by Fran Baker
Dee Dee made absolutely certain that there was no mention of Cassie's career during the meal, but Cassie didn't mind She needed a little time to digest the exciting prospects in her life, anyway, so she focused her attention on the salty country ham, the fluffy baked biscuits smothered in red-eye gravy, and the wilted-lettuce salad.
“Will you need me for anything else this evening?” Mrs. Morton had cleared the table and Cassie knew she was anxious to go upstairs for a quiet evening of television with her feet propped on the ottoman.
“Not for me, thanks. Dee Dee?” Hoyt flashed a dazzling smile and arched his eyebrow at Mrs. Morton. He was fully aware of her poor opinion of Dee Dee, and he never missed an opportunity to tease the housekeeper, who'd raised him after his mother's untimely death.
“Well, I could use a breath of fresh air after that heavy meal.” Dee Dee scooted her chair closer to Hoyt's. “If I ate like that every night, I'd be big as a barn in no time.”
The comment was aimed directly at the woman in charge of preparing the daily menu.
“I've seen milk cows in better shape than she is.” Mrs. Morton's barely audible sarcasm reached Cassie's ears and they smiled at one another.
“I'm going upstairs, too, if you'll excuse me.” Cassie slipped out of her cane-backed chair. “Can we talk some more tomorrow?”
“Sure thing.” Hoyt winked.
As she opened the door to her bedroom, Pops’ nurse dashed down the hall, nearly colliding with Cassie in her haste. “Mr. Temple has taken a very serious turn for the worse! He can hardly breathe!” The frantic message spilled out as the nurse wrung her capable hands.
“Have you called the doctor?” Cassie asked, squelching her own sorrow to take charge of the situation. “I'll sit with him while you tell Hoyt. He's in the dining room.” Cassie didn't wait for a reply as she turned and ran toward Pops.
The dimly lit bedroom reeked of age and illness despite its immaculate appearance. Cassie tiptoed to the side of the massive four-poster bed and peeked at the ashen face. Pops’ lungs fought against the final indignities of death. No stranger to these circumstances, Cassie pulled a chair closer and caressed the gnarled hand that had once commanded a kingdom.
“Mattie? Is that you, Mattie?” Pops was too delirious to require an answer, so she merely patted his hand in understanding consolation.
“I did the best I could, Mattie.” Pops’ bloodless lips hardly moved as he communicated with the woman he'd loved and lost.
“I know. I know.” Cassie tried to calm him.
“Should have spent more time raising him and less time raising hell, but I did the best I could.” A tear slid from under one closed lid and trickled down the side of his face.
When Cassie pressed the knobby hand, bestowing the forgiveness she knew Mattie would have freely given, Pops settled down. A long, peaceful moment ensued and Cassie recognized the eerie quiet before the raging storm of death. Pops would drift in and out of consciousness now, much as her mother had before drawing her last breath.
Cassie said a silent good-bye and angrily berated the fates. Where was Hoyt? Why wasn't he here to help the old man meet eternity, to help her get through this latest tragedy?
In answer to her tormented questions, a strong, reassuring hand applied pressure to her shoulder. Cassie relaxed against the hard, lean frame that formed the final link in this odd chain of life's events.
The old man's eyelids flew open and he made final contact with the electric-blue eyes of his son. Hot tears blurred Cassie's vision as she felt the hand go limp. Pops had left his emotional and physical pain behind him forever. Hoyt's fingers dug into her shoulder and Cassie welcomed the acute reminder of her own vitality.
“It's for the best. He's out of his misery now.” Dee Dee snatched Hoyt's hand away from Cassie and placed his arm around her waist. “Why don't you come downstairs, honey, and let me fix you a drink while we wait for the ambulance?”
Cassie watched through a fog of lonesome sorrow as Dee Dee led Hoyt out of the bedroom. A crushing weight bore down on her as she buried her face in trembling hands.
“The doctor will be here shortly. Why don't you go lie down for a while?” The nurse guided Cassie across the room, excusing her from the responsibilities that belonged to the family.
