by Stacy Reid
How in God’s name she did not see that she belonged in society attending balls and operas was beyond him.
Elijah hauled himself from the lake, and moved over to the rock where his clean clothes waited for him. He drew on his jeans, and dragged the blue chambray shirt uncaring of how the material clung to his wet skin. Next, he tugged on his boots, and then crammed his well-worn black Stetson onto his head.
With a soft growl, he tipped his head to the sky. He was heading to the main house for grub…dinner, finally accepting Sheridan’s invitation. He couldn’t keep refusing her. The woman was damn persistent. Every day since his arrival he got a beautifully worded invitation, with such elegant handwriting, on foolscap paper, inviting him to dine at the main house by seven. Today, he was accepting that invitation because he could no longer deny the searing need to be in her presence for more than a few minutes.
Grabbing his Winchester, he mounted his horse and urged him into a canter toward the main house. A few minutes later he dismounted, and dropped the reins, allowing his horse to remain untied. He clambered up the stairs and opened the massive oak door. He strolled down the hallway, merry laughter acting as a beacon. A fire burned in the grate and was the only thing quiet about the large open dining area. Several people were seated around the oak table, including the housekeeper Mrs. Murphy, the cook herself, Beth, Miguel, and Tom. The chatter and laugher was loud and vibrant as they ate without the decorum he would have expected from dining with Sheridan. And at the heart of it she sat, her elbows atop the table in the most unladylike fashion, her chin resting in her laced palms, her eyes glowing with merriment, a smile on her lips, as Tom held everyone enraptured with some ridiculous gun fighting tale and a fair maiden. It smacked him then how much she looked like she belonged here. She seemed…happy. These odd assorted people were unquestionably people she cared for. Not many would have their cowhands and housekeepers at their fine dining table in such a grand ranch house. Even at Triple K, his mother was never so at ease with their hired hands.
An odd arrow of envy…and loneliness pierced his heart. When was the last time he had sat down to meal with his family? Months. After he’d lost his wife…and his son, he had fled the Triple K to his mountain hideaway as if the devil was on his heels, the memories of them too much to bear. It had been a long time before he’d ventured off his mountain to the Whispering Creek, grateful he had not taken his family there when he’d normally visited in the past. The Creek had served as another welcome retreat away from all that he had lost.
“Elijah!”
Sheridan stood as the laughter died down. A knowing twinkle appeared in Miguel’s eyes and Elijah wanted to punch him in the face. He took off his hat clutching it to his chest, puzzled at the uncertain feel winding its way through his heart.
“It seems I am late.”
She pushed back her chair and took a few steps to him a smile lighting her face. “We have plenty more.”
“We sure do,” cook said, also bustling to her feet, her face beaming with pleasure. “The peach cobbler is just about ready and if I recall rightly, it is your favorite Mr. Kincaid.”
Most of the serving dishes in the center of the large table were almost empty, but there was enough food remaining to feed him twice over. But he couldn’t stay. He felt like an intruder. “I’ll take a plate to the bunkhouse.”
Evident disappointment settled on Sheridan’s face, but Mrs. Murphy started packing him a plate.
“I’ll wait in the hallway.”
Before anyone could object, he walked away. Soft footfall followed him, and he knew it was Sheridan. Acting impulsively, he turned left toward the parlor, wanting a bit of privacy with her. He opened the door, and allowed her to precede him. She swept past him, the fall of her skirt brushing against his thighs and the sweet scent of her rushing to his head. She wore a ruby colored evening gown which bared the creamy skin of her shoulders, and her glorious mane of hair was upswept in an intricate style. She appeared the ravishing and genteel English lady.
“You look beautiful.” And her scent…she smelled like wild flowers.
Her eyes widened ever so slightly, then a pleased smile curved her lips. “Thank you. I never thought you would come.”
“I’ve been busy.”
An elegant eyebrow arched. “There is not that much work to be done. With the cattle being driven to market, and the timber already cut and sold from last month,” she pointed out with irrefutable logic. Before he could answer, she turned away and sauntered to a few leather bounded books sprawled onto the Aubusson carpet in the center of the parlor. Instead of sitting onto the sofa, she sank gracefully onto the carpet, the skirt of her gown folding beneath her.
“Will you join me?”
Curious he went over and lowered himself to the carpet, resting his back against the sofa.
Gripping a ledger, she held it up. “I thought you would like to see how the ranch is doing. These ledgers show all the livestock sold for the last year, the profit made from timber, and the loss at the mines.”
He took the ledger and flicked through the information, recognizing her handwriting. He was surprised to see the suggestions for improving the work conditions in the mine in her hand. The Whispering Creek along with the Triple K both owned shares in one of the only coal mines in their territory, their main customer being the Union Pacific Railroad. With a frown, he observed the notations she made dated back to more than two years.
“You are very thorough.” Elijah remembered the admiration and respect he had heard in Tom’s voice when he had pointed out that the efficient way the ranch was being run was Mrs. Galloway’s doing.
She canted her head to the side. “That I am. You will find the profit statements for the last two years in this book,” she said, handing him another. “I thought…I thought you should look on how our spread is doing.”
