Free The Heavenly Surrender by Marcia Lynn McClure Page A

to fear where that circumstance is concerned anyway.”
    “Oh, mí hermana, it is nothing to fear. I promise you,” Lita assured her sincerely, placing a hand on her shoulder.
    Clearing her throat, Brenna rather abruptly changed the subject. “Um…I hope the two of ya are prayin’ for rain, I do. I don’t want to be carryin’ bucket after bucket of water from the creek to water the gardens again this year.”
    “Híjole! That was terrible last spring,” Lita agreed.
    The men erupted into laughter once more, and Lita and Brenna continued to discuss the lack of rain. But Genieva’s mind was elsewhere. Lita seemed far too sure of herself when it came to describing the effect of Brevan’s kiss on a woman. Surely she was only judging from her experience with her own husband. After all, it was only natural to assume the brothers would share many common characteristics.
    Still, as she and Brevan walked home at dusk later that evening, she found herself looking at him differently—pondering unthinkable possibilities. Had Lita been speaking from experience? She fought to drive the name of “ poor Amy Wilburn” from her thoughts as well. To drive away the words handsome rogue , dashing philanderer .
    “What?” Brevan asked as she continued to stare at him as they approached the house at last.
    “ Pardon me?” Genieva inquired.
    “Ya’re starin’ at me like I’ve some creepin’ crud about me,” he grumbled. “Have I broken out in the pox?”
    “No,” Genieva admitted. “How ridiculous.”
    “What then, lass?”
    “Nothing. I…I…” Genieva stammered. They stood at the front door to their house, and Brevan opened it, motioning for Genieva to enter. “Thank you,” she mumbled.
    Upon entering their home, Brevan reached over his head and took hold of the back of his shirt, pulling it off in one swift motion. The first few times Genieva had witnessed his now predictable habit of stripping off his shirt upon first entering the house each evening, her eyes had nearly bulged and exploded from their sockets. For the sight of his astounding physique had promptly caused Genieva further anxiety and discomfort. A man should not have the ability to inflict such nervous stress upon a woman, she told herself over and over. Yet he did unnerve her terribly, and the past weeks had only proved to Genieva that the fact would escalate with time.
    “And what were ya three little witches cacklin’ about over dish doin’ this evenin’?” he asked as he went to the sink and worked the pump to draw water for his hands and face.
    “Ever so much more interesting things than you three were,” Genieva said.
    “Really, now,” he chuckled. “Well, the lads were askin’ me tonight how it is that I manage to keep me hands from ya, Genieva,” he stated. “Were ya answerin’ the same question where I’m concerned?”
    Genieva’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. “No!” she gasped. “Of course not!”
    “Ya don’t find me temptin’ then, lass?” he asked.
    “I…I…I…” she stuttered. She was entirely astounded at his presumptuous remark.
    “Hhmm. That’s disturbin’ news, it is.” He turned toward her, glaring, and added, “But it makes us even, doesn’t it?”
    “It would seem so,” Genieva mumbled. It was entirely too hurtful to hear it from his own lips—to hear he had no interest in her. Oh, she knew it well enough—but to hear him say it—it cut woundingly into her soul.
    “Aye. It would,” he agreed as he turned toward her. “I’m lackin’ a hand towel to dry with, Genieva,” he complained, walking to her with hands dripping wet.
    “I’m sorry. I’ll go get…” she said, turning from him—grateful for a reason to escape his further hurtful, verbal inflictions. But he reached out and took hold of her apron, spinning her back around to face him. Drawing it up from her skirt, he dried his hands thoroughly on it—all the while glaring down at her.
    “Ya look tired, Genieva,” he