by Jeanne Allan
“Ad’s like that with Ma.”
“Aid?”
Birdie gathered the hem of her maternity top in a bunch and wrapped it around one hand. “My husband, Adrian. With Ethel gone...” Her face paled. “I got scared, not knowing what to do. She left her sister’s number, and I called her from her place. She said I gotta tell Luke so he’ll know it’s important Ad don’t know I’m here. I don’t want to tell Luke, he’s a man, but Ethel said I gotta think of the baby.” She twisted the fabric tighter around her fist. “I thought maybe, you being a woman, you’d tell Luke for me.”
“Tell Luke what?” Prior experience warned J.J. she wouldn’t like Birdie’s answer. Birdie walked into the light cast by the lamp on the table. Her bruised face, devoid of makeup, confirmed J.J.’s suspicions. Faded blue circles, like fingerprints, ran down the sides of Birdie’s neck. JJ. took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Shocked exclamations wouldn’t help Birdie. “Husbands have no right to hit their wives,” she said quietly.
“Ad didn’t mean to hurt me. It was my fault, nagging him about his drinking. He was real sorry the next day. I wouldn’t of left just cuz of this,” she added defensively, “no matter what Ethel said when she saw me in the grocery store ’bout how I shouldn’t let him get away with hitting me.”
“I expect your injuries upset Ethel.”
“That’s cuz she doesn’t understand about Ad. Things’ve always been hard for him. His pa was dirt poor and no one ever gave him nothing. I shouldn’t nag on him for spending a few dollars on beer. He’ll give me money when the baby comes. I shouldn’t have been bothering him with it now. It was my fault, I know that, but—” she cradled her stomach “—I couldn’t let him hurt the baby. So I came to Ethel like she said I should.”
“Hurt the baby?” J.J. asked, her facial muscles rigidly maintaining a composed expression.
“I shoulda known he’d had a bad day, that it was a bad time to be asking for money for a crib and such, but he shouldn’t blame the baby for that. When he throwed me against the wall and used his belt on me, he could of hurt the baby.”
J.J. squeezed her eyes closed until she felt she could control her voice. “A mother wants to protect her unborn child.”
“Ad said I’d be sorry if I ever left him, but I snuck out. Just for now. He’ll be okay after the baby comes. He’ll love the baby.” Her hand crept up to the bruise on her cheek. “Ethel said she’d keep Ad away from me, but she’s gone, and I’m scared Ad will find me and drag me back by my hair. He done that once when I went home to Ma, and Pa said a husband and wife should settle stuff between themselves. Ethel said to tell Luke so Ad won’t hurt me or my baby. Luke won’t let Ad make me go home, will he?”
“Luke won’t let your husband hurt you or force you to go home.” Funny how J.J. knew so little about Luke, but she knew that. “You and the baby are safe here.” Now wasn’t the time for suggestions, all of which she knew Birdie would reject. Women like Birdie always did.
After Birdie left, J.J. swiveled Luke’s office chair around and stared out the uncurtained window into the black starless night. Not for the first time she wondered how any woman could accept violence as normal in a marriage. She closed her eyes, hearing in her head Birdie’s justification for her husband’s behavior. As if anything excused the bruises on Birdie.
“You okay?”
The quiet question came from the doorway across the room from where Birdie had exited. J.J. didn’t turn. “Why wouldn’t I be?” She heard Luke’s footsteps cross the floor. The door to the kitchen hallway closed with a click.
“I was on my way in here when I heard Birdie. I didn’t think she’d welcome an audience.”
“So you eavesdropped.” J.J. had to lash out at someone. “You cowboys are so darned—damned—” she spit out the swear word “—macho and tough, you probably think yanking a wife around by her hair is a sign of affection.”
“Damn it, O’Brien...” With a hard thrust, Luke swung his office chair around so J.J. faced him.
Squeezing the chair’s padded arms, J.J. stared blindly past him. “Don’t swear at me.”
Luke gently touched her cheek. “O’Brien, don’t.” He extracted a white handkerchief from a back pocket and handed it to her. “Blow.”
J.J. blew. “Quit bossing me around.” She blew again. “I think I’m allergic to cow dust or something.”
