Montana Maverick
Page 9
She turned her chin to watch Hank tiptoe from her bedroom to the built-in bookcase where she stored her liquor. “Of course, not. Help yourself.”
“You?” he asked, holding up the bottle.
“No, thanks. I’m good.” Last night had been the exception after a very traumatic effort. Generally, she’d given up alcohol as part of her pre-conception health regime.
He carried his glass to the opposite end of the sofa and sank down heavily. “Long, long day.”
“Sounds like they all are for you.”
He sipped the brandy and let out a weighty sigh. “A fact.”
He shrugged. “Things will get better when Mystic sleeps through the night.”
“I’ve heard the first six months can be grueling.” She sat up a little straighter and turned to face him, “May I ask you something personal?”
He swallowed in that wonderful, masculine way men do when they’re put on the spot. “Sure.”
“Have you ever been a sperm donor?”
The gulp he had in his mouth nearly went flying. He somehow managed to swallow it, but the expression on his face appeared pained. “You mean for money…not just carelessness?”
“Great question. Yes. I mean with a registered sperm bank.”
“Then, the answer is no.”
She had a feeling the answer would be no to the other question, too, but she didn’t press it. “Oh. Too bad.”
“Why?”
“I plan to have a child in the next eleven months. I gave myself all of January and February to ready my body and find the right donor. My sister is afraid I’ll pick some egghead nerd like myself. She made me promise to find someone masculine and dynamic. You obviously qualify.”
He blew out a half laugh. “Well. Thank you. I think. Sorry I can’t help you out. I had a little snip, snip—” He made a scissor motion with the fingers of one hand. “—when I turned forty.”
She didn’t ask for details. It really wasn’t her business. Before she could change the subject, he let out another laugh—harsher and more ironic. “Joke’s on me, isn’t it? I told the lady I was dating at the time I didn’t want any more kids, and, now, I’ve got four.”
She leaned across the space between them to touch his arm. “Did she want a family?”
He nodded. “I didn’t blame her. She had her daughter when she was sixteen. Sad story. I won’t bore you with it. We went our separate ways, and, now, she’s happily married with four-year-old twin boys. Lives in Omaha.”
Twins.
She looked at her hand on his bare forearm. Sun-speckled skin with course golden blond hair. All man. The kind of man she would have liked to father her child, but she knew that was a fool’s dream. Henry Firestone would never father a child then walk away—no strings attached. He was a forever kind of guy.
“But, hey, if you’re in the market for a kid or two, why not four?”
“Yours?”
He nodded.
“Are you part of the deal?”
“‘Fraid so. I promised my daughter I’d raise them in Montana. It’s why she came back here to die.”
Meg felt a heavy sadness that made her desires seem rather small by comparison. “How old was she?”
“Thirty. She would have turned thirty-one last month.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too. And I’m sorry for the kids. They deserve better.” When she started to protest, he held up his hand. “I’m not selling myself short. I love them more than life and that’s huge, but…I’m not a mother.” He poked at his chest, his middle, and his forehead. “I wish like hell I’d paid more attention when Laurel was a baby, but, honestly, Glory—my ex—barely let me hold her the first couple of months. I swear she acted like I was going to put her down on a counter and walk away.”
“You’re amazing with Mystic. My brother, Paul, is a great dad, but he’d probably say the same thing about the baby stage of his children’s lives. Moms tend to monopolize that time because we’ve got the goods.” She cupped the underside of her breasts, which felt heavier, fuller since she started taking hormones.
“Very good goods.”
His voice held just the right degree of lecherousness. Meg laughed. “You make me blush. That never happens. I’ve worked around men all of my professional life, and, I swear, some scientists never outgrow their love of eighth grade bathroom humor.”
They sat in silence a moment until Henry said, “JJ asked me to try to persuade you to marry us so Bravo and Mystic’s grandmother can’t take them away.”
A cold spike stopped her heart for a moment. “What are you talking about?”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Just one more hurdle we have to get past.” She thought that was all he intended to say, but after another quick sip of brandy, he added, “JJ’s and Annie’s father passed away when Annie was two, I think. Laurel was so devastated she decided to move to Southern California to stay with her mother for a few months. Months turned into years. Laurel met a young artist named David. His mother is loaded and she was supporting him while he got established.”
He made a face and looked over his shoulder. Lowering his voice, he explained, “To tell you the truth, I’ve never even seen his stuff, but Laurel thought he was gifted. She got pregnant with Bravo about the same time David changed his professional name to D’Vede.
“From what Laurel told me he was making a living from his sales but not enough for them to afford health insurance, which is why she didn’t see a doctor in time.
“The funny spot on her leg turned out to be skin cancer. They cut it out, but when they told her she needed to take an aggressive kind of chemotherapy, she said okay…until they did a routine pregnancy test and found out she was carrying Mystic.”
“Oh, no.”
“David’s mother makes a lot of noise about her son’s legacy and blood ties, but she couldn’t even be bothered to attend Laurel’s funeral. She’s never held Mystic. But D’Vede is their biological father. And if Grandma finds out about my midnight helicopter crash, she’ll probably have all the ammunition she needs to convince some judge that I’m unfit to be their legal guardian.”
