When Jesse ran out the door, he heard the dog padding behind him.
It was a good thing his closest neighbor was a fair distance away. He’d look like a fool, running barefoot in the freezing rain wearing a woman’s nightie. And a double fool for having no weapon at hand.
In the future, no matter how blamed tired he was, he was not leaving his rifle on his saddle under the lean-to.
But if sheer anger could count as a weapon, he was well armed.
For all that his toes felt frozen, numb in the sucking mud, it didn’t cool his anger at himself and the folly of being duped by a pretty slip of a woman. He was ashamed to admit that he’d succumbed to such beguiling bait...even dreamed of her while wide awake.
Slipping and sliding, he rounded the corner of the barn where the paddock was located.
As he’d feared, it was empty.
No mind, he was a tracker by former profession.
Looked like Hey...Dog was a tracker, too, although not so skilled as a dog ought to be. He trotted to the large barn doors, scratched and whined.
A seam of light glowed dimly through the door crack.
Either someone remained in the barn or the thieves had committed the sin of leaving a lamp burning when they hightailed it.
“Hush up, pup,” he whispered, not wanting his presence known before he snatched his rifle from the saddle where it lay across a sawhorse ten feet away. “You ready to catch us a thief?” he asked, retrieving the weapon. The dog thumped his muddy tail on the nightgown.
Slowly, so as to make the least noise possible, he drew open one of the doors and eased inside, his rifle at the ready.
He spotted his horses first thing.
Then he saw the woman. She stood on a wagon bed, her skirt rucked up about her waist and her shapely bare legs caked with mud. Gripping a pitchfork, she shoveled hay onto the barn floor. Because she had her back turned, he had a moment to watch her golden hair shimmy with the sway of her hips. She hummed an off-key tune while she worked.
The relief he felt finding that she was not a thief seemed excessive. He’d only met her the one time, for pity’s sake. It couldn’t rightly be said that she was even an acquaintance. There was just something about her...a sensation of knowing...
Wasn’t that as logical as a frog flapping butterfly wings?
But here she was, making herself at home in his house and in his barn.
“Howdy, ma’am,” he said because his sense of knowing did not include the knowledge of her name.
“Oh!” Startled by the voice, Laura Lee’s fingers clamped hard around the handle of the pitchfork. Turning quickly, she sucked in a breath and held it. Not because she believed the man intended to shoot her; the weapon was nose to the dirt and his finger nowhere near the trigger. She couldn’t breathe because of the effort it took not to laugh out loud.
Her guest—she supposed that was what she must consider him to be—looked absurd. Seeing him standing in the doorway of the barn, his legs spread in a no-nonsense stance, holding his weapon while rain dripped off his eyebrows...oh, my.
Still, it wasn’t that which nearly brought her to her knees in hilarity. It was the sight of this large man, so bold looking in every way, dressed in pink flannel with delicate flowers and leaves stretched across his chest, with wiry brown hair poking from the stretched-out neckline, that made her need to cover her mouth with one hand.
She might have managed to keep control had it not been for the sodden lace clinging to his shins, seeing those muscular calves captured by embroidered rosebuds.
Pressing her fingers to her mouth did no good. A giggle burst from her lips.
“I do beg your pardon,” she said with a slight, high-pitched hiccup.
She stabbed the prongs of the pitchfork into the hay, then climbed down from the wagon. She yanked her skirt from the waistband, smoothing it down so that it covered her legs in a proper manner. He’d already seen more of her than he should have...but not nearly as much as she’d seen of him.
Why did that have to pop into her mind? Now she was blushing and he would guess why.
“Your own clothes are wet and this is all I could spare that didn’t require a corset.” No! She could not have possibly blurted that out. “I meant...well, you were wet and shivering. Most of the time, flannel is wonderfully warm. I hope you—”
“Thank you for bringing my horses in,” he said, saving her from continued babbling.
Which she did not normally do. It’s just that the events of the last hours had been...unusual, and vastly perplexing. At least she understood now what he was doing on her property. He and his horses needed shelter. He had been naked because—she didn’t know why for sure, but there could be many reasons that did not involve an assault on her person.
No doubt being soaked, he had removed his clothes out of for respect for the many hours she had spent polishing the floor. A more suspicious part of her brain argued that he would have no idea how much care she had given the floors and that it had been too dark to see the shine.
“You are welcome. Come, Chisel.” She would rather have the dog standing beside her than Mr. Creed. One could only trust one’s judgment to a certain degree.
Except where Johnny was concerned. Naturally, she trusted her fiancé completely. But where was he? Two weeks would be enough time for him to do what he needed to. If he really... But no, she trusted him with all her heart.
Obediently, Chisel trotted forward and licked her hand. Seconds later, he joined Whittle and Bride in their stall. Saffron and the other horses mingled in the large open area between the stalls, munching hay.
“I’m sorry I hit you, Mr. Creed.” She might as well clear her conscience about that now. Judging by the increasingly bad weather, they might be stranded together for a few hours. “But you did give me a start.”
“I didn’t expect anyone to be in the house.”
It was a relief to know she was right about the reason he was here. Any reasonable person would have sought the nearest shelter in this storm. She knew nothing about Mr. Creed other than his name and that he had a scar on his left hip. She also knew that he looked... well, never mind that.
It was blamed difficult to never mind it, though. Her eyes had seen what they’d seen and there was no changing that. If soaking flannel was not clinging to him, it would be easier. But it was clinging to him, an intimate reminder.
“Your herd is beautiful,” she said as a distraction.
“Plenty hungry, too. Again, many thanks for bringing them inside and feeding them.”
Setting his rifle against the wall beside the door, he crossed the barn and leaped up on the wagon. He picked up the pitchfork and began shoveling out the hay. The smooth pull and draw of his muscles, which she could see because of what he was wearing, made the job look easier than it felt when she did it.
“It was the neighborly thing to do,” she answered while refocusing her attention on the long black mane of a pretty brown mare.
“And I reckon we’re neighbors?” His brows knit together, as though something was puzzling him.
“I suppose we are but I’ve only been in Forget-Me-Not for a short time.”
“It’s a good place to settle.” In one leap, he hopped off the wagon.
She watched him while he walked to the wall where the tools were hanging, taking note of the long rip down the back of her nightgown. She would have to repair it before bed.