High Country Bride by Linda Lael Miller

a slight motion of his arm to prompt her: “The little one’s yours.”
    She smiled at the clarification, and he chuckled, though he’d reddened a little at the base of his jaw, and his expression had an element of shyness about it. She took the ring, held it between her thumb and forefinger, and turned it slightly, enjoying its cool smoothness, its glow. Rafe, meanwhile, made some shifting motions, pulling off his riding gloves and jamming them into his coat pocket. Rather like a carnival magician performing sleight of hand, he managed to end up with his band lying in his palm. He hooked it onto his little finger, then took both her hands in his.
    “We’ve got a lot of things to work through,” he said huskily,“but in the meantime, will you wear my ring?”
    She felt something tighten in her throat, some sweet and spiky pain, and could only nod her head, even though good sense told her to refuse until she was sure she wanted to stay on Triple M.
    His big hands trembling a little, Rafe slipped her ring onto her finger. Emmeline was as moved as if they’d been standing in a cathedral, clad in the finest wedding garb, instead of on a towering hill, buffeted by an ever-chillier breeze. Without ado, she took Rafe’s ring, and his left hand, and pushed the band onto his finger. The two of them just stood there, then, hands still clasped, unable to meet each other’s eyes.
    “Well,” Rafe said finally, in a husky voice, “I reckon I ought to kiss you. Seal the bargain and all.”
    She couldn’t answer, but just stood there huddled inside Concepcion’s coat, miserable with hope.
    Rafe put a finger under her chin, raised her face so that she had to look right at him. She did so, and her gaze held steady, despite her many misgivings and uncertainties. The forbidden night she’d spent with the man called Holt, back in Kansas City, tugged at the hem of her conscience, and a sense of sorrow settled over her, quieting her joy.
    Rafe rested his hands lightly on either side of her waist, while she was thinking those thoughts, and lifted her onto her toes, bending his head to find her mouth with his. Emmeline shivered a little, with anticipation as well as guilt, and Rafe paused, lifted his head, and searched her face for any sign of reluctance. “Emmeline?” he asked.
    She knew she should tell him the truth about herself and get it over with, but she was still afraid, and, besides, she didn’t know precisely what the truth was, where her virtue was concerned. She did recall being soundly kissed, back in Kansas City, in the shadowy upper hallway of the boardinghouse, and wondered if Rafe would be able to tell that she was a woman of experience. The prospect scared her twice as much as the rattlesnake in the outhouse had, but this time, there was nowhere to jump.
    “Just kiss me, Rafe McKettrick,” she said, flushing.
    He sighed, then touched his lips to hers, tentatively at first, softly, and once more Emmeline’s passion was immediately awakened.
    Rafe responded by deepening the kiss, and when it ended, sometime later, and only because they were both in need of air, they stood close together like that, his hands on her waist, her arms around his neck, just staring at each other in bewildered marvel.
    It was Rafe who stepped back.“I thought we could put up the house over here,” he said gruffly.“Facing the creek, and Pa’s place.”
    Emmeline was still recovering from the revelation of his kiss. She smoothed her flyaway hair, raised the collar of her coat. “Yes,” she managed to agree, and cleared her throat delicately.“That would be nice.”Would she even be here when the house was built, or would she be far away, trying to make a new life for herself somewhere else?
    Rafe paced off the length of the house, showing her where the windows would be, and the front door. They decided on the locations of various rooms—the kitchen, the parlor, his study, her sewing room, the master bedroom and nursery. It was a