Читать книгу The Midwife's Secret - Kate Bridges - Страница 9

What was she supposed to do about Tom Murdock?

Amanda’s breathing grew labored as she pedaled uphill. The sound of wheels swooshing through grass echoed off the mountains. Imagine! He’d ripped her deed right out of her hands. Landsake’s, it wouldn’t help him. Yesterday on her arrival, she’d visited the land registry and her name was written in the ledger.

She thought of his note and bristled. Normally she’d never read another person’s mail, but it’d fallen right beneath her nose. She didn’t recall it word for word, but it went something like: “Dear Tom, I’ve decided to spend the summer with my family in Calgary. I’m taking this evening’s train. Yours, Clarissa.”

It was written on pretty stationery with fancy handwriting, and he’d turned tomato red when he’d looked at it. Nothing would cause a man to turn that red unless Clarissa was a woman he was involved with. Well, they didn’t seem particularly close, as it was only signed Yours, not Affectionately Yours or With Love.

Hard to imagine that coldhearted man passionately involved with any woman. William had been in the beginning, but it hadn’t lasted. They were in love, she’d thought. Happily married homesteaders on their ranch just west of Calgary, trying hard to make ends meet and planning for a large family. Maybe if he’d paced his feelings, his love for her would’ve endured. The way a man’s love was supposed to endure when he said his vows. In sickness and in health.

She’d heard William had remarried quickly; that his new wife was already in her eighth month. Amanda had silently forgiven him two months ago, when she’d decided to move from her family’s home in Calgary to Banff and not let her anger eat her alive. There were more important things she could do, helping other women through the same horrible loss. If she could ease their burden, then she figured what had happened to her would somehow all make sense.

Dismounting her bicycle, she peered through the faraway pines and glimpsed her dilapidated shack, its chimney smoke rising above it, a welcome sight after her rough morning.

“Howdy, Missus Amanda!”

Laughter from the six smallest O’Hara children next door reached her. They froze beside their log cabin as soon as they caught sight of her. You’d think she were from another star, how awed they were by her bicycle. Pigs grunted in their fieldstone pen and chickens clucked in scattered directions. The children’s dirty, smudged noses and exuberant waving brought a gush of warm, wonderful feelings. She waved back.

She was almost healed, she recognized with pleasure. That sudden stab of pain when she glanced at boisterous children was almost gone. And yet…other times, in her deepest thoughts, mostly during nighttime when she yearned for sleep but it wouldn’t come, those same questions assailed her.

Did it make her less of a woman because she could no longer bear any more children herself? Did it make her less of a woman because the one sweet baby she’d had, had come into the world stillborn?

Of course it didn’t, she knew in her logical mind. But sometimes, in her illogical heart, she floundered. What kind of woman did it make her, when her husband had left her, divorced her, because of her inabilities?

Exhaling softly, she turned onto the dirt path, leaned the bicycle against the big spruce, then removed her store-bought items. She hadn’t held her baby and that was her greatest loss.

Eighteen months ago, the people helping in the delivery, including her loving grandpa, thought it would be kindest to protect Amanda from that anguish. Placenta previa, they’d declared. Her placenta had partially covered her cervix. During delivery, Amanda had lost her baby as well as her uterus. Later, she’d learned that the little infant girl had taken two small gasps, then was gone. Amanda hadn’t even seen her face.

What had she looked like? What would seven and a half pounds feel like to cradle in one’s arms? Amanda had never paid deliberate attention before, holding other people’s babies, but it wasn’t anything she’d take lightly anymore. She hiked the muddy turnip into her arms. Would seven and a half pounds feel like this?

The rhythm of her breathing faltered. Too light.

She hoisted the sack of flour into her arms. Like this? Her throat ached. A touch too heavy. And Ten Pounds was clearly stamped on the burlap.

“Amanda, is that you?”

Amanda cleared her throat. “Yes, Grandma.” Composing herself, she stepped into the clearing and bid good morning.

Dressed in dark clothing, in mourning for her husband for another two months, Grandma flung a gray braid over her dumpling figure and smiled. She’d taken a chair into the sunshine and was working on her rag rug, an idea she had to earn them extra money. A fire blazed beside her—and the shotgun that protected them from marauding wolves and black bears.

