Family Love

by Liz Crowe

  A vision rose in her mind. Anton Love, dark eyes shining, full lips so near hers she could already taste him. His strong arms surrounded her, lifting her up, carrying her … where? To a bed? Then what? She frowned and balled her hands into fists. She hated the tingly, illicit anticipation of the unknown and the somehow desired.

  Without a second’s thought, she walked to the door, opened it, and stepped out onto the large screened-in porch. A fire danced in the pit in front of the staff house. She heard laughter, music from a radio, and the rumble of masculine voices.

  As if in a trance, she stepped onto the grass … dimly aware of her own sweaty, disheveled state, but she was on a mission. If only to catch sight of him, of Anton, when he wasn’t aware of her watching him.

  She tiptoed to behind the dormitory, getting closer to the dancing firelight and the voices. Two of them spoke in what she assumed was Italian, switching over to English and laughter at the last minute. Then she heard a distinct, giggly and stupid-sounding female voice, punctuating the conversation. Frowning, she eased along the side of the building, praying no one would glance over and catch her shadow.

  “Now that is what I call a shiner,” Lorenzo said.

  “Fuck off,” Anton growled, making her have to shut her eyes a split second. “Ow. No, honey, I’m not … hey, cut it out.”

  The girl giggled. Sloppy kissing noises reached her, and Lindsay’s face got so hot she was afraid she might explode. The noises stopped. Someone opened a beer. The fire crackled and snapped.

  On a whim, Lindsay darted to the corner, hoping everyone was facing away from the front door, the way they usually did. She slipped inside the staff house.

  Something in her shifted while she made her way through the kitchen and dining room, then past the large bathroom, and to the four separate sleeping rooms with single beds or a few bunks.

  Her lightly dancing anticipation morphed into something real, something living and breathing and needy.

  She spotted Anton’s beat-up cowboy hat resting on a chest of drawers in the smallest room. It was set up for one person, as was the room next to it. The other two accommodated the stable boys, three to a sleeping space. Trembling, terrified, and strangely damp between her legs, she took off her clothes, all of them, folding them in neat little piles on the floor between the bed and chest, hidden from sight.

  For the first time, Lindsay was completely naked outside the safety of her own frilly suite of rooms, and she got her first real taste of fear-tinged freedom. Hands trembling, teeth chattering, she lifted the smooth bed cover—a quilt with an elaborate entwined ring pattern she didn’t recognize—and slid between the cool sheets. Trying to remain still and out of sight, she pressed herself against the wall, listening for anyone making their way down the hall. After a few minutes, she lost her nerve. Cursing herself, she crawled out from under the quilt and tried to grab her clothes.

  “Hey, Tony,” a voice echoed down the hall. Lindsay jumped, and hit her head on the bedside table edge.

  “Whatever it is it can wait ‘til morning. I’m beat.”

  “You’re beat-up, you mean.” Laughter floated down the hall. Lindsay stood, dragging the quilt off the bed and high-tailing it for the small closet. She jammed herself behind a row of jeans and Halloran Farm branded work shirts and tried to shut the door, but the quilt was caught on something. Just when Tony’s voice was so loud she figured he must be right outside his bedroom door, she yanked the quilt in and closed the door.

  As she watched through the slats, he stripped out of his jeans and shirt. Then he slumped onto the bed, head in his hands for a few seconds, before apparently remembering his injured face. “Fuckin’ A,” he muttered, shaking his head and standing up to stretch.

  Lindsay blinked fast at the sight of his almost perfect body dressed only in bright white underwear and a sleeveless white T-shirt. She swallowed hard, willing him not to do it, but did not look away when he tugged the shirt off and the shorts down, tossing them both into a laundry basket before grabbing a towel on a nearby rack and wrapping it around his waist.

  Lindsay’s legs shook and her pulse raced in her ears, but she had no idea how to get the heck out of this mess. He took off his necklace, kissed the gold cross, and hung it on a photo she couldn’t see clearly from her ill-conceived hidey-hole.

