Rawhide and Lace

by Diana Palmer

  He slid his hands under her head, gently cradling it, and then saw her face contorting. “Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart,” he whispered tenderly. “Let me look at you. That’s it. Lift up. Lift. Lift…Feel the rhythm. Feel it with me. Lift up…God, Erin, you…make me whole…you make me…sweet…you’re so…sweet…God, Erin, God!”

  He arched above her, shuddering, shuddering, and she felt it and felt it; a gentle kind of anguish that was terrible in its sweet, slow intensity, like giant hands crushing her with a throbbing warmth that consumed everything in a maelstrom of sensation.

  He was whispering something, and she was crying, sobbing, her arms clasped furiously around him, her body trembling softly under his.

  She felt his hands smoothing her hair; soothing, comforting her. He kissed away her tears with tender lips that searched over her face in an agony of caring. “Sweet,” he breathed shakily. “Like a tender avalanche, flinging me up into the sun, burning me alive!”

  “I didn’t know it could be like that,” she whimpered, clinging closer, feeling him in every cell of her body as he lay over her. She bit him, bit his shoulder, his neck, with bites that were gentle and possessive.

  “It can be again.” He moved softly against her. “It can be…now.”

  She shuddered a little, moving with him. Her face curved into his throat this time, savoring the throb of his body against her own as he slowly increased the sweet rhythm.

  His mouth slid over hers while they loved. When it happened the second time, it was like a crescendo of fireworks, tender and slow and long-drawn-out, so that she vibrated like a taut bowstring for a long, long time until she felt the echoing vibration of his strong male body over hers; until she heard him moan her name in sweet anguish, and shudder and finally collapse gently on her damp body.

  His mouth moved warmly on hers. “If you hadn’t taken precautions,” he whispered unsteadily, “we’d have made a baby just then.”

  She clung closer, her eyes closed. “I know,” she said softly. “Oh, Ty, we never loved like that…!”

  “It was loving, wasn’t it?” he murmured. “Because that wasn’t sex. There was nothing lustful about it, about what we did together.” His strong body shuddered. “Erin, I’m on fire for you.”

  “And I am, for you.” She closed her eyes tightly and clung to him. “Ty, why are you punishing us both for what happened? Why can’t I sleep with you? Why can’t we have a real marriage?”

  He nuzzled his face in the hollow of her warm shoulder. “Is that what you want?” he asked. “A real marriage? I thought you wanted your career back.”

  She bit her lip. Was this a good time to tell him what she really felt: that she never wanted to leave him? That more than anything she wanted to have his children and grow old with him?

  She swallowed. “Ty…I could stop taking the pill,” she said hesitantly. Her arms contracted as she felt him go rigid. “We could make another baby.”

  He almost stopped breathing. Was that what she really wanted? Was it guilt, or pity for him, or was she addicted to making love with him? Could she settle for him, when she might have her career back? He wanted to take what she was offering. He wanted it desperately. But he owed her a chance at the old life, to make sure that it didn’t have an unbreakable hold on her. She had been crippled and hurt, and she had bitter memories. Would he be taking advantage of a momentary weakness—one she’d regret when she was completely well?

  He lifted his dark head and looked into her questioning eyes. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Not right now. We’ll sleep together, if that’s what you want. God knows, it’s what I want; I walk around bent over because I need you so desperately. But no babies. And no commitments,” he added. “First, you go back to New York for a few weeks and pick up the threads of your old life. Then, when you’ve had a good taste of it and I’ve got my financial mess straightened out, we’ll make decisions.”

  She searched his eyes. Was that an offer or a hedge? Did he really want his freedom? Was it all only pity? If only she could read him. Even in passion, he held back.

  “All right,” she said after a minute. If this was all she could expect, perhaps it would be enough. He wanted her, and that could grow into something lasting.

  She’d go back to New York. Then she’d come home and show him that his looks didn’t matter to her, that she could see any number of handsome, sophisticated city men and still prefer him. She smiled slowly. She’d get him; she already had a hold on him—he just hadn’t realized it yet. She felt new, whole, hopeful. Her face radiated with beauty.