Amanda couldn’t bear to mention bad news. She would use her last three hundred dollars to build the cabin, despite Tom Murdock. William had left her with nothing. He’d taken the ranch, the cattle, the quarter section land, even her two dogs. And because he was an old friend of both law practices in Calgary, legally she hadn’t stood a chance.

She also had her grandmother to support, despite the small inheritance Grandma, and the rest of the family, had received after Grandpa’s fatal stroke. For the past five years while Grandpa had trained Amanda in his home, she and her grandma had spent most of their days in the pleasure of each other’s company. Now the two women preferred to live together. Besides, Amanda’s mother and father were busy tending to the rest of the family—Amanda’s brother, and sister, and all their new babies—to tend to Grandma, so it’d worked out for the best.

“Howdy, honey. Did you meet Mr. Finnigan?”

Amanda slid her packages to the ground. “He’s out of town. I met his partner, Mr. Murdock.”

“Did he quote you a fair price?” Grandma’s plump nose spread wider as she smiled, and Amanda realized how lucky she was, still to have her grandmother, to have this land, to have the sun shining on her face.

Amanda would shoulder the burden of Tom Murdock alone. “Mr. Murdock is busy with other projects, but there are two other builders in town. I’ll visit them this afternoon.”

Two nights later Graham Robarts burst into the sawmill, startling Tom.

“What the heck are you doin’ workin’ so late?” asked Graham. “It’s after ten o’clock.” Short and blond, dressed in a fringed deerskin coat, he cast long shadows on the wall as he passed by the scattered kerosene lamps. Although a constable in the North West Mounted Police, he came dressed in civilian clothes as Tom had requested. It would arouse fewer questions.

Squatting beside the kitchen cupboard he was building, Tom tapped the cornice moulding into place. “If I get these cupboards finished by the end of this week instead of next, I’ll almost be able to make payroll.”

“Are these for the big hotel?”

“Yeah.” Finer furniture had been ordered from Quebec and Europe for the hotel’s public spaces—reproductions of English masters—but Tom was contracted for the everyday furniture for the kitchens, cleaning areas and staff quarters.

“Can’t you get your men to help you?”

Tom towered over his friend. “That would compound my problem. I’d have to pay them extra for their time. If I work alone, I can speed the payments coming in.”

“You can’t work both mornin’ and night. And when’s the last time you ate anything?”

Tom blinked his tired eyes. “If I don’t make payroll, my men will lose their jobs. Eleven out of fourteen have wives and children to support. You know Donald O’Hara? On top of his eight, he just told me he’s got another one on the way.”

The friendly wrinkles at Graham’s eyes faded with concern. He was a good man, Tom thought, a childhood friend who’d grown up with him back east, halfway across the continent in the big city of Toronto. Where Tom and his father had practiced carpentry, Graham and his were in the police force.

“All right,” said Tom. “Give me the bad news. What did you find out about that Ryan woman?”

“It’s clear to me that the deed is binding.”

The words caused Tom’s body to sink. He picked up a piece of sanding paper and began rubbing. Deep in his heart, he knew that already. He’d known it two days ago when he’d checked the land registry, and then again when he’d reread the article of signing privileges in his partnership agreement with Finnigan.

“I’ll do everything I can to find Finnigan,” Graham vowed.

Clenching his jaw, Tom dug the sandpaper deeper into the wood. “The sawmill was nearly paid off. Tourists about to arrive, Banff about to expand. Lots of business for everyone.” And me, about to get married to a woman I loved.

“Let me open an official file, Tom. Press the charges. We’ll get Finnigan.”

Tom sighed. Opening an official file meant opening his wounds to the world.

When he shrugged, Graham removed his jacket, picked up a rag cloth and tin of linseed oil, then began varnishing one of a dozen clock shelves. “How’s Clarissa? How’s she takin’ this?”

Tom scowled. “She’s not around. She left.”

Graham squinted. “Aw, hell, I’m sorry.”

Yeah, so was Tom. He thought Clarissa Ashford would be his wife. Originally from Ottawa, she’d moved with her folks to Calgary when they’d opened their jewelry store. When they’d visited Banff last summer, she bumped into Tom at Ruby’s Dining and Boarding House, and extended her visit. She was a woman who laughed readily, enjoyed an intelligent conversation and was eager to start a family. Tom’s family. Maybe a son or two Tom could pass the sawmill down to, or a daughter Tom could teach how to ride, or how to appreciate a fine piece of furniture. Hell, had he lost that dream, too?

