Kiss Me, Katie (20 page)

Katie willed herself to focus on the words of Blake’s song and forced herself to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill over onto her beautifully applied makeup. On shaking legs, she found herself propelled across the stage towards Blake without ever consciously deciding to go to him. The magnetic attraction she had always felt for him was pulling her closer to him, drawing her to his side.

His voice filled her head and everything else fell away. There were only the two of them, no hot stage lights, no screaming crowd, no band members at the edge of the stage. She reached Blake and took his face in her hands, dimly aware that he had stopped singing, and kissed him full on the lips. Reality came crashing back as he returned the kiss and the crowd erupted into ear-splitting cheers. She pulled back a bit, suddenly aware that she had kissed Blake Jackson in front of several thousand strangers, and bit her lip. He pulled her back towards him, until their foreheads touched, and looked into her eyes. Katie was pressed awkwardly against Blake’s guitar, but his strong arm around her waist and his warm hand holding her close felt so right that she didn’t want to move.

“I love you, and I always will.” Blake’s voice was husky. He pressed another sweet kiss on her lips, and Katie threw her arms around his shoulders and squeezed. She felt the love in his kiss, but finally hearing the words was pure magic.

“I love you, too. I always will.” Katie couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she pulled herself away from Blake and forced herself to walk back to her spot on the stage. From now on, her place was by Blake’s side, and she had come home. She picked up her fiddle as the rest of the band returned to the stage, grinning at her and Blake and shaking their heads. They had never seen him like this. Blake blew her a kiss, handed his acoustic guitar to a roadie, and held his arms out to the crowd.

“Sorry about that, guess I just couldn’t resist. Look at her, though, I mean, who can blame me? Now, I suppose you good people want to hear more of what you came here for. One, two, three, four!” He counted off and the band started their next song.

About the Author

Monica Tillery lives in Texas with her handsome husband of more than a dozen years, two sons, and a bunch of pets. Being the only girl in a house full of boys is so much fun, but her favorite things are romance novels, playing games with friends, girls’ nights out, and her book club. Monica loves hearing from readers. Visit her at
www.monicatillery.com
to see all the ways to connect.

A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
(From
Nightingale
by Sharon Ervin)

Great Britain, 1840

The earth trembled and Jessica Blair’s bare feet flew over the narrow dirt path, which was still warm at twilight after the first sunny day of spring. The rumbling was too steady to herald artillery or a turn in the weather. It was hooves and they sounded as if the horses were closing rapidly.

Jessica hiked up her skirt, wadded it over an arm and broke into a full, unladylike gallop. She hadn’t taken time to put on the oversized lace-up boots, which jostled clumsily under one elbow. Her lungs burned as she pushed her lean young body, desperate to reach the coops and protect the newly emerged chicks. Their lives depended on her. She had vowed to protect and defend them from all enemies, foreign or domestic. Giving her oath before the nine scruffy hens, Jessica had contemplated enemies like foxes or raccoons. Nevertheless, she would defend them, her body of no more value to the world than theirs, if measured by the meager living she eked out for herself and her ailing, widowed mother.

The thunderous pounding grew louder. Foliage snapped and lowering tree limbs cracked as the relentless riders plundered the path behind her. Jessica needed to reach the twin boulders. She had chosen the site for her coops, thinking the promontories would protect the rickety pens. The stone outcroppings loomed side by side, separated only by the width of her narrow shoulders.

In her weeks of coming and going, Jessica inadvertently had worn a path to the place, one clearly visible even in the fading daylight. Her frequent use had widened it; perhaps giving the impression the path was a thoroughfare. It was not.

Jessica sliced between the twins and burst into the clearing. Dropping her boots and wadded skirts, she doubled over, bracing her hands on her knees, gulping air to feed her burning lungs. Her abrupt arrival set the roosting hens squawking in alarm, batting about in the cages she had constructed from scraps of barrels, and hoops from discarded casks.

