Part 28 (1/2)

Cynthie tensed, wondering what on earth she had gotten herself into.

But if it might help Winn, she was willing to try anything, anything at all.

”Go ahead,” she said.

He turned toward her, leaning his back on the post. ”They're just dreams,”

he reminded her.

”But if you talk about them, maybe they won't come back,” she urged.

”They're never the same, Cynthie.” He was amazed at her persistence.

Maybe he should just tell

her he dreamed of angry cattle and skittish mares and let her go back to bed.

Cynthie watched his face almost disappear as clouds blocked the moon.

She tried to imagine what it would be like to be in darkness like this all the time. She reached up toward the face she could barely see but stopped short of touching him.

”Did you have these dreams before the accident?”

Winn shook his head.

”The first time I heard your voice I dreamed of angels.” He wasn't sure why

he'd said it; perhaps to warn her there was more he wanted than comfort.

The breeze brought the cool promise of rain. They heard the low rumble ofdistant thunder. After a long minute, Winn asked, ”What do you look like?”Cynthie's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't speak around the lump in her throat. She found his hands and brought them to her face. She felt a heat

in her body that had more to do with desire than the warmth of his touch. He touched her cheeks thin king how soft the skin was under his roughfingers. He let his left hand cradle the side of her face while his righthand traced the curve of her ear. He caught a lock of hair between his thumband forefinger and gently followed it down to its end.

”What color is your hair?”

”Black,” she whispered.

”As black as the night?” he asked, running his fingers through it to feel

its silky texture.

”At least,” she said.

”Then I can see it as well as anybody.” His hand went back to exploring her

face. He traced a finger

over her nose and brow. Her bones seemed small beneath his fingers, the curves of her features gentle and soft. She must be beautiful, he thought with a pang of longing. His voice turned husky when he asked, ”What color are your eyes?”

”Brown,” she said. The touch of his fingers and the sound of his voice werema king her knees weak. She leaned toward him, seeking his support. ”There are lots of browns. Brown like what?” He had to keep some sort of reason in the conversation.

Cynthie laughed self-consciously.

”I don't know,” she said.

”Brown like Lullaby?” His hands were cupping her face, his thumbs gently

rubbing her cheeks.Cynthie hesitated.”I don't think so.””Brown like a thrush,” he suggested.”Darker,” she said and laughed again.”About like your saddlebags.”Winn chuckled softly.”That dark, huh?” His thumbs worked their way down her face.”And what shade of pink are your lips?” He felt as if he had just stepped over a thin line he had thought he was avoiding.

Cynthie's breath caught in her throat.

”I ... I don't know.”

His voice dropped to just above a whisper.

”I can't tell much about them with just my fingers.”

Cynthie leaned toward him, so slightly she wasn't even conscious of it.

It was all the invitation Winn needed. He lowered his head and touched his

lips to hers but only for a second.

”They taste just like I remember them,” he whispered.

”Better be sure,” she breathed.