Breathless Innocence

by Lisa Jackson

  “Seems to be contagious.” His voice was low and supple and seemed to whisper up her spine.

  Heather gripped the top rail of the fence so hard she felt splinters against her fingers. “Did you think about the other night?”

  “Can’t think of much else.”

  Her heart took flight. “Me, neither.”

  He hesitated a second. “You had a visitor today.”

  Her stomach turned over and she bit her lip.

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “Ex,” she said automatically.

  “He didn’t seem to think so.”

  “Look, Turner, it’s over. I know it and I think he does now, too.”

  He turned halfway, leaning an elbow on the fence rail and studying her face as if it held a vast secret he hoped to expose. “You’re a hard woman to forget.”

  “Is that a compliment?” she asked, her voice tremulous.

  “I’m just pointing out that your ‘ex’ didn’t look like the kind who gives up easily.”

  “He’s not.”

  “But you convinced him?” His voice was edged in skepticism.

  “All I can tell you is that it’s over between me and Dennis. It has been for a long time. And now…”

  “Now what?”

  Curling her fists, she sent up a silent prayer for strength, for honesty took more strength than she knew she possessed. “And now I only want you.”

  He let out a long low whistle. “You don’t—”

  She stepped forward, touching the rough stubble on his face with her hand. “I do, Turner. I want you.”

  She felt him smile in the darkness, a slow, sexy grin that brought an answering smile to her own lips.

  “So what’re we going to do about it?” he drawled.

  She turned and looked across the rolling acres of night-darkened grassland. Her throat felt thick and tight. “You tell me,” she finally whispered, swallowing hard and afraid that he would tell her that he didn’t want her again, that it would be best if they stopped seeing each other. Her heart was knocking against her ribs, her hands sweating.

  “I think the less we talk about it, the better.” His arms suddenly surrounded her. He pulled her backward a bit, so that her buttocks pressed against his thighs, and he bent his head and kissed the crook of her neck. She went liquid inside, her knees giving way as his hands slipped beneath her robe, wrapping possessively around her abdomen. Through the thin fabric of her nightgown, she felt his fingertips, the hot pinpoints stretching from beneath her breasts to the top of her legs.

  “I’ve missed you, Heather,” he murmured, his lips hot and hungry.

  “I…I’ve missed you, too.”

  His hands moved, stroking the skin over her belly, the thumb of one hand grazing the underside of her breasts, the fingers of his other swiping the apex of her legs.

  Her blood began to pulse as he shifted, his hardness firm against her buttocks.

  Closing her eyes, she knew she couldn’t resist, that as long as Turner and she were together, she would surrender to him, even seduce him, time and time again. As they tumbled into the dry grass, she realized that loving him was her destiny as well as her curse.

  For the first time in her life, Heather felt weak. She knew she should avoid Turner, for he would certainly leave and leave soon.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE MAKING A BIG MISTAKE,” Sheryl told Heather as they basted chicken with tangy barbecue sauce. Over fifty fryer quarters sizzled over the huge barbecue pit in the backyard. Tonight was the last evening at the ranch for many of the guests. Balloons and torches lined the back porch and a huge barbecue and dance were planned.

  “What kind of a mistake?” Heather asked innocently as the sweat ran between her shoulder blades. She picked up the tongs and began turning each quarter. The sun was blindingly hot. Grease spattered loudly and smoke billowed into the blue sky.

  “You know what I mean. About Turner. You should avoid him. He’ll only cause you heartache.”

  Jill, balancing a tub of sauce on her hip, heard the last of the discussion. “I don’t know,” she said, sending a wistful glance in the direction of the corral where some of the cowboys were branding calves. “I’d take his kind of heartache any day of the week.”

  “That’s crazy,” Sheryl muttered, as she brushed more sauce onto the chicken.

  “Crazy like a fox,” Jill replied, tossing her head and lowering her voice. “But I tell you, if I wanted to tie Turner down, I’d trick him.”

  “I don’t want to tie anyone down,” Heather snapped, hating the conversation. “I don’t think we should be talking about—”

  “Trick him?” Sheryl repeated. “How?”

  “By telling him I was pregnant.”

  Heather dropped the tongs.

  “Oh, God,” Sheryl whispered. “That’s insane.”

  “Not if you really want a man. You know what they say, ‘all’s fair in love and war.’”

  “But he’d find out—” Sheryl said.

  “By then it’d be too late, or I would be pregnant,” Jill replied with a smile.

  Sheryl and Heather stared at each other as Jill flounced up the stairs. “She’d do just about anything to leave home, I guess,” Sheryl said, biting her lip. “Even trap a man.”

  Heather felt sick. She finished basting the chicken, then helped bake corn bread as Mazie stood over a massive tub of chili. Even with the windows thrown wide, the kitchen seemed well over a hundred degrees. Heather tried to keep her concentration on her job, but her eyes kept wandering to the window and beyond where calves bawled and sweaty men tended a small fire and pressed the hot brand of the Lazy K into living rawhide.

  Turner was there. She could see him leaning over a frightened calf, talking softly, untying quick, flying hooves and stepping back swiftly as the calf scrambled to its feet.

