A Measure Of Love. Lindsay McKenna

her again. She was beautiful. Her eyes danced with a golden flame, her cheeks were flushed scarlet, and her lips were curved into a delightful smile. He wanted to reach out, draw her into his arms and kiss her and to drink in the absolute happiness that radiated from her. It was only in that moment that he began to understand how depressed he had been. Jessie’s laughter had lifted him out of the abyss of grief, and for a split second he felt like living again.

      The bay foal came bounding around the rear of his mother and with a little grunt, crashed headlong into Jessie. With a gasp of surprise, she fell back into the straw, the foal sprawled across her.

      Luckily the broodmare was a relatively calm mother who didn’t consider humans harmful to her baby, and she just stood there, watching. Jessie’s arms closed around the winded foal. His fur was soft and fuzzy, and she reveled in it. She saw Rafe get slowly to his feet and with a broad smile, she allowed him to pick the foal off her. His hand was firm on her arm as he guided her to her knees.

      “He’s so silky,” she whispered, petting the foal lying across her thighs. “Look, Rafe, he loves this! He loves me petting him.”

      Kneeling beside her, Rafe felt an ache sweep through him. His name had rolled off her lips like a husky prayer. “The colt’s got sense,” he murmured, picking bits of straw out of her hair. “I’d lie in your lap, too, if I got the chance.”

      Jessie lifted her face and stared up into his dark blue eyes, lost in their sudden intensity. Longing rippled through her as he continued to pull out straw that had collected on her braid when she had tipped over backward. When his callused fingers grazed the nape of her neck, her lips parted. A bolt of fiery pleasure nearly unstrung her. He was so close, so male and so virile. Her breath caught in her chest as she felt herself responding to an unspoken, primitive message.

      The colt whinnied plaintively, breaking the tenuous silence that stretched between Jessie and Rafe. She helped the colt back to his feet, then watched the baby forge headlong to the rear legs of his patient mother, in search of his noonday meal.

      Giving Rafe a shy glance, Jessie started to get up. His hand settled on her shoulder.

      “Stay put. He’ll come back to you,” he said.

      “But–”

      “This is the way we gentle the babies, Jessie. A wrangler will sit in the stall, talk to the foal, handle him, and generally make friends with him. The sooner it’s done, the more accepting the foal is of people.” He slanted a glance down at her and reluctantly removed his hand. “You did want to get to know horses, didn’t you?”

      “Well–I didn’t want to get in the way.”

      “You aren’t in the way, believe me.”

      In silence they remained where they were. Without touching him, Jessie was vividly aware of his strength and the power that emanated from him. The scent that was vividly his wafted over to her, mixed with the damp odor of his sheepskin jacket. Something raw and elemental inside her moved, stirred to life by the unique amalgam that was Rafe. No man had ever made her feel like a caldron of simmering, explosive emotions. And she was out of her league. Completely.

      The foal quenched his thirst then leapt back on his hind legs, nearly bowling himself over. His huge dark eyes focused on Jessie, and he toddled toward her. With a nicker, he thrust his tiny muzzle into her chest, nudging at the wool coat she wore. With a laugh, she curled her arms around the colt, petting him gently.

      “I’ve got to tell you,” she confided, “this is the greatest experience. I love babies. All babies. I never knew a foal could be so loving.”

      “Normally foals aren’t this friendly at first,” Rafe said with a nod toward the colt. “It’s you. The foal senses something good about you. He feels safe, or he wouldn’t have come back.” Hell, he’d feel safe, too, if he were wrapped in her arms.

      Frowning at the sudden thought, he gave himself a mental shake. He had to stop thinking about her like that. He got down on both knees and pushed his black felt hat back on his head. He was genuinely curious about her and her unusual combination of strength and warmth, and he also wanted to steer his mind to a safe topic. “Tell me about yourself,” he ordered.

      Chapter Three

      I’m afraid I’m a very boring subject, Mr. Kincaid.”

      “Call me Rafe. And I don’t think there’s anything boring about you.”

      Jessie shifted uncomfortably beneath his stare. “I can assure you,” she began, concentrating on petting the foal because she couldn’t stand how his cobalt-blue eyes melted her, “that I’ve lead a very quiet, limited and uneventful life.”

      “Where were you born?”

      Jessie groaned silently. He obviously couldn’t be dissuaded from the topic. With a small sigh, she answered, “In Washington, D.C.”

      “You lived there all your life?”

      “Yes. I’m a survivor of the street system of D.C. That in itself is a feat,” she said, managing a smile.

      “That explains why you’re not good on muddy roads,” he drawled.

      Recalling the fiasco on the ranch road, she grimaced. “It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

      He picked up a straw and chewed on it thoughtfully. “Most people don’t take their faults as gracefully as you do.”

      “I’ve had a lifetime of learning that I’m far from perfect.”

      “Sounds serious.”

      “I think it’s a virus I picked up.” Jessie smiled fully into his relaxed face. “Every once in a while, it flares back up, and I make a total fool out of myself.”

      One corner of his mouth twitched. “Think there’s an antidote?”

      Her laughter pealed through the stall. “How I wish there was! I’d be first in line for it.”

      “I like your style, Jessie Scott. Instead of pointing out your strengths, you point out your weaknesses. Why, I wonder?”

      “Let’s just say I had five years in a marriage that pointed out my defects and deficits instead of my strengths,” she murmured, resting her head against the foal’s fuzzy neck.

      “It takes two to make or break a marriage,” Rafe said, leaning his broad back against the stall and studying her.

      “To hear Tom’s version, it was more my fault than his.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      Jessie gave him a wary look. “Why all this sudden interest, Mr. Kin–”

      “Rafe,” he corrected. “I’d like to hear your side of the story if you’re willing to share it with me.”

      Jessica weighed the sincerity in his voice. She had never talked about her reasons to anyone. Neither Tom nor his family after the divorce had expressed any kind of sympathy, or extended a friendly hand. Now Rafe, with his soft words, was willing to listen. To care.

      She took a deep breath and allowed the foal to wander back to his mother. Clenching her hands into fists she rested them on the long curve of her thighs. “I was married just after I turned nineteen, while I was in college,” she began hesitantly. “I was young, idealistic and naive at the time. Tom was a senior, had lived and partied hard, and was ready to settle down. He was the son of a blue-collar family and believed that men should be the breadwinners and women should be barefoot and pregnant.

      “I grew up wanting only one thing in life: a family of my own. I wanted to marry and have babies. Maybe that’s old-fashioned for today’s modern women, but I didn’t care. Looking back on it, I fell in love with the idea more than with Tom. But I had thought that it was real, a binding love that could last us a lifetime. So I married Tom and quit college to become a happily married housewife.”

      Jessie