Oklahoma Sweetheart. Carolyn Davidson

a stern look that stripped her of her bravado.

      “What’s wrong with being a woman?” she asked sharply. “I can take care of myself.”

      He was silent, his eyes holding hers, his mouth a straight line, giving her no clue as to his thoughts.

      “I’ll be fine here,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about me, Connor. I’m strong and able to tend to things.”

      “You’re strong?” he asked, and with one smooth movement, he gathered her against himself and held her tightly, one arm around her waist, the other banding her shoulders.

      She was trapped in his embrace, and even though she feared him not, she knew her position was that of a woman who could not move without the consent of the man who held her immobile. “Don’t try to frighten me, Connor,” she said softly.

      “Are you frightened?” he asked harshly, as though his mood had turned to anger.

      She hesitated, unwilling to admit the wash of alarm that had indeed sped through her veins. And then she looked up into his face and shook her head. “I’m not afraid of you,” she told him. “You’re angry with me, but you won’t hurt me.”

      “I want to,” he admitted. “I want to shake you and knock you to the floor for betraying me. I loved you, Loris. I’d planned on a life with you, and you turned your back on all that to seek out my brother. And then you let him make love to you.” His nostrils flared as if he could barely contain the pain and rage that coursed through him.

      His big hands clutched her shoulders and she braced herself for his harsh touch on her slender form. But he only drew her closer to himself and his mouth claimed hers with a passion she could not refute.

      She submitted to his kiss, feeling the bruising of her mouth, the crush of his embrace, the strength of his hands as he held her. His tongue claimed her, sweeping into her mouth, the invasion one he’d never instigated before. Always his kisses had been gentle, tender and welcomed.

      That this claiming of her mouth was none of those mattered little. She only stood before him and endured. There was no tenderness in his caresses, for his hands were harsh, clutching at her softness, his fingers biting into her hips, his mouth hard against hers. She tasted blood and knew it came from her lips. She felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her belly, through several layers of clothing, and braced herself for his taking.

      It was not to be, for he lifted his head and looked down at her. One long index finger lifted to rub at her lip and she winced at the pain of it.

      “Your lip is bleeding, Loris,” he said softly.

      “I know,” she told him. “I can taste it.” That the inside of her lips were bruised and cut by the force of her teeth against them was of little matter. Her pain was small in comparison to what he felt, and she would not complain.

      But Connor seemed to sense more than she had expected of him, for he touched her mouth with his own again, and this time the kiss was tender, a silent plea for her forgiveness.

      “I’m sorry,” he said roughly, his voice hoarse as if the words were those of a man who had drunk his share, and more, of whiskey and was speaking past the aching throat muscles of one who had had reason to regret his overindulgence.

      She shook her head, offering him forgiveness, for she could do no less. He could have knocked her to the floor. And yet, he’d only spent his anger on her in passion. Even now, she felt his arousal prodding at her, and she backed away from the reminder of his desire.

      “I won’t hurt you again,” Connor said harshly. “Don’t be afraid of me, Loris.”

      “No,” she said quietly. “I’m not.”

      “I’ll chop some wood for you,” he told her. “And then I’ll go into town and get you some supplies.”

      “You needn’t do that,” she told him. “Just leave me, Connor. I’m not worth your concern.”

      “Ah, but you are,” he muttered. “James left some money for you, and I’m going to spend it on the things you’ll need for the next little while. And then we’ll figure out what to do.”

      “James left me money?” Her mind latched on that bit of information and she felt a surge of anger. “I don’t want his money,” she said bitterly. “I’d rather starve.”

      “Well, as long as I’m alive and breathing, you aren’t in any danger of starving,” Connor told her. He helped her onto a chair at the table and turned away. “I’m going out to chop wood, and I’ll be back in a bit. There should be enough in that stove to keep you warm for a couple of hours.”

      “Thank you,” she said softly, unwilling to meet his gaze, lest she begin crying and be unable to halt the deluge. Her tears would not be only for herself, but for the pain she had brought to Connor and his brother. For her own weakness that had forever caused a rift between two men who had been as close as any brothers could be. And for her loss of the man with her now. Connor could never forgive her or love her again, and her heart ached at the knowledge of what she had lost.

      Chapter Three

      Connor’s generosity was surprising—and almost overwhelming. The woodbox had been replenished before he left her alone. He’d gone to town, bought supplies for her and chopped more wood on his return, for over an hour, piling an impressive amount of kindling and good-sized logs on the back porch.

      And then he’d left, mounting his horse and riding away without another word, only a casual wave of his hand. Would he return? She doubted it, but then she’d have laid odds that he wouldn’t have shown up the first time. But Connor was a kind, gentle man, feeling a sense of responsibility to a woman in need, even if that woman was his former fiancée.

      Loris found a fresh loaf of bread in the supplies Connor had carried into the kitchen. He must have stopped at the bread lady’s house, a small cottage at the edge of town, where lived an elderly soul, Hilda Kane, who existed on the pitiful amount of money her baking brought to her. She baked daily, and Loris had been sent there almost that often to pick up a loaf or two for her mother.

      “I could bake my own,” her mother had said more than once, “but she needs the money and I can’t make it any better than Hilda’s.”

      Fresh bread was almost enough to make a meal from, Loris decided. She ate the last of the cheese and the few bits of beef left from the morning, and settled before the stove again. The sun had sunk into the western sky and dark clouds hid the moon and stars, promising snow by morning.

      But the kitchen was warm, and by tomorrow perhaps she’d feel like venturing into the other rooms, try to settle in a little better. After all, she couldn’t sleep on the kitchen floor for the rest of her life. But for tonight, it would do just fine.

      The woman was crazy. There was no way she could survive alone in that deserted house. Connor frowned, finishing up the evening chores. He handled twice as many now, with James gone, but they were done automatically, without thought, as if his body was created to perform the familiar duties of a farmer.

      For that was what he was. A farmer. Like his father before him, and his grandfather before that, the Webster men lived off the land. He’d been milking these cows and feeding the stock ever since he could remember.

      Connor doubted if his life would be any different than those who’d gone before. He’d always thought to find a nice girl, get married and work the homestead, taking care of his parents until they were gone from this world, leaving the property equally divided between the brothers. His children would follow suit, working and living off the land, and there was a solid feel of security there.

      The land would never let you down, his grandpa had said. If you tended your soil and fertilized and weeded your crops, you stood to reap a fine harvest. Unless the summer was dry and the rains refused to fall. Like