His powerful yet graceful movement brought to mind the panther she’d seen in Guatemala. The panther had surprised her and her guide that morning. If they hadn’t been upwind, one of them might’ve been breakfast. Maybe it was the thrill of being in a presence that had no regard for her as anything other than intruder or prey, or maybe it was the sheer beauty of the panther’s primal movements, but the memory had seared deep. Her chest tightened as she remembered the rush of awe and fear as she’d crouched, unmoving, and watched the panther circle, sniff the air and then prowl off into the jungle.
That Ryan called up the same energy she’d felt staring into the eyes of that big cat made her haul in a deep breath and try to gain perspective. She was seeding squash in a small town on the California coast, for goodness’ sake. No danger or panthers here.
But as Ryan turned and walked toward her, her breath caught and her pulse pounded. His jeans had that worn-in, perfect fit that hugged his thighs, and they sat perfectly poised on his hips, resting just below the vee of muscles that disappeared below the line of his belt. And just below the buckle of that belt, his jeans pouched out, holding what she could only imagine lay beneath. He was easily an advertiser’s dream. No amount of professional fussing could’ve created the casual, devastating effect of a real man—vital, toned, misted with the sweat of work and obviously very comfortable in that devastating body.
She shifted her eyes to the ring of squash that circled her and shivered with the want coursing in her veins.
“You want more?”
His question startled her out of her fantasy. It took her a moment to register that he was nodding toward her near-empty glass.
Another display of him walking to the table just might do her in. Though she was thirsty, she shook her head.
“No, thanks.”
She looked down and picked up the spoon she’d been using to scoop out the squashes. She dug the spoon into the curve of a squash and fought through the images he’d conjured, tried to drag her attention back from her ridiculous loss of control and toward the thread of the conversation. The polite thing to do was to ask about his life. That questions about him turned the conversation away from her was a bonus.
“Where are you from?”
“East Texas. I grew up on a ranch. Sometimes I think East Texas doesn’t suit my mom, being that she’s an easterner,” Ryan added, “but my dad will never move.” He took a long draw from the glass he held. “He’s a stubborn man.”
A mother from Boston explained why Ryan’s accent had little of Texas in it. To her ear, Ryan’s speech was a refreshing mixture of melodic Southern drawl and the flatter, more articulated consonants and vowels of the Northeast. And his voice had a deep, velvety quality, almost mesmerizing. He could’ve been a hypnotist or a radio personality. She’d listened that night he’d bantered with Cain at the ball game and tuned in as he’d joshed with the kids. His voice seeped into her like warm, golden honey and made her want to hear more. She liked it. Maybe a little too much.
And she’d be lying if she didn’t admit that more than his voice had shown up in her dreams. Now that she’d seen how hot he was and felt her blood sizzle just having him near, her dreams would likely take on a whole new dimension. That she could look forward to. Dreams were safe. No trouble there.
But she sure didn’t want to get into a loop of questions about families; that always proved to be rocky territory.
“We’d better get back to work or Belva will have our heads,” she said, angling for an ease in her tone that she didn’t feel.
She picked up another of the squashes he’d cracked open and hoped the slight trembling in her hands didn’t show as she began to separate the seeds from the bright orange flesh.
Ryan put his glass down on the slate path and took up the ax.
“How long have you been living out here?” he asked. He angled a perfect swing and split a squash.
Hiding her identity to preserve her freedom had proven to be a greater challenge than she’d expected. Though she longed to share the connection, the closeness that wove the people of Albion Bay into a thriving community, she had to keep her distance. Some days her deception exacted a very high price.
“Three years next month,” she answered. Some questions could be more easily answered than others.
He picked up his T-shirt and mopped at the perspiration that glistened along his neck and arms. She’d never seen a man with arms like his, not up close. It was a look that movie stars worked hours in the gym to perfect, but as Ryan swung the ax again and executed a perfect severing of a squash, she knew that actors, no matter how well trained, never came close to approximating the body of a man whose strength was an integral part of his everyday life.
