hair was wet and slicked back but already starting to curl, and his cheeks were ruddy as if he’d been buffeted by a strong wind. The Kitteridge men were ungodly handsome, but unlike Carson, Boone seemed to be completely unaware of God’s gifts.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked, giving her an intense, sweeping look that was slightly unsettling. She was suddenly acutely aware that her hair was down, her dress a wrinkled mess, and her feet shoeless. The tile had felt so blessedly cool, she hadn’t wanted to put on her shoes.
“Much better. But I am hungry. Starving, actually.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I really don’t know how to cook anything.” She glanced doubtfully at the stove, an ancient thing that looked like it had been in use for one hundred years. The only thing she knew for certain was that she needed to put wood in it to start a fire.
“I thought Carson was…” He stopped and looked down at the floor, almost as if he were angry. “I guess Carson didn’t want to wake you. He and I usually eat at the hotel nights I don’t cook. Agatha leaves at four to help her own family.”
“You don’t know where Carson is?”
“No, miss. But I’ll tell you what. I’ll run over to the hotel and get you something and bring it on back here. This time of night there aren’t too many ladies hanging around the saloon, so it’s best you wait here.”
Amelia had the terrible feeling that Boone was covering up for Carson, that her fiancé had forgotten her. Or worse, was avoiding her. “I’ll just go out to the garden, then.”
“Okay, but watch out for rattlers. They don’t usually come out this time of night, but it was warm today.”
“Rattlers?”
“Snakes.”
The only snake Amelia had ever seen was a harmless infant grass snake, and she’d thought it rather charming. “Oh, I’m not afraid of snakes unless they bite.”
“This one bites and can kill you if it gets you good.”
Amelia smiled politely. “I’ll just wait here, then, shall I?”
Boone nodded then headed for the door, but before he left, he poked his head back into the room. “They come indoors, too.”
Amelia looked up, surprised, then narrowed her eyes. He was teasing her. At least she thought he was, because he certainly wasn’t smiling. “You are joking,” she said with false bravado.
“Probably.” And then he was gone.
Boone stepped out of his home and stopped dead. He could see a man with a long blond ponytail leaning against the saloon’s wall, his arms around a woman, obviously kissing her. He didn’t know his blood could boil any hotter, but there it was, boiling madly, his temper rising so fast he shook with it.
Boone spun around to make certain his brother’s fiancée hadn’t followed him out, then strode across the dusty street, all the while telling himself to calm down. It was fierce, this temper, and one he frankly feared. Ask any man or woman in Small Fork, and they’d tell you Boone Kitteridge didn’t have an angry bone in his body. He never raised his voice, never mind his fist.
But they didn’t know what was happening beneath the surface, how close that surging heat was to exploding, how many times he’d thought about knocking the lights out of someone. Boone, himself, didn’t know how he tamped it down, but he did. He didn’t want to be like his father; he didn’t ever want to lose control and hurt someone. Even if they deserved it.
And right about now, his brother definitely deserved it.
“Evenin’, Geraldine.”
The woman pulled slowly away from his brother’s kiss and gave Boone a drowsy smile. “Well, hey there, Boone.”
Then Boone turned to Carson, his gray eyes shooting bullets, though his little brother was completely unaware of it. “You think this is a good idea, with your fiancée right across the street?”
“She’s not really my fiancée,” he said, smiling down at the woman still in his arms. Carson was drunk, as usual. The two of them swayed together, clearly having shared a bit too much whiskey.
“She damn well is your fiancée, and you better get your ass over there. She’s hungry and it’s clear to me, if not to you, that she’s feeling a bit lost about now. She doesn’t even know how to start a fire in a stove. She’s hungry and I was heading over here to get her something to eat. Maybe you ought to bring it to her instead.”
Carson looked ill at the thought, and Geraldine tightened her hold on him.
“He ain’t goin’ anywhere, are you, love?” Geraldine asked, then planted a sloppy kiss on his mouth. Before Boone’s disgusted gaze, the two deepened their kiss and he could feel the anger coming back in force. He could feel his hand clench, and took a deep breath to stop the force of his rage.
“You beat all, you know that, Carson?”
Carson tore his mouth away from the whore and looked at his brother, really looked at him, his eyes filled with fear and self-loathing that was almost tangible. “I know, Boone. Could you just handle her this one night?”
“He can’t handle any woman, you know that,” Geraldine said, giggling drunkenly, and Boone felt a surprising rush of humiliation.
Carson pushed her rather ungently out of his arms. “You go back in, Gerri. I’ll be there in a minute.” Then he slapped her on the derriere to temper his words, causing the woman to giggle again as she walked unsteadily down the boardwalk toward the saloon entrance. He pulled off his hat and scratched his head before turning back to Boone. “I’ll take care of things in the morning.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“I don’t know,” he said, slapping the dirty Stetson back on and grinning. “I’ll figure it out tonight.”
Boone let Carson go, then ordered up some food for Amelia—a thick beef stew, which was the only bit of food the kitchen had left at this late hour. When he returned to the house, Amelia was sitting at the kitchen table in the dark. Only her dim outline was visible in the day’s dying light, wisps of her blond hair seeming to softly glow, making her ethereal. Having someone like her in his home did not seem real. She looked like a little girl waiting for her supper, and his anger toward his brother grew.
“I didn’t know where the matches were and by the time I realized I should light a lamp, it was too dark to look for them,” she said softly, with apology in her voice.
Without a word, Boone reached for the matches by the stove, then lit a small lamp on the kitchen table. “We have gas lighting at home,” Amelia said, staring at the lamp, her blue eyes impossibly vivid in her pale face. “And my brother was talking about getting electrification. Can you imagine?”
“I think it’ll be a while before we get electricity out here,” Boone said, sitting down at the table across from her. Compared to her soft lilt, his voice sounded harsh, the way blaring trumpets sound after a flute solo. “You’d better eat before it gets cold.”
Amelia looked down at the stew and smiled. It looked wonderfully normal. Taking a spoon she dug in, and closed her eyes at the wonderful
