Anywhere (Sawtooth Mountains Stories, #3)

by Susan Fanetti

  He tugged back and pulled her into his arms. “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “Being here with me.”

  With a sweet, happy smile, Mac let go of his hand and put her arms around his neck. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

  He pulled her close and bent low, setting his mouth on hers. He’d meant it to be just that, a quick, sweet kiss of thanks and love, but as soon as they came together, as soon as she melted in, shaping her body to his in the way she always did, so close and snug she nearly became part of him, Reese needed more than a quick kiss.

  She seemed to sense his need, and to share it. When he delved deeper into her mouth, she was ready; her hands came up and gripped his head, her fingers twisted into his hair. His cock swelled full, and he groaned at the feel of her body pressing against him. She answered him with a hungry moan.

  As soon as he took the hem of her t-shirt, she let go of his neck and threw her arms high above her head, an invitation, and he pulled the cotton up and away. She plucked at the buttons of his shirt as he reached around and unhooked her bra. She was wearing a skirt, one she’d bought in Paris, long and flowing in the style she preferred, and as he dipped to suck a nipple into his mouth, he found the tie and tore it loose, then pushed the soft fabric from her hips. All she wore now was a tiny pair of panties and her cowboy boots.

  She got his shirt open and pressed herself tightly to him, clutching him so hard he couldn’t breathe. He tore his mouth from her breast with a desperate gasp. “Fuck, Mac.”

  There was no bed in this skeleton of a home. Not a stick of furniture among all this fresh-sawn wood. Nothing soft or homey or welcoming. But there was a blanket. She’d spread out a blanket.

  He picked up his beautiful girl, lifting her straight up so she rose above his head. As he walked back to the blanket spread out on the rough plywood subfloor, she laughed, beaming happily down at him, her hands sliding over his beard.

  When he felt fabric under his boot, he shifted his hold of her, and, knowing his intention, she threw her legs around his waist as he went to his knees and lowered her onto the floor.

  She jerked and gasped as her back touched down, and then she broke out laughing.

  “What?” he asked. Her laughter pulled up the corners of his mouth.

  “We forgot about the cupcake.”

  He lifted his eyes and looked around. No cupcake. Because it was under her. “Oops.”

  She started to sit up, but Reese had a better idea. More in keeping with the mood of the moment. He grabbed her shoulder. “Roll over, baby. I got you.”

  With a quizzical tilt of her head, she rolled to her belly. Sure enough, vanilla cupcake with chocolate frosting was smooshed over her perfect bronze skin, just above the small of her back, which was just above her lovely ass with the two enticing dimples. There was something doubly alluring to see her like that, in nothing but lacy little black panties and her black boots. Just damn.

  He bent low and drew his tongue from the top edge of her panties, over one dimple, then the other, then up, over the curve of her waist, to the cake, moist and sweet, smeared with milk chocolate frosting. From the Lunch Box, this cupcake was.

  “Mmm,” he hummed, savoring his birthday treat. Mac whimpered and rocked her hips. Reese clamped his hands around them, held her steady, held her down, and fed.

  With his mouth alone, he cleaned every bit of cake and frosting from her, and by the time he was done, he held a quivering, moaning mass of woman in his hands. Her hands were twisted in the blanket, and she’d clenched the fabric so eagerly she’d upset the bottle of apple juice and the glasses. They all lay on their sides, forgotten.

  Mingled with the aroma of the cupcake and the scent of the unfinished building was another fragrance, sweeter than the others. Reese took the lace of her underwear in his hands and pulled, tearing away a seam. She gasped and giggled as he pushed the ruined garment away, down her leg, and slid a hand between her thighs, finding what he knew he would: wet and hot, ready for him.

  With a soft kiss at the small of her back, Reese sat on his heels, meaning to stand and shed his clothes.

  But Mac looked over her shoulder at him; her flushed cheek and her dark eye on fire with lust hovered just above her tattoo: Not all those who wander are lost.

  “Don’t. Stay dressed.”