Clarissa had accused him of working too hard, of ignoring her. She thought he spent too much time worrying about his brothers and father, and not enough about them. He ran a hand through his sleek hair and wondered. Was she right?

If he didn’t change his ways, she’d threatened, she’d leave and head back to Calgary. At first she said she wanted to help Tom and Finnigan expand their business. And how many times had she told them, with that teasing smile of hers, she couldn’t decide which one of them was smarter….

Hold on a minute. Tom’s gut squeezed. She wouldn’t have… She couldn’t have been part of Finnigan’s leaving.

Tom’s palms began to slide with sweat. “If you open an official file, how confidential can you keep it?”

“Just between me and the sergeant, if that’s what you want.” Graham studied his friend. “Why don’t you ask for Quaid’s help?”

“My brother would just hit the roof. You know how everyone panics in my family. Soon as there’s a possibility of something going wrong, they panic. They panicked about Pa, didn’t they?”

When they’d decided to move West three years ago to start the sawmill, Pa was as energetic and quick-minded as a twenty-year-old. But very soon, he began the forgetting spells, and it was Tom who’d taken over the business, who looked out for Pa. The rest of the family wanted him to live with someone—a nurse or guardian—while they completed their studies, but Tom insisted on Pa’s freedom. Pa wasn’t an invalid.

Even so, Tom didn’t blame his family. They were scared. They loved their father and wanted the best for him. But it all washed to the same thing. Tom’s family and his men all depended on Tom. Yesterday he’d carefully raked through the bills, looking for ones he could hold off paying. Gabe’s Toronto law tuition could wait until the end of August. For Quaid’s medical instruments, Tom would try for a credit note from the bank. As for Pa’s horses…well, shoot.

“What are you going to do about Miss Ryan?” asked Graham.

“I’ll go back and talk to her.” He prickled with the thought of having to go back to beg for work. “If she hires me, I’ll insist on a down payment. That’ll make the rest of payroll for the week.”

“What can I do?”

“Use your leads to find Finnigan.” Tom glanced up from screwing hinges. He had to be careful how he worded his next request, for there were some things he couldn’t share with Graham. “Find out if Clarissa’s all right, back with her folks. Then check on Amanda Ryan’s background. I’ve got this feeling…Mrs. Ryan’s hiding something.”

“They’re blackfly bites, and all over his arms. No wonder Willy’s scratching,” Amanda said, helping the four-year-old boy off the worn, wooden chair. “Ellie, rub this calamine lotion on it twice a day, and bring your boy back in two days.”

Morning sunshine poured through the shack’s open door, around the six children, the damp, dirt floor, the tiny alcove of Amanda’s narrow bed, then Grandma’s in the other corner. The rain had left three days ago. The crisp mountain air smelled of budding trees.

Ellie O’Hara squinted at the homemade canning jar full of calamine. Her curly red hair streamed down her shoulders. She patted her four-month-pregnant belly in a loving, absent way that reminded Amanda how she’d once done that herself. Amanda swallowed and glanced away, but was very happy to help.

She’d taken a quick liking to her neighbor, who’d moved from Ireland ten years ago but still spoke with her beautiful brogue. “Aye, I was worried it might be measles.”

“Thank goodness it’s not, not in your condition. You’ve got to take care of yourself, too. Please go to the apothecary’s and get those grains of iron. That’s why you’ve been tired lately. Ask your older boys—Pierce, especially—to lift the heavy things. The smaller children will help you, too, won’t you?”

A chorus of yeses and laughter filled the cabin. Amanda swooped them all outdoors, a mix of pigtails, freckles and scruffy woolen clothing.

“Hello!” A man’s voice boomed through the tall spruces, startling everyone.

She quaked with apprehension when she saw Tom Murdock, sitting high in the saddle of his chestnut mare. He tipped his cowboy hat. When his questioning eyes sought Amanda’s, she tingled with warning. Placing a hand on little Katie’s shoulders, Amanda adjusted her kerchief over her long loose hair, then tugged her apron. Why did he always make her feel self-conscious of what she was wearing? And why was he here? To return her deed, she hoped, and not to argue further.

