Forbidden

by Suzanne Brockmann

  He simply would never have known.

  “Would you mind very much,” she asked almost inaudibly, “putting your arms around me?”

  Cal shook his head. “No, ma’am.” He shifted closer, drawing her into his arms, feeling a rush of emotion, of relief, of thankfulness. She hadn’t died. Whoever she was, wherever she’d come from, he’d found her and now she was warm and safe and alive. And in his arms.

  He had to close his eyes for a moment, nearly overcome by the sensation of her soft body, by the sweet scent of her hair. She leaned her head against his shoulder, gazing into the fire.

  Cal’s heart was beating so loudly, he was convinced she’d be able to hear it. “I don’t suppose this is a come-on,” he said huskily, half teasing, half hopeful.

  He felt more than heard her laugh. “Not a chance,” she said. “I just needed a hug.”

  He’d needed a hug too, Cal realized. He’d needed something like this for the past two years. Longer. He’d needed a hug since he’d been pulled out of class at age fifteen and told by his school principal that his father and stepmother had been killed in a car accident on Route 16.

  “You could’ve ridden right past me,” the girl said. Her voice sounded sleepy.

  It took Cal a moment to figure out that she was still talking about the way he had found her out in the field.

  “I might’ve.” Cal leaned his cheek gently against the top of her head. He might have, but he hadn’t. “But Thor wouldn’t have missed you.”

  “Thor,” she said. “As in the god of thunder?”

  “Thor as in Henry David Thoreau. You know, the American philosopher?”

  She lifted her head and looked up at him. “You’re kidding.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  They were nose to nose, or—more important—mouth to mouth. Her lips were only a whisper away from his, and he lowered his head, covering her mouth with his before he allowed himself time to think.

  She tasted so sweet, and her lips were so soft. She made a soft mewing sound in her throat, a sound of surprise—and of pleasure. She hesitated for a second, and he would have pulled away, but then she opened her mouth to him, looping her arms up and around his neck. He deepened the kiss instantly, sweeping his tongue into her mouth, and she responded, welcoming him.

  Cal was delirious with pleasure and dizzy with need, and he forced himself to pull back, to take his time, for fear of overwhelming her. He kissed her again and again, long, slow, deep, lazy kisses that drove him half mad with desire. He ran his fingers down the slender length of one of her arms, and she shivered, but this time it was not from the cold. He pushed the blanket down, away from her, and the firelight gleamed and flickered across her bare skin. As he kissed her again, he touched her—her neck, her shoulders, her back, all the way down to the soft, smooth curve of her waist. Her skin was like silk beneath his fingers, so warm and soft and smooth.

  He felt so incredibly alive.

  He filled his hand with the firm weight of her breast, running his thumb across her taut nipple, across the place where he would have damn near sold his soul to touch with his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

  He lifted his head to do just that, but she pulled back, away from him, gathering the blanket back around her.

  She was breathing as raggedly as he was.

  Her eyes were wide and her mouth looked swollen from his kisses, from the burn of his stubble. He hadn’t shaved before leaving the house this evening. He hadn’t known…

  There was shock in her eyes. And embarrassment. And even a little bit of fear. And Cal knew that he’d pushed too hard, gone too far. She wasn’t going to have sex with him. Not tonight. But oddly enough, that didn’t matter. It didn’t matter half as much as getting her to smile at him again.

  “That was a come-on, in case you were wondering,” he told her.

  He’d wanted to make her smile, and she did. It was low wattage, but better than nothing. “I figured as much.” She looked away from him, down at the floor, into the fire, still clutching the blanket tightly around her. “We don’t even know each other. And I’m…”

  Kayla glanced back at the cowboy, still sitting next to her on the rug in front of the fire. He was watching her intently, firelight playing across his chiseled features, glimmering over his powerful-looking chest and washboard stomach, gleaming in his shining black hair, reflecting in his pale blue eyes.