  “If you don’t watch out, that bread’ll rise three feet,” Mazie admonished. “Just how much baking powder you figure on adding?”

  Heather jumped, nearly dumping the contents of the baking powder can into her mixture of cornmeal, flour, milk, sugar and egg. “Sorry,” she said, recovering.

  “Just keep your mind on what you’re doing.”

  That wasn’t easy advice to follow. For the next few hours, her eyes worked as if they had a mind of their own, searching the corrals, always seeking out Turner. Just as some of the guests were leaving tonight, Heather had a horrible premonition that Turner, too, would try to say goodbye. He’d been hinting at it for the past two days. It was only a matter of time.

  The girls were given time to change after the food had been served, and they, along with the hands and guests, danced on the plank deck while the flames of the torches gave off a flickering light. The music was a blend of country and old rock and roll, and Heather danced with several of the ranch hands and guests before she found herself in Turner’s arms.

  The lead singer, as if on cue, started singing a slow ballad by the Judds that nearly broke Heather’s heart.

  Turner’s arms folded around her and she clung to him with a desperation born of fear. Tears burned behind her eyes. Soon he would leave. As surely as the sun would rise in the east, Turner would be gone.

  And what was she supposed to do? Live her life as if she’d never met him? Pretend that their affair hadn’t existed? Save enough money for art school and find an apartment in the city? She thought of her sister’s life-style, once so envied, that now didn’t have the same fascination for her. The bright lights of the city, the dazzle of theater openings, the glitter of dance clubs had dimmed as she’d come to know and love Turner.

  She snuggled deeper in his arms, closing her eyes as his scent enveloped her. Leather and denim and smoke from the branding fire mixe
d with soap and horses to create a special male aroma. His body molded against hers, and beneath the sundress she wore, her skin turned warm. His lips pressed against her bare neck and she tingled all over….

  The song ended, and Turner whispered, “Meet me in the barn at midnight,” before they parted and found new partners. She fell into the arms of a hefty guest named Ron, who stepped on her toes, and Turner wound up dancing with Sheryl. Heather gritted her teeth and forced a smile and tried not to watch as Sheryl smiled up at Turner and whispered something in his ear. Turner laughed and Sheryl cast a superior glance in Heather’s direction.

  Heather turned her attention back to her partner and started counting down the minutes until midnight.

  * * *

  TURNER WAS WAITING FOR HER. His silhouette was visible against the window as she stepped into the darkened barn.

  “I thought you might have changed your mind,” he said.

  “Never.” Running to him, she threw herself into his open arms and met his hot lips with her own.

  “Not here…. Come on,” he whispered, taking her hand and leading her to the ladder that stretched to the hayloft. He followed her into the bower of fragrant hay and together they tumbled onto a mattress of loose straw. His lips found hers again and the hunger in his kiss told her that he would leave soon. There was a surrender in his movements that she’d never felt before, as if he hoped in one night to take his fill of her.

  She met his fevered lovemaking with her own flaming desire. She closed her mind to the future, lost herself in the here and now and made love to him with all the passion and fear that tortured her heart.

  “I love you,” she whispered recklessly, as she straddled him and her hair fell around her face and shoulders in thick golden waves.

  Turner gazed up at her, his eyes glazed, his face flushed with desire. “Don’t say—”

  “But I do, Turner,” she gasped.

  He placed a finger over her lips, and she caressed it with her mouth and tongue, convulsing over him as he bucked upward and released himself deep within her. “Heather,” he cried. “Sweet, sweet, lady.” His arms were around her and he pulled her sweat-soaked body down to rest on his.

  She felt tears fill her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry, not in front of him. Together they lay, entwined, their hearts beating rapidly, their breath mingling in the warm summer air. Turner’s arms were wound possessively around her and his lips touched her hair. They lay on their backs, staring through the open window near the apex of the roof, and watched the stars wink in the dark sky.

  “I can’t stay here forever,” Turner said as he kissed her temple and plucked a piece of straw from her hair.

  Her throat was so tight, she could barely whisper, “Why not?”

  “I’ve got a life out there.”

  Oh, God, not now! Please not now! Her world seemed to crack. “So you’re just a ramblin’ man,” she said, fighting tears and the sarcasm that poisoned her words. She’d promised herself that when he wanted to leave, she wouldn’t tie him down, but now she felt desperate to do anything, anything to stop him.

  “I guess.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and told herself she wouldn’t break down, wouldn’t shed one solitary tear for this man whose heart was hard enough that he could walk away.

  “You’ll leave soon anyway, too,” he said calmly, though his voice was rougher than usual. “You’ve got school in the fall—”

  “It doesn’t matter now.”

  “Sure it does.” He levered up on one elbow and studied the features of her face so intently she looked away. “Heather, you have a chance—to do what you want. Go for it. Don’t let anyone take your dreams away from you.”

  “Like someone took yours from you?” she guessed, and he stiffened.

  “I always wanted to be a cowboy.”

  “Little boys want to ride horses and shoot guns,” she said, touching his arm, feeling the downy hair beneath her fingers. “Grown men like to sit in offices, order their secretaries around and play golf.”

