“Yeah.” She bent his elbow and positioned his upper arm back as nearly horizontal as she could get it. The maneuver drew the skin taut over his right shoulder blade, and brought the muscles into relief except where they disappeared under the draped shirt. “Now hold still.”
“Are you going to use something that’ll— ” She poured antiseptic into the wound to rinse it. “Ow! Damn! That’ll sting,” he finished in a fatalistic murmur, then roused himself to complain, “That hurt.”
“It’s better than you deserve. Trying to manhandle that beam—”
“It’s a joist.”
“By yourself. What did you think you were doing?”
He grimaced as he twisted to be sure the antiseptic bottle wasn’t about to be used again. “Do you know how often you’ve asked me that question?”
“Not half as often as I could,” she answered tartly. “Why didn’t you wait for Pete to help you? Or you could have called me.”
“Could I?”
She ignored that. “I sure hope you’ve had a recent tetanus shot, because—”
“I have.”
“I’m not partial to nursing anyone with lockjaw.”
“Would you nurse me, Cambria?”
“No.” But her touch stayed gentle as she blotted the area with gauze pads. “Not when it’s your own fault for being so determined to do everything yourself.”
“I’m not determined to do everything myself.”
Was she imagining that his emphasis on everything meant there were certain things he’d like to do with someone else and that the sweep of his gaze on her lips narrowed it to her?
“Yeah, right.”
He peered over his shoulder at her. “What do you mean by that?”
“I mean, if you would resign your position as general manager of the universe, you might have time to relax, even see a movie now and then.”
“Hey, I’m here, aren’t I? Taking a vacation.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you’re here, but not on vacation.”
Under her fingers the muscle in his arm hardened. She looked up, surprised. This first-aid cream should soothe, not hurt. But his voice held strain when he asked, “What makes you think I’m not here on vacation?”
She snorted, but lightened her touch with the cream even more.
“What sort of vacation is it when you’re calling your office every other minute? And the minutes in between you’re sending off Express Mail. Do you know Jenkins at the post office had to send to Sheridan for more Express Mail envelopes because you’ve used the supply he thought would last out the year? And the few seconds you’re giving your office a break, you’re hauling irrigation pipe or fixing stall doors or trying to tear down cabins single-handedly.”
Her easier touch apparently did the trick because his muscles relaxed.
“Guess I’m in the habit of being in charge.”
“Habits can be broken.” She placed a bandage over the gouge to protect it. “There. Done.”
He swung one leg over the bench so he sat with his side instead of his back to her. He looked straight ahead.
“You know what they say about old habits dying hard.” Even in profile she could see his one-sided grin. “And that’s about the oldest habit I’ve got.”
With what he’d said of his family before, it sounded as if he’d carried an adult’s responsibilities on a child’s shoulders. Maybe he needed to learn how to put aside some of that burden.
“Old habits might die hard, but nobody says they’re immortal.”
He cocked his head and gave her a small grin. “You got something in mind about how I should change, Cambria Weston?”
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s it? Yes, I do. You’re not even going to say something like ‘it’s none of my business, but’?” He was laughing at her, but she didn’t mind.
Her own grin flickered to life. “Nope. I was simply going to say it. If you can’t listen to good advice because it comes from somebody who has no business giving it, that’s your problem.”
He laughed. Full out. A wonderful, deep sound that had her smiling—foolishly, she feared—until she caught herself.
“All right, say it.” He threw out his arms in a classic gesture of surrender. But when his right hand met her arm, he turned his hand so the act of ending the contact turned into a brief caress. His grin twisted as he added, “I’m at your mercy.”
If he hadn’t said that, or certainly if he hadn’t touched her that way, she wouldn’t have felt the discomfort that made her words come out harsh.
“You have to have more patience with people. Let them take the responsibility. Let them make their own mistakes. Or you’ll push them away. Like your sister.” The muscle along his arm bunched again. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, regretting that her stupid discomfort had led her to say something painful. “It really isn’t any of my business.”
She started to stand, but his hand, warm and large and faintly rough against the curve of her knee, stopped her.
“It’s hard... You know, Cambria, I don’t even have a real photograph of her. Only school pictures, nothing that shows how she really is, how she was.” She remembered how he’d studied the photo-strewn walls of her bedroom and, earlier, how he’d had regret in his voice when he’d said he’d never had a camera when he was growing up. “When you’ve looked after somebody, it’s hard to let them go their own way, to let them take the bumps and bruises of making mistakes. You feel responsible...” He obviously tried to shake off his seriousness, without complete success. “I guess I shouldn’t bellyache. Parents manage it all the time, don’t they? Letting go, I mean.”
“Some parents don’t have any trouble.”
Even if she hadn’t heard the bitterness in her words, she would have recognized it from his arrested expression. She stared at the fallen crosspiece, tensing for his questions—until she remembered the best defense was a good offense and launched into speech.
“But that’s not the issue here.” Ignoring his murmur of “Isn’t it?” she straightened her back and put her hands on her hips. “What you can start with in breaking your habit is giving your office a break.”
