by Tami Hoag
She took a half-step back and tried to look annoyed. “In your dreams, Rafferty. I offered you a beer, not my body.”
J.D. chuckled wickedly. He reached out and settled a hand at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, his thumb dipping into the shallow V above her collarbone. “Your pulse is racing, Mary Lee,” he murmured. “You always get this worked up over a can of Miller?”
“Only when I'm contemplating bashing it over the head of an obnoxious man. Do you want the beer or not?”
His throat felt like a gravel pit, his mouth tasted of dust and horses. “Yeah, I guess I'd better disarm you.”
Mari rolled her eyes and headed for an old wooden buggy seat that had been converted into a bench and sat along the end of the barn. She plunked herself down, tossed him his beer, and popped the top on her own.
Rafferty eyed the spot beside her but chose to stand, propping himself up against the weathered siding of the barn. He looked exhausted. His shirt was sweat-stained and dirty, his jeans limp and creased. He had obviously splashed water on his face before riding down; she could see the line on his neck where clean left off and the dirt began. The shadow on his lean cheeks told her it had been a while since he'd taken the time to shave.
“Truce, okay?” she offered, raising her can in salute. “I don't think either of us could survive a sparring match tonight.”
He tipped his head a little in concession, popped the top on his beer, and drank half of it in one long swallow. Mari's gaze caught on the way the muscles of his throat worked.
“Hard day at the office?” she asked, more to distract herself than anything.
He shrugged. “The usual.”
“What's ‘the usual'?”
“Finished rounding up the breeding herd for branding and vaccinations. Colts needed riding. Bulls had to be moved.”
Mari had a feeling the jobs entailed a great deal more than the few spare words he boiled them down to. He had a talent for understatement, Rafferty did. He compressed his conversation to the bare skin and bones of thought, leaving out all words that didn't seem absolutely necessary. The trait was at once endearing and infuriating. She was used to the enlightened professional men of the nineties who, once they had learned it was okay to open up, never shut up. Brad had always been a virtual font of information about himself, his feelings, his interests, his career.
“Branding like in the cowboy movies? Rope 'em, throw 'em, stick a hot iron on their sides?”
He straightened almost imperceptibly, his jaw hardening. “It's done for a reason,” he said tightly, offended by the suggestion that he would unnecessarily harm an animal. “You a vegetarian or something?”
“No. Just curious. Believe me, I seldom discriminate against anything edible—except liver. I don't like liver. And I won't eat anything people claim ‘tastes just like chicken.' That almost always means it's some kind of animal you wouldn't eat if you knew what it was.”
“Rattlesnake,” J.D. said, one side of his mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. “Tastes just like chicken.”
She made a face and held her hands up to ward off the idea, shuddering visibly inside her gigantic jacket. “No thanks. I learned all about the food groups in the fourth grade. Mrs. Kaplan never said a word about a daily requirement of reptiles.”
He laughed, a sound that was rusty from disuse. Mari rewarded him with a smile. He eyed the empty place on the bench beside her, fighting with himself. He didn't want to be amused by her or charmed by her. He wanted to bed her. He wanted to buy her land. Those things were simple, straightforward, safe. The other edged into dangerous territory. He pushed himself away from the barn, telling himself to back off, but his feet were rooted to the spot. “There's chores need doing.”
“They'll still need doing in ten minutes. Cut yourself some slack, Rafferty.”
“Slackers don't last long in these parts.” His gaze strayed to the log house as he eased himself down onto the far side of the bench. Weary disillusionment crept into his eyes. His broad shoulders sagged a little in defeat. “Least they never used to.”
“How long has your family been here?” Mari asked quietly, mesmerized by the emotions playing in his gray eyes. She would have bet a dollar he would never give them voice, certainly not to her. All he ever wanted to show her was sexual aggression or orneriness—traits that made him easy to dislike . . . or should have. The idea of that macho attitude being a shield covering something more complex, even vulnerable, struck her as being as dangerous to her as the man himself, and yet she couldn't keep herself from trying to peek around it.