  “Not this one.” He flopped onto his back and stared at the dusty rafters where a barn owl had tried to roost. “That’s the problem, Heather. I like my life the way it is. I’d die in a three-piece suit and a tiny office on the forty-third floor of some high rise. I’d rather hassle with my old pickup than drive a Mercedes. And I’d take a camp stove and a tent over a house in the suburbs any day. I wouldn’t be any good at frying hamburgers on the backyard grill and I don’t see myself coachin’ Little League.”

  “You’re telling me there’s no room in your life for me.”

  “Nope. I’m telling you there’s no room in your life for me.”

  “I love you, Turner.”

  “You don’t—”

  “Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips and fought back the urge to cry. He didn’t love her. Oh, he cared for her. That much was evident. But to him she was no more than his girl at one of the many places he called home. He probably had women waiting for him in every rodeo town in the West. Tears clogged her throat and burned her eyes. She leaned over and kissed him.

  He responded, but his eyes were open and he saw the tears that she fought so bravely. With a sad smile, he wiped a tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry for me, darlin’. Believe me, I’m not worth it,” he said before his lips found hers again and he showed her a way to forget the pain.

  * * *

  HEATHER DIDN’T SEE TURNER the next day. He didn’t come in for meals and his pickup wasn’t in the yard. If Mazie knew anything, she was keeping her lips buttoned and Zeke wasn’t around.

  All day long Heather’s stomach was queasy and her heart felt as if it had turned to stone. But he wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye.

  The day dragged endlessly, and when finally she was finished shaking the rugs, hanging the kettles and mopping the floor, she tossed her apron into a hamper and ran outside. Heart in her throat, she walked to the stables.

  Sampson was missing.

  And Turner’s saddle wasn’t slung over the sawhorse near the corner of Sampson’s stall. She hurried down the cement walkways, her boots ringing hollowly beneath the glare of single bulbs.

  In the broodmare barn she found Billy, pitchfork in hand, tossing fresh hay into a manger.

  “Is—have you seen Turner?” she asked when Billy glanced her way.

  “Not since daybreak. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” she replied, panic causing her heart to beat so fast she could barely breathe. Maybe Billy meant that Turner had driven into town for supplies with Zeke. Or maybe he meant that Turner had taken some of the guests on an overnight campout. Or maybe his father had gotten himself into trouble again and Turner had to bail the old man out. That was probably it. John had gotten drunk, thrown a few punches in a bar and—

  “He took off just after dawn,” Billy volunteered, jabbing another forkful of hay.

  “When will he be back?”

  Billy’s jaw tightened. He stuffed the pitchfork into a bale of straw and yanked off his gloves. “I don’t reckon he’s comin’ back. Leastwise not this summer.”

  Her heart dropped to the cold cement floor. “You’re sure?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” Billy shrugged and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “But his shoulder isn’t hurt anymore and he paid a lot of money for entry fees and everyone knows he likes to keep some distance between himself and his old man, so you figure it out.”

  He yanked on his gloves and began spreading straw in some of the empty stalls. Heather’s throat squeezed shut and tears stung her eyes. So he’d gone. Without telling her. Well, maybe he’d tried last night, but she’d expected more than a “I’ll be leaving soon.”

  She battled tears all the way back to the ranch house. She wanted to throw herse
lf onto her bed and kick and scream and sob until all her tears were wrung from her body. But she couldn’t go upstairs and run into Sheryl or Jill or any of the girls who worked at the ranch. No, she’d have to do her grieving by herself. Maybe he’d call. Or write. She could cling to those frail hopes.

  Feeling more miserable than she’d felt in all of her life, she saddled Sundown and rode to the bend in the river where she’d first spied Turner. “The beginning of the end,” she whispered, patting the gelding’s neck and hopping to the ground while tears streamed down her face.

  She tried to be strong because she faced more than a single fear. Not only did she realize that he’d used her, that she’d been nothing more than one of the girls he’d met on the road, that he’d never loved her, she also suspected that she might be pregnant.

  She touched her flat abdomen and tried not to cry for the baby who would never know his father. For the baby, she had to be strong; for the life beating within her, she had to find a way to survive. Without Turner.

  BOOK TWO

  Badlands Ranch, California

  The Present

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE BRONC LEAPT HIGH, twisted in midair and kicked toward the sun, but Turner held on, his fingers twined in the bridle and mane of his furious mount. “That’s it, you bastard. Show me what you’ve got,” he gritted out. His hat flew off, skimming through the dry air to land in the center of the paddock. The roan, a nasty beast named Gargoyle, landed with a bone-jarring thud before he became airborne again, bucking and rearing, fighting to dislodge his unwanted rider.

  Turner gritted his teeth and ignored the grime and dust of a day’s work. This ugly stallion was the best of the lot he was to train, a fiery-tempered quarter horse who didn’t give up, the kind of do-or-die animal that Turner had always found a challenge.

  Hooves found earth again and the roan took off, running the length of the paddock, kicking up dust and nearly smashing Turner’s leg against the shaved poles of the fence.

  Grinning wickedly, Turner clamped his thighs tighter, shifting his weight, letting the horse know who was boss.