  She liked the feel of his clothes against her bare skin. He grinned and opened his belt and fly. As he sank low again, moving over her, she lifted her hips and spread her thighs.

  Mac curled her arms up, around her head, to sink her hands in his hair. Propped on his forearms, Reese hooked his hands into the crooks of her elbows and rested his head on her shoulder. They shared a groan as he entered her, and another when he put his weight on her and began to move.

  ****

  A few nights later, after the various factions of the Cahill family had all separated into their nuclear groups, Reese and Mac were settled in their guest room, in cozy companionship, Reese watching television, and Mac lying prone on the bed beside him, working on her proposal for the resource center. She typed on her laptop and referred to notes she’d taken in three spiral notebooks. Her feet were on the pillows, and Reese was aimlessly massaging them.

  “Evan’s not wrong, you know,” she muttered.

  That froze his hands in place, and turned his attention from the news. “What? Evan Hall?” He couldn’t think of anyone more wrong than a meth cooker and trafficker who routinely bullied his own people and had taken hostages at a Sun Dance.

  Mac looked over her shoulder. “Yeah. I’m not—he’s an asshole and awful. What he did was terrible. That’s not what I mean.”

  “Then I don’t understand.”

  “His rage. All the shit he does, or did—it comes from rage.” Sitting up, and faced him and folded her legs up. “He started cooking because his family couldn’t afford to eat. Everything he did, it started because things are so hard on the rez, and nobody’s been able to do anything about it. I understand it. Hell, I feel it. That’s why I left. He and I, we’re like two sides of the same coin—he hunkered down on the rez, and I ran away from it, but we both feel the same rage and helplessness. And nobody can do anything about it.”

  Reese mulled that over, trying to figure out if he understood, or agreed, what he could say—or if it mattered if he agreed, or if it was his place to say anything. Finally, he said, “You’re doing something about it.”

  “I know. But I don’t know if it’s enough, if it can ever be enough.” She sighed and reached back for one of her notebooks. “Writing this proposal, I’ve been able to put real numbers to the things I could always see were true, and it’s kinda fucking me up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “These are the figures Dr. Allen put together for me.” She read from the notebook. “According to his files, fifty-eight percent of the adults on the reservation are alcoholics or addicts. Fifty percent of women have been victims of domestic violence or what he suspects is domestic violence. Twenty-seven percent of children have some kind of learning disability or developmental delay. Thirty-two percent of children show signs of at least moderate malnutrition. Diabetes, heart disease, high blood pressure, cancer, suicide—all many times higher than the national average.”

  “Jesus.”

  She flipped another page. “That’s not all. Chief Black Eagle put together some other stats for me. Sixty-five percent of reservation households live at or below the poverty line. Almost twenty percent live under the ‘extreme poverty’ line. The average household income is less than a third the national average. Thirty-eight percent of adults on the rez are unemployed, in terms of the kind of work you get a W-2 for. Add in underemployment, and the number of people without gainful work rises to sixty-one percent. Only forty-one percent of households have a licensed vehicle. And these stats are better than the averages for all the Native communities across the country without casinos.” She tossed the notebook back to the pile. “No wonder Evan cooks meth
. No wonder he’s so fucking angry. How the hell am I supposed to write a proposal to fix all that?”

  Not sure what to say, Reese held out his arms, and she let herself fall into his embrace. She muted the television, and they lay together quietly for a while. Reese sorted through all those bleak statistics and tried to find something he could say to support her, to give her hope.

  “You don’t have to fix everything, Mac. You can’t. But what you’re trying to do, that’s hope. That’s a bigger fix than anything else. What you’re doing is a start. You said you felt helpless before, but now you’re helping. You’re giving people a place to go. You’re giving them hope, and you’re backing it up. That could start a real change, when people see that they can reach for something and find a hand to pull them forward instead of knocking them back.”

  She pushed out of his arms. “That’s it! That’s the resource. I mean, all the other stuff, the doctors and counselors I’ve found to put some hours in, them too, but the center isn’t the fix. The people are the fix. Their hope. The center is where they go to see they’re not alone and can do it.”

