“Look at me.”
He swallowed.
“I am.”
“No.”
She moved closer.
“You’re looking at my face like the rest of me might explode.”
His neck reddened.
The bride almost smiled.
Interesting.
She stepped within arm’s reach.
He did not move.
She placed her hand against his chest.
Solid muscle beneath rough cloth.
His heart was beating fast.
Very fast.
She looked up.
The cowboy looked almost frightened.
That made something reckless rise inside her.
For years, men had controlled the distance.
The room.
The rules.
Tonight she wanted to control one moment.
She whispered:
“I’m tired of feeling nothing.”
He stopped breathing.
Her fingers curled lightly against his shirt.
“Make me feel something.”
The cowboy closed his eyes.
For one second.
Then opened them.
His voice came rough.
“I already do.”
The answer hit harder than she expected.
She covered it with a faint smile.
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
“Then?”
His mechanical response was almost painful in its restraint.
He lifted one hand.
Slowly.
Giving her time to move.
His fingers touched her wrist.
Warm.
Calloused.
He gently lowered her hand from his chest.
The bride stared.
His voice dropped.
“I want you.”
She said nothing.
“More than is sensible.”
Still nothing.
“But I don’t know how to do what you’re asking.”
Her brow furrowed.
He looked humiliated now.
Not coy.
Not teasing.
Truly embarrassed.
“I’ve never been with a woman.”
The bride blinked.
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
The cowboy looked toward the floor.
“You heard.”
She stepped back.
“You’re thirty-two.”
“Yes.”
“You live alone.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never—”
“No.”
She searched his face for the joke.
There was none.
“Not once?”
He shook his head.
“Why?”
He laughed without humor.
“That’s a longer story.”
The bride’s suspicion returned.
“Tell me.”
He looked toward the fire.
“My father wasn’t kind to my mother.”
The bride became still.
“He drank.”
“Used his hands.”
The cowboy looked down at his own.
“When I was seventeen, I stopped him.”
His voice remained flat.
“After that, he left.”
“My mother died two years later.”
The bride listened.
“I spent a long time believing wanting someone was the beginning of becoming him.”
She frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
He smiled slightly.
“It took years.”
The bride looked toward his hands.
Suddenly the way he offered them made sense.
Palm up.
Never grabbing.
Never closing.
He continued:
“I’ve been afraid of doing the wrong thing so long I never learned how to do the right one.”
The bride sat slowly on the edge of the bed.
The cowboy stayed several feet away.