by Isla Bennet
“You were right about Brute.”
The old man sighed over the line. “Val, this time it doesn’t feel good to be right. That girl’s baby.”
Valerie closed her eyes, not wanting to think about Cordelia losing her child. She knew that brand of hell, and she didn’t want that for her cousin. “I should’ve let that horse go. I didn’t want to admit it before … didn’t want to accept that you knew better. I felt … threatened.”
“Battle Creek’ll always be yours, Val. It was yours when you were growin’ up here, ’cause you loved this land and this business.”
Was that part of the reason her uncle had even bequeathed it to her? It had seemed obvious at the reading of his will, when she’d first met Rhys’s estranged wife and children, that he’d given Battle Creek to Valerie to show the malice he’d felt toward them hadn’t died with him. He had kicked her off the ranch and never cared to respond to the letters she’d written him from San Antonio. Had his decision simply meant that he despised her just a little less than his own children? Or had he known that she’d devote herself completely to this place?
“This ranch has always been home, Coop.” She remembered being seven years old and having to leave the little apartment in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, because her parents’ car had crashed and they were gone—weren’t ever coming back—and she’d have to go with her daddy’s brother, Rhys, a Wild West type of cowboy who lived in Texas. She remembered missing her mommy and daddy but being a little bit happy that Night Sky was green and quiet, not noisy with police sirens wailing all the time. There was hardly any money when they’d been alive, and none at all left over when they died, and Uncle Rhys hadn’t been happy about that. But he’d promised her that as long as she was good and tough and worked hard, she’d get to stay here forever.
“Nobody’s gonna take what’s yours. I’m sure not. See, Rhys wasn’t the best of men, but he gave me a job when no one else would. I owe it to him to look out for his people. Y’all don’t like it much, especially the way you got it in your head that you’re too tough to let somebody help you, but it’s what I gotta do.” He sighed again, wearily. “Call me when you get word from the hospital.” And then he hung up.
Hours later, she’d fallen asleep on the family-room sofa with the phone in her hand. It hadn’t rung once, so she’d been startled awake to hear the doorbell and find Peyton on the porch with snow dotting his hair and shoulders.
“Cordelia?” she said, letting him in.
“Is going to get through this. The OB-GYN on call said the baby has a steady heartbeat and wasn’t hurt when Cordelia was thrown. She did fracture a rib, and was sitting out in the elements for a while, so she’s going to be at Memorial for a few days.” Peyton shrugged off his jacket, but it was, along with his jeans and shirt, grimy from his tumble on the trail. “Dinah and Lucy want to camp out at the hospital with her tonight. I told Lucy she could, but if you want me to go back and get her—”
“It’s fine.”
A heavy beat of silence passed before Peyton gestured upward. “Could I steal the hot water for a bit and scrub off the grunge?”
“Okay.”
Valerie vaguely remembered directing him to the master bathroom, offering him a towel and washcloth in exchange for his dirty clothes which she immediately dropped into the washer on a quick-wash cycle. Then she called Coop with an update and fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate.
She dropped a single marshmallow into the mug and while waiting for it to dissolve, she transferred Peyton’s clothes to the dryer.
Cordelia and her baby were going to be okay.
And the man in her bathroom had endured a hellish horseback ride and then carried a woman over three miles through muck and treacherous weather to ensure that outcome.
The house was quiet except for the hum of the dryer and the thrust of wind and scratch of sleet against the windows—and the driving beat of the shower water against marble and glass. Hot chocolate still in hand, she let the strong and steady sound lead her to it.
Opening the bathroom door, she was engulfed in steam, absently noting that he’d forgotten to throw the exhaust switch. The mug made a tiny clink as she set it on the granite vanity.
Now. The word echoed inside her. She moved farther into the bathroom, stopping in front of the shower that was foggy with steam and fragrant with the potent scent of soap.