“Ad Parker’s not a cowboy.” Luke circled behind the chair and kneaded her shoulders and the top of her spine. “Ethel said the two were having problems. I didn’t know Ad knocked Birdie around.” He paused. “It’s an open secret Dan Clayton, Birdie’s dad, hits her mom now and then. Ev Bailey, the sheriff, has been trying to get Dee to press charges, but she refuses. Says Dan still has a lot of anger from being in Vietnam. You’d think Birdie would have learned something from them.”
J.J. sniffled. “I’m sure she did. When you see your dad beat up your mom, you think that’s how married life is supposed to be. I’ve had women tell me, ‘That’s just his way.’” She swiped at her nose with Luke’s waddedup hanky. “It’s the wrong way.” She sniffled again. “I’m sorry I hollered at you. It’s not your fault Birdie’s husband abuses her. Abused wives are usually so embarrassed by it, many believing they deserve what they get, they keep the abuse secret. Birdie wouldn’t have told me if she wasn’t worried about the baby.”
Luke dug into her back with his thumbs. “You’re right about one thing,” he said abruptly. “We don’t know much about each other.” He hesitated. “Dinner tonight was delicious.”
The compliment came as a surprise. J.J. leaned back against the chair and looked up. “Why did you assume I couldn’t cook?”
Luke stopped massaging. “I have two images of you,” he said slowly, his eyes holding hers. “You in one of those sexless bags you wear to work—a poster for the career woman out to emasculate men. The other is you in that pale cream-colored night thing—” his fingers tightened “—that drove me wild.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I never picture you in an apron.”
Luke was right. His eyes weren’t like marbles. Agate was cold. Luke’s eyes warmed her all the way through to her spine. J.J. thought of drowsy summer days when silt floated on ponds in mysterious, swirling patterns of gray and brown and blue. She swallowed hard. “Mom and Dad expected us kids to share the load around the house. We can all cook. Not gourmet. Don’t expect gourmet. Just basic stuff. Meat loaf is my specialty.” She couldn’t stop the senseless words spilling from her mouth. Her neck ached from looking up.
Luke slid around the chair and sat on the edge of the desk table. With one easy move, he pulled JJ. to her feet. “I love meat loaf,” he murmured, his hands loosely encircling her waist.
She stood between his hard thighs. There was no place to put her hands except on his upper arms. She clutched the hanky and concentrated on Luke’s chin. A year had passed, yet her tongue retained memories of the rasping feel of his whiskers and the taste of his cleft. “Salty.” The muttered word clicked her brain back on. “My meat loaf,” she said quickly. “It’s not too salty. I’m known for my pot roast, too.”
Luke pulled her closer, his eyes surveying her face. “I can hardly wait.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m looking for a dry spot to kiss.”
“That’s not why I’m here, remember? You don’t want to kiss me,” J.J. said. “You want—”
“You.” His hands slid down to slowly massage her bottom.
“We’re supposed to be getting a divorce, not getting into bed.” Which one of them was she reminding?
“Maybe we’re going about this divorce thing all wrong.”
“We are.” J.J. tried for firmness. “Quit trying to kiss me. And move your hands.”
“I am moving them.”
“I mean away from my... away from me.”
“What is it about you, O’Brien? What kind of black magic do you cook up? You’re as addictive as drugs.”
Whe
n she’d told him to move his hands, she hadn’t meant to her rib cage. It took no imagination to remember the feel of his fingers on her naked skin. Her head told her they were wrong for each other. Her body sang an entirely different tune. She refused to listen. “Physical attraction. That’s all. And it’s not enough. You know it’s not enough. It’s like junk food. I need a balanced, wholesome diet.”
Luke’s gaze roamed up and down J.J. His hands held her prisoner. “When I was ten, I complained about my mother’s cooking, said I preferred hot dogs. She told me if I liked hot dogs so much, I could eat them from then on. No matter what the family ate, she fixed me hot dogs. The first few days I ate those hot dogs with gusto. They didn’t taste quite so good when she cooked my favorite meals for the others. By the end of the first week, it took all I had to convince Mom I still preferred hot dogs to her cooking. I conceded her the battle midway through the second week. For years afterward I couldn’t so much as look at a hot dog.”
