had never explained how Miranda had burned her hand.
* * *
After leaving the sickroom, Kate leaned against the hallway wall, broom in one hand, dustpan and rag clutched in the other, her heart pounding like a kettledrum. She had been caring for Zachariah McGovern for days and had grown accustomed to seeing his large, sheet-draped frame lying motionless on the bed. There had even been times, while away from the sickroom, that she had forgotten his presence in the house. But now he was awake.
Her arm still tingled where she had touched his massive shoulders to lift him. She recalled the intense regard of his eyes, which seemed to change with his emotions, a twinkling hazel when he smiled, an arresting green when he asked a question, and then the color of flint when he thought she might have been cut by flying porcelain.
Kate had the unnerving sensation that those eyes of his saw far more than she wanted them to.
She felt unsettled. Even now that she was out of the room, her legs still quivered. Knowing he was in there, that he would frequently awaken, that she would have to care for him, all the while suffering his intent scrutiny, made her stomach knot.
Kate closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. Admit it, Kate. You find him attractive. That's why he makes you so nervous. To admit that, even in the farthest reaches of her mind, made Kate want to give herself a good kick. Was she out of her blooming mind? Zachariah McGovern stood a head taller than Joseph had and was half again as broad at the shoulders. Talk about jumping from the skillet into the fire.
She was grateful to him, that was all. Grateful and beholden. He had saved her daughter's life, and her maternal instincts were all in a stir. In a few days, those feelings would diminish. Once she was her old self again, she wouldn't be affected when he looked at her with that speculative twinkle in his eyes. She wouldn't.
Chapter 9
F or Zach the next week passed as slowly as an ant walking across spilled honey. The flesh around his snakebites sloughed off, and the sores became infected. He suffered recurring bouts of fever, which set him back and drained what little remaining strength he had. As he drifted in and out of delirium, he was vaguely aware of Kate caring for him, of her gentle hands, her soothing voice, and of her eyes—always of her eyes—the biggest thing about her and constantly filled with worry.
Sometimes Marcus was there, his visits marked by the strength in his hands as he rolled Zach this way and that to bathe him. Even in a haze of fever, Zach wanted to tell him thank-you, but the words wouldn't come to his tongue. Other words did. Unbidden from the black, secret parts of his mind, they crawled up his throat. The most awful part was, he knew he was rambling, but couldn't stop. His brain seemed divided in half, one side aware yet powerless, the other crazy with fever.
Even if he hadn't been aware that he was talking out, Kate's gentle responses would have told him. "Shhh. It's all right," she would whisper. Though soothed by the touch of her cool hand on his forehead, Zach felt ashamed.
What was all right? What had he just said? Why did he hear that note of sympathy in her voice? "I'm here. It's all taken care of. Don't worry."
So sick, so awfully sick. Zach couldn't make sense of things. In the back of his mind, he knew she was comforting him as she would a child. That stung his masculine pride. But even so, the softly spoken reassurances calmed him.
Morning became night, night became morning, and Zach marked the passing of each day with a vague awareness, slipping in and out of sleep, swallowing what was poured into his mouth, turning his face to accommodate the cool cloths that caressed his skin.
Katie… Somehow, he came to think of her as Katie. Kate sounded so sturdy and practical and plain. She was none of those. Even while he slept, she lingered in his mind, as light as a whisper, her touch like gossamer, her voice
* * *
After leaving the sickroom, Kate leaned against the hallway wall, broom in one hand, dustpan and rag clutched in the other, her heart pounding like a kettledrum. She had been caring for Zachariah McGovern for days and had grown accustomed to seeing his large, sheet-draped frame lying motionless on the bed. There had even been times, while away from the sickroom, that she had forgotten his presence in the house. But now he was awake.
Her arm still tingled where she had touched his massive shoulders to lift him. She recalled the intense regard of his eyes, which seemed to change with his emotions, a twinkling hazel when he smiled, an arresting green when he asked a question, and then the color of flint when he thought she might have been cut by flying porcelain.
Kate had the unnerving sensation that those eyes of his saw far more than she wanted them to.
She felt unsettled. Even now that she was out of the room, her legs still quivered. Knowing he was in there, that he would frequently awaken, that she would have to care for him, all the while suffering his intent scrutiny, made her stomach knot.
Kate closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. Admit it, Kate. You find him attractive. That's why he makes you so nervous. To admit that, even in the farthest reaches of her mind, made Kate want to give herself a good kick. Was she out of her blooming mind? Zachariah McGovern stood a head taller than Joseph had and was half again as broad at the shoulders. Talk about jumping from the skillet into the fire.
She was grateful to him, that was all. Grateful and beholden. He had saved her daughter's life, and her maternal instincts were all in a stir. In a few days, those feelings would diminish. Once she was her old self again, she wouldn't be affected when he looked at her with that speculative twinkle in his eyes. She wouldn't.
Chapter 9
F or Zach the next week passed as slowly as an ant walking across spilled honey. The flesh around his snakebites sloughed off, and the sores became infected. He suffered recurring bouts of fever, which set him back and drained what little remaining strength he had. As he drifted in and out of delirium, he was vaguely aware of Kate caring for him, of her gentle hands, her soothing voice, and of her eyes—always of her eyes—the biggest thing about her and constantly filled with worry.
Sometimes Marcus was there, his visits marked by the strength in his hands as he rolled Zach this way and that to bathe him. Even in a haze of fever, Zach wanted to tell him thank-you, but the words wouldn't come to his tongue. Other words did. Unbidden from the black, secret parts of his mind, they crawled up his throat. The most awful part was, he knew he was rambling, but couldn't stop. His brain seemed divided in half, one side aware yet powerless, the other crazy with fever.
Even if he hadn't been aware that he was talking out, Kate's gentle responses would have told him. "Shhh. It's all right," she would whisper. Though soothed by the touch of her cool hand on his forehead, Zach felt ashamed.
What was all right? What had he just said? Why did he hear that note of sympathy in her voice? "I'm here. It's all taken care of. Don't worry."
So sick, so awfully sick. Zach couldn't make sense of things. In the back of his mind, he knew she was comforting him as she would a child. That stung his masculine pride. But even so, the softly spoken reassurances calmed him.
Morning became night, night became morning, and Zach marked the passing of each day with a vague awareness, slipping in and out of sleep, swallowing what was poured into his mouth, turning his face to accommodate the cool cloths that caressed his skin.
Katie… Somehow, he came to think of her as Katie. Kate sounded so sturdy and practical and plain. She was none of those. Even while he slept, she lingered in his mind, as light as a whisper, her touch like gossamer, her voice
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