Reckless Protector: Isaacson Trilogy Book Three

2

Ulric heaved a sigh and rested his forehead against the rough wood of the barn door. What was wrong with him? Why had he said such awful things? Nora was right; he wasn't the only one suffering from Father's loss.

Perhaps he ought to apologize. He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a minute and searched for the right words to express what he wanted to say accurately, but ultimately, he decided against it.

His emotions could not be trusted right now. Breaking down in front of them was the last thing he wanted to do. Maybe later, when his grief wasn't so close to the surface, he'd give it a try. With the matter settled, he rolled the barn door open but froze after only stepping inside. Prickles of warning danced across his skin.

A lantern on the work table at the back of the barn glowed. Ulric frowned, positive it hadn't been there earlier. Wasp, Barnaby, Toots, and Father's painted gelding named Bart poked their heads over their stall doors and stared at him. However, instead of greeting him as usual, they were abnormally quiet and still.

He took a few steps into the building and glanced around, taking a mental inventory of the barn with each step. Was there anything out of place? Could one of his brothers have left the lantern in the barn? A frown creased his brow when he stopped at Toots' stall, barely within the outer reaches of warm amber light cast by the lantern.

Everything appeared to be in its proper place, yet the hairs on the back of his neck remained prickled in unease. He returned to the front of the barn, put the shovel away, and hung the ropes up, taking care to make as little noise as possible. Where did the threat hide?

The wind howled outside with greater intensity, rattling the window panes and blowing shards of ice and snow through the open door. Ulric pulled it closed to minimize the outside noise and prohibit whatever was hiding from escaping.

Five minutes passed before his patience was rewarded by hay rustling near the back, followed by a soft sniffling cough. Frowning, he crept soundlessly past the horses to the only empty stall and stared at the woman huddled in the corner, attempting to stand on wobbly legs.

There was only one woman he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting who had pale blonde hair the color of silver moonlight. Like a soft beacon in the dark, it glowed and proclaimed her identity even with her face hidden in shadow.

His heart thudded against his ribs and constricted painfully before racing at the sight of her. He'd honestly believed he would never see her again. Were his grief and loneliness causing a hallucination? Was he that desperate?

Torn between wanting to turn and run or go to her and plead she give him a chance to prove that, just like his brothers, he was worthy of love; he stared at her. The pain of her rejection crippled him the longer he stood there, remembering their passionate kiss at Briarwood. Holding her in his arms for those few moments had given him a glimpse of heaven, an experience he yearned to have again.

But he wouldn't beg for affection from a woman who had no desire to bestow it upon him, and he absolutely would not show how deeply Ingrid had wounded him.

He crossed his arms over his chest, braced his feet wide, and demanded with an unyielding tone, "What are you doing here?"

She took two halting steps toward him, "Help me..." The words slurred their way past frozen and cracked lips while shivers wracked her body. She wore what appeared to be the same nightgown, albeit more stained than he remembered it being the night they'd met at Briarwood, and ratty old shoes that had seen better days.

The tattered and billowy sleeves reached to her elbows, the neckline hung low and crooked, exposing her right shoulder, and the torn hem hung heavy with mud. Altogether, it was inadequate protection against the frigid winter conditions she had been subject to since running away.