when he'd told her to leave him alone. Couldn't she see that what she was doing was destroying the life he'd made for himself? Dammit, he didn't want to hurt her… he just wanted her to go away.
No.
He wanted for her to never have come.
Samuel had spent years getting used to being alone. At first he'd hungered for the sound of another voice besides his own. He'd yearned to have even one friend. But finally, on his thirtieth birthday five years ago, he'd come to accept that it would never be. That he was slated to go through life alone.
He'd stopped craving the things other men took for granted. Long ago he'd given up any dream of having a woman of his own. A wife. Children. And with that acceptance, he'd found peace.
Until now.
Until her.
Stopping his work momentarily, Samuel let his head drop back on his neck. He stared unblinkingly up at the sky through the slatted roof over his workbench. He couldn't let this happen. Abby was bringing long-dead dreams to life. She made him want the impossible. In the short time she'd been on the mountain, she'd awakened hungers he'd spent years learning how to ignore.
He shook his head and bent back to his task. In less than twenty-four hours one tiny woman had turned everything he'd ever known around. She didn't look at him with fear. She didn't slink away when he was angry. Instead, she smiled at him. Talked to him. And stood up to him with anger enough to match his own.
He found that he liked the sound of her voice. Her singing, her smile, even her addlepated logic.
His mind wandering from his task, the knife he held slid across his middle finger, slicing deep. Samuel dropped the knife, grabbed at a nearby rag, and wound it tightly around his finger. The throbbing pain seemed to underscore what he already knew. He had to make her leave quickly. Before he became too used to having her near. Otherwise, when she finally left, as he knew she would, it would kill him.
He stepped inside and looked expectantly at Abby. After how he'd treated her, he wouldn't blame her if she threw something at him. Though he'd lived alone for years, his mother hadn't raised him without teaching him manners. And she'd be right ashamed of him today. He'd not said one kind word to Abby about all the work she'd done. Hell, he hadn't even thanked her for breakfast that morning. And he hadn't eaten that good in years.
"Supper's ready," she said softly.
He wanted to kick himself good and proper. All the joy had left her face. Samuel felt like he'd stomped a puppy.
"Smells good," he finally answered.
Hesitantly he walked to the table and sat down. As she took her place opposite him, she stopped abruptly.
"What happened to your hand?"
"Huh?" His gaze followed hers, and he remembered slicing his finger. "Nothin' much. Just a scratch."
"Let me see it." She stepped around the table and held out her hand.
He looked at her and recognized the steely look of determination on her features. Sighing, he laid his palm across hers.
Gingerly Abby unwound the dirty rag he'd tied on. Samuel tried to ignore the touch of her fingers and concentrate instead on the pain shooting up from his hand.
"Great heavens, Samuel!"
He looked up.
Her eyes wide, mouth opened in shock, she went on. "This looks very deep."
"It'll be fine." "Perhaps." He tried to tug his hand away, but she held firm.
"Come over here." She moved toward her trunk, now sitting on the floor against the far wall.
"Abby," he began.
She turned on him. Hands on hips, she said, "No nonsense about this, Samuel. That hand needs sewing up."
"Sewin'? It's just a scratch."
She ignored him and opened her trunk.
Leaning into the half-empty trunk, she reached for a small box. As she threw back the lid, Samuel saw rows of needles, all different sizes, and spool after spool of various colors of thread. He took a step back when she selected a needle and pulled off a long length of black thread.
"Abby, you ain't gonna sew up my hand like you would a new
No.
He wanted for her to never have come.
Samuel had spent years getting used to being alone. At first he'd hungered for the sound of another voice besides his own. He'd yearned to have even one friend. But finally, on his thirtieth birthday five years ago, he'd come to accept that it would never be. That he was slated to go through life alone.
He'd stopped craving the things other men took for granted. Long ago he'd given up any dream of having a woman of his own. A wife. Children. And with that acceptance, he'd found peace.
Until now.
Until her.
Stopping his work momentarily, Samuel let his head drop back on his neck. He stared unblinkingly up at the sky through the slatted roof over his workbench. He couldn't let this happen. Abby was bringing long-dead dreams to life. She made him want the impossible. In the short time she'd been on the mountain, she'd awakened hungers he'd spent years learning how to ignore.
He shook his head and bent back to his task. In less than twenty-four hours one tiny woman had turned everything he'd ever known around. She didn't look at him with fear. She didn't slink away when he was angry. Instead, she smiled at him. Talked to him. And stood up to him with anger enough to match his own.
He found that he liked the sound of her voice. Her singing, her smile, even her addlepated logic.
His mind wandering from his task, the knife he held slid across his middle finger, slicing deep. Samuel dropped the knife, grabbed at a nearby rag, and wound it tightly around his finger. The throbbing pain seemed to underscore what he already knew. He had to make her leave quickly. Before he became too used to having her near. Otherwise, when she finally left, as he knew she would, it would kill him.
He stepped inside and looked expectantly at Abby. After how he'd treated her, he wouldn't blame her if she threw something at him. Though he'd lived alone for years, his mother hadn't raised him without teaching him manners. And she'd be right ashamed of him today. He'd not said one kind word to Abby about all the work she'd done. Hell, he hadn't even thanked her for breakfast that morning. And he hadn't eaten that good in years.
"Supper's ready," she said softly.
He wanted to kick himself good and proper. All the joy had left her face. Samuel felt like he'd stomped a puppy.
"Smells good," he finally answered.
Hesitantly he walked to the table and sat down. As she took her place opposite him, she stopped abruptly.
"What happened to your hand?"
"Huh?" His gaze followed hers, and he remembered slicing his finger. "Nothin' much. Just a scratch."
"Let me see it." She stepped around the table and held out her hand.
He looked at her and recognized the steely look of determination on her features. Sighing, he laid his palm across hers.
Gingerly Abby unwound the dirty rag he'd tied on. Samuel tried to ignore the touch of her fingers and concentrate instead on the pain shooting up from his hand.
"Great heavens, Samuel!"
He looked up.
Her eyes wide, mouth opened in shock, she went on. "This looks very deep."
"It'll be fine." "Perhaps." He tried to tug his hand away, but she held firm.
"Come over here." She moved toward her trunk, now sitting on the floor against the far wall.
"Abby," he began.
She turned on him. Hands on hips, she said, "No nonsense about this, Samuel. That hand needs sewing up."
"Sewin'? It's just a scratch."
She ignored him and opened her trunk.
Leaning into the half-empty trunk, she reached for a small box. As she threw back the lid, Samuel saw rows of needles, all different sizes, and spool after spool of various colors of thread. He took a step back when she selected a needle and pulled off a long length of black thread.
"Abby, you ain't gonna sew up my hand like you would a new
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