  Forgetting him entirely, she sat up, turned around, and went back to her laptop.

  *****

  A crash from the back stopped conversation in the bar.

  “Reese?!” Natalie yelled from the same direction.

  Maybe he should have had an intercom or something installed. “What!”

  “Most of the plates in this box are broken!”

  “How’d they get that way, dumplin’?”

  Silence—until his employees and so-called friends began to laugh around him.

  He gripped the polished edge of the bar and bent down to knock his forehead several times on the walnut surface.

  Linda laughed. “Easy, boss. I’ll go handle it.”

  He nodded his thanks and got back to stringing lights along the new glass liquor shelves. Mac had talked him into these lights; she thought the place needed more flair. That was the word she’d used: flair. He was deeply skeptical, the last thing he wanted was to turn to Jack into a fucking nightclub, but he had conceded to try a few of her ideas. Like lighting the liquor display.

  It had taken another month of hard, expensive work, but the build was finished. He’d signed the final paperwork and paid the last bills—and hoo boy, had he come close to hitting his ‘wedding and honeymoon’ fund to cover the last of it. Right up to the bleeding edge. But he’d managed to save all that and still have a few dollars fluttering around at the bottom of his accounts to get the business back up and running and keep them fed in the meanwhile.

  Today was, and tomorrow would be, a flurry of deliveries, unpacking, and organizing, but with any luck, and the concerted efforts of all their friends, working with them in shifts, tonight he and Mac would sleep in their own bedroom for the first time since before they’d left for Europe in February. In a few days the new Jack would open for business, and their lives could get back to normal.

  So much was the same, and yet entirely different. He’d wanted to replace the building that had stood here for so long, and they’d come damn close. The floor was wide planks and pegs, as it had been. The staircase had a walnut railing with scrolled wood spokes. The walls were drywall, but covered with a durable paper in a century-old pattern. They’d even found identical versions of some of the signs that had hung on the walls—these were ‘vintage’ and cost much more than the free versions his father and grandfather, and their predecessors, had gotten from liquor and beer distributors over the years, but that was okay.

  As his friends, his family, and his employees arranged tables and chairs, hung décor on the walls, arranged glassware under the bar, and sorted out the kitchen, Reese saw that he’d gotten what he wanted: the Jack was the Jack and ever would be. But everything now was shiny and smooth and fresh. To the strong aroma of sawdust was added now the powerful perfume of paint and wood stain, and the pungent tang of new rubber and plastic. This place was brand new.

  This place was his. Rising from the ashes of the past, this was where he’d make his future.

  As Mac had said. On his birthday, before he’d eaten cake straight off her skin and they’d fucked each other sweaty on an old blanket in a building that hadn’t yet been more than a shell. Their first memory in their new home.

  Not a bad way to christen a new beginning. Not bad at all.

  Linda came back from the kitchen. Her mouth was a twist of irritation. “Yeah, that box is a total loss. That’s half the lunch-size plates. Now Nat’s in the storeroom, hiding from you.”

  He sighed. They used the lunch size for the burger and chip combos that were their biggest sellers. “Okay. I have to go into Boise tomorrow anyway, so I’ll stop at the restaurant supply. We better start a list. And tell Nat I’m not mad. But don’t let her try to pick up another box like that on her own.”

  Linda gave him a sympathetic smile, patted him on the back, and returned to the kitchen.

  *****

  “Wow. Everything looks great!” Mac sat on a bar stool and put her bag on the bar. She’d never used a purse for as long as he’d known her, she’d carried a backpack when her pockets wouldn’t do, but since the Cahills had accepted her proposal and agreed to fund the resource center, she’d picked up a nice leather messenger bag and used that. She’d also added more skirts and shoes to her wardrobe because she wanted to look professional. Not like Honor, in her heels and suits, but country professional.