  Another man wouldn’t have let her push him away. Another man would’ve been on top of her, pressing his advantage, not taking no for an answer. Another man would’ve taken the entire situation for an invitation. Another man wouldn’t have such a fascinating mix of apology and desire lighting his eyes, mirrored in his face, and in the careful way he used his body language to offer her both respect and a willingness to wait for her signal to continue.

  What would he think if she told him the truth—that she’d been with a man who hadn’t taken no for an answer?

  “I’m not interested in casual sex,” she said instead. “I mean, really, you don’t even know my name.”

  “We could change that real fast.” The passion in his eyes was nearly overwhelming. How could she have thought his eyes were icy or expressionless? The burning heat she could see there now was the furthest thing from cold she’d ever seen.

  What had she been thinking, kissing this stranger that way? My God, she’d kissed him with such abandon, such hunger, she’d absolutely shocked herself. She’d never kissed anyone like that before.

  Maybe it was knowing that she could have died. Maybe it was gratitude—after all, he’d saved her life.

  She gazed into the cowboy’s eyes, trying to see what it was about him that made her drop all her defenses so utterly. What she saw there only confused her more. He was a stranger, she knew that, but there was something in his eyes that seemed so familiar, as if she’d somehow known him all her life.

  “Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked, a small smile playing about the corners of his elegantly shaped lips. “Or do you want me to go first and tell you mine?”

  “Kayla,” she said breathlessly. “My name’s Kayla.”

  “Kayla,” he repeated. “That’s pretty. Pleased to meet you, Kayla.”

  Their gazes met and held, and held and held. He slowly leaned forward to kiss her again, giving her plenty of time to back away. But, hypnotized, Kayla couldn’t move. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time she wouldn’t feel smothered by the fear. Maybe…

  Downstairs, the front door banged open, and the cowboy lifted his head sharply.

  A voice carried up the stairs. “Bart, that your horse outside? Oh, hey, Thor. Hey, buddy. Where’s your boss, huh, boy? Is he upstairs?”

  In one swift, catlike movement, the cowboy was up on his feet and moving quickly into the bathroom. Bart. His name was Bart.

  He came out of the bathroom a moment later, swiftly buttoning up his wet and muddy shirt, tucking the tails into his pants. He didn’t want her found in a compromising position, Kayla realized. He didn’t want anyone to find him there, with her, in front of the fire, without his shirt on. It was incredibly sweet.

  Unless, of course, he was married and it was himself he didn’t want found in a compromising position…

  Ned, the owner of the guest house, appeared in the door, glancing from Kayla to the cowboy. Bart.

  “You found her,” he said with relief in his voice. “Thank goodness.” He looked at Kayla. “You hurt, miss? You need a visit from Doc Samuelson?”

  Kayla shook her head. “No, I’m all right. I’m just going to go to bed.” Alone. She glanced at the cowboy. He was still watching her, and although his expression didn’t change, she knew he could easily read her mind.

  “Just holler if you need anything,” Ned said, turning away.

  “Sorry about getting your floors all dirty,” the cowboy called after him.

  “I’ll take dirty floors over a dead guest any day,” Ned called back cheerfully.

  The cowbo
y hadn’t moved from his position in the center of the room. He stood there, gazing at her, hunger still gleaming in his eyes. Kayla pulled herself to her feet, wobbling slightly, and he was beside her in a flash.

  “Need help getting into bed?” he asked.

  Kayla had to smile. “Somehow, I mistrust your motivation,” she said. “I get the feeling that you’re no longer solely trying for your Helping Hand cub scout merit badge.”

  He smiled as he pulled back the sheets and covers. “No, Kayla,” he said, her name like music with his warm western drawl, “you’re right. I’ve definitely got an ulterior motive here. But right now I promise I won’t do anything more than tuck you in, kiss you good night, and close the door tightly behind me when I leave. It’s tomorrow night you’re going to have to worry about.”

  Still wrapped tightly in the blanket, Kayla climbed into the bed. Tomorrow night. As he drew the other bed coverings up to her chin, she closed her eyes, physically and emotionally exhausted. Tomorrow night was a million years away. And right now all she wanted to do was sleep.

