He slid one arm under her knees, another behind her back, and lifted her carefully.
She weighed almost nothing, and that scared him. A grown woman shouldn’t feel that light unless life had been trimming her down piece by piece.
She leaned into his chest like she had no strength left to fight anything.
Jake carried her toward his horse, the hooves still distant but closer now, and one question kept circling in his head like a hawk:
What could be so forbidden it drove a young nun into the middle of the Kansas prairie?
Jake rode slow, keeping one arm steady around her so she wouldn’t slide off the saddle. He didn’t gallop. Galloping would draw eyes and kick up a trail that could be followed. He kept it steady and quiet, the way you move when you know you’re being watched—even if you can’t see the watcher yet.
The nun stayed limp against him, breathing shallow, head resting lightly on his chest. Every now and then she would stir, her fingers tightening on his shirt like she was grabbing the last safe thing in the world and refusing to let go.
By the time the creek near Hollister Ranch came into view, Jake realized something strange.
She hadn’t fought him.
Not even when she woke halfway and seemed to realize she was being carried by a man she’d never met. No flailing. No panic. No scream.
Just that tight grip, and a silence that felt like trust mixed with exhaustion.
Jake guided his horse to the cabin and swung down carefully, keeping her close. The cabin wasn’t much—wood walls darkened by years of smoke, a pot on the stove, and a Bible on the table he hadn’t read as often as he promised himself he would.
A simple place.
A quiet place.
Jake carried her inside and laid her gently on his bed.
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