Inside the stall, Peyton stood with closed eyes under the hard stream of the shower, running his hands through sudsy hair, letting the force of the water press into him.
Valerie lifted a hand, and drew the sliding glass doors open. Droplets of hot water escaped the stall, spraying her clothes and the dry mat she stood on.
As if he felt the heat of the shower start to escape, Peyton ducked from underneath the spray, opened his eyes and found her watching him.
He didn’t speak, didn’t attempt to cover himself in modesty or swat away the residual patch of suds across his chest.
Valerie stepped inside, joining him in the steam and heat. In seconds the hot water soaked through her sweater and jeans. Her fingers made contact with the hard contours of his shoulders, and she moved closer, until at last her lips touched the throb of his pulse at his throat.
How had she gone so long without tasting his skin?
Peyton moved her so that she was at the other end of the shower, and he under the spray. Trails of hot water streaked down his body, from his face to his shoulders to his thighs and farther down. “Look at me.”
Unable to do anything else, she let her stare stroke him from the hair plastered to his head to the insteps of his feet. She wanted her hands to follow the path, then her mouth. “Now.” The word that had been hammering in her mind found its way to her tongue. She pushed away from the wall and met him under the water, blending her mouth with his and tasting heat and water and something darker—need.
Then his hands were on her, angling her face up to his as he swept his tongue across her lips and drove it deep into her mouth. He drew her wrists up with one hand, and used the other to stroke between her legs.
She buckled, gasping at the sensation of his fingers rough on the wet denim there, stunned by the heat in his eyes. After a moment he released her wrists, moved her away from the beat of the water and molded his hands to her ass, hauling her up against the marble wall.
Bracing her hands on his shoulders, she struggled to hold his gaze even as his touch beckoned her to close her eyes against the molten pleasure. She hooked her legs around his hips, and cried out at the impact of his naked hardness.
“Let me …” She struggled to hold on to him with one hand while tugging up the hem of her sweater with the other. But he stopped her by easing her down the length of his body until her feet touched the shower floor, and he bent his head and covered one of her hardened nipples with his mouth through the sweater.
Safe, she thought. I’m safe here.
She welcomed his hands and his mouth, reveled in his exploration. Yet it wasn’t enough. She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his temples, then his mouth, as her hands roamed the tight muscles of his abdomen in a downward motion, to the scar on his thigh.
Lightly dragging her fingernails over the scar, she whispered against his mouth, “I want to kiss you here.” Then her fingers moved between his legs, to the hard, warm flesh curving up against her waist. “And here.”
A guttural moan answered her, and she started to lower to her knees. “Wait, Valerie.”
“What?”
“In bed.”
Valerie stilled, struck by images of them moving against each other not just with raw passion but with care and tenderness and then there were more images of them falling asleep together and waking up in each other’s arms.
They were images of lovemaking, not plain sex. Coming into the shower with him wasn’t about love. It was about need. About want.
Keep telling yourself that.
Peyton apparently picked up on her hesitation, because he took her hand and pul
led her to her feet. “Why’d you come in here?”
Because I want you even though I gave up that right years ago when I betrayed you. “Just to thank you.”
His eyes glinted, but not with anger. “You’re welcome then.” Without so much as another touch, he slid open the door and stepped out, leaving her alone in the shower.
A TOWEL WRAPPED around his waist, Peyton went straight to the laundry room, intent on throwing on his clothes—wet or dry, he didn’t care—and getting the hell away from the ranch.
His body was still hot; he could still taste her on his lips and feel her on his fingertips. But he wouldn’t return to that shower and go through what would be a colossal mistake.
“Peyton!”
He could hear Valerie’s bare feet hitting hardwood as she thundered down the back stairs. She rushed into the laundry room with the legs of her wet jeans rolled up to her knees and a towel over her shoulders. “It’s dangerous out. Don’t leave.”
Peyton grabbed his clothes from the dryer. “I drove to Memorial and back, Valerie. I can make it to my grandfather’s place fine.”
