Only in My Arms Read Free Page B

chandelier and the name had stuck.
    "Will pancakes be all right?" she asked, reaching for one of the cast iron skillets.
    He nodded shortly and looked around for something that he might do. Her hospitality confused him. Ryder McKay wasn't used to a welcome mat. An invitation into any home was rare, and the circumstances of this invitation were most unusual.
    "Just have a seat," she said, pointing to one of the six chairs gathered around the table. "Unless you'd rather eat in the dining room? You could wait in the parlor while I cook."
    He nudged one of the chairs out with the toe of his boot. "No," he said. "This is fine." More than fine, he thought, but he didn't say the words. He was conscious of his dusty boots, of his clothes that looked as if he'd slept in them, of his dark, damp hair that was just beginning to dry at the back of his neck.
    "You can hang your duster on that hook by the back door," she told him when she saw him hesitate. Mary glanced at his empty hands. "You don't have a hat?"
    Ryder shook his head. Most often he wore a bandana tied around his forehead and hair. He had one in the pocket of his duster, but he hadn't worn it since leaving Fort Apache two weeks ago. He touched the back of his neck again. It was when he had cut his hair. He was aware suddenly that Mary was looking at him expectantly, and Ryder realized he'd still made no move to take off his coat. He did so now, hanging up not only the coat but his gun belt as well. Although his hostess made no comment, he could sense her relief.
    The black iron stove was a monstrous contraption that generally needed more coaxing than a contentious child. On this occasion it fired up easily, and Mary set the skillet, adding a dollop of butter to heat. She quickly put the pancake ingredients in a bowl and placed it in front of Ryder along with a wooden whisk. "You mix this while I clean the berries."
    Welcoming something to do, Ryder didn't object. Butter was sizzling on the skillet by the time he had a smooth batter, and without direction from Mary, he left the table and began pouring the first cakes.
    At the sink Mary paused and glanced over her shoulder to where Ryder was working. He was intent on his task and didn't appear to sense her interest. There was nothing tentative about his work. His movements were crisp and efficient as he measured out the batter and, later, when he flipped the saucer-sized cakes. She turned back to her own work, finished rinsing the berries, and sugared them lightly to bring out their own juice.
    "Do you want coffee?" she asked, realizing she was remiss in not thinking of it earlier.
    "Are you having it?"
    "No. I'm drinking milk."
    "Milk will be fine." Better than fine, he thought, trying to recall when he'd last had a glass of cold, sweet milk. It wasn't as long ago as the last time he'd been swimming, it only seemed that way. He expertly flipped another cake and placed it on a warming plate. "Do you want me to get it?" he asked before he poured more batter. "I saw the cooler on the back porch."
    Mary accepted his offer, reasoning he wouldn't have made it if he minded. It gave her the opportunity to set the table. In a matter of minutes they were sitting at a right angle to one another, unfolding their napkins. Ryder started to pick up his fork when he saw Mary bow her head. His lean fingers released the fork and his hand slid onto his lap. He lowered his head but didn't close his eyes, watching Mary instead as she said the blessing quietly. When she was finished, she smiled encouragingly in his direction.
    "Please help yourself."
    For a moment he couldn't think what she meant. He was staring at her mouth, at the smile that had some extraordinary power to tilt him off center. He blinked. His world was righted as her smile slowly faded under his penetrating stare. He looked away abruptly, picked up his fork, and stabbed at the pile of pancakes.
    Out of the corner of her eye Mary watched Ryder stack his cakes, spread them with