  “Hey, baby.” Reese leaned over the bar and kissed her. “Glad you think so, because upstairs is still a mess. But the bed’s set up.”

  She grinned. “That’s all we need. Where’d everybody go?”

  “I sent them all home. They’d worked all day, and I was tired of their racket, anyway.” He’d spent the last couple hours alone in the bar, getting the taps and bar guns ready.

  “Hey, the juke’s on!”

  “Yeah. Victor got that set up this afternoon.”

  She slid off the stool and crossed to the jukebox. Reese leaned sidelong on the bar and watched her walk away from him.

  Deciding sight was inferior to touch, as senses went, he came out from behind the bar and went to her as she pushed a song code in. Tim McGraw began to croon a love song, and Reese smiled and pulled Mac into his arms. He kissed her, and she wound herself up tight with him. They began to sway to the music, dancing alone in their bar, the site of their new beginning.

  “Hey,” he whispered with his mouth on hers. “You want the first drink in the new and improved Apple Jack Saloon?”

  She smiled and nipped at his bottom lip. “Are there cherries yet?”

  “Brand new jar.”

  “Then the usual, barkeep.” She slapped his ass.

  Laughing, Reese led her back to the bar and made her a Shirley Temple. After he passed the glass to her, full of cherries and seated on a cocktail napkin printed with their new logo, he filled a glass with club soda for himself. She lifted an eyebrow. “Not a beer? It’s the first drink in your new bar. I don’t mind.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll drink with the fellas Friday night. But not with you. I don’t want you tasting beer when I take you upstairs and have my way with you in our new bed.”

  She grinned around the cherry in her mouth. “I love you.”

  “And I love you.” With a big swallow of soda, he set the glass aside. “On that note, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “Okay, hit me.”

  He reached under the bar and pulled out a black velvet box. As he opened it and set it on the bar, he said, “These are the ones we got before. Maybe we should get new ones, seeing as this is a new start, and all that happened before, I don’t know. But I want to get married. The things we wanted to have settled are settled. Frannie’ll be home next week. We have our home back. You’ve got your new job. If you ask me, it’s time, and I know when we should do it.”

  Inside that black box were two rings. Plain gold bands, matching except for size. She had
n’t wanted an engagement ring, not before and not now, but she’d wanted wedding bands before.

  She pulled her smaller ring from the satin bed. “How weren’t these destroyed? Everything was lost.”

  “These were in my safe deposit box. This and my most important papers.”

  “Nothing else?”

  He shook his head. “Just that—the deed to the building, my business licenses, other legal papers, that kind of thing. Some bonds my grandpa bought a long time ago. And those rings. I don’t know why I felt like I had to put them away like that. I don’t remember making the decision to do it. But I guess even back then, I knew I needed to keep them safe.” He brushed a fingertip over the band in her fingers. “But if the memory of that time is bad, I’m okay with buying new ones. Having you is what a care about.”

  “No memory of my time with you has ever been bad, Reese. I wanted to marry you then.” She slid the ring on her finger. It fit perfectly, as if more than eleven years hadn’t passed since she’d first tried it on. “Does yours still fit?”

  “It does.”

  “Then these are the rings we should wear. They’re all of us. Past and present.” She slid the ring off and returned it to its place beside his. “When do you want to do it?”

  “The middle of November. You hate November, so let’s put something in the month to celebrate.”

  “You mean like six weeks from now? It’ll be too cold to do it outside.”

  “So? We can do it anywhere we want—but I was thinking the tribal council hall, by the windows that face the mountains. And then the reception here. Where you work, and where I work. Where you’re from, and where I’m from. Like we’d planned before.”

  Her smile was soft and warm. “Nothing elaborate. I don’t want a lot of fuss. We planned too big last time.”

  “Just you and me, our vows, and the people we love. Would the chief preside, you think?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  He leaned on the bar. “And then, after Christmas, I’m taking you to Costa Rica for a honeymoon. Just a week away, maybe two.” Not longer than that—he couldn’t afford more, and he didn’t want to be away longer.