In spite of her heart’s pounding, she heard the relentless thud of hooves, clanging metal and fierce snorting as if the hounds of hell pursued the horses.

Straightening, suddenly aware of the coming darkness, she realized riders galloping headlong over the trail she had cut, probably would not see the stone pillars until they were upon them. She cringed at the image of animals and men injured or killed in the collision, harsh punishment for following her unwitting footpath.

Her breathing steadied, she slid back between the twins and studied the approach with no clear plan, only the hope she could stop the riders before their flight ended in disaster.

A horse exploded out of the night, hurtling toward her, a huge, black beast, his rounded eyes glistening, steam hissing from red, flaring nostrils. She flailed her arms and yelled. “Halt!”

The rider did not slow. He must be a stupid oaf to propel himself and his mount over such a poorly marked course. Still, she did not want the man to die of his stupidity and certainly could not allow such a ghastly end to his horse.

Fanning her skirts to gain attention, she screamed, “Halt! In the name of the Queen!” It was the only command she thought might bring the intemperate soul to his senses. She braced, prepared to jump to either side to avoid being trampled.

The first horse was almost on top of her when he suddenly planted his front feet, sat back on his haunches and skidded. Just before impact, he reared straight up. His hooves fanned the air over her head. Jessica threw her arms up as a shield and leaped to her left, squeezing her eyes closed.

An instant later, when there was no contact, she opened one eye to find the horse’s front hooves still high above her head, striking one another and producing sparks which resembled a bevy of fireflies.

“Whoa,” she shouted.

With snorting that sounded like a groan, the animal dropped his forefeet to the ground. His massive body quivered as he danced sideways. His eyes rolled and his sides heaved as horse and woman stood facing one another.

In her eighteen years, Jessica had never been that close to a horse and this one seemed particularly large and noisy, snorting and wheezing in turn.

“There, there, love,” she crooned, certain she was more frightened than the animal. “It is only I, Sweetness, Jessica Blair.” She resisted the impulse to look anywhere but into the horse’s bulbous eyes. “Welcome to you and your intemperate master to my humble hatches.” She smirked at the purposeful insult directed at the unseen rider.

When the rider didn’t respond, she glanced up and leaned around only to find the saddle empty.

The destrier threw his head high and pranced in place. Metal clanked against metal, the noise she had identified before she had been able to see him.

“Where is your master, love?” She regarded him closely. “Is he lying in the road somewhere injured? He’s not dead, is he, Sweetness?”

Eying her wildly, the horse lifted his nose then lowered it in a series of nods.

Jessica swallowed and eased closer. Raising an uncertain hand, she started to touch him, and then stopped. She wanted to quiet the magnificent animal, and he did seem to be calming.

“My, but you are huge,” she whispered. His restless movements stopped and his ears flicked forward. “Your color is like midnight and you have a look of enchantment, all spirit and size and muscle.” She lifted a hand again to touch him. He threw his head high and she gasped to see his neck slathered with thick white foam.

“What is this?” She studied the goo spattered over his chest and stringing from the dangling strap. She wiped a glob off him and cringed as it clung to her curious fingers. “Are you injured?”

The horse tossed his head, keeping his nose well above her reach while his occasional snorts dwindled to a nervous whickering. She flinched when he lowered his nose and bumped the side of her face. “Even if he mistreated you, you would not have thrown the dullard for revenge, would you? Of course you didn’t. It is the role of some to serve and of others to be served. Like me, you appear to be the former.”

She fingered the horse’s bridle trying to think what she should do. He danced back several steps, his agitation reviving, reminding her that her voice quieted him.

“I have never had a private conversation with a horse.” Again, her words calmed him. At her quiet stroking, her fingertips on his face, the animal eased closer. Prickling chills limned her arms as the horse nuzzled her hair, his breath warm against her sensitive nape. When he nibbled a strand of hair, she jerked, startling them both.

“Mind your manners, sir.”

