Heartland Wedding. Renee Ryan

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      Could he be in the blacksmith shop? She took a step forward, but a gust of wind shoved her back. She missed her footing, twisted in midair and landed on her hands and knees.

      “Edward,” she whimpered, loss of hope making her voice crack.

      Gritting her teeth, she wobbled to a standing position. One step. Two. A hand clamped around her arm and pulled her backward, away from the stable.

      “No.” She fought against the steely grip. “Please. I need to get to my brother.”

      “You need to get below ground.”

      Instead of calming her, the sound of the gravelly voice, so strong and masculine and unmistakably not Edward, shot a wave of pure terror through her.

      “I have to find my brother. He might not realize the danger. He—”

      “There’s no time.”

      She looked to the heavens. The swirling clouds were better organized now, twisting in a powerful circular motion. She clawed at the hand still holding her arm. “Let me go.”

      “Rebecca, you’ll do Edward no good if you panic.”

      The use of her name, rather than the words spoken, had her turning her head toward the insistent voice. Her gaze connected with the intense, deep brown eyes of Pete Benjamin. Her stomach folded inside itself. She’d never seen such raw emotion in the reserved blacksmith before. Fear, impatience—both were glaring back at her.

      “Pete.” She had to shout over the wind. “Help me find him.”

      “No time. We have to take cover.”

      Without waiting for her to respond, he forced her away from the stable, step by step. Not roughly, but with firm, insistent movements.

      As if to punctuate his urgency, the rain let loose. The wind turned deafening, the sound as loud as if they were standing in the path of an incoming freight train.

      The door to the blacksmith shop flung open. The clank of tools slamming into the walls could be heard over the wind. Rationally, she knew she had to get out of the storm, but she couldn’t move.

      “Hurry.” Pete readjusted his hold, practically lifting her off the ground as he took off toward the back of the livery. Rebecca half stumbled, half skipped beside him.

      With each step, wind and horizontal rain spit in her face. She ducked her head, but tears leaked from her eyes, anyway.

      Just as she turned her face to the sky again, Pete yanked her toward him. “Look out.”

      One of his tools flew past her head, missing her by mere inches.

      “Stay down.” Pete released her long enough to throw open the door to the storm cellar. Without his sturdy grip, Rebecca fell to her knees again.

      He lifted her to her feet. “You first.”

      “I—”

      “Go.”

      She went. In her haste, she tripped just as she reached the bottom of the steps, landing hard against the wall. She turned around, flattened her back against the unforgiving stone and tried to settle her ragged breathing. But like the bugs scurrying past her feet, thoughts chased around in Rebecca’s brain.

      She shifted slightly to her left, batting away the cobwebs as she went. A few seconds later, Pete rushed into the cellar.

      With a powerful jerk, he pulled the door shut behind him and threw the bolt. The gesture plunged the small room into pitch-black darkness.

      “There’s a lantern on the middle shelf to your left,” he yelled down to her.

      Hands shaking, Rebecca reached out and fumbled around until her palm curled around cool glass. “I’ve got it,” she shouted back.

      “The matches are beside it, on your right.”

      Hands shaking harder still, she found the box of matches. It took her three attempts to ignite one. Momentarily blinded by the miniature fire, she somehow managed to light the lantern, anyway.

      Pete came down the first three steps and then stopped, his gaze never fully leaving the door. Loud, hissing air slipped through the slats, filling every crevice of the room, a brutal reminder of the terror sweeping across their small Kansas town.

      Had Edward found cover in time?

      Hail pounded against the cellar door like hammers to iron. And still, Pete stared, his face raised. What was he doing? Why wasn’t he joining her at the bottom of the steps?

      Desperate for something to do besides worry, Rebecca took the opportunity to look around. The cellar was barely a third of the size of her room at Mrs. Jennings’s boardinghouse. Cobwebs had made use of every available corner, while the smell of earth and mold spoke of obvious neglect.

      An entire wall was filled with shelves from floor to ceiling, but other than the lantern and matches there was nothing on them. She supposed Pete’s wife had once kept these shelves full with her canning efforts. But Rebecca couldn’t know for sure. Sarah Benjamin had died in childbirth before Rebecca had arrived in High Plains.

      Poor Pete. To lose his wife so young. And without any warning. Rebecca knew about that kind of sudden loss and the loneliness that followed.

      Wanting to break the silence but not knowing what to say, she stared at Pete’s back while he continued to watch the cellar door rattle on its hinges. The unmistakable sound of farm tools and other items crashed against the door.

      Would the wood hold? Was that why Pete continued staring up, as though his vigilance would keep the door intact?

      Rebecca ran her gaze from end to end along his broad shoulders. He was a big, sturdy man, built of hard muscle and strong character, much like Edward.

      At the thought of her brother, Rebecca’s breathing quickened to short, hard pants. What if he died in the storm? Tears pooled in her eyes.

      As though sensing her anguish, Pete finally turned and captured her gaze with his. Even in the low light she could see his eyes, usually so sad and distant, softening in the same way they did when he was tending a horse in his livery stable. He probably didn’t realize that his expression also gave her a brief glimpse into his loneliness.

      Such pain. It hurt to look at him. Without realizing what she was doing, she took a step forward.

      He came down the stairs and placed a hand on her shoulder. His touch was completely impersonal. So was his gaze. “Don’t worry, Rebecca. Edward is a smart man, resourceful. He’s lived in this area long enough to know to take cover in a storm.”

      That calm, confident declaration did nothing to soothe her fears. In fact, she trembled harder. Intelligence and good sense had nothing to do with surviving unpredictable weather. Her own parents had died in an ice storm six months ago.

      Awful memories threatened to consume her. She gripped her throat and looked frantically around her. Was the cellar getting smaller? She fisted a clump of hair in her hand. White-hot waves of anxiety slipped СКАЧАТЬ