  “Look at you.” he chided, letting his eyes slide down her body. “In the middle of winter…”

  “Look at you, tall man.” She smiled up at him.

  “You seduced me,” he accused softly, smiling back. “Taking off your dress, baring those pretty breasts…I couldn’t have stopped to save my life.”

  “You stopped long enough to torment me out of my mind.” She blushed with the memory of how she’d begged for his body.

  He bent and nipped her lower lip tenderly. “You begged me. You can’t imagine what that did for my ego, hearing you plead with me to take you. God, it was sweet!”

  “My poor, battered pride…”

  “You loved it, you little liar,” he murmured gruffly, burning her mouth with his. “You laughed up at me while I was having you…!”

  She moaned as his mouth opened to explore hers in a kiss that was as intimate as lovemaking, sweet and heady and hungry.

  Suddenly he pressed his face into her throat and groaned. “I want to,” he whispered, “but I can’t; I’m so damned tired!”

  She smiled against his hair. “I’m tired, too.” She sighed, gloriously content, and closed her eyes. “Can I sleep in your arms tonight?”

  A fine tremor went through the hands holding her. “My God, of course you can!”

  She sighed again, relaxing, feeling the warm hardness of his body against hers. “I don’t want to get up.”

  “I don’t either. But we could have visitors in here, and I don’t think we’d ever get over the embarrassment,” he murmured, smiling. He dragged himself away from her and sat up, studying her lovely, relaxed body. “So beautiful,” he said absently, tracing her hips, her long legs. “I could look at you forever and never get enough.”

  She smiled. “You’re not bad yourself.”

  “That’s the way I feel right now,” he confessed, and laughed with pure pride. He tossed her dress and under-things to her. “Better get those on while I can still drag my eyes away.”

  “Flatterer,” she said demurely while she struggled to get dressed, feeling the cold for the first time and shivering a little.

  He was dressed before she was, so he helped her button up between kisses, then lifted her to her feet.

  “Why the canvas?” she asked curiously, pulling straw out of her disheveled hair.

  He reached down and picked up some hay, showing her the briars liberally mixed in with pieces of straw. “Hay isn’t just hay,” he mused. “It’s briars and wild roses and weeds and such. Think about how that would feel on your bare back with my weight over you.”

  She blushed scarlet at his words, and he smiled almost affectionately and bent to brush a tender kiss against her forehead.

  “I love watching you blush,” he murmured. “I love knowing there’s been no one except me.”

  She nuzzled her forehead against his warm mouth. “I like knowing that you haven’t been to bed with half the women in the county, if we’re making confessions,” she replied. “I could have gone down on my knees when you told me that day in San Antonio that you’d never really made love before. It was heaven.”

  “Some women wouldn’t have thought so.”

  She pulled back and looked up at him. “I’m your wife,” she said gently.

  His chest swelled with pride as he looked at her. “Yes,” he said. “My wife. My woman.”

  She pressed warmly against him, savoring his strength
and the new affection between them. If only it would last this time, she thought, closing her eyes on a prayer. If only it would last! She had him now.

  Oh, Lord, she prayed silently, please, please let me keep him this time. Let him love me. Just let him love me, and I’ll have everything in the world that I’ll ever need or want.

  Chapter Eleven

  There was still a part of Ty that Erin couldn’t reach. They made wonderful, satisfying love together, and at night she slept in his hard arms. But the closeness came only in bed; the rest of the time he was the cold, taciturn man she’d first known. He watched her, frowning, as if he were worried. She exercised and grew strong, and eventually the day came when she had to go to New York—not because she wanted to go, but because Ty still insisted she prove to herself that she was whole enough to work again. And she didn’t dare wonder if he wasn’t just tired of having her around, if the guilt had worn off at last.

  He drove her to the airport, and she had to fight tears every step of the way. He carried her suitcase into the terminal and waited for her to check in. Then he escorted her to the concourse, waiting while she selected her seat.