Ellie, with her petite figure and narrow face, stepped toward him. “Mr. Murdock, how lovely to see you this mornin’.”

“Ma’am,” he replied, sliding out of his saddle.

His gaze searched the shack, glossing over the new curtain on the only window, the freshly scrubbed but weathered pine planks, and no doubt noticing the missing winter mud, and the missing cobwebs dangling from the half-rotten shingles.

“I’d like to thank you, Mr. Murdock,” said Ellie in her brogue, “for givin’ the extra work to Donald. Especially now.”

Amanda recalled her husband worked at the sawmill.

“You’re most welcome. How are you feeling?”

“Fine, thank you.” Ellie flushed at his attentive gaze. “Come along, children, it’s time to gather eggs.” She stepped close to Amanda and whispered, “Are you sure six eggs is enough payment?”

“That’ll be fine,” Amanda said softly. “I haven’t eaten eggs for almost two weeks and I miss them.”

Ellie broke into a bright smile. Amanda was tempted to beg her to stay, to protect Amanda from being alone with Tom, but she knew she was being ridiculous. She battled with her fears and prayed Grandma would soon return from her ride.

When the O’Haras left, Tom looked up at the blue sky and removed his hat. His long hair was a rich, raven black. His clean-shaven jaw gleamed bronze in the sun.

“Good morning,” he said again, intimately, addressing only her this time. A corner of his handsome mouth tugged up, almost apologetic.

She swallowed. “Good morning. What brings you here?”

“I’ve got something of yours to return.” The muscles in his shoulders played beneath his shirt as he slid out a square yellow envelope from his leather vest. He offered it to her.

“My deed?”

“That’s right.”

She took it, being very careful not to stand too close. “Thank you.” Flustered, she slid it into her skirt pocket, then tucked her baggy blouse into her narrow waistline. His eyes slowly followed the movements over her body.

When he didn’t say anything more, she pulled in a brisk breath and steadied her nerves. “Well, I best be getting back to my duties. There’s a young couple in town I met yesterday. They’re expecting their first, and I promised I’d stop by.” Later this afternoon, but he didn’t need to know that.

“That would be the tinsmith’s daughter, Fannie.”

“That’s right. Good day.” She turned and walked away.

He sidestepped her and barred her path. Lord, the man was big. He peered at the shack, as if he were searching for something to prolong the conversation. “It’s still lopsided and won’t hold out for another year, but it must have taken you hours to scrub it down.”

She followed his gaze. “It did.” Thinking of the yellow envelope she’d just stuffed into her pocket, Amanda blurted, “I assume you verified my deed?”

His green eyes lit with amber. His profile exuded power. “Yeah.”

She was curious to know what had happened to Mr. Finnigan, but feared mentioning his name might put her own property in jeopardy again, so she let the topic pass.

Her fingers trembled into her apron. “Well, then, I suppose there’s nothing else to say. Thanks for dropping it by.” She turned to go. Tom’s warm hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her back, gently, sending her stomach twisting in a thousand directions. She blinked up at his handsome face, the dashing age lines around his eyes and mouth.

His gaze trailed over her forehead, down her lips and back into her eyes. “You know,” he said with a soft voice, “you’ve got the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Stumbling out of his grasp, she stammered, “What do you— How could you—”

Quickly stepping away, he played with the brim of his hat. “I’m sorry, it just struck me.”

His comment left her speechless. What a thing to say! She wasn’t sad, she tried her best to be cheerful.

He cleared his throat while she caught her breath, then he scratched the back of his neck. “We got off on the wrong foot, and I’m here to apologize. You’re not making this easy.” He stared off at the mountains. “I was thinking,” he continued, “if you’re still aiming to build your log cabin, I’d like to make a bid.”

Her guard was stronger now. “Why?”

“What sort of question is that? I’m a builder and that’s what I do.”

She stood her ground. “Why do you want to build my cabin? I’m sure there’s other work out there. For that fancy hotel, I imagine. And the others that are going up.”

“I’ve got a large crew, and I’d like to keep them working.” His tone was firm but civil. “Most of the large construction is over, and there’ll be a lull in the summer.”

“I just heard Ellie thank you for giving her husband extra work.”

“He needs it.” His dark brows arched with a challenge.