Ah…it was her way of reminding him how invested she was, and it was becoming clear to him Sheridan had been the brains behind the operations of Whispering Creek, and the money too. He’d never associated her with wealth before. When he’d first met her, she’d just been a young lady of nineteen years living on a too remote ranch. He’d thought her to be Thomas’s ward, because no one had called her the Senora. She had seemed so beautiful and untouchable. But her loneliness had been so haunting. It had drawn him to her, and he had warred with the desire she wrought in him. But he still did not know what had made him watch her with such discreet protectiveness.
After he had kissed her that first time, he had known loving her would be inevitable. He’d planned marriage even though his gut had warned him to stay away from her, and his nightmares had come to life, stalking him during the days. But being in her arms, planning a life with her had somewhat doused the terrors. She had been so fresh, so vibrant, the pain had leeched from her eyes, and he’d seen what the land meant to her, and what having a home meant to her.
“Why don’t you take a room in the main house?”
He forcefully dragged his thoughts from the past and met her regard. Her gaze was direct and curious.
The temptation of you. “It is easier for me to spy anyone coming onto the ranch from the bunkhouse.”
Her eyes warmed in gentle amusement, and a knowledge of her feminine appeal. Then she leaned forward and touched him, a gentle stroke of her finger that jolted Elijah. “I would feel safer if you were close by. We do have several empty bedrooms.”
Not addressing her invitation, he tipped back his head and stared through the open windows facing the eastern side of the range. The night sky shimmered with thousands of stars and his skin itched to be out there on his horse, just riding, perhaps with her beside him. Beneath the layers of emptiness, a rush of need to simply hold onto her and dance beneath the stars gripped him. Sheridan had always loved dancing, and in fact had taught him the steps to many, including her favorite—the waltz.
“Elijah?
”
“Yes.”
“Move into the main house. This is your home too…”
And the hell of it was, he needed to be closer. For the last couple of nights, he had been stalking the ranch while it slept, the desire to be nearer an itch under his skin, if only to ensure no one was slipping beneath his guard.
“And I would sleep better for knowing you are nearer,” she said quietly, as if sensing his battle. “I…I keep waiting for Mr. Sullivan to act.”
So was Elijah. He had even sent a rider to the Triple K ranch to alert his brothers he may have need of them. He believed in being careful and he wanted one or both there to protect Sheridan if needs be. Out on the range there had been no signs of cattle rustling, plugged or poisoned waterholes, or destroyed fencing. Everything had seemed perfect, the meadows rich and rolling. Yet, his heart had jerked in disquiet, and he’d felt the premonition, that this was the calm before the storm. “I’ll move inside.”
She touched his arm lightly. “Thank you. Let’s play some poker,” she said with a secretive smile playing across her lips. “I haven’t had the pleasure in a while. Beth is more interested in whist.”
“Yes, but you will not win if you still have your tell.”
“I do not have a tell, if I did you would have told me what it is.”
“You’ve never beaten me in poker. Isn’t that enough proof?”
“No, that only proves you had a lucky streak,” she said with a grin. “From time to time I play with Tom, and he is very good.” Then she leaned forward and grabbed the pack of card from the small walnut table. With delicate flicks of her wrist and nimble fingers she shuffled, mesmerizing him with how skillfully she made the cards dance and disappear.
“Are you sure you’re up for the challenge?” Laughter lurked in her tone and her eyes glowed with wicked heat.
Had her skin always looked so soft and flushed. So inviting? “The stakes?”
“Dinner,” she said simply some elusive emotion shimmering in her eyes. “If I win, have dinner with us in the main dining room at least twice a week.”
A peculiar ache settled deep inside him. “Done.”
A radiant smile split her lips, and it was damn stupid of him, but in this moment, he was damn glad she had dragged him off his mountain top.
A few hours later Elijah surged awake his heart a war drum in his chest. His eyes scanned the darkened chambers, and shadows twisted and slinked towards him. Reality wavered and blood seeped onto everything. His hands, his bed, the wall. The wails rose in his ear, and Elijah forced himself to breathe steadily. He closed his eyes as music leapt into the calm of the night. It wrapped around him, the soft haunting notes soothing the jagged edge of his nightmare. The room snapped back into focus, and the screams ebbed. Sheridan played. He had always loved when she played the pianoforte. In the brief time she had been his, she had regaled him nightly before falling into his arms. Her fingers would dance over the piano keys, almost teasingly, and he could imagine that those supple elegant tips were now skimming over his body. His cock hardened with the promise of pleasure, and he grunted, annoyed with himself.
He rolled from the bed and cracked open the windows. The breeze wafted in, cooling his skin. He felt sticky from sweating and his heart still clamored inside. He had been without nightmares for weeks. He was not surprised they had surfaced from just being close to Sheridan. His dreams had always been the same, his son crying for him with blood pouring from his eyes and throat, standing in a dark deserted wasteland. Only tonight it had been slightly different. Instead of standing, his son had been seated in Sheridan’s lap and she had been torn and blooded. Hell.