  She felt his lips brush hers in the gentlest of good-night kisses. She felt him move back, away from the bed, and heard him go into the bathroom—probably to get his long, dirty duster from where she’d left it on the tile floor.

  He paused before he went out the door. “I never told you my name,” he said quietly.

  “Ned called you Bart,” Kayla murmured, not even opening her eyes. “Good night, Bart.” She’d deal with this cowboy tomorrow. She’d tell him the truth. She had every right to be gunshy, so to speak. She’d make him understand that she wasn’t ready for the kind of casual relationship he so clearly wanted. She would probably never be. She’d tell him about Liam too, explain why she would be leaving town almost right away. He probably knew Liam. In a town this size, everyone must’ve known Liam….

  “Bart’s just a nickname,” the cowboy said. “It’s short for Bartlett. Cal Bartlett.”

  He closed the door behind him with a quiet click as Kayla’s eyes opened.

  She sat up in the bed, suddenly wide awake.

  Cal Bartlett. Cal Bartlett…?

  Dear God, the cowboy was Liam’s older brother.

  3

  “Cal Bartlett! This is a surprise. What brings you into the store this morning?”

  Cal gazed across the racks of clothing at Marge Driscoll’s smiling face. He was ready for her question. He’d come prepared. He knew it was impossible to go into Driscoll’s without getting the third degree.

  “New pair of jeans,” he told her. “Tore the knees out of a pair last week. Need some socks too. Half a dozen pairs or so. Wool. For winter.”

  “I thought you were joining your ranch hands up at the north pasture,” Marge said, taking several packs of her warmest, largest socks from the drawers behind the counter. “Andy told me you were going to take that fancy little airplane of yours up to meet them today.”

  “Change of plans,” Cal said evenly. He’d called Earl Wayne, his foreman, first thing that morning to let him know he wouldn’t be arriving for another day or two. Earl had assured Cal he had the herd well under control. He’d even urged his boss to take advantage of the situation and take a well-earned trip someplace warm and exotic. Mexico. The Caribbean. Hawaii. Spend a small portion of that money Cal worked such long, hard hours to bring in.

  Cal knew exactly where he wanted to go, and it wasn’t but a few hundred yards from where he was standing. In fact, if he turned his head, he’d be able to see down the road clear to the sign for Ned’s Guest House and Restaurant. Where Kayla was staying.

  He pulled a pair of jeans in his size down from the shelf. He’d been buying this size and length in this brand for so long, he didn’t need to think about trying them on. They fit. He knew they fit.

  As he carried the jeans across the store toward the cash register, he stopped at a rack of shirts. They were long-sleeved with buttons down the front, in an amazing array of both bright and muted colors. They were cotton—stone-washed, the tag said. As he touched them, he was surprised by their softness. They felt like butter beneath his fingers.

  This was really why he’d gone into Driscoll’s that morning. He wanted a new shirt to wear out to dinner with Kayla that night. Everything in his closet was either badly worn out or much too formal.

  “That blue will look really good on you,” Marge called across the room. “I think I saw at least one in your size too.”

  Cal had been looking at a shirt that was light brown, but now he pulled out the blue. It was neither navy nor pale, but rather a deep, rich shade of royal blue. It looked like the color of the sky directly overhead on a perfect, cloudless autumn day. He’d never owned an article of clothing that was so colorful in his entire life.

  He carried it over to the counter with the jeans. His entire life was due for a change.

  Cal had woken up that morning with only one thing on his mind: Kayla. He was going to see her again that night. He was going to have dinner with her, gaze into her exquisitely shaped green eyes, and do his damnedest to wind up back in her room at the guest house after dinner was over. Or he could bring her back to the ranch. There was no one else around—all his hired hands were driving his herd up north. He had the whole place to himself. Kayla could stay with him as long as she liked.

  Cal could feel anticipation coursing through his veins. It was an odd sensation—and one he certainly hadn’t felt in a long time. Certainly not since that awful day he’d received the news that Liam had died.

