Cherish by Catherine Anderson Page B

What was there to say? That she was sorry? She knew firsthand how pathetically inadequate a response that was.
    “Anyhow,” he said, running his palms over his pant legs, “I got that memory in my head, as clear as yesterday. It’s one of them things you don’t never forget, I reckon. At least, I haven’t. It’s always there at the back of my mind and visitin’ me in my nightmares. My ma…” His voice trailed away, and she saw his larynx bob again as he tried to swallow. She knew the feeling—emotion becoming a knot in your throat that made it nearly impossible to speak. “She was the only pretty thing in my world—the only good thing. After losin’ her, I was alone, without nobody who gave a care. There ain’t no worse feelin’ in the whole world, I don’t think. So I kinda know how you’re feelin’ right now, like as if you been hollowed out with a sharp knife.”
    He removed his hat and ran long, thick fingers through his black hair. As he settled the Stetson back on his head, he flashed her a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.
    “I reckon you could say me seein’ that happen to my ma has given me a real strong dislike for men that ride roughshod over women, for any reason. And that’s how come I ain’t got it in me to do you any meanness.” He ran his gaze slowly over her. “You’re a real pretty little swatch of muslin, darlin’. I ain’t sayin’ that the wantin’ ain’t there when I look at you because it’d be a lie. But for me, wantin’ and doin’ don’t ride double. You got nothin’ to fear from me—or from my men. And as long as we’re around, you ain’t got a whole lot to fear from nobody else, either. If anyone lays a hand on you, it’ll be over my dead body, and I got me a knack for bein’ the fella who’s still standin’ when the smoke clears, so there ain’t much chance of that either.”
    Tears burned in Rebecca’s eyes. She tried to speak, but her chest felt as if a steel band was being tightened around it.
    He pushed slowly to his feet, a towering specter, his guns riding his hips like portents of death. Yet looking up at him now, she felt no fear. Just an aching sadnessfor the little boy he had once been and the man he had become. Since hearing his story, her opinion of him had altered drastically, becoming the very antithesis of what it had been earlier. No one would fabricate a tale like that, especially not a hard-edged man like Race Spencer. And if she believed that much of what he had told her, she had to believe all else as well.
    Finally finding her voice, she whispered shakily, “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Spencer.”
    He settled his hands at his lean hips, the smile on his mouth at last warming his eyes. “Can I take that to mean you feel some better?”
    “Yes. Thank you. I, um…know it wasn’t easy for you to talk about that, and I appreciate your sharing it with me.” She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth, feeling she should say something more. Only she couldn’t think what. “Thank you,” she ended up saying again. “It means more to me than I can say.”
    He stood there for a moment, searching her gaze. This time, she didn’t let herself look away. No one had forced him to share something so painful with her, and in doing so, he had stripped his emotions bare. Because he had, she no longer felt inclined to try to hide hers from him.
    “It’s gonna get easier as time wears on,” he told her softly. “You probably don’t believe that right now, but I promise you, it does. I wish I could say it’ll happen quick, but the truth is, you’re probably still kinda numb and could feel a good deal worse before you feel better.”
    She nodded, knowing he was probably right.
    “It’ll hit you hard sometimes—when you ain’t expectin’ it. Like a fist in your gut, hurtin’ so bad it takes your breath. If you need to talk, I ain’t a stranger to the feelin’, so don’t hesitate.” He hauled in another deep