by Lisa Jackson
They spent the rest of the day trapped in the same room, avoiding each other, trying to make small talk when they had to. Libby felt as if she were walking an emotional tightrope. Yes, she’d planned to see Brett again, but she hadn’t intended to spend hours, maybe days, trapped alone with him.
Brett acted like a caged animal, restlessly pacing from one window to the next, his gaze trained on the cloudy sky. He tried to keep his mind off Libby, off the beautiful, independent woman she’d become, but he found it difficult not to stare at her. She’d changed a little. Her hair was cut shorter, falling just below her chin, and her features were more womanly—no hint of the girl in her cheeks or chin. She was also much more self-confident, though she carried a load of sadness with her that seemed far too great a burden for her. He knew he’d been a part of her private hell.
They’d eaten lunch—tuna sandwiches—and were stuck staring at the fire, waiting for the storm to break, when he could stand the tension between them no longer.
“I’m sorry about your dad,” he said finally as he lit one of the lanterns.
“Me too.” She looked away from him, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation.
“I tried to talk to him once.”
Her head whipped around, and she pierced him with those blue, blue eyes. Her throat worked. “You did? When?”
“After you left. I thought I should explain…about us…about the baby…” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “I don’t know that it did much good.”
“He never said anything.”
“Figures.”
Libby’s throat felt hot. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It did, damn it.” He crossed the few feet separating them and grabbed her by both arms. His gaze drilled deep into hers. “I’m tired of both of us acting as if what happened between us was just a…a…an inconvenience.”
A small sound of protest fell from her lips. She suddenly felt weak. “Is that what you thought?”
The fingers around her arms tightened, and his lips turned white. “I didn’t know what to think. I couldn’t get through to you, couldn’t shake you out of your grief. I’ve never felt so damned helpless in my life!”
She held back a sob, because she knew in her heart that he was speaking the truth. The loss of the child had devastated her. “I tried to talk to you….”
“You threw me out of your hospital room, Libby,” he said, the words scraping her soul. “As if what had happened was all my fault.”
Tears streamed from her eyes, and she trembled from the violent emotions that had ripped through her then, and were ripping through her now. At the time, he’d seemed cold and distant, and she’d felt that she’d failed him in losing the baby. Later, her father, trying to console her while balming his wounded pride, had given her platitudes, telling her that God, in his divine wisdom, had done what was best. “I didn’t blame you,” she whispered to Brett. “I blamed myself.”
“It was no one’s fault.” He wiped a tear from her eye with one finger. Then, slowly, as if he regretted the very movement, he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her with a tenderness that nearly broke her heart. She couldn’t stop the sob that started in the back of her throat.
“Shh… It’s all right.”
“It’s not! It will never be!” she said, blinking back fresh tears and stepping away from him. Sniffing loudly, she swiped at her eyes and glared up at him. “I’ll never forget what happened.”
“Unfortunately, Libby, neither will I.”
CHAPTER SIX
The storm broke in the early afternoon. Brett eyed the horizon through the window, rubbing at the stubble that covered his chin. “I’m going up to the station,” he said, shoving his hands into the back pockets of his jeans.
“What about me?”
Turning, he surveyed her. “I think you should come with me. If you’re up to it.”
“Of course I’m up to it.”
“That fall was no picnic.”
“Brett, I’m fine. Let’s just go, okay?” She was already stuffing her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, glad for a reason to escape the close confines of the cozy room.
Brett didn’t seem convinced that she would be able to survive the elements, but he, too, dressed in his jacket and pulled up the hood. He placed a few supplies in his pockets, grabbed his rifle and, after ordering her to wait, plowed through the snow to the barn. A few minutes later, he arrived with Flintlock and insisted that Libby ride.
She wanted to argue, but the determination in his eyes persuaded her to swing into the saddle.
Though the snow had stopped falling, the wind was fierce as it blew through the canyon, and before they reached the creek, Libby was chilled to the bone. Flintlock balked at crossing, but Brett yanked insistently on the reins and forded the rushing water at a wide section where the water never climbed past his thighs.
