Only in My Arms Read Online Free PDF

effort, kicking her feet just enough to keep her on the surface. The water was warmer than the air, and her skin prickled and her nipples hardened. She ducked backward into the water, warming herself all over until she completed a circle and surfaced again. She could see her own breath like mist in the air... or cigar smoke.
    She smiled. Now why had she told Ryder McKay that story? Or any of the others during the afternoon and into the evening? He had wanted to be on his way after breakfast since there was no chance of seeing Walker, but she'd pressed him into helping her with a few of the heavier chores around the house. He hadn't seemed to mind, she reflected, and he was the one who offered to finish painting the porch rails after lunch. Neither of them mentioned dinner, but it seemed natural somehow that he should stay, and then they sat on the swing at the front of the house and time slipped away. She was the one who realized he was missing his opportunity to get out of Baileyboro, yet she hadn't said anything about the train schedule. It seemed only right that she offer him one of the summer home's five bedrooms for the night.
    She hadn't thought about not being able to sleep while he was in the house, while his bedroom was across the hall from hers. She was tired when she bid him good night; she hadn't expected to toss and turn and wonder if Ryder was finding his own bed comfortable. After thirty minutes she had risen and gone to the window seat. She had tried to read, but the star shine on the field outside her window was more intriguing. The path to the pool unwound through the field like a dark grosgrain ribbon. Even though she sat at the window for another half hour she knew where she'd find a measure of tranquility.
    Only it wasn't the same now, and she knew better than to blame Ryder McKay. His intrusion wasn't the problem. That rested within her. There could be no measure of peace anywhere if she didn't find it first in her heart.
    It came without warning: the ineffable sadness that was so much a part of her life of late. The weight of it lay heavily on her chest, crushing it. Each breath was labored. The movement of her arms became listless and leaden. Mary was too experienced with the sensation now to fight it. She gave in and allowed herself to slip beneath the surface where her tears could mingle with the water.
    * * *
    Ryder raised himself up slightly, anxious now for Mary to resurface. He counted the seconds and wondered how long she could possibly hold her breath. He was on the point of diving for her when she came up and headed for the bank.
    In the stillness of the night he could clearly hear her pained gasps for air, and it was only by slow degrees that he realized the rhythm was wrong, that what he was hearing were really Mary's anguished sobs. He came to his feet, intent on leaving now. Whatever was pulling at Mary's heart was between her and her God, he thought. It wasn't about him. He had no place in it.
    Still, he found himself walking the perimeter of the water hole and coming to stand beside her prostrated body. He scooped up her shift and crouched beside her. "Put this on," he said softly. And when she couldn't quite manage it herself, he helped her.
    After that it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms.

 
     
     
    Chapter 2

     
    September 1884, New York City
    Mary went home to write the letters. The convent in Queens was not the place where she could put her thoughts to paper this time. Although the convent had been her home since she was seventeen—just a month more than thirteen years—Sister Mary Francis needed to go to the place of her youth.
    The mansion on the corner of 50th and Broadway was a palatial affair. John MacKenzie Worth had had it built when he'd recognized the populace of Manhattan was moving north. Central Park was mostly farmland when they first moved in. In the beginning their house sat alone on a street that, though it later became a