“A charming anecdote.” Was he aware his thumb had wandered up to casually encircle her nipple? She grabbed his hand to stop him and somehow succeeded in pressing his palm over her breast. J.J. didn’t think all the calluses in the world could keep Luke from noticing the way her nipple hardened at his touch. “But what it’s got to do with anything, I can’t imagine.”
“Substitute you for hot dogs.”
“That’s even more charming.” Sarcasm somehow lost its punch when accompanied by quickened breathing. She’d spent years studying law and had never learned anything useful, such as how to make slow, sexy smiles illegal.
“I’ve been thinking.” He slid a button through the top buttonhole of her blouse. “Maybe we should sleep together and get it out of our systems. It shouldn’t take long. Not only do we have nothing else in common, but you hog the covers.”
“I do not.” No one would guess she was a lawyer known for her cross-examination skills.
He unbuttoned a second button. “By the end of three weeks we’ll be so bored with each other—” a third button, then a fourth slipped free “—if you were to stand in front of me stark naked doing the hula—” Luke trailed his hands up to J.J.’s collarbone, using his thumbs to slide open her blouse “—you wouldn’t cause even a rising blip in my blood pressure.” Gripping her shoulders with his hands, he pulled her close, his mouth level with the pulse beating at the base of her throat.
His lips seared her flesh, reducing her objections, if she could think of any, to ashes. She parted her mouth at his urging and told herself his reasoning was sound. She’d always preached moderation in all things. An overdose of anything could be deadly. An overdose of Luke Remington would cure the juvenile infatuation raging through her blood.
She wanted to sleep with him. They were married. Sleeping together for three little weeks wouldn’t hurt. They could still get divorced. She could still marry Burton. Burton. A sudden chill invaded her bones, and J.J. lifted her mouth from Luke’s.
“No, don’t.” She pulled his hands away from her. “You’re messing up my mind. Making the ridiculous sound sensible. What you’re suggesting wouldn’t be smart. I don’t understand why you excite my hormones the way you do,” she added with painful honesty, “but I intend to fight it. My way.” Clutching the front of her blouse together she headed for the office door with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Okay, we’ll play it your way. For now.”
She forced herself to turn and face him. His eyes told her he wanted her; his patient smile said he knew she wanted him and he was willing to wait. J.J. wanted to hurl herself across the room and back into his arms. She said, “We’ll play it my way for the next three weeks and forever.”
Luke stood, arrogantly widening his smile. He practically swaggered to the door where J.J. stood, her fingernails digging into the wooden molding. Sliding a finger beneath the lace edging her seafoam-colored silk bra, he said in a low, throaty growl, “I’ll say one thing, O’Brien, you still have excellent taste in underwear.” His knuckle inflamed her skin. “Anytime you want to join me in bed—my door is always open to my wife.”
J.J. fled to her bedroom.
Sleep refused to come. She looked around the strange room. Luke’s uncle’s room, Luke had said when she’d asked. The utilitarian room contained an old, chipped white iron bed and a single, unadorned dresser of oak. Beside the bed a small chest of drawers painted a hideous shade of brown served as a night table. Old-fashioned light sconces hung above the bed. She twisted her head to read the signature on the Western print above the bed. C. M. Russell.
In Denver, the sounds outside her town house—traffic, music, car doors slamming, even barking dogs—sang muted songs that lulled J.J. to sleep. Here, the unfamiliar creaks and groans of the old house made her twitch restlessly beneath the blankets.
The silver-framed photograph sitting on the bedside chest drew her eye. Burton and Carrie posed on the steps of the state capitol building in Denver. Their smiles looked forced. Loneliness shadowed their faces. Burton’s gaze—a sad, faintly resigned one—looked directly at J.J.
Burton’s voiced concerns about J.J. loving Luke echoed around the room. She shook her head at the photo. Luke Remington’s presence across the hall had nothing to do with her insomnia. No compassionate person would be able to sleep after hearing Birdie’s sad tale. Except the self-assured mouth J.J. saw when she closed her eyes wasn’t Birdie’s. The rising wind howled around corners and whistled under the eaves. Foretelling a change in the weather. Or laughing heartily at J.J.
