by Lori Wilde
His breath expelled in short, raspy pants.
Then she leaned down and pressed her lips to the jagged, erratic scar and lit him up inside.
She raised her head, met his eyes. “Does it ever hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
“What happened?”
He told her as simply and straightforwardly as he could. “I was trying to saddle break a wild horse and he threw me onto a barbwire fence. My foot got caught in the stirrup and the horse dragged me down the fence.”
She hissed in her breath as if she’d been burned. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hey, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I know, but I hate the thought of how much you’ve suffered.”
He shrugged. “All part of life. Everyone suffers.”
Joe knew he should put his shirt back on, but he didn’t. He looked at her and she looked at him. In the enclosed confines of the barn, alone with her, all he could think of was how much he wanted—needed—to be with her.
If Cordy hadn’t picked that moment to open the barn door, Joe might have very well lifted her into his arms and carried her up into the hayloft and done what he’d been dreaming to do to her from the moment he’d first seen her standing over him at the horse trough.
“What’s up?” Cordy asked, eyeing Joe’s bare chest and the red flush on Mariah’s cheeks. “Oh, um . . . am I interrupting something?”
“No!” Mariah and Joe said in tandem and jumped apart.
“Just cleaning up,” Cordy said. “Putting the tack back in its place.”
Mariah mumbled something and dashed through the open door. Joe put on his shirt.
“Sorry,” Cordy said. “I didn’t mean to kill the moment.”
“You’re fine. Good. Nothing was happening.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me.”
“Forget what you saw, all right? There’s nothing going on between me and Mariah.”
“Maybe not yet . . . but you’re barreling downhill on a black diamond slope.”
“I know,” Joe said. “That’s why nothing’s happening.”
“Yeah,” Cordy snickered. “Keep telling yourself that. If you do it long enough, maybe you’ll eventually believe it.”
Mariah sped to her cabin, her mind in turmoil. What in heaven’s name had she thought she was doing? Asking Joe to let her see his scar? Clumsy attempt at seduction. Surely, she could do better than that.
But it hadn’t been planned. One minute she’d been there brushing Miracle and the next she’d been staring at Joe as a sudden heat flooded her body, and all she could think about was getting the man undressed and upstairs in that hayloft. She’d long harbored hayloft fantasies. She and some hunky guy going at it in the barn. Even thinking about it now made her go all hot and tingly.
What a mess.
Joe was everything she never wanted in a man. He was a cowboy and obsessed with cutting horses. She didn’t trust obsessive men. If Dutch had broken her of that, growing up in the homes of rich and powerful men had echoed that lesson. Besides, Joe had already had his one great love, and she wasn’t going to sell herself short by playing second fiddle to a woman with whom she could never compete.
It doesn’t have to be some great love affair, whispered a rabble-rousing voice at the back of her head. Just great sex.
But she had a feeling it wouldn’t be so easy to separate her emotions from her physical needs. Not where Joe was concerned. She wanted him, but she was so afraid of that desire. Terrified she was going to get burned.
Joe would be here at seven in the morning to begin clearing off the land. Thankfully, he’d have a crew with him and they wouldn’t be alone. To think she needed chaperones in order to keep her hands off a man. This acute need was very new to her. New and disturbing.
She climbed into the shower, hoping to scald the desire right out of her skin. It didn’t work. Instead, touching herself only seemed to imprint Joe into her brain. She fingered her lips, the taste of him embedded on her tongue.
And when she dried herself off and crawled naked between the sheets, she did more touching, and in the end, it was Joe’s name she cried out in the darkness.
Agitated, confused, guilty, sad, and hopeful, Joe paced the stables. He didn’t know what to do with these feelings and he had no one to talk to about it. The two people whose opinion mattered to him most were buried in Oak Hill Cemetery.
He thought of Ila, but she’d been acting really weird lately, as if she was mad at him for something, although he had no idea why. He thought of his parents, but didn’t want them to worry about him. He’d caused them enough distress during those dark days after Becca died.
Becca’s horse Pickles was awake, watching through the slats in her stall. His wife had been riding Pickles when she’d been killed. Joe hadn’t blamed the horse. Becca wouldn’t have blamed her either. But he hadn’t done anything with the mare in two years. The ranch hands rode her, worked her out, but for the most part, Joe had kept his distance. He’d considered selling her, but he hadn’t had the heart for that either.
He walked over. Pickles’s soulful eyes met his, and he wondered where in the hell his life had gone.
“I know you miss her too, girl,” he murmured, and scratched in a swirl pattern behind the quarter horse’s ears.
It was just really beginning to sink in that Dutch was dead too. That he’d never again see his mentor and best friend. A deep sense of longing and regret tugged at him. The same emotions he’d been feeling for the past two years multiplied. Longing for what had been. For what could never be. Dutch would never see Miracle win the futurity. Would never reconcile with his daughter. Would never have grandchildren or remarry.
It soured his stomach. Hurt his heart. And then there was the thing that was really eating at him.
Mariah.