“No thank you, I don’t think we could work together.” In several long strides she wove her way into the forest, toward the river to haul some water. She had to do something with the extra energy he evoked in her, which he seemed to evoke every time they met. Grabbing the water yoke that lay along the path, she slid the smooth wooden handle across her shoulder blades, allowing the buckets to dangle from the ropes on either end.

“Would you stop running away from me,” he said, following her, causing her to catch her breath again. “Don’t you want to hear my bid?”

“There are two other builders in town, and they’ve already given me their quotes.”

He ducked a tree. “Let’s start over. I didn’t mean to get mad at you in the mill. You happened to walk in while I was getting bad news.”

From Clarissa? she wondered. No, it had started before he’d opened the note from Clarissa.

They reached the bank of the Bow River and stopped for a moment. She slid her yoke and buckets to the ground. The sound of surging water, three hundred feet wide, gushed around them. Cut logs thudded against each other, floating downriver from the lumbering camps, making their journey to Calgary.

When she glanced upriver, she spotted the huge brick-and-limestone facade of the new hotel. Only three short days ago, she was thrilled to have moved to Banff.

The town itself was less than five years old, the population under a thousand. In posters across the prairies, the Canadian Pacific Railway promised that a tourist industry would follow the building of their Banff Springs Hotel. They claimed it would make their railroad self-supporting, give the tourists all the excitement of the wild West without the pesky discomforts and create a spectacular opportunity for anyone wanting to be part of it.

She still wanted to be a part of it. What else would give her life meaning, but to open a midwifery practice and to put to good use the excellent training and experience she had?

“Let’s see, how big do you want your log cabin?” he asked. “Twenty-four by twenty-four? One big room with a stone fireplace?”

Was there any harm in getting his bid? She didn’t have to take it, and maybe then the man would leave. “I’d like to have two spare bedrooms attached, so that would make the overall building twenty by thirty.”

“Two spare rooms? For a future family, I suppose.”

The comment caught her by surprise.

“I mean,” he explained softly, “if you do remarry, and you might, you might need the spare rooms.”

“I’ll be using them to take in homeless children.”

The lines around his eyes deepened with respect. “I see. Unfortunately, Banff does get a few orphans. Mostly because of accidents. Sometimes an avalanche. Or consumption. Or a fire.” He stepped back and seemed to soak her in. “How many windows are there to cut?”

“Four.”

“Porch?”

“I’d like one around the front.”

“Well, that’s an easy estimate. I’d say it’d cost you roughly two hundred and twenty dollars.”

With an exclamation of surprise, she dropped into the soft grass of the riverbank.

“I know I’m under the other two bids. I always am. I can cut and saw lumber cheaper than anyone else in town.”

He was a lot under. Sixty dollars under. A world of difference.

“I paid Mr. Finnigan five hundred dollars for this piece—”

“What? You paid him five hundred for what?”

“For the shack, and the right to the property.”

That, for some reason, seemed to knock the wind out of him. He sank into the grass beside her. He really was surprised by Mr. Finnigan’s sale, wasn’t he? Well, it didn’t matter. The money had still gone into their joint sawmill coffers. And Amanda was sure five hundred dollars didn’t make much of a dent in the thousands of dollars of construction he saw in a year.

Standing up, he shoved his hat back onto his head. As she deliberated what to do, Tom dunked the buckets into the river and hoisted them to his shoulders. He did it with such ease, she wondered what it’d be like to have a man to help her here with the harder, backbreaking work. To spend the evenings together, to call on neighbors, to keep her body warm at night. But then, the last thing she wanted was another man. Some men couldn’t be counted on when a woman really needed them, and she had no desire to find out what kind of man Tom Murdock was.

When she bounded into the clearing, Grandma, in her split skirt, turned down the path on the bicycle. “Honey, I’m back.” Spotting Tom, she added, “I didn’t know we had company.”

“Howdy, ma’am. My name’s Tom Murdock.”

A smooth rider, Grandma gave a little gasp of delight as she dismounted. They gathered around the pounded earth by the logs where they usually lit the fire. With hesitation, Amanda introduced them. “This is my grandmother, Clementine Stewart.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Grandma, patting her thick gray braids. “But I thought you were too busy to come around.”

“I had a slight change of plans.” He smiled graciously as they shook hands, then glanced at Grandma’s dark clothing.