For the first time, Libby had a close look at her Jeep and the gaping hole in the bridge. Icicles hung from the rotted boards, and the broken cables were frozen solid and dangling above the water.
“Not a pretty sight, is it?” Brett asked when he saw her staring at the frigid debris. “The whole thing will have to be replaced if you want access to the camp. ‘Course, there’s not much need, unless you’re planning to reopen the campground or sell the place.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she replied honestly.
Brett clucked to Flintlock as they began climbing steeply. The trail was covered with unbroken snow, and both man and beast labored as they trudged steadily upward.
“Look, I can walk for a while,” Libby offered, feeling stupidly like a damsel in distress.
“Stay put.”
“But—”
“Just stay on the damned horse. It’s easier for him to carry you than me, and I’m taller, so the snow doesn’t hit me any higher on the leg. Besides, I’m stronger.”
“Is that supposed to put me in my place?” she threw back, and to her surprise, he smiled. It was a slash of white against his dark jaw.
“Yeah. I suppose it is.”
“Well, it doesn’t.”
“Nothin’ much would, Libby. Nothin’ much would.” He laughed, and the sound echoed through the ravines and crevices of the mountains.
Libby knew she should be angry, but she wasn’t. She smothered a smile and eyed the countryside. Branches of pine, fir and mountain hemlock drooped under the weight of heavy loads of snow, and the cathedrallike spires of the Cascade Mountains sliced upward to a winter-blue sky. Her heart ached for a silly moment when she realized how much she had missed this place. Her fingers tightened on the reins, causing Flintlock to toss his great head and snort in twin streams of steam.
Her legs were beginning to ache by the time they finally reached their destination—the lookout tower and ranger station. It hadn’t changed much in the past five years, she thought as she studied the small cabin and lean-to barn at the base of the tower.
“Come on, let’s get you inside, and I’ll take care of Flintlock and the rest of the herd.” He helped her down from the saddle. When she slid to the ground, her legs threatened to give out for a second, but Brett was quick, as if he had anticipated her weakness. He grabbed hold of her arm and held her upright, supporting her. Rather than fling off his arm and risk falling, she let him guide her into the cabin.
Inside, he flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. “No surprise. Usually happens during a big storm. The good news is that I’ve got a backup generator for the water pump, and these—” He opened a closet and pulled out two kerosene lanterns and a large flashlight. “While I’m working with the stock, why don’t you take a shower? There’s probably a little hot water left in the tank. No reason to let it go cold.”
“No, I—”
“I insist.”
Before she could discuss it any further, he was out the door again. Through the icy window, Libby saw him leading Flintlock to the barn. She glanced around the cabin—an austere man’
s abode, with only a foldout couch, a recliner, a television and a coffee table. A wood stove provided heat for the small building, though the fire had long since died.
Knowing he would probably be angry with her all over again, she tested her legs, then followed him out to the barn.
Brett was already rubbing Flintlock’s sleek coat as the gelding greedily swept all trace of oats from his manger. There were three other horses in the barn—a sorrel stallion, Hercules, and a burly gray Percheron.
Libby’s throat closed at the sight of the horse that was to have been her wedding present to Brett. She’d never asked him what he’d done with the animal, hadn’t cared, for, even though she’d known it to be foolish, she’d found some consolation in blaming the gray for the loss of the baby. “Oh, God.”
“Recognize him?” Brett asked.
“I… I…” She blinked back hot, painful tears. “I thought you got rid of him.”
“I wanted to. In fact, I even thought about pulling a Rhett Butler and having him shot on the spot, but that seemed a little cruel. Besides…I couldn’t let him go.” With a tender smile, he sauntered over to the huge horse and was rewarded by a massive head being thrust into his chest. Brett scratched the gelding’s ears. “There ya go, boy.”
