't be able to get down another drop.
She trembled and reminded herself that she was an adult; he couldn't make her do anything she didn't want to do.
At her continued silence, he spoke. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
She ignored the question and tried to move past the conflict. "I'll just take it to bed with me, I'm tired. Can you show me where I'll sleep?"