“Four generations,” he said, his pride an unmistakable undercurrent in his low, soft voice. He still stared off toward the house, though she had a feeling he wasn't seeing it. His profile was rugged and handsome in the last umber light of day, the face of a man who lived a hard life and was stronger for it. “Since the war,” he added.
He said it as if there had been only one in the last hundred fifty years, as if this corner of Montana had somehow existed out of time with the rest of the modern world. Sitting there in the ranch yard, the wild country all around them and no sign of civilization in sight, Mari was almost tempted to believe that could be true.
“The Civil War,” she clarified.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“And the Raffertys were Southerners?”
“Yes, ma'am. From Georgia.”
His answer made her think of his manners. When he chose to display any, they were quaintly formal, the courtly manners of the old Deep South, polished Southern chivalry that had grown a little rough around the edges out in the wilderness. The thought that those customs had survived at all over four generations suggested they had been very carefully handed down, like cherished heirlooms, like his pride in his land and his fierce distrust of outsiders.
She turned sideways on the buggy seat and leaned a shoulder against the rough wall of the barn. “You're very lucky,” she murmured, “to have that kind of sense of who you are and where you belong. I come from a place where almost no one is a native, where tradition is something we get out of Emily Post.”
“It'll be that way around here soon enough.”
“Only if all the natives leave.”
“Plenty already have. Most can't afford not to.”
“Because of people like Lucy buying land?”
“Nothing's sacred to people with money.”
“You say that like they're evil. Maybe they love it here as much as you do. Take it from me,” she said dryly, “belonging doesn't necessarily have anything to do with birthright.”
J.D. said nothing. His feelings were too strong for words. No one could love this land more than he did. It was as much a part of him as his heart, his hands. He couldn't imagine an outsider feeling that. He didn't want to.
He cut a sideways glance at Mari. She seemed lost in thought, pensive, her plump lower lip caught between her teeth while she fiddled with the frayed ends of a tear in the leg of her jeans. Stray strands of blond hair fell against her cheek. He had to admit, she didn't look much like any of her fellow newcomers. She didn't dress to impress in designer western wear. She didn't even wear makeup. She certainly didn't bear much resemblance to Lucy with her expensive clothes and long, lacquered fingernails. There was no choking cloud of perfume hanging around her. He pulled in a deep breath and shifted positions, detecting a hint of lemon oil.
“You worked on the house all day?” he said, trying his best to sound nonchalant.
“Mmm . . .”
“Why?”
“Why? Because it needed to be done.”
“You fixing to move in, Mary Lee?”
“No. I—”
She heaved a sigh and looked across the yard to the house and the valley that lay beyond. It was hers. She still couldn't get that into her head. This place was hers and she couldn't accept it, yet she had pulled the plug on the life she'd led before coming here. Where did that leave her?
In limbo. What a curious place to be. A fog
, where contact to the past had been severed and the future lay beyond the thick white mist. What else was there to do but float along in it, let it take her wherever? That was what her vacation to Montana was supposed to be about anyway—to shut down for a time, to live in the moment.
“I don't know. I didn't come here with the intention of staying. I only wanted some time to decompress. I just dumped my career, and then there was this guy—” She cut herself off, sending Rafferty a rueful look. “Well, that's another story. Anyway, I actually got some poor unsuspecting innocent to buy all my stenographer's equipment. I was coming here to celebrate. Lucy would have loved it—the ultimate nose-thumbing of convention and all that . . . I sure as hell didn't bargain for any of this.”
A shiver ran through her, and she pulled her old jacket a little closer around her, the appalling state of her fingernails catching her attention. The ones she hadn't bitten off had broken off during her cleaning marathon. Her fingers were chapped and raw from countless cycles of wet and dry. Lucy would have hustled her off for an emergency manicure.
“Should have worn gloves,” J.D. murmured. He turned her hand over and studied her palm and the callused tips of her fingers. Rubbing those pads of hard flesh, he could still remember the sound of her guitar and her low, husky voice, the sweetness, the poignancy of the music made by these fine-boned hands.
