But he’d let her go anyway, instead of confessing his feelings, baring all for her, everything—and demanding the same from her.

He supposed that made him as much of a coward as she was. And now it might be too late.

He stopped breathing abruptly. The slow, easy cadence he’d established forgotten as his ears strained, listening. And there it was again. A sound. Faint. Far away—as if from the bottom of a well.

Logan!

His name. If he could hear them—perhaps he could be heard, too. Forgetting the need to save his air. He opened his mouth and shouted.

Cleo moved beyond the point of feeling. Beyond exhaustion. The only thing driving her was sheer faith that Logan lived.

She’d know if he was dead. She’d feel it. Practical or not, this is what she told herself as she dumped another bucket into the waiting wagon and tromped her way back up the mound of depleting stone. They’d find him soon.

She secured her footing on the uneven surface, ignoring how her legs trembled, and resumed working, calling out Logan’s name periodically, forcing her voice to ring loudly even as it cracked from overuse.

She’d just tossed another rock into her bucket and was bending down for another one when she heard something.

She stilled, cocking her head to the side. It came again. Directly beneath her. She tossed her rock and began digging furiously, flinging stones aside. It didn’t take very long for her to reach something that wasn’t stony rubble—a small smooth patch of wood, no more than an inch in diameter, peeked out from where she’d cleared away rocks. She tapped the surface with her fingers.

An answering cry greeted the sound.

She shot up, nearly losing her balance. “Over here!” she shouted, waving an arm wildly for the others. “I heard someone! Here!”

Men rushed her, crowding all around her, clearing the stones away, revealing more and more of the long stretch of wood. Scaffolding—it was the scaffolding, she realized with burgeoning excitement.

Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders and moved her off to the side. She let him, knowing the men would all work faster than she could. Her gaze ached as she watched more and more of the plank become exposed.

Suddenly there was a hand—a filthy, dirt-covered hand shooting out from beneath the plank.

She shouted and lunged forward.

Jack pulled her back. “Wait. Let them clear the area and see . . .”

His words faded and she knew the rest of what he was saying: let them see if he was fit to view.

She didn’t care. She’d seen that hand reaching for help. He was alive and she had to let him know she was here for him. That she’d be here for him no matter what.

She broke free and stumbled forward. She fell, caught herself on her hands and climbed, shoving through bodies, calling for Logan.

“Cleo!”

Simon appeared through the press of figures. He grabbed her hand and pulled her the rest of the way. One arm around her, he held her up as men lifted Logan to freedom.

Her throat constricted. She’d called his name for countless hours but now she could say nothing. Could only stare at his face, dirty and streaked with blood. Alive. Her heart squeezed so tightly within her chest she feared it might burst.

And then he saw her. He blinked, shook his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. As if he were suffering a mirage.

He hobbled toward her, one arm around Niall for support, his eyes fastened on her—feral and alert. Not the eyes of a man trapped for hours beneath a pile of crushing stone.

He winced as he took a jarring step and she realized he couldn’t put his weight on his right foot. She hastened forward, slipping her arm around his waist and closing her eyes in one long blink at the solid sensation of him alongside her body. He was whole. Alive.

“You look good in trousers,” he murmured near her ear, stirring the hair that hung there loosely.

She snorted. Of all the things she’d imagined him to say, that had not been among them.

“I shall wear them every day for you then.” She smiled up at him as they eased off the rocky ground.

He turned to look at her, his face completely absorbed in the study of her. “Are you making promises?” he asked, bewilderment in his voice.

She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. Was he simply stunned that she was here? Or was there something more to his reaction? Did he not want her here?

Emotion swelled through her and her body trembled, the ordeal of the last hours catching up with her.

Hope filled her, eclipsing everything else. She wanted to hold him, talk to him, say all those things that desperately needed to be said. But Mrs. Willis was suddenly there, all efficiency as she took charge, sweeping Logan into the foyer, brushing Cleo aside so that she might assist him up the stairs. Just as well, she supposed. She was so shaky, her legs possessing all the consistency of pudding. She wouldn’t want to risk losing her grip on Logan as they ascended the steps.

Cleo followed, letting Mrs. Willis direct. Logan needed tending and she was the best person to see it done. As he was carried up the stairs, he looked back several times, his gaze finding her. She resisted the impulse to rush after him and pour out her soul, confess her fears and proclaim her love. That was a selfish need. Logan needed to be taken care of first. The needs of her heart could wait.

“Come.” Abigail was at her side, taking her by the arm. “Let’s get you changed and freshened up. I imagine you could use a bath. When was the last time you ate?”

Cleo looked longingly after Logan, mumbling some inane response.

Abigail followed her gaze. “Mrs. Willis will care for him. Let’s take care of you so that you may be there for him when she’s finished.”

She glanced down at her filthy person and grimaced. Abigail made good sense. And she would like to look her best when she begged his forgiveness and asked for another chance as his wife. With that thought, Cleo permitted Abigail to tug her away, wincing when she grasped her gloved hand.

