Stolen Away (Hearts of Montana)

by Jennie Marts

  “She’s great. You would actually love her. And not just because she’s fun and easy to get along with. But because you’ve lived through a lot of the same things.”

  Emma nodded, and her ponytail bobbed. Her hair tickled his neck as he leaned over her shoulder. “Were you always close?” she asked.

  “Yeah. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so it was always my mom and I against him. My dad would come home around suppertime, and if I was in the kitchen with her, he’d usually leave her alone. I picked up the basics, and my mom taught me a lot of stuff. He knew I helped her, which was good, so if something wasn’t cooked right, or he didn’t like it, I could take the blame instead of her.”

  Her hands stilled on the rolling pin, and her voice was soft as she asked, “Did he hurt you, too?”

  “Yeah, he did. He wasn’t my real dad. My real dad was a bull rider and was killed when a bull kicked him in the head during a rodeo.”

  “I’m sorry. I understand what that’s like. My mom died when I was eight. Cancer.”

  No wonder she was so shy and kept to herself. He knew Clyde Frank was a widower, but had never really thought about the implications of that where Emma was concerned.

  “That’s worse. I was still a baby when I lost my dad, so I didn’t really know him. My stepdad married my mom when I was around five, so he was the only dad I ever really knew. And in the beginning he was good to us, ya know?”

  “Yes, they always start out that way.”

  “He seemed so nice and fun. I’d never had any real male attention before, and he used to play catch with me and take me to baseball games. Even after, you know, he started beating us, he was always so sorry. He brought us gifts and took us out to eat and was that fun, nice guy again.”

  He leaned his head against the side of hers, caught up in the memories. “It almost made it worth it. I mean the bruises healed, and it was like it was worth getting them to have that good guy back for a while—to have his attention and have him treat us so kindly.”

  She didn’t turn, didn’t look at him, like it was almost easier to talk about the hard stuff if she just kept her eyes on their hands. “Leroy used to be so good to me afterward, bringing me flowers and offering to take me on dates. It didn’t seem so bad at first, ’cause he was always so sorry, and then he’d be so sweet.”

  “It’s like they’re two different people. I always felt like I had two dads, the good one, and the other one. At least in the beginning. Then the drinking got worse, and it’s like the good one simply disappeared.”

  She didn’t say anything, simply nodded instead.

  “My dad was a gambler, always looking for the easy score, the one that was really gonna make him rich this time. He gambled away most of his paychecks and any savings we might have had. The more he lost, the more he drank, and the more he took out his desperation and anger on us.”

  She squeezed his hand, still not responding, just letting him talk.

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I don’t know why I just told you all that stuff. You asked me about my mom, not my life story. My mom’s name is Kathleen, but everyone calls her Kitty. You’ll really like her. She’s coming to town in a few weeks for the Fall Festival so you’ll get to meet her then.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’d like to get this pie in the oven. You have this way of distracting me.” He gave her a nudging tease. “The trick is to fold it in half, then fold it in half again, then lay it in your pie pan and gently unfold it. It’s okay to have this extra crust around the sides, just tuck it under and crimp the edges like this.” He showed her how to transfer the crust and pinch the edges. “Now for the filling.”

  He grabbed another mixing bowl. “I’ll melt the butter and chop the pecans while you measure out the other stuff.”

  “Okay, I can handle this part.” They worked in companionable silence, measuring and dumping ingredients into the bowl.

  “Now, not everyone does this, but my mom always sprinkled about a half a teaspoon of cinnamon into her pecan pie. She said it gave it a kick and made hers seem just a little unique. She also used the darker variety of corn syrup to intensify the flavor.” He sprinkled cinnamon into the bowl then drizzled the dark syrup over the other ingredients.

  “Good tips. I would have just followed the recipe on the back of the bag.”

  He handed her a mixing spoon. “You can take it from here.”

  The radio was on and tuned to a country station, and Emma hummed along to a Carrie Underwood song as she stirred the sticky filling then poured it into the prepared piecrust.

  Cash set one of Gigi’s ancient pie shields on top of the rim of the crust. “This will keep the edges from getting too brown.” He held open the door of the already preheated oven, and Emma slid the pie onto the center rack.

  “Now we set the timer for forty-five minutes and clean up this mess.” He filled the sink with hot water and squirted in some dish soap. “I’ll wash if you dry.”

  “Deal.” She brought over the dishes and dumped them into the water then found a clean dish towel. Standing near him, she leaned her hip against the counter, watching his hands as she waited for the first dish. “Thank you for telling me. You know—about you and your mom.”

  He kept his gaze on the soapy water as he washed the mixing bowl. “I don’t know exactly what you went through, but I get how hard it is to live with a man like that. It took a hell of a lot of guts to leave him for good.”

  “Everyone always talks about why women stay so long. And why they don’t just leave. It’s so hard to make them understand. Leroy wasn’t always like that. He used to be funny and was actually pretty good to me. Things seemed to get worse for us after Leroy lost his job. And like you said, the drinking got worse, and when he was drunk he lost control. And those times started happening more and more often till I couldn’t even remember that sweet guy. I dreaded the minute he would walk in the door, not knowing if it would be a good night and I could keep him calm or if it would be bad.”

