but a desirable one. He’d looked past her circumstances to her.
She stared at him. “Are you serious, Travis? I thought you were unconscious. I needed to check you. You could have been badly hurt.”
“I appreciate your concern,” he said, his hands strong beneath her elbows, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. “I’ll be stiff the next few days, but that’s all.” He made sure she was steady on her feet, took her hands in his and squeezed before he released her, his rough calluses a jolting return to reality.
She needed reality, needed to get her head back onto her shoulders. So, he hadn’t been knocked out, but maybe he’d been in shock. How else to account for that kiss? He hadn’t known he was kissing her. Maybe he’d thought she was an old girlfriend. Or a current one? After all, she was nothing to him.
His leather jacket had a tear along one arm. Travis could have been killed.
On a dime, those awful memories raced through her again. Davey, Davey, Davey.
Her blood arced and swooped through her arteries. Her pulse skittered worse than on a caffeine high. “You sure you don’t have internal injuries?”
“No injuries. Everything feels fine. Good thing I slowed down to take the turn.”
Rachel reached down to swipe dirt and gravel from her knees. A fine tremor ran through her. Anger overtook the fright he’d given her.
She couldn’t fend off images, thousands of Davey carefree and laughing, and that one horrifying imaginary picture of him broken by the side of the road thanks to his damned obsession with motorcycles. Because of them, he was gone for good, and her children were fatherless. What was it with men and their stupid, dangerous toys? Unfair, Rachel. A motorcycle is just a tool. Davey’s reckless speed had been the real problem.
Common sense held no sway, only anger. “Maybe you should stop riding motorcycles. They’re dangerous.”
At her sharp tone, he shot her a hard look. “Not if you know what you’re doing. Was that your cat that ran out in front of me?”
“No, it was Abigail’s.”
“Who’s Abigail?”
Rachel pointed to the aging Victorian. “That was her house.”
“Right,” he said. “I thought the owner died months ago. Who owns the cat now?”
“Ghost turned feral after her death.” Rachel drew a breath to steady her quavering voice. This man’s decisions were no concern of hers. Who was she to judge what he did with his life? She modulated her tone. “She won’t come near anyone. I’m worried about her.”
“She’s gonna get herself killed.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
He strode to his bike and lifted it onto its tires, the machine as light as a bicycle in his capable hands. He was strong, but then again, she already knew that.
Where Davey had been tall and lean, Travis was maybe five-eleven and heavily muscled.
He turned the bike toward the house.
Those memories of Davey still haunting her, she couldn’t help but ask again, “Are you sure you’re all right?”
His soft smile eased her anger, a bit. “Yeah, I’m good. Honest. How about you? You good?”
“I’m fine.”
He touched a couple of fingers to his forehead in a casual salute—no wedding band, not that she was looking—and then limped up the driveway toward the Victorian.
“Wait!”
He turned back.
“Why were you riding a bike? Where’s your truck?”
“Left it in the garage for a checkup. It’s been running rough, and I want it ready for winter.”
“Where’s your horse and trailer?”
“Udall’s letting me leave them on his ranch till I’m set up here.”
Here? At Abigail’s?
“Why are you going to Abigail’s house? Won’t you be bunking in the worker’s quarters on the Double U?”
“Nope. I’ll be living here.” He parked his bike at the side of the driveway. She followed him.
Living here. In Abigail’s house, which she hadn’t even heard had been rented. Travis would be living across the road from her, where she would have to see him every day and remind herself that no amount of makeup or dresses could change what she was...an ungainly woman who was a month and a half away from giving birth. No amount of dolling up would make her as attractive to him as he was to her.
But he’d kissed her.
He’d been stunned, dazed, that was all. She would probably never know who he’d really been kissing while he’d put his lips to hers so sweetly.
“No one told me the house had been rented.”
“Rented? No, ma’am. I bought the place.” He mounted the stairs to the veranda.
Bought—? Her house had been sold? When had it been listed, and why hadn’t she heard about it? This was a small town. Everybody’s business was an open book, for God’s sake, and not one person had thought to tell her the house she craved had been sold?
What do you expect, Rach? You kept that dream close to your chest, didn’t you?
True, she had. She hadn’t wanted people, not even Davey, to think poor Rachel McGuire was crazy enough to believe she could actually find a way to buy a house.
Maybe she hadn’t heard him properly.
She chased after him, stood at the bottom of the stairs and stared up at him.
“You’re joking, right?”
He frowned down at her from the top of the steps. “Why would I joke?”
“You’re not supposed to be living here. No one’s supposed to buy this house.” She sounded like a lunatic. She didn’t care.
Her house, the only thing she wanted more in life than her children’s health and happiness, had been sold.
The air became thin.
She panted. Stars danced in front of her eyes. Her vision narrowed. A moment later, she found herself sitting on the bottom step with a hand on her back urging her head between her knees. Hard to do with a nearly full-grown baby in the way. The cowboy squatted in front of her and chafed the backs of her hands.
“Are you all right?”
She straightened, still struggling for air, but not so dizzy.
“Are you hungry or something? You fainted. Good thing I caught you.”
She’d fainted and he’d caught her? The man moved fast.
“Wait a minute. Back up.”
When Travis started to pull away from her, she grasped his hands, craving his solid comfort as her daydreams slid into nightmare. He squatted on his haunches and watched her with a steady regard.
“I didn’t mean get away from me,” she said. “I meant, back up in the conversation. Please tell me I misunderstood. You did not buy this house.”
“I bought the house.”
“No.” It came out a croak, with tears clogging her throat. This house was supposed to be hers.
He watched her with pity. Great.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was Cindy Hardy’s daughter and a widowed, single mother with a bun in her oversize oven and a three-year-old daughter with no father, and that they lived in Cindy’s tin can, but now she had also lost the