  Two years. For two years he’d pulled himself out of bed with no sense of wonder as to what the day would bring. He’d gone through the motions, gotten the job done. He’d wake up from the nighttime confusion that sleep and dreams brought, and the reality that his kid brother was dead and buried would come crashing down on him, numbing him.

  That morning the same truth awaited him. Liam was still dead. He was still never coming back. But somehow it was the tiniest bit easier to bear.

  The kid had died doing something he believed in. He’d died trying to make a difference in people’s lives. He’d lived hard and fast and exuberantly. Cal could respect that. For the first time, he could begin to imagine being at peace with that.

  He still missed Liam. He always would. He’d carry his regrets for his brother’s young life cut short to his own grave.

  Liam’s life was over, but Cal’s wasn’t. For two years Cal had wished he’d been the one who’d died. But that morning Cal had woken up and realized that he was glad—damn glad—to be alive.

  Last night he’d pulled a girl out from under the sod of a hillside. Last night she’d gazed up into his eyes, and with a smile like a new morning’s sunshine, she’d somehow, miraculously, jumpstarted his heart.

  He didn’t even know this girl, he tried to tell himself. Hell, he didn’t even know her last name. She was too young, too pretty, too good to be true.

  But there he was, buying himself a new bright-blue shirt to wear the next time he saw her. It seemed ludicrous and foolish, and he almost put the shirt back on the rack. But Marge took it out of his hands and rung it up on her ancient cash register.

  “I heard you were busy last night,” she said, glancing slyly up at him, “rescuing our sweet young visitor from some northeastern city?”

  “Yep.” Cal said nothing more, steadily meeting Marge’s eyes. He handed her a hundred-dollar bill.

  She knew him well enough not to push. Instead of commenting further, she gave him his change and his purchases, neatly packed in a paper bag. “Have a good one,” she said with a smile.

  Cal nodded his farewell and jammed his hat back onto his head as he stepped out of the store and onto the sidewalk. Most of the previous night’s snow had already melted, particularly in town. He tossed the bag into the front seat of his truck, then crossed around to the driver’s side.

  “Ho there, Calvin. What you doing in town in the middle of a workday, son? Buying some new duds from Driscoll’s, huh? Now, let me
guess…Could that possibly be because of a woman?”

  Cal turned to see old Doc Samuelson grinning at him from the sidewalk. “Just running some errands,” Cal said calmly, fighting the urge to scowl. He knew how interested the good folk of Asylum were in any tidbit of gossip. He could just imagine the speculation that had gone on concerning himself and the city girl. Clearly the story of his rescue of the girl had already spread like wildfire. The local romantics—of which there were quite a few, the elderly doctor included—probably had the two of them paired off and ready to march down the aisle.

  “Herd’s up at winter pasture,” Cal continued. “I’ll be joining them after the weekend.”

  “You’re taking a few days off, are you?” Doc smiled. “Good, good. It’s about time you had a break. Where you heading now? Home, I hope. And step on it, son.”

  Cal lifted an eyebrow, but he didn’t have to ask why.

  Doc Samuelson explained. “I just gave directions out to your ranch to the prettiest girl to hit town since Mrs. S. arrived in the back of her daddy’s truck fifty years ago. She seemed real anxious to talk to you.”

  Kayla. Doc had to be talking about Kayla. Cal turned to open the door of his truck, suddenly eager to get home. Kayla—waiting for him out at the ranch. And this time he’d shaved….

  “I asked her why the rush, and she said something about Liam,” Doc continued. “Maybe I’ve got this wrong, but I think this pretty girl was a friend of your brother’s.”

  Cal froze. He felt himself go entirely still. His heart was still beating, but other than that he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t even think. Somehow he managed to speak. “Come again?”

  “From what she told me,” Doc repeated cheerfully, “it sounds as if she knew Liam real well. She seems like a real nice girl—figures Liam would’ve gotten himself hooked up to a girl who had more than just a pretty face and generous curves.”