  “It probably felt like you could keep him calm, but it didn’t really matter what you did. My mom and I used to do that, too. Like if we could just make the perfect dinner and talk about just the right stuff, he would be okay and not drink so much that night and get mad. But it didn’t really matter what we did. Or what you did. It was out of your control, Emma. And none of it was your fault.”

  She took the bowl and ran the towel along the edge, catching the drops of water as she dried it. “I get that now. But I didn’t think like that then. All I thought about was doing whatever I could to keep him from getting mad and taking it out on me.”

  His heart broke for her and the things she must have gone through. It was so hard for other people to understand what it’s like. Unless they’d been through it themselves. People always think why didn’t she just leave? But it wasn’t that simple.

  “I know I should have left sooner than I did, but I was afraid. I had nothing. I had no one to turn to. I mean I had my dad, but he’d already done enough. I’d gone to him before, but then I went back to Leroy. I was ashamed and embarrassed. And I didn’t have any friends.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Not like I do now.”

  He turned to her, took the towel, and dried his hands. “We are your friends, Em. All of us. You can count on us. We’ll be here for you. I’ll be here for you.”

  She looked at the floor. “I believe you. That’s why I’m so ashamed of what happened last night. I know you just want to be my friend, and I overstepped those bounds. I’m horrified that I threw myself at you when you’ve made it clear several times that you don’t think of me that way.”

  What the hell was she talking about? Was that the reason she ran out on him? Not because she thought he was rejecting her, but because she didn’t think he wanted her at all?

  He reached out and touched her chin, tipping her face up to look at him. “You’re wrong, Emma. I do think about you that way. I think about you every way, every day, all the time.
Thoughts of you haunt my dreams, and I spend a good part of my day wondering what you’re doing, how you’re feeling, and if you’re okay.”

  His gaze drifted to her mouth. “I also spend a fair amount of time thinking about your lips and about kissing you.”

  “You do?” She tugged the corner of her bottom lip under her front teeth, and it made him want to kiss her now, to suck her lip in between his. To taste her.

  “Then why don’t you? Why haven’t you?” she asked, her voice soft.

  “Because I do care about you. I care too much about you. And you don’t need to get involved with a guy like me. You deserve so much better.”

  “But I like you.”

  “Why? Why the hell would you want to get mixed up with someone like me?”

  She searched his gaze as if trying to determine if he was seriously asking her that. “Why wouldn’t I? You’re kindhearted, you’re thoughtful, you treat me with care and like you want to protect me. Plus you’re so cute, and you have all these muscles.” Her lips tipped into a teasing grin. “And you have a great butt.”

  He chuckled, a soft laugh. “I could say the same of you.”

  “Then what’s the problem? I don’t understand. I thought it was because, you know, you’re used to women who are prettier, and curvier, and way more fun than I am. I was sure it was because I wasn’t enough.”

  She was breaking his heart, shattering it into tiny pieces.

  How could she think she wasn’t enough? “You’re more than enough. You’re…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Special, I guess. Those other women are fun, but that’s all they are. You’re more than that to me. You matter.”

  Reaching up, she laid a hand on his cheek. “You matter to me, too. You’re the only one who really makes me feel safe.”

  He closed his eyes and pressed his hand on top of hers, savoring her touch for a moment before he pulled her hand away.

  Opening his eyes, he stared into hers, bracing his arms on either side of her against the counter, his voice now gruff with emotion. “But I can’t keep you safe. If you get involved with me, I can’t protect you from the thing that will surely hurt you—could possibly destroy you. And that’s me. I can’t risk hurting you, and I would never forgive myself if I did.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you think that? You’ve only been good to me. And I’m the one taking the risk. So what if it’s a chance I’m willing to take? Because I don’t think you will hurt me. You know what it’s like to live with a monster; that doesn’t make you one.” She inched forward, straddling his leg as she pressed against him.

  He sighed, a heavy sound full of the torture he felt. He wanted to believe her. Wanted to see himself through her eyes.

  He also wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, peel off her clothes, and have his way with her right here on the kitchen floor.

  But that would be a selfish move on his part. Selfish and stupid and only thinking of his own desperate need for her.

  He bent his forehead down, leaning it against hers. “Emma, I have a lot of darkness in my past. A lot of stuff that I’m not proud of. You’re just getting out of that darkness. You have so much to look forward to. A future. Actual happiness. I don’t want to be the one to keep you in the darkness. Not when you deserve to be in the light.”

  “My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can barely breathe. But being here with you, standing so close and praying that you’ll kiss me, this feels like I am in the light.”

  His breath caught in his throat, his defenses cracking, as she gazed up at him with such tender emotion, and such raw desire. He knew he should step back, collect his wits, at least try to come to his senses.

  But he couldn’t. His good sense had deserted him, leaving him with only his sense of want and need.

  He didn’t care if it was selfish or senseless. He wanted her, and he wanted her now. His good conscience be damned, he knew he was about to do something stupid.

