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        Abigail covered her ears with her hands. “I can't stand it.” She rose and stood before him, tears trailing down her cheeks. “Too much sorrow, too much grief. There aren't enough words, there isn't enough…anything.”
     Clint rose and put his arms around her waist. And she didn't pull away. Instead, she slumped against him and buried her face in his chest.
     Talking about what had happened made the grief fresh again, like a knife cutting out his guts. But at the same time, he felt a breath of relief, as if he'd cauterized a gaping wound, and stopped the bleeding.
He rested his chin on the top of Abby's head and sighed. Her hair was soft and silky. And holding her in his arms helped—just touching her. He hoped she felt the same way.
          She lifted her head and gazed at him. “Kevin reminds you of Timothy?”
          He nodded. “Yes, being with your son is the only thing that's helped. I took the sheriff's job to make money and restock my ranch. But the real reason was to get away from the river. I couldn't stand to look at it—to be reminded of what happened.”
          He trailed his fingertips along her cheek and down her throat. “I know I'm a crazy man, Abby. But being around you and Kevin makes me less crazy.” He snagged her gaze. “That should be a good thing, right?”
          “Yes, Clint, a good thing.” She ran her pink tongue over her ruby-red lips.
          And God help him, he bent his head and touched his lips to hers.
          At first, she started to pull away, but he made himself go slow. He brushed her lips lightly, gently. She sighed and leaned into his embrace. He caressed her lips with his, angling his head this way and then that, but careful not to seek entrance to her mouth.
          She might be the mother of an eight-year-old boy, but she acted like a virgin.
          He cradled her and she snuggled closer, offering her mouth to him.
          He groaned.
          Would he ever get enough of her?