Free Cherish by Catherine Anderson Page B

Still sobbing, she hid her face against his shoulder and tried to escape his hold.
    “Sweetheart,” he whispered, “it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”
    He kept seeing her, coming around on her knees to face him, a gun almost bigger than she could handle clutched in her fists, her arms quivering as she waged war with her conscience. He hated using his strength to hold her against her will, but he was afraid she might hurt herself if he turned her loose.
    “You need any help in there?” Pete called from just outside the wagon.
    Hell, yes, he needed help. But he doubted any of his men could provide it. What the girl needed was a woman to tend her, someone she could trust. Only there wasn’t another woman for well over a hundred miles. He tucked his boot heels under his rump to sit cross-legged and positioned her more comfortably on his lap.
    “I got it under control,” he called back to Pete.
    “You sure?”
    Taking measure of the situation, Race touched his free hand lightly to her hair. “Positive. Thanks, anyhow.”
    Her exhausted sobs caught at his heart. He knew bytheir sound that she was remembering things best forgotten. Her mother, her father…He wished he could wipe what had happened from her mind. But that wasn’t the way life worked.
    To his amazement, she continued to strain against his hold, even though he could tell she was weary. Deciding to use a favorite horse-gentling tactic, he kept his arms braced against her just enough to restrict her movements, playing her out and whispering to her all the while. He was only dimly aware of what he said. Comforting reassurances, mostly, which soon began to sound like nonsense because he repeated them so many times.
    Explaining how he’d come to be in the arroyo yesterday evening. Telling her what had occurred afterward, about the killers returning, the ensuing gun battle, and his men arriving in the nick of time to save their hides. Promising her that he’d never hurt her. That she was safe. Assuring her that he was sorry—for not reaching the arroyo in time to stop the killing, for not knowing how to help her afterward, and for doing a damned fool thing like falling asleep beside her and scaring her half to death.
    At some point—Race wasn’t sure exactly when—she stopped resisting his hold on her, and once she did, he let go. She sank against him then, her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder, one of her fine-boned hands curled in a loose fist over the front of his shirt. Still beset by residual sobs, she jerked slightly every few seconds, soft huffs of breath snagging in her throat.
    For an instant, the years fell away in Race’s mind, and he remembered how good it had felt to be rocked in his mother’s arms when he’d been a small child—surrounded by her warmth, knowing he could fall asleep and that she would keep him safe. His throat tightened at the memory. He had lost his mother when he was only seven, and after that, there’d been no one who gave a damn. There still wasn’t, and it was a mighty lonely feeling.
    He looped his arms around the girl and rested his cheek on her hair. He liked the way her curls caught on his whiskers, the ends so soft they reminded him of frayed silk. He also liked the way she felt in his arms—as ifshe’d been measured to fit. He closed his eyes, cautiously circling the feeling of aching warmth that spread through him. He had felt it before in the arroyo, wasn’t sure he wanted to feel it now, but didn’t seem able to push it away.
    “You got a name, sweet face?” he asked huskily.
    Her breath caught and she stiffened, her fist knotting on his shirt. “Becca,” she said with a wet-sounding catch.
    “Ah…Becca.” Race moved his cheek, more to feel the texture of her curls against his bewhiskered jaw than to seek a more comfortable resting spot. Becca . He liked the ring of that. It suited her, somehow.
    “ Rebecca ,” she repeated, her voice muffled against his shoulder.
    He liked Becca