“Yeah? How?” He watched her closely.
“First, stop calling them so much. You know how that probably makes them feel?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Like they’re not trusted. Like you don’t think they can do the job without your looking over their shoulder every second. Quit trying to do everything yourself.”
“What makes you think I try to do everything myself?”
She snorted indelicately, ignoring the current of warmth that started from where his hand was making tight circles on her knee and ran up her thigh, to an even more responsive territory. “You’ve got to be kidding. A man who comes a thousand miles for rest and relaxation who’s in daily communication with his office? A man who says he hasn’t gone out much in six years and—”
“You’ve been talking to Jessa.”
“Can’t even find time to see movies. Gee, what could make me think you try to do everything yourself? Not to mention—” she quirked an eyebrow toward the skeleton of the cabin “—I’ve seen you in action.”
“Lord, you sound like Cully.”
“Who?”
“Friend of mine.”
“Sounds like a wise one if he’s telling you to learn to delegate. You’ll get more done yourself and you’ll be amazed at how much other people are capable of.”
He grimaced toward the ground at his feet. “You and Cully, you don’t want much, do you?”
She held silent and, when he turned to her, his head partly bowed but his eyes lifted to her face, she held motionless. His look had her heart beating harder and her breath coming shorter. What did he search for so intently when his gaze touched her eyes, her chin, her lips, her hair, before returning to her eyes? What did he find?
“I’ll try.”
He mean
t it, and it had cost him. She knew that. On pure instinct her hand covered his where it rested on her knee. His turned to enclose hers in warmth and slight friction.
“That’s more than Cully’s ever gotten out of me.”
Fighting a need to swallow, she echoed his faint smile. He held her hand. That’s all. A gesture of accord between two humans. Nothing to speed the heart or slow the brain.
“Next time, will you promise to get Pete to help you?” she pressed.
“Get Pete to help with what?” Pete asked from behind her.
Her hand jerked free of Boone’s. The moment ended—a clean break, no infection, no mess.
She was relieved. Definitely. And it didn’t bother her in the least that before bending to put the first-aid kit to rights, she’d spotted a shade of something that might have been relief in Boone’s expression as he related his mishap to Pete in wry terms.
* * * *
“Hi.”
Cambria had recognized the cadence of Boone’s walk crossing the packed earth toward a rental cabin where she was planting a flower box with seedlings Irene had brought from town earlier that morning. But she’d expected him to keep going toward the footbridge, heading to work on his project.
Instead, he leaned on the porch post not three feet away. He wore a black shirt tucked into comfortably worn jeans, which stretched quite nicely over hips cocked slightly forward. His rolled-back sleeves called attention to the hands he’d tucked into the front pockets.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
He made a sound, part grunt, part chuckle. “You think that’s much improvement on ‘what do you think you’re doing’?”
Some of her hair slid forward, tickling her cheek. With her hands coated with dirt, she tried to brush it back with her hunched shoulder, with no luck.
“I wasn’t trying to impr—”
“Nice to see you, too, Cambria.” Wryness flavored his words.
She glanced up, then wished she hadn’t.
He propped one shoulder against the log post, his arms crossed over his chest. One foot in front of the other drew the denim snugly along his legs’ muscular lines.
“I just saw you at breakfast,” she mumbled, digging her hands deeper into the soil and peat moss, noticing a smudge of dirt on her knee below her denim cutoffs. The seedling she was planting barely kept its head above ground as she packed it in.
“It seems much longer. Time doesn’t fly when you have nothing to do.”
“The cabin—”
“The next step’s taking down the beam, which is a two-man job, and since I promised a certain pushy dame I wouldn’t try to do everything myself, I’m stuck till Pete gets home.”
“I thought you were going into town this morning.”
“I did. I’m back.”
“So soon?” She added with wicked innocence, “Did your employees get smart and refuse to answer the phone?”
“I didn’t call.” Her hands paused at that. “I thought about what you said the other day. Thought I’d give it a try.”
“It has to be more than a token effort,” she warned. She tried again to push her wayward hair back, this time with her forearm, and failed again.
“I know.”
His answer sounded distracted. She looked up to find him right next to her. He reached for her shoulders, turning her to face him.
“What are you...?”
Her demand faded as he raised his hand. His eyes followed his hand’s movement as he tucked the errant hair behind her ear, and her eyes stayed on his.
How could such a simple touch, almost impersonal, make her feel this way? The man was dangerous. Decidedly dangerous.
“What am I doing?” he repeated hoarsely, as if to himself. “Something stupid.”
His hand continued to the nape of her neck, drawing her to him and tipping her head. It wasn’t a rough touch. It didn’t need to be. She moved into him, her dirty hands raised shoulder high, like a holdup victim’s. A willing one.
Their mouths met with no fumbling. Firm, warm, moist. She felt the pleasure of his smile against her lips.
He slipped his other arm under her bent elbow and around to the small of her back, drawing her more firmly against him. Leaning into him, with her hands still held away, she let him become her balance.