Cassie couldn't face the solitude that waited in her lush bedroom. She slipped down the stairs and sought refuge in the gazebo, where she and Pops had whiled away so many afternoons during her recovery.
The old oak swing creaked reassuringly as she settled against its wooden slats and privately saluted a friendship welded between bites of molasses cookies and bits of shared remembrances.
She wasn't startled when Hoyt lowered himself into the swing beside her. Somehow she'd known that he wouldn't leave her alone with this burden. His arms were the haven she sought. Cassie leaned her head against the solid expanse of his chest, inhaling the healthy male fragrance that mingled pleasantly with the autumnal tang of the harvest breeze.
“I wasted a lot of years hating your father and what he stood for, blaming him for things that weren't his fault at all,” she whispered. “If only I'd known then what I know now... ”
“It doesn't do any good to worry about the past, Cassie. There are things I'd like to undo myself, but it's too late. We need to concentrate on the future.”
Moonlight danced in the blue pools of Hoyt's eyes as Cassie raised her head. When his lips brushed hers in a gentle, searching kiss, she responded with her own hungry demand. Her heart ached with the bittersweet knowledge that Hoyt was using her to assuage his sorrow. But she needed him, too, with a sudden, quiet desperation that blotted everything but this moment from her mind.
Hoyt's mouth traced the path of tears that spilled onto her cheeks and a blazing fire consumed her. Ripe curves melted into iron-hard contours and Cassie gave in to the velvet sensations— again.
A screaming siren ripped the suede-smooth silence that enveloped the night-time lovers. Cassie reached out and caressed his tightly clenched jaw. He'd urged her to think of the future, but her mind was fixed on those precious moments, past and present, when she'd come alive in his embrace.
Slamming doors and clipped voices interrupted the sweet flow of temptation.
“I'll have to give them a hand.” Hoyt stood and she watched him recede into the shadows.
It was her fault that he still had this power to arouse her. Even knowing where it was bound to end, Cassie wasn't able to stem the tide of her desire.
Chapter 11
The mourners clustered under the green felt canopy, seeking shelter from the light drizzle. Piled high around the bronze casket were streamered wreaths, their fading beauty an odd punctuation mark to the solemn sentences that the minister delivered.
Cassie cleared her throat nervously.
“Miss Creighton will sing the closing hymn for us.”
As the final notes of “Amazing Grace” were swallowed by the wind, thunder rumbled in the low-hanging clouds.
“Mr. Hoyt Temple has asked me to thank all of you for your attendance, and to invite you to the house for refreshments.” The minister concluded the ceremony and the crowd filed across the muddy knoll toward the line of gleaming limousines.
Dee Dee's palomino paleness was exaggerated by the sleek-fitting mourning costume she wore. Cassie watched Hoyt guide his voluptuous companion into the back seat of the family car. It dawned on her then that Hoyt and Dee Dee were what dynasties were all about. Their backgrounds, their breeding, their wealth— all of it fit together like a jigsaw puzzle.
Cassie waited until the cars had whisked the crowd toward their Bloody Mary brunch before she plucked a single yellow rose from the elegant arrangement draping the casket Pops had often joked that he would have to hire someone to cry at his funeral, but the tears streaming down Cassie's cheeks were the product of genuine grief.
The minister's stilted words of compassion and awkward pats on her shoulder didn't fill the empty ache inside her, but Cassie
finally managed to pull herself together. No one would ever know what it cost her to dry her eyes and join the jovial crowd swapping anecdotes and market tips.
Dee Dee played the gracious hostess to the hilt. She rarely left Hoyt's side in the reception line, and the buffet she'd ordered was a brilliant combination of the finest Southwest specialties.
“I'm sure one of the hands will be glad to give you a lift into town whenever you're packed.” Dee Dee and Cassie were alone in the kitchen while Hoyt said good-bye to the last of his guests. “You know how people talk,” Dee Dee added. “And I'm sure you don't want to spoil your opening with a lot of trashy gossip.”
“We have some unfinished business to take care of, so Cassie isn't going anywhere,” Hoyt contradicted, pushing through the swinging kitchen doors.
“But what will people say if the two of you are living here alone?” Dee Dee linked her arm through Hoyt's and rubbed against him seductively, like a cat seeking attention from its master.