Grandma explained. “My husband passed away ten months ago. He was the dear fella who trained Amanda here. My poor, dear Scott, he taught this little lady everything she knows about medicine.”

Grandma rambled on, much to Amanda’s dismay. Grandma loved to visit, and if you didn’t watch, she’d spill every secret they had. “He was a doctor, servin’ the poorer folks in town, never insistin’ on payment, but those who could paid mostly with goods. Matter of fact, one of his customers gave him this here bicycle. What was his name? Mr. Withers, that’s right. He had gall bladder problems.”

With a twinkle in his eye, Tom leaned close to Grandma. “He didn’t get it from the bicycle, did he?”

“Heavens, no!” Grandma shrieked with laughter. It had been a while since she’d had visitors, thought Amanda, and she should be around more people, if this is how much enjoyment she was getting out of Tom’s visit.

“My sympathies on your husband, ma’am,” he acknowledged to Grandma, then turned solemnly to face Amanda. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you said you were widowed, as well. How long ago did your husband pass away?”

Grandma fell into a coughing spell at Amanda’s obvious lie.

Amanda’s heart lurched. The women stared at each other. They signaled wildly behind Tom’s back; Grandma urging her to tell the truth, Amanda adamantly refusing.

“Yes, dear,” Grandma said between coughs, “go on, tell us.”

Amanda clutched her apron. She already knew Grandma’s thoughts on this. That Amanda shouldn’t hide anything from her past. That she should stand up to everyone who asked. Nothin’ to be ashamed of. “It’s difficult for me to talk about, if you don’t mind.”

Glancing toward his mare that was ripping grass by the tree where he’d tied it, Tom tilted his dark head. “I understand.”

“What exactly is so difficult?” Grandma raised her wide gray eyebrows and spoke innocently. “Tell the man what he asked.”

Tom cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, getting trapped between the two women. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

Amanda pursed her lips at Grandma. “It’s difficult to talk about the painful things in my past.”

“Well, sometimes, they get less difficult the more you talk about them. Amazin’ things can happen. Sometimes, you can start talking about your widowed past, and before you finish the sentence and you’ve got it all off your chest, you feel like you’re not widowed at all.”

Grandma eyed her. Amanda eyed her back. It was her concern alone. A blunt man such as Tom Murdock wouldn’t understand.

Tom turned to Grandma. “Is that how you feel, ma’am, about being widowed?”

Grandma sputtered. “No.”

Rubbing his smooth jaw, Tom looked more perplexed. “Well, I best be going.”

He was probably leaving, thought Amanda with a twinge of embarrassment, because he thought they were talking in circles. Which they were. Something she and Grandma were good at.

Amanda followed as he walked to his mare.

“Do we have a deal then?” he asked, unhitching the reins from the branch.

“How soon could you start?”

“How does tomorrow morning suit you?”

“How quickly could you get it done?”

“Six weeks.”

“It’s a deal on two conditions.”

Tom groaned. “Go on.”

“Number one. I get the agreement in writing, and receipts for each deposit.”

“A handshake’s not good enough, I see.”

“Number two. For every day earlier that you finish before the six weeks is up, could you take off fifty cents?”

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’d like to help with the work. The other two builders agreed, and for each day of labor, I’d be getting paid fifty cents a day. But only if it saves you time, so you’re able to speed along to your next job.”

“How much time could that amount to? You could help with clearing brush, but the other work is too heavy. You might save me two days, so you’d earn…maybe one dollar?” He gazed over the shack. “If you really need—” He caught himself before he finished the insulting comment. “All right. I’ll need a starting deposit of ten percent in the morning. See you bright and early.”

She pulled in a deep sigh of satisfaction. “See you.”

He reached for his saddle horn, about to swing up, but stopped himself. He turned around. “The other two builders didn’t really agree to your help, did they?”

A nervous smile fluttered over her lips. “Not exactly.”

His lips curled as if on the edge of laughter. “Didn’t think so.”

As she turned to leave, he tapped her shoulder, reminding her again how long it’d been since she’d been touched by a man.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I still go by a handshake.”

With a rapid thud of her pulse, she pressed her hot, wet palm into his slick, hard grip, trembling at the thought of what tomorrow would bring. What on earth was she agreeing to, with this forceful man?