The Rogue (11 page)

"Did you tell the police?" Pansy asked, nervously wiping her hands on her checked apron.

"Yes. Everyone has a copy of the picture Susannah sketched. Morgan will call me here if they find out who it is. The FBI's in on it, so maybe we'll turn up something a little sooner."

Susannah heard her mother give a little moan, and she reached over and touched her shoulder and gave her a look she hoped she could decipher.

"Oh, I'm okay, honey," Pansy said in response, patting her hand in a consoling way.

Killian absorbed the soft look Susannah gave her worried mother. She had such sensitivity. How he wished he could have that in his life.
A sadness
moved through him, and he turned away, unable to stand the compassion on Susannah's features.

"Is Sam still out at the barn?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"I'll go help him," Killian said, and left without another word.

An odd ache had filled Susannah as she watched Killian's carefully arranged face give way to his real feelings. There had been such naked hunger in his eyes that it left her feeling in touch with herself as a woman as never before. She tried to help her mother, unable to get Killian's expression out of her mind—or her heart.

"That Mr. Killian's a strange one," Pansy said, to no one in particular, as she spooned the figs into a jar, their fragrant steam rising around her. "He's so gruff.
Almost rude.
But he cares. I can feel it around him. I wonder why he's so
standoffish?
It's hard to get close to him, to let him know how grateful we are for him being here."

Susannah nodded. Killian
was
gruff—like a cranky old bear. It was part of what he used to keep people at bay, she thought. Yet, just a few minutes ago, she'd seen the real Sean Killian—a man who had wants— and desires. And her heart wouldn't settle down over that discovery.

Around four o'clock, Pansy sent Susannah out with a gallon of iced tea and two glasses for the men, who were still laboring in the bam. The sunlight was bright and hot for an early-September day, and Susannah reveled in it. Chickens scattered out of her path as she crossed the dirt driveway to the barn, which sat off to one side of the green-and-white farmhouse.

As she entered the huge, airy structure, the familiar smell of hay and straw filled her nostrils. At one end of the barn, where the machinery was kept, Susannah spotted her father working intently on his tractor. The engine had been pulled up and out of the tractor itself and hung suspended by two chains looped around one of the barn's huge upper beams. She saw Killian down on his knees, working beneath the engine while her father stood above him. They were trying to thread a hose from above the engine to somewhere down below, where Killian leaned beneath it, his hand outstretched for it.

Killian had clearly shed his shirt long before, and his skin glistened with sweat from the hot barn air, accentuating his muscular chest and arms. A lock of black hair stuck damply to his forehead as he frowned in concentration, intent on capturing the errant hose.

Susannah slowed her step halfway to them. Her father turned away from the tractor, going to the drawer where he kept many of his tools. Just then, she heard a vague snap. Her eyes rose to the beam that held the heavy engine. Instantly her gaze shifted to Killian, who seemed oblivious of the sound, his concentration centered on threading the hose through the engine.

Sam Anderson was still bent over a drawer, rummaging for a tool.

Susannah realized that the chain was slowly coming undone. At any second it would snap free and that heavy tractor engine would fall on Killian! Without thinking, she cried out a warning.
"Look out, Killian!"

Her scream shattered the barn's musty stillness.

Killian jerked his hand back and heard a cracking, metallic sound. He glanced to his left and saw Susannah, her finger pointing toward the beam above him. Sam had whirled around at the cry. In one motion, Killian leaped away from the engine.

Susannah clutched the jar of iced tea to her as she saw the chain give way. She screamed as the tractor engine slammed heavily down on the barn floor. But Killian was leaping away as the engine fell, rolling through the straw and dust on the floor.

Setting the iced tea aside, Susannah ran toward him, unsure whether he was hurt or not. He lay on his side, his back to her, as she raced up to him.

"Killian?" she sobbed.
"Killian?
Are you hurt?" She fell to her knees, reaching out to touch him.

"Good God!" Sam Anderson hurried to Killian's side.
"Son?
You all right?"

Breathing raggedly, Susannah touched Killian's hard, damp shoulder. He rolled over onto his back, his eyes narrowed and intense.

"Are—are you all right?" she stammered, quickly glancing down his body, checking for blood or a sign of injury.

"I'm fine," Killian rasped, sitting up. Then he grew very still. He saw the look in Susannah's huge
eyes,
saw her expressive fingers resting against her swanlike throat. Her face was pale. He blinked. Susannah had spoken. Her eyes still mirrored her fear for him, and he felt the coolness of her fingers resting on his dirty arm.

"You're sure?" Susannah demanded breathlessly, trading a look with her father, who knelt on the other side of Killian. "You could have been killed!" Badly shaken, she stared down into his taut face and held his burning gaze. Killian was like a lean, bronzed statue, his gleaming muscles taut from the hard physical labor.

Sam gasped and stared at his daughter. "Honey, you're talking!"

Gasping herself, Susannah reared back on her heels, her hands flying to her mouth. She saw Killian grin slightly. It was true! She had spoken! With a little cry, Susannah touched her throat, almost unbelieving. "Pa, I got my voice back. . . ."

Killian felt Susannah's joy radiating from her like sunlight itself. He felt embraced and lifted by her joy at her discovery.
And what a beautiful voice she had— low and husky.
A tremor of warning fled through him as he drowned in her shining eyes. This was just one more thing to like about Susannah, to want from her.