He rubbed the tightness from his neck, looking out into the night. He narrowed his eyes as he saw a flare on the distant ridge. Someone watched the ranch. His lips curled in anger. Sullivan really would not give up. Elijah needed to unscrew his head from his ass and have a serious chat with Sheridan in the morning. They needed a viable plan, because the quicker he was back in his mountain cabin, the better off they would both be.
***
Sheridan had been playing for an hour hoping Elijah might have descended the stairs, lean against the balustrade of the second floor, and watched her as he’d done in the past. After they had played six rounds of poker, he had retired for the night, and she had felt the need to immerse in soul in music. She had indulged in the desire, comforted by the knowledge Beth and Grayson would slumber undisturbed at their side of the house. The night was quiet and the grandfather clock struck its midnight signal. Standing, Sheridan allowed her fingers to play a final note on the pianoforte, before moving away. Her hands slid against the beautiful oak design of the staircase banister as she climbed the steps. To her delight, Elijah had taken the room opposite hers. That at least meant the awful barriers he had up were probably thawing. Reaching her room, she made to open it, and a faint cry reached her ears.
She faltered and a few seconds later the sound once again lingered on the air. Without a doubt, it came from Elijah’s room. Moving to his door Sheridan wondered if she should knock, or simply enter. She gently tested the handle and was surprised to feel it twist open beneath her hands. Had he left it open for her? Her heart lurched.
She closed her eyes tightly. She doubted it. But it was something he had done before. After their first night together, he’d left his door open and she had always slipped in when the house had settled.
“Ah God, Emma, wait for me!”
The torment in Elijah’s cry froze Sheridan. She lifted her hand to knock and his next guttural words sent a sliver of fear inside of her.
“I have no hope…Emma!”
She pushed the door open and slipped into the room. The interior of the room was dark and cool. She saw him clearly in the center of the bed from the beam of moonlight that spilled through the windows. Sheridan closed the door gently and before she could rush over to him, he sprang from the bed in a controlled manner. She blinked. If she had not known better, she would have thought she’d imagined the wild trapped sounds that had echoed from his room and spilled into the hall.
“Get out,” his snarl was filled with contained rage.
“You were thrashing in your sleep, and the groans that were coming from you were—”
“Do not let me tell you again, Sheridan…please,” he said gruffly.
She fought to ignore the fact that he was gloriously naked. His arms were corded with thick muscles, as was his broad chest and back, muscles that rippled and danced with each movement. Narrow hips led to strong, tapered thighs. His whole body spoke of strength and power. He had scars on his lower torso and back. Too many scars.
“You sounded like you fought the coils of a nightmare. It doesn’t sound like you were winning. Are you well, Elijah?”
He drew on his denims and slowly dressed, saying nothing at her blatant observation. The rasp of his pants as he slid them up had her jerking her eyes to his. She thought about the nights she had been with him, how he had always lifted her and carried her to her own bed. “Is this why you have never allowed me to spend the night with you? To sleep in your arms?”
At his silence she took a tentative step further into his room. His eyes flared when she closed the door’s latch and leaned against the door. “What do you dream of, Elijah?” She held her breath, hoping that he would confide in her.
“I dream of a woman.”
“I know,” she said softly, “Who is Emma?”
“The woman I dreamt about.”
Sheridan thought about the pleading that was in his voice when he called Emma’s name, an unfulfilled ache. Sheridan’s throat tightened. “Do you love her?”
Something powerful flashed in his eyes to be buried just as swiftly. “Yes.”
His admission was shocking. The idea of Elijah loving another woman had never occurred to her. “Who is she?”
His voice was care
fully composed when he answered. “My wife.”
She flinched, heart lurching in shock. “Your wife?”
The silence stretched thin and painful and Sheridan could only stare at him. She looked to his hand and noted the absence of a ring. She did not let that fool her. She had not worn one when he took her in his arms that first time, and without a doubt she had been married. What happened to his wife? A wife? And he had nightmares about her. She did not delude herself to think they were sweet dreams.
Sheridan walked over to the large four-poster bed in the center of the room. She wrapped her hands around the bed post and gazed at where he stood looking out the windows. The moonlight highlighted the harsh planes of his face and his unreadable mien. “What happened to her?”
Stunning sea green eyes slashed to her and roamed over her body. She could feel his eyes, like a tangible touch and heated awareness rippled over her skin. She knew without a doubt that talking was not on his mind. He seemed too dangerously edgy. The torment that shadowed his gaze troubled her. With pounding heart she met his regard steadily. “Do you want me to stay? We could talk. We could head down to the kitchen and have some coffee, or even play a few more hands of poker,” she offered praying he would say yes.
His nostrils flared and he took a half step towards her before jerking his frame to a stop. “No. Get out.”
Sheridan almost went, but then she saw the burning lust. Something swirled that she could not identify, and he seemed even edgier. He prowled toward the door in that sensually wild way of his. He had that graceful, dangerous air about him, and his powerful back and shoulder muscles twisted like snakes beneath his skin as he moved. He wrenched the door open and gave her a carefully affected blank look. She dipped her eyes to his trousers and there was no mistaking the hard ridge of his erection.