  After she’d finished, she turned to him, her eyes dark green, troubled. He didn’t allow himself to read things into that look. She felt sorry for him, he decided. She was going back to the life she loved, and because he’d made that possible by shaking her out of her apathy, she felt grateful to him as well. But he didn’t want pity or gratitude, or even the magic of her body burning against his in the darkness. He wanted her love. Just that.

  She came close to him, realizing belatedly that ever since the morning in the barn, when she’d tempted him, she’d had to make all the moves physically. He’d lie beside her in bed at night and never touch her unless she showed him that she wanted him to. It was an odd kind of relationship. He gave her anything she asked for, from dresses and trinkets to lovemaking, but only if she asked for it.

  “Will you miss me, at least?” she asked with a faint smile.

  He returned her smile. “The bed will get pretty cold,” he observed.

  “I’ll mail you a hot water bottle,” she assured him.

  He touched her cheek gently, searching her face. “If you ever need me, all you have to do is call. I’ll be on the next plane.”

  She smiled at the possessive note in his voice. He did feel protective of her—there was no doubt on that score. “I’ll remember,” she promised. Then they were calling her flight, and she looked up at him fearfully, gnawing on her lip.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said gently. “You’re strong now. You’ll do fine.”

  “Will I, really?” she asked, trying not to cry. She searched his eyes. “Kiss me goodbye, Ty,” she whispered.

  He bent his head, holding her by the shoulders, and brushed his lips softly against hers. “Be a good girl,” he whispered.

  “What else could I be, without you around?” She laughed brokenly. “Oh, Ty…!”

  She threw her arms around his neck and dragged his mouth down over hers, oblivious to other passengers, to passersby. She held him and savored the warm, hard crush of his hungry mouth, and drifted and drifted and drifted…

  He pulled back abruptly, his eyes flashing, his face taut with desire, and she had to catch her breath and her balance before she moved away.

  “Call me when you check into the hotel,” he said tersely. “I want to make sure you got there all right.”

  “I will.” She looked at him one last time, already feeling alone. “Take care of yourself.”

  “You, too.”

  She couldn’t say goodbye. The word was painful, even in thought. She forced a smile and turned toward the tunnel that led to the jet. She didn’t look back.

  It was a short but trying flight. She cried most of the way there. Her leg was better; she was walking comfortably these days. She felt and looked at the peak of health. But her heart was hurting. She wanted Ty. And now he seemed not to want her anymore.

  When she got to the hotel and into a suite that he’d insisted she book, she called him. But it was a brief conversation. He seemed to be in a blazing rush—took just long enough to remind her to call if she needed him, and then excused himself and hung up.

  She stared at the receiver, feeling dismissed. Deserted. She cried herself to sleep. The next morning she felt stronger, and furious at him for not rushing up to bring her back home, to tell her he couldn’t live without her. Then she laughed at her own stupidity. Ty would never do that; he needed no one.

  She went by her old agency and talked to the man who’d represented her before. He was amazed at how well and strong and recovered she looked, and he arranged immediately to have a new portfolio shot. A week later, she was working.

  Days passed with dull regularity. The life she’d once found exciting and fascinating was now little more than drudgery to her. She kept thinking about the ranch and Ty. She missed the sound of cattle in the meadows. She missed the leisurely pace and the quiet of the country. She missed Conchita’s merry prattle and the fresh flowers that had graced the tables each day. But most of all, she missed the feel of Ty’s hard body in the darkness, the warmth of him when she cuddled close and felt his arm go around her, his chest firm and comforting under her cheek. She missed watching him around the ranch, hearing the deep, measured sound of his voice with its faint drawl, the sound of his boots as he came in to supper every night. She missed the rare smiles and rough hunger in his voice when he made love to her. She even missed those homely, uneven features. She wondered what he’d think if she wrote and told him that she thought he was the handsomest man alive? He’d probably burn the letter, thinking she was being sarcastic.

