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Noah tugged the sheet higher. “Couldn’t find my pants.”
Her gaze, which had been on his chest, dipped lower, then flew back to his face. Her cheeks flushed, and she studiously stirred whatever was in the pot.
Merry Christmas. Couldn’t find my pants.
Had he actually said that? Noah wanted to kick himself. When had he reverted to a green boy with his first woman? And why did he keep thinking in such terms about Ruth?
“I brought your bags in.” She pointed to his saddlebags in the corner of the room, then ladled soup into a bowl and crossed to the table. “You need to eat and regain your strength. I’ve made soup from the Christmas goose.”
Noah managed the short distance between his room and the kitchen table admirably, he thought. But it felt good to sit, even better to eat. A day earlier, he’d thought he would be the one being eaten—by coyotes, buzzards, or worse.
He’d learned long ago that a single day could make a lifetime of difference. One minute a man was flush, the next broke. One day alive, the next dead. One second alone and so very lonely, the next kissing the only person who had ever mattered.
Ruth joined him at the table, for all the world as if this were their house, their life, their love. Noah stuffed his mouth with soup before he said or did something more foolish than he already had.
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