THE BACHELOR PARTY

by Paula Detmer Riggs

  Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Eli watching her through the windshield. She offered a reassuring wave, then grasped the doorknob. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open far enough to permit her to see inside. The living room was as she remembered from the night before. It was also empty, the lingering scent of wood smoke reminding her of the fire Ford had lit and all that had happened between them.

  Taking a quick breath to boost her courage, she stepped over the threshold, leaving the door ajar. Her canvas sneakers made no sound on the bare wood as she walked down the short hall toward the room at the end. As she suspected, it was Ford's bedroom. The door was ajar, revealing rumpled uniform trousers in a heap on the floor, along with his boots and a bloodstained shirt.

  Her heart beating at a frantic pace, she pushed the door open, terrified at what she might find. Her breath caught as she glimpsed his long, lean body sprawled atop the rumpled sheets, dressed only in briefs, white ones this time. He was asleep, his face half-buried in the pillow. A large gauze bandage wrapped his right shoulder.

  She thought about calling his name, then decided against it. Instead, she tiptoed to the bed and bent closer. His skin was flushed, suggesting a fever. As soon as she touched his forehead, she felt the heat radiating from his pores.

  "Oh, no," she cried softly, but not, she realized immediately, soft enough as he opened his eyes. The pupils were huge, the focus unsteady at first. And then he frowned.

  "Sophie?"

  "Yes, it's me, Ford. I … we were worried when we couldn't reach you by phone so Eli drove me out to check on you."

  "Eli?" He rolled to his side, then sucked in quickly, as though a sudden pain had lanced through him.

  "He's outside in the car."

  He grunted, his lashes lowering as though he were sinking into sleep again. Holding her breath she waited, only to have him rouse himself to offer her a crooked grin. "Believe I like wakin' up to find you lookin' at me with those pretty blue eyes," be murmured, his voice slurring.

  "I can't believe Doc Gossely let you leave the hospital," she muttered, seeing his struggle to remain alert. "You're not nearly strong enough to be alone."

  His mouth moved. "'Kay, you stay."

  "Don't be silly. We're going to get you dressed, and then Eli and I are going to take you back to the hospital where you belong."

  "The hell you are." His voice was weaker than usual, but his determination to resist was as powerful as though he'd boomed it out.

  "Be reasonable, Ford. Trauma can do strange things to a person's immune system."

  "You smell good." He eased over onto his back, then skimmed his left hand slowly up her arm and back again.

  "Ford, you should be under a doctor's care—"

  "Feel good, too," he murmured, wrapping his fingers around hers. Her pulse leapt, even as she uttered a soft protest. His lips curved, and his eyes grew drowsy. "Tell you what, if you promise to stay and be my nurse, I promise to be a model patient."

  Sophie nearly moaned aloud. His tone had been lazy, even teasing, but she sensed it would be useless to argue with him. Whatever his reasons, he was determined to fight through the pain and weakness on his own. Even though it was frustrating to accept, she understood the pride that prompted that decision. During the worst of her torment, she'd drawn inside herself to heal, shutting out even Darlene's offers of help.

  "Define model patient," she demanded softly, already knowing that she couldn't leave him alone.

  "No joggin', no arm wrestlin'."

  "Ford, be serious. I'll stay, but only if you promise to let me call Dr. Gossely for instructions, and then follow those instructions to the letter."

  His brow creased, and his eyes slowly took on a sharper focus. "No hospital," he stated firmly.

  "No hospital," she agreed.

  "And no Jell-O. I hate Jell-O."

  Sophie burst out laughing, her heart so full of love it ached. "Agreed, but I'm holding firm on chicken soup. My mother swore it kept me from having scars when I had chicken pox."

  He frowned, his eyelids drooping again. "It's a deal."

  Sophie squeezed his hand, then slipped hers free. First she needed to tell Eli that she was staying on awhile, and then she would phone Dr. Gossely to find out what she needed to know about nursing a victim of a gunshot wound. After that, she would give Katie a quick call to check on Jessie and let Katie and the others know what was happening. After that, she would play it by ear.

  Eli had just climbed from the car when she came out of the house. They met halfway up the walk.

  "How is he?" the young deputy asked anxiously, his affection for his superior obvious.

  "Groggy, and a bit feverish, but okay, I think. You were right. He was asleep."

  "Damn, he should be in the hospital."

  "Just what I told him. He doesn't agree."

  Eli's mouth twitched. "Guess I figured as much." He squared his shoulders and looked toward the house. "So what do we do next?"

  "You go home and tell that sweet wife of yours how much you love her, and I'm going to stay here with Ford until I can get reach Lucy."

  "Sure you're not goin' to need help managin' him?"