  She drove herself relentlessly, working long hours every day until she was weary enough to sleep at night. Every few days she called home, but Ty always seemed to be in a hurry. He never talked, except to exchange comments about work and the weather. He didn’t ask when she was coming back. He didn’t even ask if she was coming back. He didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

  That was when she began to worry. Perhaps he’d decided that life was sweeter when he could be alone and not have to put up with a wife he didn’t really want. Perhaps he felt that guilt and pity alone could not sustain a marriage. She began to brood over it, and once, right in the middle of a photographic session, tears stung her eyes at the thought of living without Ty. The photographer stopped shooting and sent out for coffee and a sweet roll, thinking she was hungry. She was—but not for food.

  In the end, she stood it for a few weeks—until spring was just beginning to melt the snows and brighten the skies; until Ty’s very indifference shook her from wounded pride to fury.

  She took the first plane home one day, right after she’d finished a commercial; she looked and felt viciously angry. Enough, she told herself. She’d had enough of his practised indifference. If he wanted a divorce, she’d give him one, but he was going to have to come right out and say he did. She wasn’t going to be ignored to death. And even while she was thinking it, something inside her was dying. She loved him more every day. The thought of doing without him for the rest of her life was killing her.

  It had all begun the wrong way, for all the wrong reasons. But she no longer blamed him for her troubles. In a way, she blamed herself. She needn’t have believed Bruce’s lies. She could have gone to Ty with them from the very beginning and avoided all of it. And she could have made him listen that day, instead of meekly accepting his bad temper—which had probably been nothing more than wounded pride, because he’d believed Bruce, too. If she’d made him listen, perhaps he’d have taken her in his arms and asked her to marry him, and they’d have had their baby….

  She shook herself. That was over. She couldn’t change it. So now she had to go on—With him or without him. But she knew that going on without him would be a kind of death—a life without pleasure or warmth or love. There could never be another man; she loved him too much.

  There was no on
e to meet her at the airport, because no one knew she was coming back. She rented a car and made the long drive to Ravine without stopping. She went straight through town and out to Staghorn, where she pulled up in front of the house, glancing around. Well, the Lincoln was there. He could be out, of course; he had roundup in early spring. But she had a feeling he was somewhere nearby.

  She got out of the car and looked from the house to the corral. A number of the men were gathered around the corral, calling enthusiastically to somebody on a horse.

  With glittering green eyes, she walked down to them. She knew instinctively who it was on that unbroken horse. And sure enough, when she got there, she saw her tall, lean husband giving the animal a run for its money. He was wearing denims, wide leather chaps, and the old worn Stetson that looked near retirement age. His face was animated, full of challenge and male pride, and the animal was tiring. It leaped and bucked while the cowhands yelled encouragement to the tall, relentless rider. Finally, the weary horse gave up and trotted around the corral, panting and sweat-lathered.

  Ty swung gracefully out of the saddle, patting the animal gently before he handed it over to one of the men to groom and water. Erin watched him with her hands in the pockets of her skirt; it had been all too long since she’d seen him, and her eyes devoured him hungrily. He was so much a man. A Texan.

  He turned unexpectedly and saw her, and froze in place. Before he had time to say anything, she lifted her chin pugnaciously.

  “Well?” she asked, glaring at him. “You might at least say hello, even if I’m not welcome. And while we’re on the subject, thanks for all the cards and letters and phone calls; I sure enjoyed them!”

  He climbed over the corral fence and dropped gracefully to his feet to approach her, while behind him the men stared and punched each other—they loved a good fight.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. Wade,” Ty said with faint mockery, but his eyes were running over her like tender hands. It had been a long time, and she was beautiful, and he wanted her until it was a raging fever. But she was different, too: eyecatching and expensive-looking in a pretty red-and-white outfit. The long white sweater overlapped a full red crinkle-cloth skirt that swirled around her calves when she walked, and she’d belted it with a macramé tie. Her hair was longer now, over her shoulders, softly waving, and her face was exquisitely made up. She was the perfect model. His eyes narrowed as he wondered how many men had looked at her and wanted her. Had she wanted any of them? He could only imagine how he’d compare with those city men. His face went hard thinking about it. He was going to lose her—so what the hell; he might as well help her leave, convince her that she didn’t need to feel sorry for him anymore. The guilt was mostly gone. He had a few twinges now and then, but he could live with himself now. He didn’t need her pity.