He shot a glance her way, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight. At least she thought the glint was from sunlight. Maybe he was one of those guys who just had lively eyes. But to her, Ryan’s eyes seemed to dance with a mysterious merriment.
“Perk told me you’ve been a big help on the town planning committee,” he said.
“I’ve been to a few meetings,” she responded, grateful for conversation that took her mind off the effect he was having on her.
“I’d rather face a wild pitcher with a ninety-eight-mile-an-hour fast ball than sit through a meeting,” he said with a grin. “Perk said the town needs a medical clinic. You helping with that?”
“I’ve been trying,” Cara answered honestly. “The clinic’s a sore spot. Albion Bay is twenty miles from the closest medical help. Twenty long and rutted miles to a tiny clinic that’s only open during the day. And closed on holidays.”
“What about EMTs?”
“It takes thirty minutes for the EMTs from the Point Reyes fire station to arrive. Usually the locals have to drive to the nearest hospital, but that’s a forty-minute drive.”
Forty minutes if road conditions were good. Sometimes people didn’t survive the drive. Belva’s husband, Roy, hadn’t.
Six months ago Cara had tried to convince the planning committee that maybe an interim step would help, that they could make use of one of the vacant offices in town and pay the salary of a doctor, maybe two. Though she couldn’t tell them outright, she would’ve been able to direct some of her money through her attorney and fund a doctor’s salary, pay the rent on the office and buy basic equipment and supplies.
But the committee had argued that Albion Bay needed a 24/7 clinic and they didn’t want to get waylaid with interim steps.
Instead of acting on the plan she suggested, they’d hired a consultant to help them figure out how to raise the money to fund a proper clinic. Cara’s heart fell when the consultant’s first effort was to put together a study to assess the feasibility of raising the money they’d need. When the consultant’s study reported that the town couldn’t even afford the interim doctor, the committee had fired her. Sometimes the truth wasn’t what anyone wanted to hear.
Until three days ago, Cara had no way to fully fund a clinic; it was out of her league. But if she stepped up and took the reins of the Barrington Foundation, she could pay for the whole damned thing. For the past week, she’d managed to ignore her conflicted feelings. But Ryan’s innocent question drove her dilemma home hard.
“Then it’s ranch first aid that’ll have to do,” Ryan said. “I got pretty handy at stitching myself up.”
Nausea waved through Cara as Ryan lifted the ax. Just the idea of stitching herself up was horrifying.
“There’s talk on the council of a new bakery,” she said in an attempt to brush the image out of her mind. “And suggestions for opening an ice cream fountain.”
He paused and wiped sweat from his face. “That I’m ready for.”
He split the last of the squashes and then held the length of the wooden ax handle and used it to stretch his arms above his head. She saw the wince of pain flicker in his face as he circled the ax to stretch out his shoulders.
“You okay?”
A wail ripped through the silence.<
br />
Ryan ran to the kitchen before she could get up from the ground.
When she got inside, he had Belva in his arms and was lowering her to the floor. Blood spattered her apron and across Ryan’s bare chest.
“Get some clean towels and a bowl of water,” he ordered to no one in particular. “And a needle and thread.” He reached up to the counter and pulled a towel off it and pressed it against Belva’s hand.
“I’m fine,” Belva sputtered.
“You will be,” Ryan said in his gentle, easy tone.
To Cara’s surprise, Belva relaxed. Maybe Ryan did have the ability to hypnotize. Cara had never seen Belva succumb to anyone’s authority, not even Roy’s.
Ryan pulled back the towel, and Belva yelped.
“Don’t look at it,” Ryan said. “Just take some deep breaths.”
He took the wad of towels and basin of water one of the women brought over and washed the blood off Belva’s hand. Cara couldn’t see the wound from where she stood, but from the intake of breath from the women standing nearby, she knew it was serious.
“Thread,” Molly said as she rushed over to Ryan and Belva.