His attraction to her unsettled him because he hadn’t felt one whit of desire for anyone since Becca. And he’d gone and told Mariah that he and his hands would build her wedding chapel. He’d be around her every single day.
Dumb. He was dumb as a stump.
He shook his head. Maybe he could backtrack. Retract the offer. Why had he made the offer in the first place?
Maybe it was because of his loyalty to Dutch. Take care of his daughter for him. Maybe it was because Mariah seemed so alone and vulnerable even as she struggled so hard not to show it. Or maybe, just maybe, some small part of him hoped that he’d been wrong. That lightning could strike twice. That a man could get lucky enough to have two great loves in one lifetime.
His chest tightened at the thought. At the hope.
Risky, risky, allowing himself to believe that he could be that lucky. Because his luck had been pretty damn rotten so far.
Chapter Fourteen
Never pull a fast one on someone who can outdraw you.
—Dutch Callahan
During the next four weeks, Joe, his six ranch hands, and Mariah worked on constructing the wedding chapel.
Mariah’s schedule was packed. She got up at seven and did whatever needed to be done on the chapel, setting the forms for the cement foundation, raising walls, running errands, making phone calls. In between, she worked on planning Prissy and Paul’s wedding. Then she worked from six P.M. to two A.M. at the Silver Horseshoe. She didn’t get much sleep, but keeping busy and exhausted was a good thing. It kept her from dwelling too much on Joe. Which was another good thing. No repeat performances of that night in the barn.
Except for the times they were working together on the chapel and she’d glance over to watch him wielding some kind of tool, the muscles in his arms bunching with a free-swinging ease that took her breath. Then, to keep from thinking things she shouldn’t be thinking, she’d snatch her gaze away and work even harder.
She still couldn’t believe Joe was doing this for her for free. Paying his ranch hands from his pocket to spend time on her project. Why was he doing it? What did it mean? She wasn’t accustomed to people who did things without ul
terior motives. Every time she tried to thank him, he’d shrug it off and say, “That’s what friends are for.”
Somewhere along the way, they had become friends. Probably transference of his friendship with her father onto her, but for the first time in her life, Mariah understood the meaning of true friendship. She thought of the old joke. A good friend will help you move. A really good friend will help you move a body. She could add to that, the best of friends will help you build a wedding chapel out in the middle of nowhere.
Luckily, they got the foundation poured, the walls up, and the roof on before the autumn rains hit. That just left inside work, most of which she could do by herself and let Joe off the hook somewhat so he could concentrate on gearing up for the futurity that started near the end of November. Unluckily, the cabin wasn’t in nearly as good shape as the wedding chapel. When the first rainstorm blew through, it was suddenly clear why there were so many metal feed buckets in the laundry room.
The roof leaked.
A lot.
And not just over the sink.
She should have done something about the cabin’s roof before the rain hit. But she didn’t have time to worry about it now. All her focus was on getting the wedding chapel built and the barn converted into a reception hall before Prissy and Paul’s wedding the first weekend in December. So she stuck buckets under the drips, and kept to her rigid schedule.
Work.
Her salvation. Work was the one thing Mariah knew how to do well, and honestly, even though every night she fell into bed bone-tired, she was having the time of her life. She had no boss to displease. No one to tell her where she messed up or to crack the whip. She didn’t need overseeing. The freedom made her wonder why she’d waited so long to start her own business.
On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, Mariah worked inside the chapel alone. She’d developed an irritating cough that had kept her up most of the night. She hadn’t bothered to put in her contact lenses, and paint speckled her glasses. She wore a ratty pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, sneakers, and an old peacoat she’d found in Dutch’s closet.
It was late afternoon and she was at the front of the chapel up on the top of a ladder, rolling sand-colored suede paint just below the ceiling, when she heard the door open. She turned her head, expecting to see Cordy. He’d gone into town to pick up the cowboy artwork that Mariah had ordered for the walls.
Instead, Joe’s tall, lanky frame filled the doorway. He looked like the sweetest kind of trouble in scuffed cowboy boots and holey Wranglers, carrying several four-by-fours balanced on his shoulder. Water clung to his hair like a halo and his jacket was dappled with rain.
Her pulse spiked at the sight of him, and she curled her fingers tight around the top of the ladder to hold her balance.
“Where do you want this?” Joe asked, his boots making a slinky sound against the bare cement floor as he sauntered toward her.
She squinted in the light from the open door, a trickle of sweat sluicing down her spine. “What is it?”
“Wood for the altar.”
“I already ordered the altar from a builder in Fort Worth.”
“Deal fell through,” he said. “The builder is going out of business.”
“What? No!”
“Yep.”
“How do you know that?”
He held up her cell phone. “Text message. You left your phone at the Silver Horseshoe last night. Clover asked me to bring it to you.”
Mariah let loose with a colorful swearword.
Joe grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered.”
“You can build an altar?”
“Don’t look so skeptical. These hands are good for more than just reining in horses and . . .” His mischievous gaze raked over her.
“Don’t say it.”
“Say what?” he asked, appearing all innocence and setting the boards near the bottom of the ladder. He cocked his head, glanced up at her.