“What if I didn’t want you to go?”
“What do you want, then?” He untied the towel and let it fall to the floor. “To say thanks with a shower fuck?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Seriously—”
“That’s what it would’ve been. Because you won’t let it be more than that.” He took the towel from her shoulders and brought her close. “Come on, then. I’ll take you here on the floor. Isn’t that what you want?”
“No.”
And that was the truth. He knew it in the conviction of her voice, the vulnerability in her eyes. “I care about you, Valerie. If you want to be with somebody who doesn’t care, then tell me now.” He put on his clothes, then picked up the discarded towels and tossed them into a hamper. “Tell me if I’m wrong when I say you deserve more.”
When she didn’t say anything, he touched her shoulder. “Let me care.”
She hesitated, but finally covered his hand with hers. “I care about you, too. In case you were wondering.” She let him go. “So what next?”
“I’d like to date you.”
“Date me?” Her face glowed with mirth. “As in go steady? As in you give me a ring and I carve our initials into a tree?”
“One date, then. We’ve never gone out and shared a full meal together, just the two of us. So let’s try it. And if we like it, maybe I’ll give you a ring and then you carve the tree. Are you game?”
“Game.” She glanced around them. “As far as tonight goes, it’s possible that we can spend the night together without having sex. There’re sofas down here and a guest room upstairs. The fridge is stocked and I have Trivial Pursuit and Scrabble and a deck of cards still new in the box.”
“Are you that concerned about me going out in this weather again?”
She nodded. “Think you can bunk here without being overcome with lust?”
Peyton grinned in spite of the volatile situation. “Scout’s honor.”
Valerie’s mouth curved in a smirk. “You said you were never a boy scout.” With a wink she headed to the family room and beckoned him to follow.
He’d certainly never been a man who passed on sex with an eager woman who made him harder than stone. “Then you’re changing me, Valerie.”
For the better.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
A GOOD NIGHT shift in Memorial’s emergency room was a double-edged sword—no serious injuries but slower than a tortoise crawling through molasses. Peyton had tacked an extra six hours onto his twelve-hour day shift to cover Sawyer Reed, who hadn’t returned after his first smoke break of the night. Minus the round of handovers, the most action the hospital had seen was the new mother who’d thundered in frenzied about the mysterious blood on her baby’s shirt, which had turned out to be a cherry juice stain.
Left wired with unspent adrenaline, he’d killed time at the tavern, half watching sports highlights on Two-Bit Tony’s tube television and half listening to some old-timers in dirty fishing gear make bets about the weather and politics. Then he’d dragged himself to his grandfather’s house, only to devote a full hour to turning his bedroom inside out hunting for the imported ink pen, engraved with his initials, that Nathaniel had given him on Christmas morning. Coming up empty, he suspended the search, stripped and climbed into bed for what he hoped would be a few hours of dreamless sleep.
So when his cell phone rang shortly after he drifted off, he’d been tempted to ignore it and bury his head under a pillow. After all, when there was a hospital emergency the staff paged him—they didn’t call. They certainly didn’t let it slip to voice mail without redialing him at least once.
Three beeps told him a message had been left. By the third beep he’d been so annoyed that he reached over to the nightstand, turned on the lamp and snatched up the phone.
One missed call. Valerie’s home number.
The thin fog of sleep cleared in an instant, and he swung his bare legs over the side of the bed, sitting up as he dialed. “What’s wrong?” he demanded when she picked up on the first ring.
“Peyton—oh, hell. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called. Good night.”
“Valerie!” he said sharply, mindful of the late hour. “Hold on, all right? You can’t just call me, leave a voice mail and then say forget it.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I didn’t actually leave a message. It went through to voice mail but I hung up, so you’ll probably hear dead air.” Another sigh. “Lucy had a nightmare. But really, I’m handling it. So go back to bed.”
Peyton had already placed the cell phone between his ear and shoulder and was yanking on his pants. “What’s she doing now?”
