Did he notice the wood’s unusual warmth from it being recently occupied? Or was Gibson so stealthy that he didn’t even leave behind a heat imprint? Lauren decided that it was better not to ask.
“Pretty night,” Patrick said after a long silence.
“You can do better than that.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Patrick, if you’re trying to start with a pickup line, ‘Pretty night’ is pretty lame.”
“McCoy in Streets of Fire.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Amy Madigan played McCoy in the movie Streets of Fire. An obscure little cult classic. You’re like that.”
“Never heard of it,” which came out ruder than she meant it. “Why am I like her?” Not that she was really interested.
“She’s this ex-soldier. Always says what she’s thinking flat out. No games. You remind me of her. Except that she was short and blonde. She was really rough around the edges.”
“Gee, thanks. You really know how to compliment a girl.”
“No. Wait. That’s not how I mean it. I—”
She let him flounder for a while to see how long it would take him to dig his way out of it. It soon became obvious that if she didn’t toss him a hook and line, he’d be lost in the stream for a while. “Thanks for…” carrying me was too weak, “…helping me out yesterday.”
He stumbled to a halt, apparently relieved to escape his own meandering monologue. “Sure. You okay?”
She shrugged, then remembered that he wasn’t Delta and probably couldn’t read it in the dark. “I suppose. Never passed out before, but I hadn’t slept in a couple days. Or eaten much.” Neither of which had anything to do with it. You couldn’t be Delta and not take such things in stride. Seeing the spitting image of her own dog resurrected at her feet… She shuddered against the chill night.
Patrick blinked his eyes hard, trying to see something of Lauren. He wished he’d left on a hall light inside, so that it would have at least partly lit the porch.
There had to be some movie like this, but all he could think of was an old saying.
“I was blind but now I see.” And that’s what it felt like. He’d been just riding along through life. First behind a camera and then on a horse. All of it soft focus—preamble blur under the credits that no one really paid attention to. Then Lauren had stepped in-frame and everything snapped into sharp focus. The director’s name scrolled off the screen and the real movie had begun.
The visual impact of Lauren stepping off the helicopter. Her warmth and smell as she’d been cradled in his arms, her head on his shoulder and her arms tucked together between their chests as if an innocent child. And then the shining woman in camo pants and a black sports bra against tanned and battered skin, slicing a volleyball across the net as if it was a weapon of war.
“What are you talking about?” Lauren’s voice had none of the soft warmth of a romantic heroine. It was the gruff McCoy of Streets of Fire all the way.
“What do you mean?”
“Are you addled? You said I was blind but now I see.”
“Uh,” he didn’t really want to explain that, but he didn’t see any easy way out of it. Maybe he’d take a lesson from McCoy and just speak what he was thinking. “I’ve never seen a woman like you.”
“Emily’s a retired soldier.”
“She’s also married to my boss.”
“So the fact that I’m single makes me unlike anyone else? What about that mom you were carrying back from the river in your lap?”
“You’re jealous of Clara?” Really? That gave him some hope. Maybe Lauren was attracted to him.
“Why would I be?”
“Okay, so much for my ego.” He kind of hoped for a laugh, but didn’t get it. Maybe she was smiling in the dark—at least it was nice to think so.
“Are you telling me that you didn’t take her out for a tumble in the tall grass last night?”
“No.”
“Why not? She was more than willing. Saw the way you couldn’t look away from her.”
“Because she wasn’t you,” then he felt the heat flame to his cheeks and was thankful that there wasn’t any light at all on the porch.
“You’ve got a mighty strange view of the world.”
Patrick tried, but he couldn’t detect any reaction to what he’d just said.
“Is that the Long Island or the Montana part of you?”
“Both! Neither!” Then he gave up. “I’ll be cursed if I know. I just know that since you showed up, I haven’t been able to think of much else.”
“I just know that since I showed up, I can’t wait to leave.”
“Ouch!” And he’d been worried about her going. But that she couldn’t wait to go was a whole different level of suckitude. The problem, he realized, was that for the first time (perhaps ever), he was looking for something more than a fast tumble in the hay loft. If she went back to New York, would he leave the ranch to follow her?
And the only thing surprising about that thought was that it didn’t even surprise him. Maybe he could pick up the filmmaking from where he’d dropped it. But it never worked in the movies. The heroine, because it was always the “hopeful female” trope, followed the hero out of her native element and became resentful at what she had to give up. Of course the hero always won her over to their new life…
He loved ranching.
And Lauren couldn’t wait to leave.
“Something wrong, cowboy? I can feel that you just bit down on something nasty.”
“How did you know that?”
“Silence isn’t just silence, Patrick.”
“I like that. It’s a neat way to explain things. I’ve studied directors who aren’t afraid to use silence in their films, but I never thought about the different textures of silence.”
“Clearly you’ve never been in Delta.”
“You were really in Delta Force?”
“I truly was.”
“And a dog handler like Stan?”
“Until my dog was killed.” She bit that off hard. He could feel the silence fill with pain.