Mari's breath went thin in her lungs as he examined and explored her hand. Currents of something warm and intoxicating traveled up her arm and spread through her body in waves. She stared at him, wondering exactly what it was, wondering if he felt it too. His hand was warm and rough and huge, swallowing hers up as if she were a child. The latent strength in it set off a fluttering in the base of her throat.
“You'll end up with rancher's hands,” he said.
Instantly, she thought of his rancher's hands—touching her, dark skin against light, calluses caressing the softest parts of her—and a flash fire swept through her. This is weird, Marilee. Chemistry—that was the explanation. Too bad she didn't understand chemistry any better now than she had in high school.
J.D. raised his eyes to meet hers and felt as if he had been lulled into some kind of trance. He wasn't the kind of man to lose control, to act the fool over some pretty blonde. That had been his father's role in life. And Will's. But not even that bitter reminder could make him pull his hand away from Mari's or make him look away from her. She stared up at him, her deep, dark, clear blue eyes awash in wonder, her lips parted slightly in surprise. The taste of those lips lingered in his memory, teasing him, tempting him.
It's just sex, he assured himself. Nothing more complicated than a rush of hormones.
He leaned down and settled his mouth over hers. She opened to him readily, a symbolic gesture that shot molten heat through the pit of his belly. He slid his tongue into her mouth, completing the symbol, taking them to the threshold of the next level in the age-old game.
He kissed her deeply, possessively, sliding his free hand into the tangle of her hair to cup the back of her head and hold her at the angle he liked best. His other hand was still twined with hers between them. As desire pooled and throbbed in his groin, he drew her hand to him, bent her small fingers around his erection, and groaned at the heady combination of pleasure and pain.
“That's how much I want you, Mary Lee,” he whispered roughly, dragging his mouth from her lips to her jaw to the shell of her ear. He pulled the lobe between his teeth, biting gently, then sucking.
“That's saying a lot.” Her brain felt wrapped in gauze, logic trapped between the layers of mindless need, overwhelmed by Rafferty's masculinity and sexuality.
“I want to be inside you. I want to feel you around me.” He wedged a hand between her legs and rubbed her through her jeans.
A moan was the only response she could manage. The heat was incredible. She felt as if she were melting. She stroked her palm down the length of him and imagined too easily how he would feel entering her, filling her.
He kissed her again, roughly, wildly. His fingers fumbled for the tab of her zipper.
“Let me,” he growled. He nipped the side of her neck, then kissed where he'd bitten. “Let me fuck you, Mary Lee.”
His blunt language shot a jolt of excitement through her. At the same time, it struck a tender nerve. This would mean nothing to him but slaking a need. He had been very plain about that from the start. He didn't have to love her. He didn't even have to like her.
She wasn't a prude. She had gone to bed with men she didn't love. But there had always been a mutual respect and friendship, if nothing else. Here there was nothing else.
And still she wanted him.
The conflicting emotions swirled through her head, making her dizzy, making her feel as if she were falling.
Then her backside hit the ground so hard, her teeth snapped together and her eyes popped open. She had managed to fall off the bench.
“Wow.” She struggled to her feet, knees wobbling, and dusted off the seat of her jeans. “I've heard of kisses knocking a girl on her butt,” she joked weakly, “but I never took it literally.”
Embarrassment burned in her cheeks, and she turned slightly away from him, rubbing the sensation with her fingertips as if she could erase any telltale sign of it. Her hands were trembling. God, her whole body was shaking. Amazing. When was the last time a man had made her tremble with the power of his kiss? Never. And when was the last time a man had made her want so badly, her brain shut down and primal instincts took over? Never.
You're in big trouble here, Marilee.
J.D. took her by the arm and turned her toward him. “Let's go up to the house and finish this in a bed.”
Mari stepped away from him, shaking her head. Her hair tumbled down around her face, partially hiding her. “No.”