“What’s this?” Abigail pulled her glove free and hissed a breath at the sight of Cleo’s ravaged palms. Even with gloves, her palms were raw with broken blisters. “Come. Logan’s not the only one requiring some nursing.”

As she was pulled away in the direction of Abigail’s chamber, she glanced down the length of corridor. Logan was already out of sight and her heart squeezed. As grateful as she was that he lived, this wasn’t precisely the sweet reunion she had imagined.

Logan barely withstood Mrs. Willis’s examination. He ground his teeth through all her poking and prodding, if for no other reason than to get through her inspection as hastily as possible. The more he complained, the longer she would linger over him, convinced he was mortally wounded. He hadn’t lived his entire lifetime at McKinney without coming to know how the woman operated.

“I need to see Cleo. Where’d she go?”

“There now.” Mrs. Willis rose from where she’d wrapped his left foot tightly in bandages. “Not broken, I believe. Just sprained and mightily bruised. It will take a while to heal fully, but you’ve always been a strong lad.” She motioned to a crutch propped against the edge of the bed. “When you’re fit to rise, you can walk with that. Belonged to my nephew Joseph when he broke his leg. Remember him? Great lumbering ox was always clumsy.”

“Good.” He began to rise, reaching for the crutch. “Now let me find Cleo.”

She pushed him back down by the chest. “You’re not going anywhere. Your sister’s looking after her. She’ll come to you soon enough.”

He growled low in his throat, but knew better than to raise a fit with Mrs. Willis. In his present condition, he wouldn’t get two feet before she dragged him back to bed by the ear.

Nodding, he forced out the words, “Very well.”

She eyed him dubiously, and he wondered if he’d surrendered too soon. “I’m hungry,” he volunteered. “I could use some food. The quicker to regain my strength.”

Mrs. Willis nodded once, obviously satisfied, as he knew she would be. “That’s a good lad. I’ll be back with a plate for you. You just rest here and wait.”

He nodded, struggling to maintain a neutral expression on his face as she ambled from the chamber.

As soon as the door clicked shut, he slid his legs over the side of the bed and reached for the crutch. Propping it beneath his arm, he began a slow, limping walk from the chamber.

Cleo couldn’t be far. He assumed Mrs. Willis meant Abigail was looking after Cleo. Josephine could hardly look after herself much less someone else. In his anxiousness, he simply opened the door to his sister’s room.

Abigail spun around, startled. “Logan!” she uttered his name quietly, and he immediately saw why.

Cleo had fallen asleep upon the bed wearing only a robe, her hair still wet from her bath. Dark smudges marred the tender flesh beneath her eyes.

“Leave us, Abbie. We’ll stay the night here.”

Abigail gathered up the garments Cleo had worn before her bath, pausing to look down at her sleeping sister-in-law. “She just sat down for a moment, and then she was asleep. She’s had quite the day.” Abigail’s gaze slid over him. “You both have.”

“She came back,” he murmured.

“She never stopped, Logan. She pulled stones alongside the men. She was like a woman possessed.”

His gaze devoured Cleo as she slept upon the bed. He wasn’t surprised she possessed such tenacity and determination. He’d seen evidence of that since he met her. He was only astonished that he was the recipient of such steadfast resolve . . . that she should care about him that much.

Abigail glanced from him to Cleo upon the bed. “Are you certain you want to sleep in here? I can have someone carry her to your chamber.”

“No.” He wouldn’t stand idle and helpless as someone else carried her for him. No one would hold her but him. Seeing as he was in no condition to do so at this time, they would spend the night here.

“Very well. I’ll keep Willis away.” Abigail hugged him quickly. “I’m so glad you’re safe, brother.”

As his sister left the room he snatched a blanket off the nearby chaise and limped the remaining steps to the bed. Lying down beside his wife, he covered them both with the soft fabric.

Sighing, he felt his beaten body finally ease and relax. Draping an arm around her waist and holding her close, he inhaled her clean scent and forgot all of his aches and pains. The elation in his heart eclipsed all else.

“Logan?” she murmured sleepily, lifting her head.

He looked down at her face, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. “I’m here.”

“I thought I was dreaming.” Her eyes blinked with alertness.

“No dream.”

“How . . .”

“Did you think I could stay away from you?”

Emotion brightened her gaze. “You’re not angry at me . . . for leaving you?”

He stared into her eyes for a long time, the knowledge seeping into his bones that she was the one. The woman he was born to love. The woman he was meant to live out his life with. And that just maybe . . . she felt the same way. “You came back.” His thumb brushed her bottom lip. “That’s all that matters to me. That’s everything.”

A sob choked her throat and her lips quivered. “I never should have left. I was scared. I was running away . . . too scared to give us a chance. To take a risk. When we returned and I learned what happened, that you were buried under that wall, I thought it was my punishment for turning away from you . . . from denying what I felt. I love you.”

“No punishment,” he muttered fiercely, holding her face in both hands and kissing her roughly. He broke away to rasp against her lips, “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you. Because if you ever try to leave again, I’ll chase you down and drag you back home—here where you belong.”