“Wow!” It was all he could think to say. He’d only had a moment to scan the online entry on them before dinner, but he got the impression that Superman would need to do some serious prep if he wanted to audition for a role in Delta. Though he was pretty sure that Batman would be a shoo in.
“I guess that means that I’m sitting here with Wonder Woman. That’s even more daunting then when I thought you were just Lauren Foster.”
“Just Lauren Foster? I wonder who the heck that is.”
He couldn’t think of how to answer that, so he went against his nature and kept his mouth shut.
There was one of those long, strange silences that she’d mentioned. He tried to sense the quality of it. Tense? Pensive? Bored? He just wasn’t sure, but he was leaning toward some form of tension, as if the air was vibrating in some new register.
Then he heard her rising to her feet. He stood as well and actually bumped elbows with her.
They remained without speaking for several long moments. Tentative? Questioning?
“You actually didn’t sleep with Clara in case you got a chance to sleep with me?”
“No. I didn’t do anything with Clara because it felt as if I’d be dishonest with her if I did. It wasn’t her I would be thinking of, so I didn’t…” Patrick trailed off, unsure what else to say. He was supposed to be Robert Redford smooth. Instead he was fast winning the footrace with Hugh Grant for most awkward actor in history. The only step worse was Woody Allen, and he refused to go there.
Another silence, then a soft creak of one of the porch floorboards.
The next moment his world blanked. Lauren shifted against him until he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around her. Her kiss started soft. Her lips just the slightest bit cool from the night. But she flowed against him and the kiss heated fast until he wondered if the fire in his brain was glowing through his co
wboy hat.
This wasn’t a Houston bar in a film. This was Lauren Foster at Henderson’s Ranch and nothing else in his experience compared.
She slipped her hands down into his back pockets and yanked their bodies together.
Her hum of pleasure tickled his throat as the fire plummeted out of his brain faster than a descending comet. She was just three inches shorter than his six three and no woman had ever fit against him like this. So long and so lean that he could wrap his arms right around her. And so strong that he doubted he’d be able to escape if he wanted to.
Which he didn’t.
Lauren let herself be held. Let herself feel just how amazing a man’s body was. It had been a long time and his cowboy-strong shoulders filled her arms as nicely as any soldier she’d ever dallied with.
His kiss was a bone melter. Whether she was the heroine in some movie in his head or herself merely standing in the Montana night, it didn’t change a thing. She wanted to touch, feel, hold, take, sate her body until something in her life stopped being a moronathon of confusion and even just one thing made sense.
She pushed Patrick back against a post holding up the porch roof in order to gain some leverage. It was so good to just feel. Propriety could go jump. Who cared about meaningful or not? Morning-after could deal with itself.
And Patrick wasn’t holding back either. She managed to hook a leg over the porch rail and pull them together harder.
He moaned with his need, which was pretty cute.
He also smelled wonderful. She’d become impossibly aware of him during the volleyball game. Each pair a married couple except for the two of them. When he’d peeled his shirt, it was almost impossible to look away. She’d thought only soldiers had that kind of strength, but working on a ranch clearly had its benefits. He was lean, but his body rippled with muscle. Whether facing her to set a spike or showing his back as he leapt high to hammer one down himself, he’d been an amazing sight.
And now she could feel it. One of his big hands against the small of her back more than strong enough to hold them together so tightly it was getting hard to breathe. The other stroked over her. Digging into her hair one moment, sliding down her side and hip to run over her leg and tracing where her knee hooked over the rail the next.
Sure, she’d be gone soon, but why would she care? For one night, let her body be sated to its heart’s content. Tomorrow she’d worry about consequences.
And just that fast she was out.
Lauren buried her face against Patrick’s collarbone. “I’m so sorry.” Tomorrow wasn’t the problem. It wasn’t the only problem.
He still held her tightly, but his hands had stopped roaming while he waited. Which, in addition to being super-decent of him, also showed that he understood more about silence than he thought.
She wanted to pound her fist against something in frustration. Something hard. But doing it to the luscious man presently wrapped around her would be even less kind.
“What is it?” Patrick’s voice was hoarse—hard to blame him.
“I’m a train wreck is what,” she eased back against his protests. “I was all set to just use you, even though I’m leaving. I don’t even have the decency you showed to Clara.”
“Please. Use me!”
She’d laugh if she didn’t feel so awful. “You’re sweet, Patrick.”
“Curse of my life.”
“What am I supposed to do with sweet? You know what I’m thinking about right now? When I should be thinking about how amazing you were making me feel?” She tried to back away, but Patrick stopped her with a gentle hold. It wasn’t the hard grip of moments before, pinning them together. Instead it was a request. A question. So she stayed in place.
Patrick offered his silence, which was all that let her keep speaking.
“I’m thinking about tomorrow. I’m thinking about being out of the military. It’s been my life since high school graduation,” plus two weeks of wedding prep she wasn’t going to think about. “Before that actually, because I knew by junior year that’s what I was going to do. Half my life.” She lay her forehead against his shoulder. Half? Her entire adult life. “I just don’t think I could handle another variable right now without going Section 8.”
“Section 8?”