Open-handed, he stroked her back through the red cotton of her shirt, his palm firm and hot as it slid up to her nape, then down to her derriere. He repeated that several drugging times, then shifted the motion from side to side, the tip of his extended thumb slipping under her elbow and deliberately stroking the bottom outside curve of her breast.
Enticed by that touch, she parted her lips. He deepened the kiss until they broke apart, pulling in oxygen, while his mouth touched her eyelids, her cheekbones, her temples.
“Cambria...” There was a reluctance in that single spoken word that sent off a warning in her head.
He’s holding something back.
Not from his kisses. His tongue swept into her mouth, tasting deeply, and bringing his own taste to her. She answered it.
There was a strange sort of appeal in being held this way, without being able to hold back. A sort of surrender.
No. No, not surrender. She couldn’t surrender, wouldn’t.
Oh, but his mouth on hers felt so sure. The press of his body against hers felt so good.
No, she couldn’t forget. She couldn’t ignore the warnings in her head. Not ever again. Not now. But maybe she didn’t have to ignore them. Maybe he could quiet them. With answers.
She couldn’t surrender, but could a truce be found? A truce negotiated with the truth?
She recognized the risk. Asking showed her desire to know, and that revealed a vulnerability she hadn’t risked in a long time.
“Boone?”
His lips trailed the ridge of her jaw, down the side of her throat. His tongue traced a line along her collarbone, then his kisses retraced his path, and beyond, to her ear. He caught her lobe lightly between his teeth as he finally answered with a vague, “Hmm?”
“Boone...Please...” She hated the hint of pleading. She hoped he thought it was a request to stop the tantalizing exploration. Slipping her forearms between their upper bodies, she gained some space—to breathe and think.
“Boone, what really brought you to Wyoming?”
“Maybe you did. Maybe this did.” His mumble at her temple fluttered against her skin.
She shivered slightly, but she didn’t surrender. “Why did you come here? What aren’t you telling me?”
Chapter Six
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cambria.”
Within his hold, she transformed. She’d been magical, strong, lithe, pliant and hot. In an instant that vanished. He knew she could do nothing about the heat clinging to her skin, but one denial from him and her body became so stiffly brittle he thought she might shatter.
He released her. More quickly than the first time he’d kissed her. Because this time he knew he’d caused the break in the mood.
But, dammit, how could he tell her he’d come for Pete when the one thing he knew in this whole mess was that his first duty was to figure out the best way to approach his son? He hadn’t come anywhere near doing that yet, so how could he tell her?
Besides, he’d heard enough of her views on her family and the outside world to know that if he told her the truth she would circle the emotional wagons with him on the outside.
“I see.” Her voice could have frozen boiling water.
Steady and controlled, she returned to the planter. He felt like ripping it out of its holder and smashing it to splinters.
“I don’t know why you can’t believe me, Cambria, when I say I came here for rest and relaxation.” She didn’t pause in her planting. “Look, I’ll help you plant—”
“No.”
Now she looked at him, and he wished she hadn’t. Looks could cut clear down to the bone.
“I don’t need your help. I do
n’t want it.”
* * * *
Cambria pulled the truck into the drive fast enough to have the old suspension complaining audibly. Her eyes hadn’t deceived her. Those were unfamiliar vehicles clustered at the far end of the semicircle of cabins.
Her first, heart-pounding anxiety eased into puzzlement as she realized they consisted of a cement-mixer truck and a couple of pickups.
Boone, his head lowered in intent survey, stood in the center of a group of men watching two others guide cement into a heavy cardboard tube sunk into a hole in the ground. A scattering of other tubes dotted the area.
Boone looked toward her as she parked the truck by the house, and she thought he grimaced. As she started toward the activity, he backed away from the workers to stand in the shade of a cottonwood.
She headed right for him.
“What do you think—?”
“I’m doing,” he finished fatalistically. That edged toward accusation as he added, “All we needed was half a day, and you were supposed to be in Sheridan shopping all day with Jessa.”
“We finished, and she wanted to get back to let Rita off early.” The clerk was in a flutter over a date with Sheriff Milano, and effusively grateful for the extra time to prepare. “You haven’t answered. What is going on here?”
“They’re setting the piers for the new cabin.”
‘What?”
“They’re setting the piers—”
‘I heard you,” she snapped. “Under whose orders?”
‘Mine.”
‘Who gave you permission—”
“I did, Cam.” Ted Weston’s calm voice came from just behind her.
She spun around. “You did? Why?”
“Cabin’s got to have something to hold it up.”
“That’s not—” She snapped her mouth closed, trying to reorient herself to these new circumstances.
One of the men gestured for Boone.
“Go on, Boone,” urged Ted.
Boone gave her a final glance before heading over.
“Dad, how could you let this happen?”
He took off his hat, wiped his brow against a sleeve, then resettled the hat on his white hair. She’d seen him do that several thousand times, whenever he wanted an extra moment before he spoke.
A Stranger in the Family (Book 1, Bardville, Wyoming Trilogy) Page 9