Libby leaned against a post for support, and the kerosene lantern hanging by a hook over her head swayed, causing the light in the barn to move and dance upon the rough wooden walls. The horses snorted and stomped before settling back to their grain. Soon the only sound that could be heard was the loud grinding of teeth.
“You gave him to me, Libby. That, in and of itself, made him special. He didn’t mean to do anything—he just reacted. I kept him because I wanted to remember.”
Her world seemed to spin, and her fingers dug into the rough wood of the post behind her back. As Brett rubbed the gray’s winter coat, Libby squared her shoulders and fought back the demons of her past. Tentatively she reached out to touch the deep charcoal face. Warm brown eyes blinked at her as she stretched out her fingers, and a heavy, velvet-soft nose moved across her palm. Snorting in disgust at the lack of a treat, he turned his head back to the manger.
“Did…did you name him?”
“Sure did.” He patted the gelding’s rump. “I wanted to call him Satan. Somehow I thought that fit. Or Devil. Or Demon. Or Hell-raiser. Any of the above.”
“But you didn’t,” Libby guessed, her stomach turning over.
“He came with a name. Remember?”
She shook her head. For so many years she’d tried to erase everything about that horrid day from her mind.
“Slingshot.”
The horse’s ears flicked.
“Yeah, you’re okay, aren’t you?” Brett asked the horse. Then his gaze met Libby’s again. “And what about you?” he asked, taking a step in her direction and reaching out to hold her gloved hand in his. “Are you all right?”
“I…I will be. It was just a shock….”
“I know.” He looked suddenly old. His eyes held a great sadness, and Libby’s heart nearly broke. Without a word, he drew her into his arms and whispered against her hair. “It was hard…for me, too, Lib. I…I wake up some nights and wonder what might have been.”
Her heart squeezed painfully, and she sniffed back tears. He smelled of leather and horses and a familiar male scent that filled her with sensual memories. “So do I.” To keep the sobs that were burning in her lungs from exploding, she stepped away from him, and swiftly brushed her tears away. “I don’t want to think about it. Not now. Not ever. It’s over.”
His mouth turned into a sad smile. “I don’t think it will ever be over, Libby. Much as I’d like to believe it.”
She shuddered, and he mistook the pain in her heart for a chill. “Go on in and warm up. I’ll be along soon.”
Without a backward glance she hurried out of the barn and followed the short path through the snow to the cabin. When she was inside, she told herself she would not dwell in the past. Not tonight. Not when her emotions were as raw as the bitter north wind that ripped through these canyons.
To keep herself and her mind busy, she cleaned up, giving herself a sponge bath at the sink and washing her hair, and steadfastly shoving all thoughts of the past aside.
By the time Brett returned to the cabin, she felt reasonably refreshed and had started a fire in the stove. “I saved you some hot water,” she said, forcing a smile. For a second he stared at her, and she thought he would draw her into his arms again and all the old scars would reopen.
He started to say something, but thought better of it and headed to the bathroom. Soon she heard the sound of running water.
She felt a little awkward, but told herself to get over it. They were stuck together for a while, and they both had to make the best of an uncomfortable situation. She found the ingredients to make pan corn bread and vegetable soup and was soon humming in the kitchen, glad for something useful to do. But then she realized that the water pipes were suddenly silent, and she experienced the uncanny sensation that she wasn’t alone.
She turned and saw him, one shoulder propped against the frame of the door leading to the living room, his gaze on her. He’d shaved and showered, his hair was still wet, and he was dressed in clean Levi’s, socks, and a long-sleeved flannel shirt that he hadn’t bothered to button. His chest, covered with a sprinkling of dark hair, was visible where the shirt gaped, and Libby had trouble keeping her gaze level with his eyes.
“Turning domestic on me?” he asked, cocking his head toward the mixing bowl.
“Hardly,” she replied dryly. “In fact, you can help me carry this to the stove.”