“Discharged as mentally unfit for duty.”
“Oh, right. Like Corporal Klinger in M*A*S*H always wearing dresses.”
“Well, I haven’t worn one since—” my aborted wedding “—a long time, so I might be considered unstable if I wore one now.”
“Bet you’d look nice in one.”
She leaned back enough to look at his face, but his head was just a silhouette against the stars with a porch-post shadow sticking out of the top.
“A classic,” he continued. “Tight waist, pleated skirt,” his hand was delicious as it traced down over her hip. “Maybe just above the knees,” he traced a line of fire where her leg still hooked over the rail. “Or maybe a men’s dress shirt turned blouse,” waist and up ribcage to rub against her t-shirt collar, “and a mid-calf skirt that teased and hinted at good legs. I bet you have great legs, Lauren.”
“I do.” Enough soldiers had told her so when she wore shorts and went out for a run.
He made a thoughtful hmmm sound.
“Get that image out of your head, Patrick.”
“Nope. Not working. Seems that I’m gonna be stuck with it. Not that I’m complaining.”
She swung her leg clear and pushed off his chest until they were standing a little apart.
“Now I do have something to complain about.” His hand lingered on her hip for a moment before sliding free.
“Sorry,” and she actually was. The chilly night air slipping in the front of her jacket only emphasized how good he had felt pressed against her.
“You could make it up to me.”
“Why doesn’t this sound good,” as if turning down a nice man once in a night wasn’t enough.
“We’ve got a hunting party going out tomorrow. It’s sort of a yearly celebration around here. Get some elk and maybe even bear meat for the freezer. Come with us.”
“Hunting.”
“Sure. We’ve got this guy comes in each year who likes going after the elk—his favorite game. He’s a good guide and it has sort of turned into a thing each fall for the two of us and anyone else who’s in the mood. You should come.”
Lauren felt as if she was walking into a trap, but couldn’t quite see her way out of it. Though she could use some time out in the field. One last walk into the wild before heading back to the concrete canyons of New York.
“What do you say?”
“I’d say that I don’t trust your motives, cowboy.”
“Wa’ll ma’am,” he did a decent John Wayne—even she knew who he was imitating. “Ain’t none in these parts is gonna call you dumb. Leastwise not in my presence they ain’t gon’ dare.” He ran his hand down her waist and hip to make his motives absolutely clear, but he didn’t grab for her or try to pull her back in, which was in his favor.
“So you have nefarious and evil designs to have your way with me even though I’m a royal mess?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Still John Wayne.
She placed a hand on his chest to keep him in place while she brushed a light kiss across his lips. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think on it hard, Lauren,” Patrick was back and surprisingly earnest. This wasn’t the sound of simple lust. He meant it.
“I will.”
“Promise?”
Again that laugh that almost tickled its way free. “Sure.”
“Say the words.”
“I promise,” but they didn’t slip out as easily as she’d thought they would. Needing distance, she stepped away quickly and headed inside. Closing the door softly, the ongoing hum in her body made her thankful that Patrick was now on the other side.
A single light was still on in the kitchen when she passed through, a reading lamp over in the seating area by
the fireplace.
Lauren debated seeing who else was still awake. A part of her voted for hiding under the covers and ignoring the unexpected flare of need that Patrick had awakened in her.
Her feet apparently decided this wasn’t a democracy and headed toward the light in search of a distraction from exactly those kinds of thoughts.
“Out kinda late for a cowboy, cowboy.”
“Maybe I found some nightlife,” Patrick ignored Stan. He was stretched out on the lower bunk, reading the latest Lee Child thriller. He had a bit of rubber clamped in his steel hooks to help him turn the pages.
“Not that late. Which one dumped your sorry excuse for manhood? Clara or your movie fantasy chick?”
“Were you always a twit or is that Army training?” He shucked down to his underwear and grabbed a toothbrush from the sink. The bunkhouse had four double rooms and a shared bath, but each room also had a private sink, which he appreciated.
“Born this way. Refined by the best trainers anywhere. And that’s Navy, you idiot. SEAL? Remember?” There was no heat behind it. He barely glanced away from his book.
Patrick offered him a toothpaste grin. Of course he knew SEALs were Navy after two years of living together. Which made it a perfect target. That, and Lauren had the US Army on his brain. For all the good it was doing him now. Instead of continuing the fiery kiss as a fantastic tumble together, he was back in the bunkhouse with a one-armed Navy SEAL.
The building was old, but in good shape. He liked the old plank wood walls of knotty pine. It was everything a ranch bunkhouse should be, right down to the Cheyenne tribal-style blankets that Mark’s mother had woven for each bed. Brightly colored, the geometric shapes added a real character and warmth. The space was too close to shoot film in, even with a Red 4K digital camera, but it was like living in a movie set. Hard used, but still cozy.
Yeah, a great place, except for the grumpy one-armed dog trainer rather than the hot Delta operator.
“Twit yourself,” Stan muttered under his breath as he turned the page. He never liked being caught rising to the bait.
Big Sky, Loyal Heart Page 8