Meg pressed a fist to her belly. She’d had nightmares about the father of her child claiming his paternal rights at some late date.
“You were acting in Mystic’s best interest. I’ll testify on your behalf.”
His smile made her sad. “I’d consider myself lucky to have you on my side. You were incredibly persuasive when you were defending the wolves. Unfortunately, if she can convince her son to petition for custody, a father trumps a grandfather every time.”
She bit on her lip, thinking hard. “My sister is a lawyer. She’s opening a practice focused on family law. If you think I can argue well, you should hear Mia. I’ll give her a call in the morning, if cell service is back up.” She’d checked a few minutes ago and saw the No Service message.
He downed the last of his drink, then turned and scooted close enough for her to smell the brandy on his breath. She detected the scent of soap from her guest shower, too. And a hint of something that was all Henry Firestone. “I don’t know what I’m going to find when I get off this mountain.
“Worst case? Child Protective Services will investigate whether or not I put the kids at risk by flying in a storm. If they decide I acted irresponsibly, they’ll put the children in foster care until I can prove otherwise.”
She bit down on her lip. That thought had never crossed her mind. “I’m so sorry, Henry. I really am.”
His beautiful gray eyes connected with her at a level she honestly couldn’t identify. She felt as though she’d known him forever. As if they’d traveled down similar paths in some other life. Friends. Lovers. Maybe more.
“What made JJ think my marrying you would fix your problems?”
He winced. “I was hoping you missed that part. I guess he figured a single man, a grandfather, doesn’t have the same child care credibility as two grandparents would have.”
“In my opinion, love trumps everything. People just need to see you with these kids to know what a great, involved, truly loving caregiver you are.”
Now, it was his turn to blush.
“I think I’ll turn in, now.” He got to his feet and carried his empty glass into the kitchen. “After I clean up this mess.”
Meg got up. “No. Please. Go to bed. If you get any more rundown, you’ll wind up with whatever JJ has.”
Her argument must have made sense to him because he rinsed the glass and put it upside down on a towel, then returned. As he passed by the couch, he paused to touch her arm, much as she had to him. “You’re a good listener, Meg. And a very good person.”
His touch moved down her arm and into her very middle, where it sent baffling messages to every hormone center. She felt hot, cold, turned on and panicky, all at once. “Thank you,” she said, her voice catching slightly. “So are you. If I ever said otherwise in the past, I take it all back.”
His low chuckle went straight to her horny woman parts. “Me, too.”
Then, he walked into the guest room and closed the door. He was sleeping alone tonight. The baby was in Meg’s room, and Bravo had elected to try one of the bunk beds in the loft.
She did her late night chores: checked on the dog, added a log to the fire, tidied up the kitchen and set the timer on the coffeemaker. She brushed her teeth, washed her face, and paced for another half an hour or so.
She thought.
Then, she tried not to think.
Neither left her feeling satisfied.
Only one thing would do that.
Or, rather, one person.
She started toward the guest room door, retreated, and then changed her mind to stand at the threshold as if she were on the top of a precipice preparing for a free-fall…without a parachute.
In the end, a crisp popping noise from a log in the fire made her jump, which nudged the door open on its own. Like a ghostly gesture of welcome. Or a fateful coincidence.
I’m a Big Sky Maverick, she reminded herself. I can do this.
She left the door open so she could see to plug in the baby monitor Henry found in Mystic’s diaper bag that morning. Meg had used it all afternoon to keep tabs on the sleeping child, who seemed to rest best in Meg’s bedroom. The low hum was oddly comforting. It struck her that she might be a little addicted to the white noise.
I definitely need to buy one, she thought.
Once the unit was operating, she adjusted the volume then walked to the bed.
“Henry?” she said, touching his shoulder.
Chapter Eight
‡
If he was dreaming, it was the best damn dream he’d had in years.
It even smelled real. Like lemon and some spice he knew but couldn’t identify. Something that reminded him of Meg.
Meg.
His eyes popped open. “Meg?”
The door he’d closed behind him was open. The warm, honey-gold light of the fire gave him a clear view of Meg standing beside his bed in a robe and—dear God, nothing else, if he wasn’t mistaken.
She leaned over to touch her palm to the side of his face. The gesture made it impossible for him to look anywhere but the lush landscape of her breasts framed by the deep V of her snowy fleece robe.
“I want to be with you tonight, Henry. No strings. No expectations. Just two adults who need a little comfort. I think we can give each other that, don’t you?”
“Comfort? Sweetheart, I think we can do better than that.”
He pulled back the covers to open a spot for her.
Her grin cleared the last of the dreamlike cobwebs from his mind. His catnap had been just the restorative he needed. Being with Meg would provide the rest.
“Let me close the door. I didn’t want to turn on the light.”
She opened the curtains. “The storm blew itself out. The moon reflecting off the snow should be all the light we need.”
Hank sat up in bed to see. She was right.
When he looked back, the door was closed and the baby monitor he’d found in the diaper bag was sitting on his bedside table.