“No?” he said, incredulous. “I didn't hear you saying no when you had your hand wrapped around my dick.”
“I'm sorry,” she whispered, nearly choking on the tension within her. “I can't do this.”
“The hell you can't, Mary Lee,” J.D. growled. “You drop your panties, spread your legs, and I make us both happy. It's as simple as that.”
“Not for me, it isn't. I don't have sex with a man just because I happen to be handy when he needs it.”
“Lucy did,” he said cruelly.
Mari lifted her chin and stared at him through a thin sheen of tears as hurt coursed through her. “I'm not Lucy.”
Her pride kicked him square and hard in the chest. She wasn't being coy. She wasn't playing games. She was standing up to him. Again. And damned if she wasn't pretty, standing there with those big, jewel-blue eyes glaring at him through her tears and her tangled blond hair.
The hard throb of need ebbed a bit. J.D. reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Scowling, he swiped the tears that had spilled over her lashes, leaving them spiky and dark. He gave her the handkerchief and ordered her to blow her nose. Then he combed her hair back with his fingers and tilted her face up.
“This isn't finished, Mary Lee,” he said, his voice quiet, his expression stern. “Not by a long way. It might not happen tonight or tomorrow, but it's damn well gonna happen. That's a promise.”
It sounded more like a threat, but Mari said nothing as he turned and went into the barn.
Twilight was fading fast. Night crept down the mountainside in long, cool, black fingers that carried the scent of pine and damp earth. Somewhere along the valley a bull elk called to his harem, a high-pitched, whistling squeal that looped into a trumpet blast. Eerie and beautiful.
Rafferty's horse stood waiting patiently, tied to a rail of the corral, one hind leg cocked, his eyes half closed, his lower lip drooping. A pair of chipmunks had scampered into the corral to inspect the new pile of debris. They ran over it and through it, chattering a mile a minute.
Mari just stood there, trembling, Rafferty's promise ringing in her ears. They would end up in bed together.
Live for the momen
t, Marilee.
And if the moment included Rafferty?
Where would it lead them? Scary thing about the road less traveled: you couldn't always see around the bend.
The hinges of the barn door creaked a protest. Mari jerked around and blinked against the thickening darkness, wondering how long she had been standing there, mulling over the possibility of having an affair with a man she barely knew.
He came toward her slowly, deliberately, his gaze holding hers. And he stepped too close, as he always did. A shiver of awareness skittered over her.
“What's it gonna be, Mary Lee?” he asked quietly. His eyes were the gray of velvet in the waning light. “Is tonight the night?”
She held herself rigid, afraid if she moved at all, it would be to nod her head. “I'm not ready.”
He bent his head and kissed her, slowly, deeply, intimately. Their lips clung as he pulled back.
“Get ready,” he growled.
He went to his horse, tightened his cinch, and swung up into the saddle, pointing the big gelding toward the trail to the Stars and Bars.
“Hey, Rafferty,” Mari called, uprooting her feet and moving to stand alongside him. “Mind if I come up tomorrow and see what branding is all about?”
Impulse pushed the question out of her. She bit her lip and waited for his answer, her hands jammed deep in the pockets of her jacket, as if she were bracing herself against a stiff wind.
He stared down at her, his face little more than a silhouette in the fading light. “Suit yourself.”
She gave him a lazy, lopsided grin. “I usually do.”
She watched him ride away at a slow jog, feeling a little giddy, a little foolish, a little too pleased that he might allow her to take a peek at his world.
“What the hay, Marilee,” she said, turning back toward the house, moving toward it on shaky legs. “Live for the moment.”
Midnight. The dead of night. The time of ghosts and hunters.
He couldn't always tell the difference. The images ran together and through each other. The hounds, the corpses, the dog-boys and tigers. They crashed through the woods, making a racket only he could hear. It was as loud as the blasting of an M-16 inside his head, echoing and amplifying off the metal plate. The spotlight exploded before his eyes and behind them.