  She wiped the sweat trickling down her temples, unable to dispel the brief but clear glimpse of his penis. When he approached the closet door, she tried to press herself into a far corner, praying as hard as she could that he wouldn’t open it and find her gawking at his dangly bits, his broad shoulders and firm, lightly hairy torso. She curled her fingers into fists and pressed them to her eyes, some primitive instinct promising her that maybe if she didn’t see him, he wouldn’t see her.

  The closet doorknob rattled. Lindsay covered her mouth.

  “Tony,” somebody hollered. He turned, tucking in one corner of the towel in around his waist. Lindsay exhaled when he wandered out to the hall, presumably to take a shower. Once she figured he’d stay gone long enough for her to snag her clothes and sneak out, she opened the closet door and pushed the bedroom door the rest of the way shut.

  Moving as fast as her shaking fingers would allow, she stepped into her panties and hooked her bra, listening to the deep, masculine voices echoing from the large communal bathroom. By the time she was fully re-dressed and sitting on the bed, she gnawed her bottom lip, trying like hell to figure out how to get past everyone and get out, a couple of the young men started wandering down the hall to their rooms.

  “Shitshitshitshit,” she muttered under her breath.

  Lorenzo and Anton were still in the bathroom, she presumed, based on the sounds of their voices. Once the younger guys were in their rooms, she stepped into the hall, heart pounding in her ears, wishing for a split second of invisibility to get past the open bathroom door to the safety of the outdoors, where she could pretend she had come to see her horses. She’d gotten away with that ploy plenty of times before.

  But as she was about to take her first step down the hall, a shadow appeared, thrown from the light in the bathroom. She froze.

  “Hey,” Anton said. “Who’s there?”

  He flipped on a switch, blinding her. The stable boys appeared in their doorways. Lorenzo materialized behind his brother, similarly kitted out in a towel. Both men wore identical frowns, dark brows knitted together, full lips turned down. Lindsay drew herself up, attempting to regain a bit of the “I own this place and you’re my employees” haughtiness.

  The stable boys snickered behind her. Lorenzo touched his brother’s shoulder. Anton shook him off, glaring right at her. “You must be lost? Miss?” He put an emphasis on the last word. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t escort you home. The last time I did that, your fiancé tried to pound me.”

  Lorenzo chuckled. Anton shot his brother an evil look. Lindsay stiffened. Anton blinked, and in that split second she thought she might very well be in love with the man, a stranger to her for the most part, but with a face she’d memorized the second she met him, that populated her dreams and drove her fantasies.

  “Go on,” he said over his shoulder to his brother. “You, too.” He pointed at the gawking stable boys. “Don’t let the door hit ya in the ass.” They did as they were told, closing their door while Lorenzo sauntered past Lindsay, his taller version of Anton’s perfection blinding her for a split second. She shrank, intimidated and mortified by all the naked man flesh reminding her how utterly out of place she was.

  “Move along, brother,” Anton said softly, but with a firmness in his voice that made Lindsay tingly all over again. She shook her head to clear it, and by the time Lorenzo had shut the door of his room, she’d made it to the kitchen and was twisting the doorknob.

  “Can you hang on a minute?” Anton called from behind her.

  She rested her forehead on the door. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sit down. Can you keep still long enough for me get my dang clothes on, at least
?”

  Keeping her eyes averted, she sat in a kitchen chair. He ducked into his room and re-emerged in jeans and buttoning up a fresh shirt. She couldn’t look up, because if she did, Lindsay was sure the truth of what she’d seen earlier would be written all over her face. He dropped into the chair opposite her. The sound of beer bottles being opened made her glance up. He pushed one across the table. She took it and held it on her lap.

  “Stop pretending you’re sorry you’re here,” he said, his voice mild.

  “I’m … I …” She stopped, at a loss for the first time that she could recall.

  “Drink up. Hair of the dog and all that.”

  She took a sip, noting that the bottle had no label. The light, slightly bitter taste of the beer surprised her. She took another drink, then another.