While she finished cooking on the blackened stove in the living room, he threw on his jacket and gloves and went out to climb the lookout tower. After surveying the surrounding area, he called several other stations by radio and learned about the damage the storm had caused.
“Nothing serious,” he reported later as she cut thick slabs of corn bread and put them on separate plates on the coffee table. They were seated next to each other on the floor, backs propped against the couch, legs stretched over the braided rug. “Power outages throughout the mountains, lack of phone service, that sort of thing, but no one’s reported hurt or missing. A few elderly people in town were taken in by neighbors who have wood stoves, but by this time tomorrow, power should be restored and we can get into town.”
She was lifting a bite to her mouth, but stopped midway. “Tomorrow? Not today?”
He shook his head. “It’s too late. It’ll be dark soon, and I need to stay by the radio in case there are any more problems.” She wanted to argue with him, couldn’t imagine spending another night alone with him, but a part of her found the prospect of being with him again romantic. She dropped the corn bread and shoved the uneaten portion of her soup aside. Alone with Brett. Another night. Oh, Lord. It wasn’t romantic, it was just plain stupid.
“Will being here be so bad?” he asked, his voice deep, his gaze penetrating.
She rubbed her arms, as if suddenly chilled. “I just don’t think it’s wise.”
He lifted his eyebrows in silent agreement. “Look, it’s not my choice, either.”
“I don’t want to be a burden.”
He snorted, and his lips compressed into a thin, angry line. “You’re not a burden, Libby,” he said, shoving his empty plate and bowl away. “I’m just doing what I think is best.”
“What about what I think?”
“Your judgment is a little off.”
“Is it?”
He stared at her long and hard. He didn’t mention her trying to cross the rotten bridge, but she knew it was on his mind. Her gaze lowered to his lips, and she felt the slightest change in the atmosphere. His fingers were suddenly in her hair, and he drew her face close to his. “Believe me, Libby, if there was a way to get you out of here safely, I would do it. Being around you…this close to you…is hell.” His lips settled over hers in a kiss that tore the breath from her
lungs.
She knew she should stop this madness, but her rational mind couldn’t control her impulses, and she returned the fever of his kiss with a passion that had burned bright in her veins for five long years.
He shifted, leaning against her, pushing her down on the floor until he was half lying over her, his body forcing hers against the rug.
“You still drive me crazy,” he admitted, lifting his head to gaze into her eyes.
She was having difficulty breathing. Her breasts rose and fell, pressing up against his chest, and through the clothes that separated them she felt the heat of his body. “This…this isn’t a good idea,” she said.
“You’re right. It’s insanity.” With a groan, he kissed her again. His tongue pressed against her teeth, and her mouth opened easily, accepting him. Her blood was beginning to pound at her temples. With gentle flicks, his tongue met hers, dancing and weaving, causing desire to race through her bloodstream.
His hands slid downward to her shoulders and arms, surrounding her, moving against her, rubbing her sweater until the friction caused a fire deep in her loins. Dully she knew she should stop him while she still could, but his hand captured her breast, squeezing slightly, and she arched up, inviting more, her reservations fleeing.
He found the hem of her sweater, and his fingers scaled her ribs and cupped her breast. Within her bra, her nipple responded, and her clothes suddenly seemed too tight.
“Libby… Oh, Libby…” he whispered against her ear, while his fingers delved past the filmy barrier of lace and skimmed her nipple. She let out a cry, and he deftly pulled her sweater over her head. Her blue-black hair settled back against her shoulders, and he gently prodded the strap of her bra off her shoulder, releasing her breast.
“Oh, God!” she cried as he drew her nipple into his mouth. Her spine curved inward, pressing her abdomen and hips tight against his. With one hand he gently pushed more of her breast into his mouth, and she shivered in ecstasy.
His other hand cupped her buttocks, drawing her against the hardness buried in his jeans. “Oh, Libby, I want you,” he whispered, lifting his head and staring at her wet nipple, before forcing his glazed gaze up to hers. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.”