“I’ll need about a foot. Would you thread it?” He looked down to Belva. “I’m just going to stitch this up. Then we’ll get you to a proper doctor.”
“I won’t look, but you tell me what the damage is, young man.”
“Ryan.”
She cast Ryan a wavering smile. “Right. You tell me the truth, Ryan.”
“I’m good at the truth, ma’am.”
“Belva,” she said, wincing.
He pulled the blood-soaked towel away.
“Inch and a half. Clean slice. You missed the vein. But your muscle’s protruding.” He motioned Cara over. “Let her head rest in your lap,” he instructed.
She should’ve mentioned that she fainted at the sight of blood. But she walked over and nestled Belva’s head in her lap, keeping her eyes on Belva’s face and away from her bloody apron and hand. And well away from Ryan’s blood-smeared chest.
“He’s done this before,” Cara said as she stroked Belva’s forehead. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“Don’t have much choice, do I?” Belva shut her eyes. “Laird is in the city today.”
Ryan shot a questioning look at Cara.
“Laird’s the local vet. He’s our go-to guy for minor emergencies,” Cara said.
“I called as soon as I saw the blood,” Sarah said from across the room. “Left a message on his phone. I called 9-1-1 too, but they’re on a fire call in the park. Said they could be here in half an hour.”
“Take a breath, Belva,” Ryan said. “A long, smooth one.”
Cara knew he was about to stitch up the cut, but she couldn’t look. Belva twitched in her arms and pressed her lips together, fighting back the pain, but she didn’t let out a squeak of complaint.
Cara stroked her forehead and murmured that it was going to be okay.
Molly handed Ryan a roll of gauze. It was frayed, but he took it with a nod. Cara felt the tension ease in Belva’s body as he tied off the last stitch and rolled the gauze around her hand.
The back door to the kitchen opened with a bang. Laird Benson stood in the doorway and eyed Ryan tying off the bandage.
“There goes my job security,” Laird said in a tone meant to be joking but one that had worry laced under it. “Although maybe I’ll try the shirtless angle.”
The ladies moaned. Laird’s days of being appealing sans shirt were well behind him.
Belva sat up and glared at him. “I thought you were in the city.”
“I got a late start,” Laird said. “The Diegos’ mare had a breech birth this morning.” He helped Ryan ease Belva to her feet. “I’ll take you to the hospital; it’s on my way.”
“I’m not going to the hospital,” Belva protested.
“You are,” Ryan said. “Either with him or me.”
Belva eyed them both. “Now there’s a hard choice. Sarah, dear, call Dot at the fire station and tell her we’ve got this handled. Those boys have enough on their hands without tending to careless old ladies.” She looked around at the women in the kitchen. “What are you ladies gawking at? I expect this canning to be finished and the kitchen cleaned up before I get back. We’ve a party to prepare for tonight, in case you’ve all gone daffy-brained.”
She patted Cara on the arm. “And don’t go thinking you’re skipping out on the party, missy. A little fun will crack open that armor of yours.”
Cracking open her armor was exactly what Cara was afraid of.
Cara stripped off her sweat-drenched blouse and tossed it into the woven laundry basket in the corner of her bedroom. They’d worked until five and barely finished the last jars of squash soup and canned pear butter. Without Belva’s expert help, several of the batches had to be hot bathed a second time to get the jars to properly seal. Ryan had stayed to the very end, helping her and Molly make labels and pack the jars into crates.
She eyed her bed. A nap sounded better than dressing for a party.
The physical work of scooping and chopping and stirring had exhausted her. Before she’d moved to Albion Bay, if anyone had told her that wrestling produce into cans and jars would prove a challenge, she’d never have believed them. But more than the actual canning, her efforts to keep a handle on the rush of emotions that working close beside Ryan had triggered had worn her out. His transporting laugh and easy conversation made her lose her focus and make mistakes. Simple mistakes, but mistakes all the same.
She’d nearly poured the pear butter into the pot that held the squash soup.