As if he understood, he steadied, his neck arched, his feet still. He glistened black beneath the globs of white froth that oozed and abandoned him in dollops. His saddle and tack were black to match his body. No wonder she hadn’t been able to see him in the twilight or that one horse his size could sound like many.

She knew no better than to walk behind his rump, but he stood unmoving as her hands ran over his sides, swiping away the last remnants of the froth.

His master must be a large man, judging by the size of this animal and the length of the stirrups. An average-sized individual could scarcely throw a leg over such a monster.

Wondering again what had become of the rider; she turned and peered into the night, straining to see if a form lay on the footpath. She had neither seen nor heard anyone in the darkness, which had completely enveloped them. A full moon slipped for a moment from beneath its cloudy sheath to bathe the open area where they stood. The path beyond, however, was cloaked in the shadowy gloom of overhanging trees.

The horse had galloped, wild-eyed, snorting and whinnying as if the devil himself were in pursuit. Had his master mistreated him?

No. She had felt no welts of scarring. No blemishes of any kind. The clattering his hooves created earlier indicated he was shod. He appeared well fed and his coat was sleek, as if it were brushed regularly.

Perhaps his master had overindulged at a tavern and fallen off. Perhaps the man had been set upon by a thief. She considered again the length of the stirrups. It would probably have taken more than one thief to subdue this rider.

Perhaps she should search for him. How could she? A lone woman? Traveling the road at night? Especially if there were brigands about. She had nothing to steal, of course. She slanted her gaze at the horse. Except him. She would need to take him along in case they found his rider, particularly if they found the man incapacitated.

She stood on tiptoe to work the rein off over the horse’s ears, then she looped the leather around a branch and ran back to the coops for her boots. As she put them on, she considered. In the dark, she might overlook a man lying in the brush at the side of the road. It would be wiser to wait for daylight.

She cast a guilty glance at the moon that beamed at the moment, denying her use of darkness as an excuse not to try.

If the man were lying in the road, some passerby probably already had rescued him.

What if he lay helpless? Or unconscious? Or dead?

Her imagination erupted with visions of a helpless wretch lying injured, crying out for assistance while help was delayed, wrestling with her own cowardice.

She resented the nudge, the same goading presence that prompted her to rescue abandoned birds and runaway horses. Could she, in good conscience, comfort the man’s animal and not expend some effort searching for the master?

If she could ride the horse, the search would be easier. Also, mounted, she would feel less vulnerable to attack by men or animals.

She had never ridden a horse.

The decision would rest with him. If Sweetness would let her climb into the saddle, she would track back along the road, at least a little distance.

Returning to the horse, Jessica freed the rein and slipped her hand beneath the strap between his ear and his mouth. She applied pressure and he rocked into step beside her. She led him in a wide circle to line him up beside a fallen log, and again fitted the rein over his head.

How should she sit? The saddle was not properly cut for her to ride with her legs to one side, as ladies of the gentry rode. Her oversized dress and petticoat, a cousin’s castoffs, might be generous enough to allow her to ride astride as a man would.

Speaking those thoughts quietly to the horse, Jessica stepped onto the log.

As large as it was, the saddle would provide ample seating. She fingered the leather strap, stalling. Brushing a hand over the saddle, front to back, she slipped a knot and accidentally released a garment tied behind.

The horse held steady as Jessica unfurled the rolled fabric. When she snapped the garment open, the mount’s eyes rolled, but he only turned his head, as if curious to see what she was doing. It was a cloak, black of course, like the horse and his other accessories. It smelled of wool mingled with a distinctly male fragrance that was not altogether unpleasant. The weave was as soft as Mrs. Maxwell’s silken stockings.

“This will serve,” she whispered. If she could get into the saddle, she could wrap the cloak around her, and conceal her long, dark hair beneath the hood. Travelers would think her a young man. A youth traveling alone at night would be less remarkable than a girl. Hopefully no one would consider accosting him.

First, however, she must get herself into the saddle.

Would the owner of the horse be angry when she appeared in his clothing riding his horse? Would he accuse her of theft?