"Do you? I don't suppose you'd share that reason with me?"
"I know Blackhawk better than you do," Little Bear said with a dismissive shrug.
Amanda heard his sigh, and she watched as he settled more comfortably in the chair, his gaze on the flames crackling in the hearth. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. She would have sworn the glow of the fire hadn't put that devilish sparkle in Little Bear's eyes. His next words confirmed it.
"Oh, and there is one other reason I know Blackhawk will return."
She waited for him to continue. It took almost a full minute before she realized he had no intention of doing so. She decided to wait him out, refusing to be baited. Only one arched golden brow spoke of her curiosity. But Little Bear wasn't looking at her, he didn't see it. He said nothing and instead just continued to stare into the flames.
The baby, sensing her anxiety, squirmed in her arms. Amanda crooned and stroked him. When Jacob had settled, and when she didn't think she could stand the suspense a second longer, she speared Little Bear with a sharp glare. "Tell me," she said finally, almost but not quite desperately. "Please. I need to know. How can you be so sure Jake will come back?"
Little Bear's gaze
met hers, and he grinned broadly. "Because the wild bird has already flown home. Blackhawk is here, Amanda Lennox. He has been for hours."
Chapter 14
Three times Amanda came oh, so close to going outside the cabin and inside the barn. The temptation was there, undeniable and strong. So was the need to see and touch Jake again.
Three times the humiliating words he'd slapped in her face after they'd made love held her back. No, she would not—could not—go to him. She refused to humble herself that way.
That didn't mean she didn't want him. She did—physically, mentally, in any way she could have him, for as long as he would stay with her. Amanda wanted that so badly she ached.
Again and again. The memory of those words were the only thing that kept her sane, that made the pain bearable. His promise burned like fire inside of her.
As she lay in front of Little Bear and Gail's stone hearth, wrapped up in three threadbare blankets, Amanda remembered the passion-dark glances Jake had sent her after they'd made love, and she felt her blood flow hot.
She tossed restlessly onto her back. The dirt floor felt hard and lumpy beneath her. She squirmed, trying to find a comfortable spot. There was none. With a frustrated sigh, she flung the back of one hand over her eyes... and remembered a time when the ground hadn't felt so hard, when the only lumps pressing into her were made up of corded male flesh.
Wind rattled the window panes, sneaking through the cracks in the casing. A chilly rush of air skimmed the floor and whispered over Amanda. She shivered. The blankets and the crackling fire helped warm her. Of course, there'd been a time when Jake Chandler's body had provided all the covering she needed, all the heat she could possibly stand.
Groaning, Amanda tossed onto her side. The fire warmed her cheeks and brow, caressing the golden curls that rested there. It was a peaceful feeling, warm and lulling. It might even have eased her into sleep, if her mind hadn't picked that moment to wonder if Jake had built his own fire in the barn. Had he dared? Or were his problems with his sister so irreconcilable that he'd rather sleep on the hard ground without a fire to keep him warm—just in case Gail spotted the telltale glow and came to investigate?
Surely he wouldn't be so foolish, so stubborn.
Surely she wasn't concerned about him!
Yes, she was. Very concerned. The idea of him curled up and shivering on the hard, cold ground ate at Amanda. It shouldn't have—after all, it was his own mule-headed pride that forbade him from coming to his sister's cabin—but it did.
Amanda tried telling herself that if Jake was cold and hungry, he had no one to blame but himself, as she kicked the blankets off and pushed to her feet. She told herself he was a grown man who was more than capable of taking care of himself, as she crossed the room, grabbed the cloak that hung drying on a peg by the back door, flung it over her shoulders and tied it hastily in place. She told herself that Jake was perfectly capable of lighting his own fire—God knows, he'd proven that point quite well!—and that he didn't need her to goad him into it, as she reached out, her fingers poised and trembling on the cold metal door latch.
Finally, she told herself that what she was doing was wrong, that if she went to him now, she wouldn't respect herself for it come morning. What followed was a stern mental lecture on why self-respect had become so important to her, and why she would be a fool to sacrifice it over a man who clearly didn't want or need her as badly as she wanted and needed him.
Her hand flexed, fisted, then dropped limply to her side. Leaning forward on the balls of her feet, she rested her forehead against the cold, rough door, and sucked in several deep breaths.
Last, Amanda told herself that she would be a fool to fall in love with a man like Jacob Blackhawk Chandler. He had scars etched into his soul that she could never understand; scars that ran deep, that hadn't healed, that might never heal enough for him to love her back. Caring for a man like that would only bring her trouble. Not having her feelings returned would give her more heartache than she could endure.
"Ah, Jake," Amanda sighed to the silent, empty room. She pushed wearily away from the door and started to turn, but was brought up short when the silent, empty room responded in a soft, familiar drawl that curled like sun-warm honey down her spine.
"Yes, Amanda?"
Had thoughts of Jake conjured up his voice? Had she wanted to see and hear and touch him so badly that her mind sought to soothe her by making her imagine he was standing behind her? And did she want to turn around only to find he wasn't there, his voice a figment of her wishful imagination? God, no!
"Jake?" she asked hesitantly, hopefully.
"Amanda."
The soft, feathery touch on her shoulder was not her imagination. Her imagination wasn't that good. No, the feel of his hand was too warm, too vibrant to be anything but real.