Though she protested, her eyes turned a light silver blue, the shade of the new needles on the blue spruce trees along the river, a shade he was learning reflected her happiness. After tying on the flies and readying their lines, he gave them each a rod and showed them how to overhead cast. Both were quick learners and soon had fish nibbling.
When Greta hooked her first trout, her delighted smile warmed him quicker than a swallow of hot coffee. He helped her net the catch. After he dumped it onto the bank, she wasn’t afraid to remove the hook from the mouth and even asked him to show her how to tie on the next fly.
The fishing didn’t hold Astrid’s attention for long before she was busy collecting rocks. As Wyatt took up the girl’s discarded rod and stood slightly upstream from Greta, his heart was nigh to full as he watched his two girls.
His two girls.
That was how he was beginning to think of them. They were his. His to care for and love and protect. While the realization was daunting, it was also gratifying to know he was accomplishing something worthwhile. He, Wyatt McQuaid, who’d never succeeded at anything, now had a wife and daughter he was providing for.
With the gurgling of water across the rocky bed and the rustling of the wind in the leaves overhead, he breathed deeply of the scent of damp pine needles and soil. The sunlight glinted off the water and their fishing lines, turning the spray of water droplets into sparkling diamonds. After so many doubts about his decision to try ranching, for the first time, peace wafted through him as gentle as the breeze in the branches.
“This reminds me of when Thomas took us fishing,” Astrid called as she arranged her collection of rocks on a large flat stone nearby.
Greta nodded but didn’t reply, concentrating on casting her line, her bottom lip captured between her teeth.
Was she thinking about how Thomas had died? Even though news of the war trickled into the mountain towns slower than molasses in January, they’d all heard enough to know the battles over recent months had been bloody and the death tolls too high to keep count.
“What was Thomas like?” His question tumbled out like the river water, flowing fast and unstoppable.
“W-e-l-l, he was always nice to me.” Astrid picked another stone out of the water and added it to the others. “He bought me licorice.”
Wyatt focused on Greta, gauging her reaction to his question.
As if sensing his gaze upon her, Greta glanced at him before she focused on her fishing line again, her brow furrowing. Was it still too painful for her to talk about her former fiancé?
“Forget it. It ain’t none of my business—”
“He was a very good man.” Greta tugged at her line. “I don’t think he had a selfish bone in his body.”
Greta’s words of praise both comforted and riled him up. He liked knowing Thomas had treated Greta well. But on the other hand, Wyatt didn’t want her to like anyone else . . . except him.
He waited for her to say more, and when she didn’t, he resisted the strange need to probe further and find out about their relationship.
After Greta caught another trout, she retreated to the blanket with her mending. A short while later, Astrid curled up next to her, all tuckered out. The next time Wyatt glanced over at them, Greta had stretched out and fallen asleep too.
As he swallowed a yawn, he had the urge to lie down and rest. With half a dozen fish on a line in a shallow pool, why not give himself a break? After stowing the poles and bait, he lowered himself next to Greta. Careful not to disturb her, he crossed his arms behind his head, tugged the brim of his hat down over his face, and closed his eyes.
A tickle against his cheek startled him awake, and he tipped up his hat. For a second, he was disoriented and tried to gain his bearings. At the sight of the deserted riverbank and Greta and Astrid still sleeping next to him, he allowed himself to relax.
From the position of the sun, he guessed he hadn’t slept long—maybe half an hour. There was still time to rest a spell longer, maybe catch a few more fish, before heading back.
As he shifted, he awakened to the pressure of Greta snuggled against him, her hand resting on his chest and her head on his arm. The wind blew wisps of her hair across his face. Her knot had come loose and now her hair spread out like newly harvested golden-brown strands of grain.
His entire body suddenly hummed and his every nerve tuned in to her nearness. He liked having her next to him but the second she woke, she’d probably pull away in embarrassment.
Though a warning went off inside him, reminding him he needed to be careful, he caressed the hair that lay on his chest. It was fine and glossy and cascaded through his fingers.
He had the overwhelming need to stroke her cheeks and chin and neck. He fought against his desire, but at her soft, sleepy sigh, one filled with contentment, his fingers moved from her hair to her face. Shifting enough to see her features, he caressed her cheek, down to her chin, and back up.
Her long eyelashes fluttered.
Even as the warning inside clanged louder, he ignored it and drew a line to her mouth, tracing the slight bow above her upper lip. His muscles tightened with the need to finish his perusal with his mouth.
Her fingers splayed across his heart, searing through his vest and shirt. And when her hand slid up his neck as though testing the feel of him, he held his breath.
Was she awake? Or still partly asleep?
Her fingers roamed higher, moving to his jaw. Her touch was like fire, shooting heat through his veins. When she skimmed his lips, he couldn’t stop himself—he captured her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingertips.
Her eyes flew open, flashing with confusion. Then, as she took in her position against him, she began to scoot away. He snaked his other arm underneath her, gently catching and kissing her fingers again.
As her gaze connected with his, the embarrassment faded, and she grew motionless, no doubt seeing the desire written in his eyes. He was certain of it when her lashes lowered and a flush rose into her cheeks.
The heat from his veins pooled in his gut. What would she say if he bent in and kissed her? Would she allow it? She hadn’t resisted the last time, and he reckoned she wouldn’t push him away now either. She was the kind of woman who expected to satisfy her husband’s needs and bear him children without thought to herself.
He shifted his kiss to the thudding pulse in her wrist. Her lashes lifted to reveal curiosity and shyness. She’d accept him. He could sense it. All he had to do was bend in and kiss her.
His body tensed at the very thought of the pleasures that awaited him in her arms. And yet, even as he longed for her, he wouldn’t use her. He’d told her three months, and as sure-as-crows-fly he wouldn’t break his word. Besides, if and when they shared more intimacies, he wanted her to welcome his touch and invite him in to her arms. Not just endure it.
“Did you love Thomas?” he whispered, not sure why he couldn’t be satisfied with her answer from earlier. But once the question was out, he was keenly aware that he needed to know how she’d felt about her fiancé.
As though sensing his need, she searched his face. “Yes, I loved him. . . .”
Jealousy cut a quick path through him. He released her and pushed himself up with the sudden need to wrangle something.
She scrambled to sit, positioning herself next to him but thankfully not touching him. He wasn’t sure he could handle the merest contact without giving in to the need to gather her in his arms and kiss her until she forgot all about her former love.