“I hadn't thought of that,” Hoyt commented dryly. He kissed the tip of Dee Dee's upturned nose and smiled.
“Well, you should.” Dee Dee had an opening and she rushed into it. “What would the press have to say about it?”
Hoyt seemed to consider that angle very carefully.
“To tell you the truth, I really don't give a damn.” His blue eyes mocked convention.
A silent witness so far to Dee Dee's charade of concern, Cassie released a soft sigh. Her feelings duplicated Hoyt's exactly.
“Come on, I'll take you home.” He steered the sputtering female out of the kitchen.
“But her reputation... ” Dee Dee's protests could be heard over the clatter of her high heels against the tile floor.
* * * *
“All done.” It was late when Mrs. Morton wiped off the last counter and tucked her dishcloth through the brass ring hanging inside the pantry door. “Feel free to fix yourself a sandwich, Cassie. I know you didn't eat much today.” The housekeeper smiled kindly before she went upstairs.
Hoyt still hadn't returned from running Dee Dee home, and Cassie was as restless as the storm that continued to rage outside. She opened and closed the refrigerator door three times, then wandered through the empty rooms in search of a place to relax. If only she had a guitar, she could practice for her debut at the Petroleum Club. The den was as neat as a pin, showing no sign now of the plates, cups, and half-empty glasses that had cluttered it after the funeral.
She grabbed her borrowed jacket and slipped out the back door. Big, cool drops splashed through the latticed roof of her hideaway. The rain felt so good. She turned her face up and let the drops pelt her.
“Turkeys drown because they don't have sense enough to close their mouths when they watch the rain.”
“Hoyt! You must be half-Indian, the way you sneak up on people.” Cassie's heart thumped wildly. She didn't know whether it was because he'd startled her or because she was glad to see him.
“Come inside with me. I've got something to show you.” Hoyt's fingers encircled her arm, and even through the down jacket she was conscious of the electricity of his touch. She wondered if this was how it felt to be struck by lightning.
“I'm soaked.” Her jeans were plastered to her legs like a second skin.
“Go change,” he ordered. Hoyt grabbed a handful of paper towels off the wooden roller in the kitchen and threw them at her feet to absorb the puddle Cassie was making on Mrs. Morton's clean floor.
Cassie scampered upstairs, threw her drenched clothes into the bathtub, and pulled on the soft terry-cloth robe that she'd bought the day Dr. Reyes had released her from his care. A quick combing untangled the snarls in her damp hair.
A fire danced in the massive hearth when she joined Hoyt in the den. Cassie wrapped a granny-squared afghan around her shoulders and sank onto the corner of the sofa nearest the crackling warmth.
“Close your eyes.”
“What?” Cassie laughed, not sure she'd heard him correctly.
“It's not fair to peek!” Hoyt admonished, and she complied. His boot steps grew fainter as he left the room.
“What have you got up your sleeve?” she asked when she heard him reenter the room.
“Okay. Open your eyes.” It was a gentle command that she willingly obeyed.
“Oh, Hoyt!” Cassie gasped in astonishment when he laid an exquisitely crafted C. F. Martin guitar across her lap.
“Happy birthday, a few weeks late.” He leaned over and brushed her lips.
“I completely forgot!” she confessed as she slapped her forehead. Her heart thudded a jubilant chorus and her eyes were the deep purple of pansies blooming in the spring. “How did you know?”
“Hospital records tell a lot of tales— almost as many as those amethyst eyes of yours.” He raised an amused eyebrow, then walked over to the bar and poured himself a short shot.
Cassie ran her hands lovingly over the rosewood and spruce instrument. As she strummed the gold-pegged strings and stroked the ebony fingerboard, she searched for the words to express her gratitude. Her eyes misted, and when she looked at Hoyt, he misunderstood the reason for her tears.
“Is there something wrong with it?” Concern etched fine lines as he furrowed his brow. “If you would rather have another guitar, we can exchange it tomorrow; first thing.”
“This is the most beautiful guitar I've ever seen,” she declared, still awed by his generosity. In her wildest dreams, Cassie had never imagined owning an instrument like this. “I don't even know what to say,” she finished lamely.
