the situation. Since her family had clearly been of little help to Susannah so far, maybe they wouldn’t take care of her and the kids the way they should now. In that case, she’d have to make her own way somehow, somewhere. But he couldn’t believe she would choose to stay with the man who left those marks on her skin. No woman deserved that kind of abuse. If she didn’t believe that fact, they would have to help her understand.
Returning to the living room, he eased himself into the rocking chair and picked up his book. Slumber didn’t come easily to him these days, since lying down flat in bed hurt his back. So did sitting and standing, but at least he could occupy his mind while he was awake, instead of lying there useless in the dark.
Rather than reading, though, he found himself thinking about Susannah—with more attention to detail than was good for him. That silky hair, those plump lips...long, slender legs under a denim skirt...a straight spine, conveying pride and strength. Graceful, gentle hands, which could comfort a child.
Or pleasure a man.
This time he growled for real, low in his throat. The woman was married. Even if the marriage ended, she’d been treated badly by a man she ought to be able to trust. Why would she take such a risk ever again?
Besides, at the age of thirty-six, Wyatt considered himself a confirmed bachelor, not a prospect for happily-ever-after. Too set in his ways, too busy for romantic nonsense, too cranky to live with young kids. His brothers would testify to his contrary ways. They argued with him about it often enough.
So getting to know Susannah Bradley as anything besides a casual friend would not be wise. He would help her all he could and then send her and her kids on their way to a new, better life. That was the best he could do for them.
And the safest thing he could do for himself.
* * *
EARLIER THAT NIGHT, frantic and ashamed, Susannah had grabbed a nightgown while throwing together some clothes to bring away with her. But she hadn’t realized it was this white one—the one with narrow straps, a low neckline and gossamer fabric that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She’d found it in a thrift shop when they’d lived in South Dakota, about a year after Amber was born. Travis had kept the same job for six months and life seemed to be straightening out, finally. Maybe, she’d thought, they could make another baby. She would love to have more children.
Then the drinking got out of hand again, as it always did. He was fired from the job, couldn’t find another, and so they moved on to Wyoming—Gillette, Sheridan, Buffalo, and now Bisons Creek, where their marriage and their life together had fallen to pieces.
Biting her lower lip, she folded up the nightgown and stuffed it to the bottom of her duffel bag, then eased down on top of the bedcovers still wearing her clothes. This serene bedroom, in shades of cream and coffee, was far and away the most luxurious place she’d stayed since leaving her parents’ home. It was furnished with a queen-sized bed draped with a cozy comforter and softened by plenty of pillows, a dresser with a mirror above and two armchairs for relaxing, plus a private bathroom. The Marshall brothers offered their guests all the amenities she imagined could be found in an expensive hotel.
And her little girl had taken full advantage. Curled up on her side, a chubby thumb pressed into that pouty lower lip and blond curls tousled across the pillowcase, Amber slept deeply. She must be exhausted.
Her mother certainly was, but sleep had never seemed further away. Her brain wrestled endlessly with the mistakes of the past and the troubles of the present—not to mention the questions posed by an unknown future. Eyes burning, she yawned and shifted position but simply could not relax enough to doze off.
After two restless hours, she sighed and sat up, swinging her legs off the bed. Maybe a glass of water would help. Or a walk around the house. At this late hour, she wouldn’t disturb anyone. She’d leave her shoes off to be sure she didn’t make any noise on the wooden floors.
The long hallway was dark, all the doors except for the kitchen’s closed. There, a light shone above the sink. She opened the upper cabinet to the right and found the drinking glasses just where she’d expect them to be. Smiling at having guessed correctly the first time, Susannah drank down two full tumblers of water and then set the glass in the dishwasher. She took a few minutes to appreciate the room yet again—she could picture racks of cookies and fragrant loaves of bread cooling on all this counter space. Amaretto cakes baked for Christmas, tomatoes and green beans and pickles canned in the summertime, a big Thanksgiving dinner with turkey and dressing and sweet potatoes and pies... This kitchen could produce all sorts of wonderful food for friends and family to enjoy.
She’d sorely missed friends and family since she and Travis got married. The only friends he ever made were his drinking buddies. His mother had disowned them both when she heard about their wedding. Her parents had been so hurt when she ran away, though they still called on her birthday...if they could find her. She and Travis had moved around a lot.
Remembering the home she’d left thirteen years ago, Susannah sighed and stepped toward the dining room. A kitchen like this was a dream she couldn’t envision for herself. To be honest, she had no idea what she was supposed to do now. She didn’t deserve anything special, but her children needed something better than they’d had. A safe, stable life. How would she manage that on her own? Where would they go?
Pushing through the dining room door, she was surprised to see a light on in the living room...and even more surprised to find Wyatt Marshall seated in the rocking chair.
She stopped short. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone would still be up.”
He shook his head. “No problem. Can’t sleep?” A big man, with broad shoulders and long legs, he seemed to dominate the spacious room. The big, golden dog lay at his feet, its tail thumping the floor.
Susannah swallowed against a sudden surge of nervousness. “Not yet.”
“Sometimes your brain won’t shut off even when you need it to.” Thanks to the brace he wore, he was sitting bolt upright in the rocker, looking anything but comfortable. The strong planes of his face created an impression of austerity. But his deep-set brown eyes were compassionate. “Garrett is right. Worry and regrets won’t change anything tonight. Right now your kids are safe. You’ve got friends you can count on. Your troubles will keep until morning.”
“Until morning. Got it.” Seeking a distraction, she nodded toward the book in his hand. “Is the story so good it’s keeping you awake?”
A smile widened his well-shaped lips. “My back keeps me awake, but the book gives me something to focus on besides how much I’d rather be in bed.” After a pause, he cleared his throat. “Asleep.”
“What is the story about?”
With a finger marking his place, he showed her the cover, which featured a sword and a shield. “The Battle of Thermopylae in 480 BC.”
Susannah frowned. “I don’t know what that is. Was.”
“A small force of Greek soldiers held off the Persian army for a week and then lost their lives defending a narrow pass through the hills. The soldiers’ example inspired the rest of the country, and eventually the Persians were defeated in their attempt to take over all of Europe. It’s a pretty important moment in history.”
Examining the shelves flanking the fireplace, she saw that many of the volumes were about war. “Are battles your favorite subject?”
He