Light filtered through the threadbare curtains to dimly light the bedroom. J.J. frowned at the clock on the bedside chest. At this hour there ought to be more light. Her bare feet cringed as they hit the freezing wood floor. She went to the window and pulled aside a curtain. A world of white greeted her. The falling snow not only cut out the sunlight, but the other ranch buildings had disappeared from view making the ranch house an island, isolated from the rest of the world. Exploring the ranch would have to wait for better weather.
J.J. headed back to bed. Knuckles rapped loudly on the bedroom door. Pulling the covers up under her chin, she asked Luke what he wanted.
“Breakfast,” he said, opening her door and poking his head in. “You’re the cook, remember?”
“I’ll cook when I get up. It’s snowing too hard to do anything now. Go back to bed.”
Luke moved into the room. “This isn’t the city where everyone goes to work late on snowy days. Cows and horses eat 365 days a year.”
“Good for them.” J.J. turned her back to him. “Maybe they’ll let you share their breakfast.”
“C’mon, cookie. Let’s go.”
Feeling his hand touch the covers and guessing his intent, J.J. tightly gripped her blankets, prepared to fight for them. With lightning speed, Luke swept the covers from her bed. JJ., hanging on for dear life, followed her flying blankets to the floor. She landed facedown in a sprawl on the heap of heavy blankets. “Dam you, Luke Remington,” she spat, coming up for air. “I could have broken something.”
“You should have let go,” he said in a reasonable voice.
“Maybe I didn’t want to let go.” She rolled over to glare up at him. “Don’t think you can bully me. If I want, I’ll sleep here on the floor until I’m good and ready to get up.”
“Fine with me.” He stood over her, his booted feet on either side of her, his hands resting easily on his hips.
The warm intensity in Luke’s eyes as he looked down vanquished the legions of goose bumps marching over JJ.’s skin. She followed his gaze. Her precipitous descent from bed had twisted the hem of her lilac silk ankle-length negligee around her upper thighs and dislodged the thin straps of the gown’s bodice. A rosy nipple, hardened by the room’s chill air, peeped above creamy lace.
Mortified, J.J. yanked up the top of the gown and struggled to sit up and tug down the gown’s hem. Not only did the tight proximity of Luke’s boots make the task difficult, but the dumb ox stood on her expe
nsive silk negligee. “Do you think you could possibly move?” she asked through gritted teeth.
“I could, but I’m enjoying the scenery.”
J.J. had four brothers. If they’d taught her one thing, it was that it took brains and audacity to defeat brute strength. In a quick series of lithe moves, J.J. wiggled out of the negligee. Gaining her freedom, she marched in triumphant naked splendor to the closet and grabbed her down-filled bathrobe. Without breaking stride, she flung the robe over her shoulders and stomped on bare feet to the bathroom. Leaving Luke standing stunned on the abandoned silk gown.
The snow had stopped falling, allowing the sun to break through the clouds. The cold air sparkled in the sunshine, and every inch of the ranch yard glittered with tiny white diamonds. J.J. followed Luke’s path to the barn through drifts above her knees, carefully placing her feet where he’d stepped. She didn’t even want to know what the temperature was. Fortunately she hadn’t argued when Luke insisted she bring her ski pants, and she’d taken him up on his loan of his uncle’s old sheepskin jacket. Worn over a knit shirt and two sweaters, the jacket hung to her knees and covered her gloved hands. A fuzzylined cap with ear flaps completed her less-than-fashionable outfit. Cows didn’t have much fashion sense, and J.J. didn’t expect to meet anyone else.
She didn’t particularly want to meet Luke. With the exception of a few snickers at the breakfast table, which she’d quelled by threatening him with the pancake turner, he hadn’t commented on her early-morning striptease. Maybe he couldn’t believe what he’d seen. J.J. couldn’t believe what she’d done, but at that particular moment, standing up to Luke had seemed of utmost importance. From her brothers she’d learned all too well the lesson that backing down even once meant exposing a weak spot others were quick to take advantage of.
Now she wished she hadn’t reacted instinctively, but had thought the situation through. She should have tried for tears or bitterly complained. Either would have disgusted Luke. Maybe she wouldn’t have had to stay here three weeks. So what if he thought her a weak nambypamby? His opinion didn’t matter. All that mattered was dissolving their marriage.
