Watson, Grandpa’s solicitor, certainly didn’t understand. Not only did he refuse to give her any details, he said she couldn’t go to Colorado, leastwise not without Clay Hoffman’s permission—a man she’d never met, only heard about from Gramps.
It appeared that he—Clay Hoffman—was not only her financial guardian, he was in charge of everything: her finances until she was twenty-one, and several other aspects of her life until she turned twenty-five. If she waited until then she’d die of loneliness.
Impulsive, that’s what Grandma Katie had always called her. Kit hadn’t minded then, and she didn’t mind now. If a few hastily laid plans would reveal the truth, it would be well worth it. The spontaneous trip across the country had become an adventure for her, one that instilled a sense of excitement and freedom she’d never known.
Other than the sting in her backside, which at this very moment was letting itself be known with renewed force, the trip had been painless—terrifying at times, but painless.
“Here we are.” Clay drew the horse to a stop.
A sigh of relief built in her chest, but she couldn’t let it out. Thinking of climbing off the horse instantly doubled her anxiety. The now constant ache said movement would hurt. Severely.
The way Clay swung his knee over the saddle horn and bounded to the ground as effortlessly as a cat jumped off a branch had every muscle tightening from her head to her toes. Kit chewed on a fingertip, both to redirect the pain and to contemplate how she could manage without—
“Oh!”
Hands had wrapped around her waist, lifted her and planted her feet on the ground all in one swift movement. Regaining fortitude while clouds literally swirled before her eyes seemed impossible, and her breath caught inside her lungs at the smarting sting shooting down her legs. Eventually, she managed to squeak, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, already leading the horse to a patch of grass. “I noticed dismounting isn’t a strong suit for you.”
His back was to her, but the humor in his voice couldn’t be ignored. “Dismounting?” she asked, as indignation sprouted out of that fiery sting. “I’ll have you know I’m a quite accomplished rider.”
“Oh?” He was looking at her over one broad shoulder. His grin, which was way too appealing for a man of any age or rank, brightened his entire face, and those blue eyes twinkled as if someone had dropped stardust in them. “You ride around Boston, do you?”
Firelight, the little pony she’d had while growing up, came to her mind. The Shetland had been as white as snow, and the two of them had worn out the grass in the back paddock.
“I assumed you’d travel about in gold carriages, complete with velvet seats and little tassels hanging off the hood,” he continued, while digging in his saddlebags.
The fact he’d described the buggy—white, not gold—that was parked in her carriage house back in Chicago should irritate her. In reality, it made her smile. “Jealous, are you?”
“No.”
His cheekbones were slightly tinged red. That, too, excited her in a unique and secretive way. “I think you are.”
“You think wrong, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts.” He held up a canvas bag and nodded toward the grove of trees. “Hungry?”
She turned to follow, which was a mistake. The first step had her gulping. Walking was worse than riding. Picking a slow trail, pretending to scrutinize the lay of the land, she made her way after him.
“A little sore?” That irritating grin of his was back.
“No,” she lied.
“That why you offered to walk earlier?”
She cast him her best “you’re annoying me” gaze.
He grinned and sat down, digging into the bag.
By the time she arrived at his side, he’d laid out several pieces of jerky, a crusty loaf of bread, broken in half, and two apples on a blue-and-white-plaid napkin. But it was the ground, which looked as hard as the leather-covered train seats had been, that held her attention. If she sat, she might never get up, yet her stomach growled as her eyes darted toward the food.
He stood. “I have to get the canteen.”
She nodded absently, still wondering how painful sitting would prove to be. Perhaps she could stand while eating. If he’d hand her the food, she wouldn’t even need to bend over.
Still contemplating options, she glanced his way when he returned. Along with the canteen, he had the two blankets that made up his bedroll. Quite honorably, he folded one and then the other, and stacked them on the ground.
“Try that,” he said, patting the blankets.
Kit pressed her tongue against the inside of her cheek and met his gaze.
“It’s obvious, Miss Katherine Ackerman from Boston, Massachusetts, that you’re sore from being in the saddle too long.”
“Obvious?”
He was a large man, with broad shoulders and bulky arms covered in a tan flannel shirt and leather vest. But the kindness simmering in his blue eyes made him look like a proper gentleman who might come calling on a Saturday night.
That thought did something to her insides, had things stirring around in a very peculiar way.
“Happens to everyone now and again.” He held out a hand, inviting her to take the seat he’d prepared.
The stirring inside her grew warmer, something Kit thought she should question, but instead, another unusual instinct had her accepting his offer by placing her hand in his. He flinched sympathetically as she lowered herself, and his compassion somehow eased the sting as she settled onto the blanket. “Thank you, Mr. Hoffman.” Feeling a need to justify something—whether her abilities or the odd things going on inside her—she added, “I have ridden before.”
His brows arched enigmatically. “I’ve no doubt you have, Katherine.” Clay handed her a long strip of jerky and forcibly bit the end off another piece. He chewed slowly, sitting there beside her and gazing across the hillside.
She wondered why he’d emphasized her name so. The way he said it made her heart skip a beat. Kind of like when she’d thought of him calling on Saturday nights. No one had ever called upon her any night of the week, so where on earth had that thought come from? Pondering, she let her gaze wander along the same skyline as his.
It was a picturesque sight, the mountainside decorated with newly leafed trees and patches of bold green grass, along with pines and spruces, unfathomably dense, that grew in the most unexpected places. Even during the train ride, which had had her stomach flipping and her temples pounding, she’d been in awe at the beauty of the Rockies. Gramps had told her about it, but up close, the wild and raw grandeur was astounding. Romantic, even.
“So,” Clay said, interrupting her ponderings, “why the getup?”
She swallowed and licked the salt from the jerky off her lips. “The getup?”
His eyes roamed from the hole in the tip of one boot to the plaid shirt hanging loosely about her shoulders.
“I figured a boy riding in the hills wouldn’t gain much more than a second glance,” she said.
They were silent for a while, other than the crunch of teeth sinking into the apples, which were surprisingly sweet and crisp considering they must have been bouncing around in his saddlebags. When he’d pitched his apple core toward Andrew, and the horse had snatched it up quickly, Clay asked, “And the bandages?”
Kit felt the heat rise on her cheeks, but didn’t bow her head or look away. “I told you, they aren’t bandages.”
“Then what are they?”
The