“Crying. She’s holed up in the bathroom, but I can hear her through the door.”
“On my way.”
He threw on a shirt, shoes and was out the door with his keys in hand within the next minute. Concern for his daughter had washed away every trace of exhaustion, but during the drive to the outskirts of town his attention remained split between the road and whatever had seemed to spook Lucy to tears.
At the ranch, he parked at a crooked angle on the curb and ran to the porch to see Valerie already at the door, like she’d been standing watch, waiting for him.
In a cotton tee and terrycloth shorts, with a mane of messy waves falling over her shoulders, she seemed nervous as she escorted him in. “You didn’t have to come over, Peyton. I could’ve given her the phone and let her talk to you. God. Your shirt’s inside out.”
He glanced down, but wasn’t affected in the least. “Did she tell you anything about the dream? Dinah’s sleeping through all this?”
Valerie had led him to the front staircase, close to inviting him to an entire level of her home that he hadn’t tried to tour before. At the foot of the stairs, she swept her eyes over him, swallowed and said, “Are you coming?”
“Yeah.”
“Lucy won’t talk about it. Dinah’s at the carriage house tonight because Cordelia and Jack had another blowout and she wants to help smooth things over.” By the time she was done talking, they had reached the top of the stairs and were confronted with an L-shaped hallway. “Lucy’s room is there, but here’s the bathroom.”
Peyton went to the large, solid dark wood door she indicated and rapped on it twice. “Uh …” How many strained conversations had he had with women through closed doors? And had they all been scorned lovers, insisting that he realize what a steel-hearted bastard he was? “Lucy, it’s me. Will you come out?” His gut twisted. He was falling ass-backward into parenting, learning as he went along, and it was hard to be sure of himself when he didn’t know how to coax a crying twelve-year-old out of a bathroom.
Just behind his shoulder, Valerie muttered something about using a miniature screwdriver to pick the lock. Then there was a barely audible click, the door opened and she pounced. “Lucy! How are you?”
“Craptastic.” She h
alf collapsed against Peyton, tucking her arms around his waist. “I’m sorry.”
Peyton held her tightly, brushed his lips over her sleep-tangled hair. It felt so right to be holding her up, to be her rock. “Sorry for what?”
“Just sorry.” She blurted out an excuse about how she’d watched a horror-movie marathon at one of her friends’ houses recently and then went into her room. Above the wainscoting, the walls were decorated with black-framed pictures: family photographs, fashion sketches, a black-and-white shot of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, a collage of covers from Elle and Vogue and Vanity Fair. A string of ribboned bows with golden lights was draped across the dresser mirror, twinkling over a scatter of soccer trophies and pictures of the Manhattan skyline, the Eiffel Tower and the Sydney Opera House. A dress form stood in one corner, mutilated with pins, and the large bed with its colorful comforter and eclectic mix of pillows dominated the space.
At her heels, Valerie said, “Which friend? Because you’ve been like this for weeks—”
“Can you stop, Mom? Please?” Lucy paused to stroke the small gray-striped cat lounging on the comforter, and she grabbed an iPod from one of the two nightstands that flanked the bed. “Sorry I woke you up, sorry I cried about it, and I’m sorry you came all the way over here, Dad—uh, Peyton.”
Dad. His heartbeat stuttered, and he shot a look at Valerie just in time to see the slightest of frowns touch her face.
“Well, since you’re here, do you wanna listen to some tunes with me?”
Peyton was floored. It was the best invitation he’d received in a long time. A niggling feeling that he was overstepping some boundary tugged at him, but the open, vulnerable and hopeful expression in his daughter’s puffy eyes made the decision for him. “Absolutely.”
He shuffled into the room with Valerie silent beside him. In minutes Lucy was curled up in her bed and scrolling through the gadget, with an ear bud in one ear. He had the other bud, and was putting it into his ear when she chose a song.