Seriously, was she the only one who was having erotic midnight fantasies about getting naked and rolling around together? Dangerous fantasies she couldn’t keep from thinking about.
“Come down,” he said.
“Why?”
“So we can have a civilized conversation where I don’t have to crane my neck.”
“Welcome to my world. I spend my life craning my neck.”
“You need to take a break,” he scolded. “You push yourself too hard.”
Her legs were wobbly. From his proximity, no doubt. Why did he affect her like this? She set the paint roller in the tray, and then eased down the ladder and stepped to the ground with a little sigh.
Joe stepped closer. It was all she could do not to back up.
“What?” she whispered.
He reached out a finger.
Mariah sucked in her breath. He was going to touch her. For the first time in four weeks. Her pulse sprinted. She felt hot all over.
Joe lightly swiped a finger over the tip of her nose. “Paint.”
“Oh.”
“More here.” His finger wiped at the little indention between her nose and her upper lip.
“What do you think?” Mariah said in a rush, waving a hand at the walls. She felt dizzy. Standing so near Joe unbalanced her equilibrium.
“You’ve accomplished a lot in a short amount of time,” he said, sinking his hands on his hips.
“We’ve accomplished a lot.” She paused, raised her chin, and lowered her voice. “I could not have done it without your help.”
“Everyone needs help now and again, Little Bit.”
She canted her head. “Why do you call me that?”
He shrugged. “You don’t want me to?”
“I’ve never considered my stature a handicap.”
“I don’t mean to offend. It’s a cowboy thing,” Joe explained.
“Ah,” she said, not knowing what else to say. The man was too distracting with raindrops on his lashes and those dark bedroom eyes assessing her. “Break over. I gotta get back to work.”
“Mariah, you have to stop pushing yourself so hard.”
“Like you don’t push yourself?” She cleared her throat to suppress the tickle at the back of her throat. A coughing fit would be so unattractive.
“Guilty as charged. But just because I have bad habits doesn’t mean you have to be stupid too.”
“Look, it’s not that much longer,” she protested, trying not to let him see just how exhausted she was. She tried to smile, but she couldn’t force her lips to go all the way up. “Another day and a half and I’ll have the whole chapel painted and we’ll be ready to put in the maple hardwood floor.”
“What’s the rush?”
“I promised Prissy and Paul I’d have the chapel ready in time for their wedding.”
“It’s still three weeks away. No one is going to get upset if you don’t have everything perfect.”
“I’ll be upset,” she said. “I’ll know. It will bother me.”
“No matter how hard you work, or what you do, nothing is ever perfect.”
It was a simple statement and yet so profound. It was the dark side of being a perfectionist. No matter how hard you tried, you could never make everything perfect. She knew that. Hated it.
“Honestly,” he said. “It takes a lot of hubris to assume you have the power to make anything perfect.”
“You’re saying I have a big ego?”
“No, sweetheart, I’m saying you’re running yourself into the ground.”
Sweetheart.
Mariah started up the ladder, but paused to push aside a lock of hair that had fallen over her forehead. She was surprised to find sweat beading her brow. She shivered, suddenly cold. Her knees trembled.
Come on. Snap out of it. You’ll be okay. You’ll just need to . . .
She swayed.
“Mariah!” Joe’s exclamation made her blink.
He reached for her just as her knees buckled and she pitched backward from the ladder. One arm went around h
er waist, the other to her forehead. “My God, you’re burning up, woman. How long have you had a fever?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay.”
“Stop being so stubborn.”
She planted a palm against his chest, intending on pushing him away and standing on her own two feet, but her stupid legs wouldn’t obey and her vision blurred. There seemed to be two Joes holding her, scolding her.
“That’s it. You’re going to bed.”
“No,” she protested weakly.
“Yes,” he said firmly.
He scooped her into his arms and trod from the chapel. She tried to protest, but the words stuck to the roof of her mouth. It felt good to let go of the reins, to let Joe take over. Other than her mother, she’d never had someone she could depend on.
Stop this. You can’t depend on Joe. He’s Dutch all over again. Cutter to the bone.
“You look dehydrated. When was the last time you had something to drink?”
She frowned, unable to remember.
“If it’s been that long, then it’s too long. People die of dehydration, dammit. Do you want to be like Dutch and keel over from working yourself to death?”
Like father, like daughter, she thought dizzily.
Joe smelled so good. Like soap and leather and outdoor man. His shoulder was firm beneath her cheek, his arms tight around her. She felt as if she’d downed a glass of wine too quickly. Her perception was altered, her mind a mosaic of images. Her pulse raced. She felt helpless.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
“I’m here, Mariah. I’m going to take care of you. Everything is going to be all right.”
He carried her to the cabin, but once he was inside, he let out a strong curse. “What is this?”
“What?” She blinked. Her head hurt. “Oh, the buckets? Gotta leaky roof.”
“No kidding. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“No need. I’ve got plenty of buckets.”
“If you get pneumonia from sleeping in a damp house, I swear, Mariah Callahan, that I’m gonna spank you.”
