“I don’t know how to describe it,” she said, after a fruitless effort to find the words to explain all the feeling that had surged up inside her.
“It’s the same for me every time I witness a birth,” Clay told her. He looked at her then and gently touched her face, letting his finger glide along her jaw. All the world went still as his eyes caressed hers. There was a primitive wonder in the experience of birth, a wonder that struck deep within the soul. For the first time, Rorie understood this. And sharing it with Clay seemed to intensify the attraction she already felt for him. During that brief time in the stall, just before Star Bright delivered her foal, Rorie had felt closer to Clay than she ever had to any other man. It was as though her heart had taken flight and joined his in a moment of sheer challenge and joy. That was a silly romantic thought, she realized. But it seemed so incredible to her that she could feel anything this strong for a man she’d known for mere hours.
“I’ve got a name for her,” Clay said, hanging up the towel. “What do you think of Nightsong?”
“Nightsong,” Rorie repeated softly. “I like it.”
“In honor of the woman who sang to her mother.”
Rorie nodded as emotion clogged her throat. “Does this mean I did all right for a city slicker?”
“You did more than all right.”
“Thanks for not sending me away... I probably would’ve gone if you’d insisted.”
They left the barn, and Clay draped his arm across her shoulders as though he’d been doing it for years. Rorie was grateful for his touch because, somehow, it helped ground the unfamiliar feelings and sensations.
As they strolled across the yard, she noticed that the sky was filled with a thousand glittering stars, brighter than any she’d ever seen in the city. She paused midstep to gaze up at them.
Clay’s quiet voice didn’t dispel the serenity. “It’s a lovely night, isn’t it?”
Rorie wanted to hold on to each exquisite minute and make it last a lifetime. A nod was all she could manage as she reminded herself that this time with Clay was about to end. They would walk into the house and Clay would probably thank her again. Then she’d climb the stairs to her room and that would be all there was.
“How about some coffee?” he asked once they’d entered the kitchen. Blue left his rug and wandered over to Clay. “The way I feel now, it would be a waste of time to go to bed.”
“Me, too.” Rorie leaped at the suggestion, pleased that he wanted to delay their parting, too. And when she did return to her room, she knew the adrenaline in her system would make sleep impossible, anyway.
Clay was reaching up for the canister of coffee, when Rorie suddenly noticed the bloodstain on his sleeve and remembered Star Bright’s kick.
“Clay, you need to take care of that cut.”
From the surprised way he glanced at his arm, she guessed that he, too, had forgotten about the injury. “Yes, I suppose I should.” Then he calmly returned to his task.
“Let me clean it for you,” Rorie offered, joining him at the kitchen counter.
“If you like.” He led her into the bathroom down the hall and took a variety of medical supplies from the cabinet above the sink. “Do you want to do it here or in the kitchen?”
“Here is fine.”
Clay sat on the edge of the bath and unfastened the cuff, then rolled back his sleeve.
“Oh, Clay,” Rorie whispered when she saw the angry torn flesh just above his elbow. Gently her fingers tested the edges, wondering if he needed stitches. He winced slightly at her probing fingers.
“Sorry.”
“Just put some antiseptic on it and it’ll be all right.”
“But this is really deep—you should probably have a doctor look at it.”
“Rorie, I’m as tough as old leather. This kind of thing happens all the time. I’ll recover.”
“I don’t doubt that,” she said primly.
“Then put on a bandage and be done with it.”
“But—”
“I’ve been injured often enough to know when a cut needs a doctor’s attention.”
She hesitated, then conceded that he was probably right. She filled the sink with warm tap water and took care to clean the wound thoroughly. All the while, Rorie was conscious of Clay’s eyes moving over her face, solemnly perusing the chin-length, dark brown hair and the big dark eyes that—judging by a glance in the mirror—still displayed a hint of vulnerability. She was tall, almost five-eight, her figure willowy. But if Clay found anything attractive about her, he didn’t mention it. Her throat muscles squeezed shut, and, although she was grateful for the silence between them, it confused her.
“You missed your vocation,” he told her as she rinsed the bloody cloth. “You should’ve been a nurse.”
“I toyed with the idea when I was ten, but decided I liked books better.”
His shoulders were tense, Rorie noted, and she tried to be as gentle as possible. A muscle leaped in his jaw.
“Am I...hurting you?”