The chilly air temperature didn’t touch him. A fire he’d forgotten existed burned from the inside out.
He watched as she undid her belt with the slow finesse of an exotic dancer. She let the two ends drop causing the robe to open a hand’s width. Just enough to make his body spring to action beneath the thick layers of quilts. He silently cursed the flannel pajama bottoms he’d started wearing since the kids moved in.
She demurely shrugged one shoulder free. The material exposed the top of her breast. “Brr,” she said, with an embarrassed grin. “It’s a little too chilly to strip for you.” The rest of the robe magically disappeared in a blink. Long enough for him to confirm that she was built as beautifully as he’d always imagined.
She hopped into the bed beside him and pulled the covers to her chin, giggling and gasping. “Dang. That’s pointy titty weather, as my students like to say.”
Hank chuckled. The thought hit him that, despite his rather dire circumstances, he’d laughed more in the past two days than he had since Laurel came home. “Why did I ever think you were humorless?”
She turned on one side and snuggled close. “Probably because I thought you were intractable.”
“What are you talking about? I have a tractor. Two of them, in fact, so if one gets stuck and I can use the other to pull it out.”
Her laugh was pure and real. Something bright and happy opened up inside him. He liked her—in a way that went well beyond gratitude for saving his life and rescuing his grandchildren. She made it so easy to be with her. Even this felt right. Meg fit—in his arms, and, for now, that was all that mattered.
He deepened their kiss, reveling in her taste, her tongue’s bold exploration that matched his.
A gurgling sound followed by a little mewling cry made them pull apart.
He could tell Meg was listening as hard as he was, waiting to see if Mystic awoke.
A few seconds later, the baby sighed. A sign to carry on? Hank sure as hell took it as one.
“I don’t care about our history or our politics or what happened in the past. I like you. I want this.”
She slid one leg over his thighs and straddled him, her body tight to his. His hands molded to her body, starting with her butt. Firm. Her lean, muscular back was cool to the touch. “Do you workout?”
“Every day. Have to keep in shape for my fieldwork. Tracking is part of the skill set.” She made an up-the-mountain and down-the-mountain motion with her hand. “I almost passed on that class last year. You have no idea how glad I am….” Her voice cracked.
He knew she was thinking about their rescue. “Me, too,” he said, more serious than they had been to that point. “Annie was right when she called you our angel in snowshoes.”
He spotted a telltale sparkle of tears in her eyes and kissed her again. She looped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with a passion that robbed him of thought.
They did what came naturally to them both, with surprising ease—almost like every sexual encounter either had experienced over the years was a prelude to this moment. Instincts led him to her gasping-in-passion places. Her bold touch took him right to the brink so many times he lost count, until that last, commanding climb they made together.
Brilliant. Sheltering. Sublime.
Neither made any attempt to move apart as their breathing returned to normal. Hank held her as if she’d always slept in his arms. When he closed his eyes and his heartbeat slowed to dead sleep, a single thought skipped through his mushy dreamlike brain: we’re good together.
*
Meg felt Henry give in to sleep. His arms felt heavy and his breathing steadied.
She’d dated her share of men over the years and slept with a select few. She’d even tried cohabitating with a do
ctoral candidate for a couple of years…until they agreed their work was the only thing keeping them together. But in all those encounters never once did she sleep in a “spooning” position. She assumed that was because she was too independent.
So, why does this feel so right?
She couldn’t explain it.
The mattress sagged in just the right place to cradle them. Their breathing seemed to harmonize. Their naked heat was protection from the ridiculously low temperature she’d noticed on her weather station while she was cleaning the kitchen.
I could get used to this.
But that wasn’t going to happen. She might have another day or two with Henry and the kids but then he’d either hire a snow plow to forge a path to her cabin so somebody could pick him up or she’d help him hike out, using his sled and her toboggan to ferry all their belongings and whatever Henry had managed to salvage from the wreckage.
And once they were gone, she’d return to the life she was living before they dropped out of the sky. A good thing, right? Because it would give her time to write the new idea she had for her story—one that featured four youngsters alone in the wilderness, surviving with the help of a young, orphaned wolf. The characters had skipped in and out of her mind all day. She felt eager to write, but the superstitious writer part of her brain worried that the spark would go out if her young muses left.
She ran her fingers through the course, wiry male hair on Henry’s arm where it pressed against her belly.
His fingers twitched, flicking the underside of her breast. Her body responded as if he’d flipped her on switch. Moist heat blossomed in her core as a languid, molasses-like desire spread outward.
Her hips moved without prompting from her brain. Her butt cheeks brushed against his groin. Henry’s body didn’t need more encouragement.
The pheromones or lust or whatever magic drew them together in the first place rekindled.
His hand molded to her breast, which felt heavy and dense with need. When his fingers twiddled her nipple and gave a little tug, she moaned and actively wriggled backward to feel his length and breadth firm against her flesh.
She wasn’t completely certain he was awake until his hand moved downward. An exploratory flick, back and forth, against her still climax-primed clitoris made her writhe in glorious need. “Oh, Henry,” she cried softly, “isn’t it too soon?”