  Never taking his gaze from hers, he lifted her onto the counter, pressed between her open legs, then reached up and took her face between his palms. He rubbed his thumb gently along her bottom lip. “Lord help me, I can’t resist you.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Emma couldn’t move, could barely breathe, her whole body frozen in anticipation of this kiss. And holy mother, what a kiss it was.

  His lips crushed hers, his mouth devouring hers. One of his palms held her cheek, while the other slid around her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as he cupped her head.

  Each nerve in her body came alive, anticipating his every touch. Her body trembled, and she clung to his arms, gripping his muscled biceps as shivers of desire coursed through her.

  He moaned against her lips, a low throaty rumble, and it was one of the sexiest things Emma had ever heard. How could kissing her elicit such a response from him?

  She could feel the tremble in his fingers as he skimmed his hand down her throat and over her shoulder.

  Wanting more, she parted her lips, allowing his tongue to press through, to taste, to sample, to consume her mouth. He tasted like the brown sugar and vanilla he’d snuck a bite of as they’d mixed the filling for the pie, and she couldn’t get enough of him.

  He pulled back, taking her breath with him, and looked down at her. “You need to tell me right now if you want me to stop.”

  “For the love of God, please don’t stop.” She kissed him again, then pulled slightly back, her words coming between ragged breaths. “Don’t ever stop.”

  He swept her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, setting her carefully down on the bed. Yanking the apron over his head, he threw it behind him, then leaned down and tugged off his boots. Climbing onto the bed, he straddled her legs, rising above her. Heat spread through her body as she anticipated his next move.

  In one quick movement, he yanked off his shirt, and Emma’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscled chest.

  An intricate tattoo covered his broad shoulder and spilled onto the edge of his chest. She reached up and lightly touched the drawing.

  The center of the image was an old wooden cross, with an American flag hanging off one side, the edges of the flag crossing over onto his chest. A cowboy hat hung off the other side of the cross, and a band of barbed wire circled his bicep under the picture.

  Her fingers drifted over the inked illustration. “I didn’t know you had a tattoo.”

  He shrugged. “I did it years ago. I designed it because I feel like it’s the combination of the three things that define me—God, country, and being a cowboy.”

  “I think it’s crazy sexy,” she whispered.

  Before she had a chance to turn away in embarrassment of her bold statement, he reached for her chin, holding her gaze with his own piercing stare. “I think you’re crazy sexy.”

  Oh my.

  Her heart raced as his hands slid down through her hair and untied the apron from around her neck, pulling the strings seductively along her skin, then reached under her back and loosened the bow tied there.

  The straps of the apron slid across her hips, whispering against the fabric of her pants, as seductive as any striptease. He tossed the apron to the floor and lay down on the bed next to her.

  Skimming his fingers across her cheek, his gaze traveled over her face. “You are so damn beautiful.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  He put his finger to her mouth, shushing her, and she sucked in her breath at the feel of his callused finger against the tender skin of her lips. “You are beautiful to me.”

  His hand traveled across her cheek, then slid down as his fingers sunk into her hair. Holding her head, he leaned in, his breath warm on her neck as he pressed his lips against her throat.

  Barely floating over her skin, he laid a trail of soft teasing kisses up her neck and to the sweet tender spot below her ear. His voice was husky as he whispered, “I want to touch you. I’ve been dying to touch you.” He barely n
ipped her earlobe with his teeth. “Will you let me touch you, Emma?”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, the sound of her name on his lips asking permission was almost more than she could bear. Unable to speak, she only nodded her head, her body already aching in eagerness for his touch.

  Sliding his hand out from under her hair, he traced the line of her throat, skimming his fingers inside her collar, along her shoulder, and under the strap of her bra. Leaning down, he kissed the center of her chest, then pulled his hand free and slowly released the top button of her shirt.

  He looked into her eyes, seeking permission, and she nodded again, not trusting her voice.

  Undoing one button at a time, his movement slow and seductive, he followed each opened button with a soft kiss against her newly revealed skin, until her entire shirt was open, and she lay exposed to him. Turning his hand over, he skimmed the back of his fingers across the tops of her uncovered breasts.

  She sucked in her breath, arching up, aching for his touch. She was embarrassed by her simple white bra, but Cash didn’t seem to mind it. And she had a feeling she wouldn’t be wearing it much longer anyway.

  But he wasn’t there just yet. He was still torturing her as he kissed her ribs, her sides, her stomach, the stubble of his five o’clock shadow grazing against the skin above her waistband.

  Hooking his fingers in the top edge of her pants, he slid them down her legs, bending her knees and pulling them free.

  He rolled over, this time spreading her legs and kneeling between them. It didn’t matter that he was still fully dressed. Having his muscled thighs press against the soft insides of her legs was delicious torment.

  His gaze was wild, but his hands were calm, gentle, as they skimmed down the outside of her arms, across her ribs, and teased the top edge of her bikini panties along her belly.

  He took her hands and pulled her up, just far enough to peel off her shirt. His hands circled her back, seeking the clasp of her bra.

  “I need you naked. I need to see you,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.