Susannah's gaze moved from her father to Killian and back again. "I can speak! I can talk again!" Susannah choked, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Oh," Sam whispered unsteadily, "that's wonderful, honey!" He got to his feet and came around to where his daughter knelt. Leaning over, he helped her stand, then threw his arms around her and held her tight for a long, long time.

Touched, Killian remained quietly on the floor. The closeness of Sam with his daughter brought back good, poignant memories of his early home life, of his mother's strength and love. Slowly he eased himself to his feet and began to brush off the straw that clung to his damp skin. Sam and Susannah were laughing and crying, their brows touching. Tears jammed unexpectedly into Killian's eyes, and he quickly blinked them away. What the hell was happening to him?

Turning away from the happy scene, Killian went to retrieve his shirt. Disgruntled and shaken at his own emotional response, he tried to avoid looking at Susannah. It was
her.
Whatever magic it was that she wielded as a woman, it had a decided effect on him, whether he wanted it to or not. Agitated, Killian buttoned his shirt, stuffed the tail into his jeans and gathered up the broken chain, which lay across the floor and around the engine.

"Come on, honey, let's go tell Ma," Sam quavered, his arm around his daughter's shoulders. He gave Killian a grateful look.
"You, too.
You deserve to be a part of the celebration."

Killian shrugged. "No. . .
you
folks go ahead. . . ."

Susannah eased out of her father's embrace and slowly approached Killian. How beautifully and dangerously male he was. Her senses were heightened to almost a painful degree, giving her an excruciating awareness of his smoldering, hooded look as she approached. His chiseled mouth was drawn in at the corners.

"You're okay?" Susannah breathed softly. Then she stepped back, blushing.

Shocked by her unexpected concern for him despite what had happened to her, Killian was at a loss for words. He gripped the chain in his hands. "I'm okay," he managed in a strangled tone. "Go share the news with your mother. . . ."
he
ordered unsteadily. What a beautiful voice she had, Killian thought dazedly, reeling from the feelings her voice stirred within him.

Trapped beneath his sensual, scorching gaze, Susannah's lips parted. What would it be like to explore that mouth endlessly, that wonderful mouth that was now pursed into a dangerous, thin line of warning? Every nerve in her body responded to his look of hunger. It was the kind of look that made Susannah wildly aware that she was a woman, in all ways. It was not an insulting
look,
it was a look of desire—for her alone.

"Come on, honey," Sam said happily as he came up and patted her shoulder, "let's go share the good news with Ma. She's
gonna
cry a bucket of tears over this."

Killian remained still, nearly overwhelmed by his need to reach out and touch Susannah's mussed hair or caress
her flushed cheek. He watched as father and daughter left the barn together. Their happiness surrounded him like a long-lost memory. Taking a deep, steadying breath, Killian began to unhook the ends of the chain from the engine. His mind was waging war with his clamoring heart and his aching body. Susannah could now tell them what had happened to her. His emotions were in utter disarray. Her voice was soft and husky, like a well-aged Irish whiskey.

Angrily Killian cleaned up the mess in the barn and put the chains aside. In a way, he felt chained to the situation at the farm, he thought—chained to Susannah in a connection he could neither fight nor flee. Never had a woman gotten to him as Susannah had. His relationships with women had been few and brief—one-night stands that allowed him to leave before darkness came and made an enemy out of anyone who dared get close to him. What was it about Susannah that was different? The need to explore her drove him out of the barn. He slowly walked toward the farmhouse, savagely jamming down his fiery needs. Maybe now he could talk to Susannah about the assault, he reasoned.

Pansy was serving up lemonade in tall purple glasses in celebration. Susannah felt Killian's approach at the screen door before he appeared. What was this synchronicity the two of them seemed to share? Puzzled, but far too joyous over her voice returning to spend time worrying, she gave him a brilliant, welcoming smile as he walked into the kitchen.

"Sit down, son," Sam thundered. "You've earned yourself a glass of Ma's special hand-squeezed lemonade."

Killian hesitated. He'd hoped to come into the house, go to his room, take a cold shower and settle his roiling emotions. But the looks on their faces made him decide differently. With a curt nod, he took a seat opposite Susannah. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds caught in sunlight. He felt himself becoming helplessly ensnared in the joy that radiated around her like a rainbow of colors.

Pansy gave him the lemonade, gratitude visible in every line of her worn face.

"Killian, we're glad you're all right," she said. "Thank goodness you weren't hurt." She reached over and patted Susannah's hand warmly. "Just
hearin
' Susannah's voice again is like
hearin
' the angels
speakin
'."

Killian sipped the icy lemonade, hotly aware of the fire within him, captive to Susannah's thankful gaze. "Your daughter saved me from a few broken bones," he muttered.

Sam hooted and said, "A few? Son, you would've had your back broken if my Susannah hadn't found her voice in time."

Killian nodded and stared down at the glass. If there was such a thing as an angelic woman, it was Susannah. Her skin glowed with renewed color, and her lips were stretched into a happy curve as she gripped her father's leathery brown hand. Killian absorbed the love and warmth among the family members. Nothing could be stronger or better than that, in his opinion. Except maybe the fevered love of a man who loved his woman with a blind passion that overrode the fear of death in him.