  “Where did you get this?” She met his gaze for a second before looking down at the brown bottle.

  “Made it,” he said, draping one arm over the chair. “What do you think?”

  “Well, it’s good. Where do you make it?”

  “Here, in the kitchen.” He waved the bottle. “It’s kind of a hobby.”

  She nodded. Awkward silence descended.

  “I wondered where my quilt went,” he said softly.

  Lindsay winced before meeting his gaze. His expression was one of amusement, not accusation. His dark eyes twinkled when he put the bottle to his lips once more.

  She frowned at him and finished hers, plunking the bottle on the table between them. “It’s a nice one.”

  He snorted. Heat rose up her neck to her face. “I meant the quilt, you pig.”

  “Ah, well, my sainted mother will be glad to you know approve of her handiwork.”

  “I’m really sorry, about Will and all … that.” She waved a hand, blushing even harder.

  He propped one elbow on the table. “It was worth it,” he said.

  She sucked in a breath, and stood quickly. “I should go.”

  He remained in his seat, tempting her with the memory of his full, naked body.

  “Thank you for, um, well …”

  “You’re welcome, Lindsay.” He caressed her name again; drawing out the syllables. They froze, staring at each other. She became hyper-aware of how sweaty she was under her riding clothes.

  “But you’d best steer clear of me for a while, I’m guessing. I do want to keep my job.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I only … I … need a friend.”

  “Well, last I checked, friends don’t spy on each other while they’re gettin’ naked.”

  “You …” She clenched her fists, furious embarrassment making her speechless.

  He held up his beer bottle as if in salute to her.

  “I hate you,” she said through clenched teeth. “You’re no better than the rest of them.”

  He shrugged, sipped, and put his bottle on the table before crossing his arms. “You want a friend so bad, why not ask me, instead of sneaking into my room and watching me take off my clothes?”

  “Go to hell.” She threw open the door and ran out, past the dying fire toward the barn, the only place she ever really found a true measure of happiness.

  She entered Zelda’s stall and buried her face against the sleepy horse’s neck. After a few minutes, she calmed, patted the animal’s nose and apologized for waking her after a long day of exercise.

  As she was fastening the stall gate, someone cleared his throat behind her. She yelped and whirled, hand to her chest. “What the hell do you want?”

  Anton, fingers stuck in his belt loops, stalk of hay in his mouth, leaned against the barn wall. Without even thinking twice, she marched over to him, grabbed the hay and tossed it to the floor, then threw her arms around him, pressing her lips to his. He responded immediately, holding her close, parting her lips gently with his tongue, and reaching up to tug the band off her hair.

  She molded herself against him, the most natural feeling in the world to her then. When he turned them so her back was against the barn wall, she reached down and put her palm right on his zipper, breathless at what she felt there. He groaned into her mouth and lifted her hand to his neck all the while turning her world inside out with his kiss.

  Finally, breathing heavily, he cupped her cheek and broke their lip lock, leaving her hungry for more. She grabbed his belt loops and tried to get him to press against her again, but he held himself apart. His lips, dear Lord in heaven, the man’s lips were perfect and delicious, firm, yet soft, and in command as he trailed them down her neck to the open space right above her breasts. He cupped one, briefly, then dropped his hand and pressed his forehead to hers.

  “I won’t do this,” he whispered. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?” she demanded, her body in full overdrive now. Every nerve and synapse she possessed was on fire with need for this man. He ran his warm palms down her arms, then up, teasing her in a way that made her crazy.

  “Please. I want … you. I want this. Now.” She took his hand and pressed it to her breast, then started unbuttoning her shirt. “Oh, God, Anton.” His breathing was fast and harsh as he watched her. Then he stepped away, his dark eyes shining in the barn’s deep gloom. Once she had her shirt open, she reached around and unhooked her bra.

  “No,” he said, his voice harsh and loud in the empty barn. “Stop it, right now.”

  She slid her shirt off her arms and let her bra fall to the floor, stepping toward him. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.” She pulled him with her into an empty stall, grappling with his zipper, beyond eager now. Her need was so great it roared in her ears, deafening her.