When he’d grasped her arm to stop her, nothing could’ve prepared her for the shocking rush of heated desire his touch fired.
Until that moment she’d never believed the stories of life-rocking attraction, stories of people whose lives had been altered by sensual, alluring energy they couldn’t control. That was the stuff of fairy tales and myth or of deluded, unbalanced people, people who mistook sexual energy for what really mattered.
She picked up the book on her night table. For months she’d been following the exercises it prescribed, exercises for practicing turning up the good, for holding and savoring the peaceful, joyous moments in her life, ramping them up so they’d fire new patterns in her brain, patterns that could stand in the face of habitual, jittery, negative thoughts.
But she couldn’t ignore the insistent, edgy energy sparking in her chest when she let her thoughts float to Ryan Rea. Like flames lapping at kindling, the unsettling feeling grew stronger with every effort she made to tamp down its power.
She wasn’t in the market for having her world cracked open by a force beyond her control. Not today and not ever.
She stripped out of her jeans and stepped into her shower stall and let the hot water flow over the tired muscles of her neck and back. She closed her eyes and put her face under the blissful warmth, and images of Ryan rushed in—Ryan swinging the ax, Ryan reassuring Belva and stitching her hand, Ryan laughing and wiping away a spatter of soup that had splashed her neck. Vivid images that wouldn’t be suppressed, images that seemed to live in her body, well beyond her mind’s control. She poured shampoo onto her head and vigorously worked it into a lather. And tried to shove down the memory of his forearm muscles rippling with power as he lifted the heavy pots from the flames, of his steady hand as he helped her scoop the velvety liquids into jars.
But the hardest memory to ignore was the power of his gaze.
No touch could be as powerful as the arresting feeling of being held in Ryan’s gaze. It was as though she’d been infiltrated by the energy flowing from him. As though some alien force had moved in and taken hold of the controls and was distorting her sense of reality.
She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and grabbed the bar of vetiver soap. But as she skimmed it down her body, she realized that was what Ryan smelled like—the scent of vetiver and lemons and man. She ran the bar of soap along her thighs and th
en lathered it in her hands and stroked between her legs. Ryan had amazing hands. She closed her eyes and imagined what it would feel like to have him touch her, just right, just there. Pleasure raced in her veins, and she leaned against the shower wall for balance. The cool wall shocked her back to reality.
What in God’s name was she doing?
She sorted through her mind for an explanation for her unnerving reaction, for her driven focus on a man she’d just met, a man she knew little about...
Maybe it was because he played baseball—her brother had told her that the near-inhuman speed the sport required selected out men whose eyes and bodies were so finely tuned they could call up reactions most normal people couldn’t. That the best baseball players used their eyes in a way unlike in any other sport. That some batters could send a pitcher cowering with their eyes alone.
That made sense. She’d just never been around a ballplayer before. Her brother played polo, but that was different; the horses held the real power in that game.
She’d simply had a taste of what it was like to be around an athlete, a man who used nothing but the power of his body and a few tools to shape his world. Of course she’d feel the energy of that.
She toweled the water from her hair and felt more centered. She’d discovered the source of the power she’d felt and now her reactions didn’t feel so alarming. Ryan probably had the same effect on anyone near him. After all, that power, that prowess, was what drove fans to be avid about sports, wasn’t it?
Happy with her explanation, she slid open the door to her small closet.
Jeans and shirts—her everyday work clothes—filled most of the space. Tucked in the back were a few dresses, a couple of cotton ones and a few warmer, knitted wool ones for when the weather turned chilly. She’d meant to buy some new clothes that year but hadn’t made the time.
She thought of her storage unit in New York, jam-packed with ball gowns and city clothes, clothes she’d never have a reason to wear in Albion Bay. Leaving those outfits behind had felt almost as freeing as leaving the trappings of her life. She didn’t miss the private jets, the over-the-top, opulent parties, the posturing and preening of charity balls. She couldn’t think of anything she missed except for a couple of friends she kept in touch with by phone.
Love on the Line Page 5