“Talk's cheap. Play a tune on it so we can see how it works.” Hoyt settled into an easy chair to sip his bourbon and watch Cassie tune the guitar with reverent expertise.
When she hugged the instrument to her, she was amazed. The symmetrical spruce curves undulated to fit the delicate shape of her body— almost as though it had been made especially for her. Her voice rang true and clear, melding with the guitar's already seasoned sound as she sang “Wildflower.” Under the light, sure touch of her graceful fingers, the strings vibrated toward the gold pegs set in an unusual scalloped bracing.
“It's perfect,” she murmured when the final strains faded away. The applewood-scented fire played its own hissing tune in the hearth, and muffled claps of thunder announced the storm's intention to stay the night.
Cassie studied the man sprawled as supple as leather in the chair opposite her. He was the most complex person she had ever known. One minute he was the swaggering, silver-buckled rodeo champion; the next minute he was the no-nonsense, working boss whipping the family company into shape. A smoldering desire fired her as she recalled another, more tender side of this outlaw in gentleman's surroundings.
With its rich walnut paneling, the warm room was like a comfortable cave where the two of them were isolated from the world. Cassie sat, quietly entranced, her black hair spilling over her shoulders, and the soft swell of her breasts filling the hollow curve of the guitar. The cold blue steel of Hoyt's eyes returned her scrutiny, yet revealed nothing of what he might be thinking.
“We're both going to be running on pretty tight schedules this next week or so.” His words were terse battering rams against the constraints of intimacy that held both of them captive. “I imagine you'd better get some rest while you can.”
Cassie nodded a melancholy agreement, but she made no move to rise off the sofa.
“You'd better go upstairs.” Raw tension vibrated through his warning. “Because if you stay here, I'm going to pull you down an that rug and make love to you.”
Cassie nodded again. A potent force seemed to be holding her immobile and she didn't— couldn't— resist the invisible ties that bound her. A wooden puppet had more control over its limbs than she did.
When Hoyt reached out, Cassie placed her hand in his. In one fluid motion, she was off the sofa and cradled in his arms.
Hoyt carried her to the fur rug and laid her down with the tender consideration of a museum curator display
ing a rare piece of porcelain. Her robe fell away from her creamy shoulders and his mouth followed the smooth lines of her soft flesh.
“Your hair is like silk.” Hoyt buried his face in the thick mass and threaded the black waves through his fingers. His lips were erotic conquerors, scaling the alabaster peaks of her breasts to their tender, rosy crests.
“Oh, Hoyt.” Desire curled through her like a whiplash under the gentle persuasion of his flicking tongue.
Cassie unbuttoned his chamois shirt and spread her hands on his hard chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat, the solid muscle of his shoulders and back seared her sensitive palms.
Remember me, her violet eyes seemed to say as she watched him strip off his clothes with the same natural ease that stamped his every movement. His sinewy form joined her yielding softness on the fur rug, and their bodies fused in the white-hot heat of passion.
Although she knew she couldn't have him forever, Cassie reveled in this mutual possession of body and soul. The heat fired her veins and Cassie gave herself up to the sensations washing over her. The jealous fire played beside them, its warm orange glow casting erotic shadows of their entwining limbs. When Cassie thought she was dying in his arms, Hoyt's kiss revived her.
They were equal... again... finally... perhaps one last time.
Hoyt's hands and mouth drove her wild with wanting, while his body drove her deeper into the velvet-piled fur. She caressed his naked back, his shoulders, his thrusting hips, saying with her passion what she dared not say aloud. The tremors, and the wonder of them, carried her beyond fulfillment, beyond caring that they might never love like this again.
* * * *
“I don't want him to cut my hair! You're trying to turn me into something I'm not, something I'll never be!” Cassie raged even as the hairdresser tugged on her hand, urged her to sit in the chair that he'd positioned in front of the mirror.
“Stop it!” she shrieked and ducked her head, avoiding the gleaming scissors that threatened to snip away her long black tresses. “I thought we were supposed to have a partnership!” she accused.