  He grabbed her hands and held her at arm’s length.

  “What is the matter with you? You don’t want this?” She lifted his now-shaking hand to her bare breast, putting the other one to her cheek.

  “I do,” he croaked, making her shiver with the pass of his thumb over her peaked nipple. “But I won’t take you here, like a … damn barn hand in the hay.” He ducked around her and picked up her bra and shirt, handing them to her while keeping his gaze on the floor.

  She took them, heart racing, skin tingling, anger filling her chest. “Who cares where it is? You want me and I need this.” She cupped the bulge at his zipper, biting her lip at the marvel of it.

  “I care, Lindsay,” he said, his voice firm now. “Get dressed and go on home. I need some sleep.”

  “We’re not done here,” she whispered, pulling him close once she had herself put together again. “Kiss me again. Please?”

  He nodded and let his finger trace her lips once before doing as she asked. When he ended the kiss, she felt strangely close to tears. He cradled her face between his work-roughened palms.

  “No, Lindsay. We are done here. You’re getting married, and I’m not gonna do this, much as I want to.” He dropped his arms and stepped away from her, his face a mask of neutrality.

  But she knew better. She could practically read his mind now.

  “You won’t let him take this,” she said, grabbing his hand and placing it between her legs while she draped her other arm around his neck, keeping him close. “Please, Anton. I want you to.” She licked his neck, loving the combination of flavors on his skin. He pressed his fingers against her before pushing her away gently, but with resolve.

  “Don’t make this worse than it already is,” he said, before turning and running off into the gloom, leaving her breathless and needy, eager and unfulfilled and miserable, alone in the barn among the horses.

  Chapter Eight

  Lindsay went into shutdown mode the week before her wedding. After a week in which she had begged, pleaded, screamed, cried, slammed doors, and broken perfectly good china from her hordes of gifts, the path of least resistance seemed her only alternative. Everything she’d done had only hardened her mother further, made her determined to not only get Lindsay married off, but also to get “those Italians” off her property.

  Lindsay’s father had remained mostly absent, unwilling to engage his w
ife’s increasingly vehement insistence on firing the best set of stable managers he’d had since his beloved Patrick turned seventy and claimed he couldn’t handle the workload anymore. Lindsay refused to eat with the family, so she went a solid week not seeing anyone but Nellie, who brought her meals, and her brothers, who brought her news.

  By rehearsal day, the weather had turned oppressively hot and humid, with dark clouds roiling on the horizon every day, threatening violence but never producing. Lindsay lay under the turning ceiling fan, rigid with fury and barely contained restlessness. Her boycott of all things Halloran had, of course, meant she had to neglect her animals, which was making her nuts, especially since Frank had told her Daisy’s foot had lamed up bad and they’d called a vet.

  “She’s pining for you, Linds,” he’d said to her as she lay on her side facing away from him. “You really need to at least come down and—”

  “She’ll be fine,” Lindsay had said as tears rolled down her face. “I’ll see her in a few days.”

  “Well, Zelda has lost her dang mind. I tried to take her out for exercise this morning, and she took a hunk out of my hat and nearly pinned me in the corner of her stall before Tony heard me yelling and calmed her.”

  Lindsay had smiled at that, for more reasons that one. “So they’re still here? Lorenzo and … um … Tony?”

  “Not for much longer,” he said. “I gotta go. Want me to take your food?”

  “I don’t care.” She’d pulled the cover over her head until he left.

  Only Nellie—one of the few adults in her life she actually respected—had been able to get her up, into a shower and her rehearsal dinner dress, stockings and shoes.

  “Here, drink this,” she said after she’d arranged Lindsay’d thick auburn hair into an appropriately fancy up-do. Lindsay stared at herself in the mirror, touching her bright red lips, her exposed shoulders, the nape of her neck. “Go on, quick, before your mama sees me giving you liquor.” Nellie was holding a thimbleful of amber liquid and glancing nervously over her shoulder.