  Sophie laughed softly. "Don't worry. I'll tie him to the bed if he gives me too much trouble."

  Eli looked startled, then a grin spread over his face. "Now that's a sight I sure would like to see. Yes, ma'am, it surely is."

  Sophie shook her head. "Don't give me any more trouble than I already have, Eli Grover, or I'll report you for disobeying an order."

  He chuckled, then sobered. "If you need anything, you be sure to call. I'll be home the rest of the day, and I'm only five minutes from here. Less than that with siren and lights."

  "Thanks. I'll remember that." Giving in to impulse, she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. "Now, scoot. I have phone calls to make."

  "On my way." Still looking worried, he turned and headed for the car. Sophie watched him go for an instant, then hurried back to the house, wondering what she'd gotten herself into.

  Sophie closed the novel she'd been reading and laid it on the floor by the chair she'd brought in from the kitchen. Arching her back, she lifted her arms over her head and stretched, then checked the time.

  It had been nearly four hours since she'd managed to shovel a bowl of soup into Ford along with a glass of juice and two of the pills Doc had sent home with him, then held his hand and distracted him with stories about her childhood until his eyelids had gotten heavy and he'd drifted off to sleep.

  He was still sleeping, stretched on his back with one hand fisted above his head. Some men looked as docile as little boys when they were asleep, but not Ford. The texture of his face was decidedly adult male, the angles sharply molded, the lines bracketing the hard mouth deeply embedded. His hair was sweat tangled, and the black stubble did little to soften an already stubborn jaw.

  Leaving her chair, she crept closer, measuring his breathing by the rise and fall of his big chest. The bandage protecting the wound the doctor had sutured front and back was a vivid swath of white against his tanned skin, bisecting the triangle of soft black hair that narrowed to a fuzzy black line leading to his navel and beyond.

  Under the thin sheet the outline of his lower body was clearly discernible—leap hips flowing into long muscular thighs and sturdy calves. A sculptor's dream. And a woman's, she thought, letting her gaze rest on the distinctive bulge that showed him to be partially aroused, and very much a man.

  She drew a careful breath, conscious of a gentle tightening between her thighs.

  "Like what you see?" The sudden rasp of a hoarse male voice flashed her attention to his face. With his eyes only partially opened and his hair mussed, he looked sleep-rumpled and grumpy.

  "Yes, you're breathing much easier now." Though surprise and guilt had her pulse running out of control, she managed to keep a straight face.

  Those deep gray eyes, now so very alert, crinkled with amusement. "Funny, when I opened my eyes just now I could
swear it wasn't my chest you were studyin'."

  Sophie felt her face burn and cursed the Irish genes she'd gotten from her mother. None of her Gundersen cousins blushed. Only her.

  "Swear all you want," she bluffed in a haughty tone she had to force, "but you'd still be wrong."

  He reached out a hand and took hers, tugging her closer until she was forced to sit on the bed or risk falling on top of him. Looking a little drowsy, a little smug, he laced his fingers with hers and brought their entwined hands to his chest. Beneath her hand she felt the rough band of the gauze and the hammering of his heart.

  "You wouldn't lie to me, would you, Sophie?" he asked, his voice silk and smoke.

  Her breath stopped. "Why should I?"

  "Could be you're feelin' a little shy about wantin' me to make love to you again."

  "I'm not a bit shy," she declared firmly.

  "But you do want me to make love to you, don't you, honey?"

  "No, I do not."

  "Liar."

  She froze, feeling a sharp pain twisting inside her. "Don't say that," she whispered, her voice rasped with a guilt she couldn't share. "I hate lying. That's what cowards do when they can't stand the truth."

  She slipped her hand free and leapt to her feet before he could reach for her again. "I'll make you some more soup," she said, unable to look him in the eye as she hurried from the room.

  By the time she reached the kitchen she was trembling badly. Her fingers were icy, her face numb. At the moment, she hated herself as fiercely as she'd once hated the prosecutors who sneered at her for pleading with them to believe her. They'd called her a liar then. And in court they'd made the jury, and even the judge, believe it.

  "I hate lies," she whispered, hugging herself in a vain attempt to stop the violent tremors shaking her. It was getting so hard to keep telling them, so terribly hard. Each time, she hated herself more, but what else could she do?

  "Sophie?"

  She jerked around, only to find herself being gathered into his arms. He'd pulled on an old blue bathrobe that smelled of soap and tickled her nose where her face was pressed against his shoulder.

  "Oh, baby, I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely. "Please believe me, I was only jokin' with you."

  Squeezing her eyes shut against a flood of sudden tears, she bit her lip, struggling to regain her composure, but calm suddenly seemed beyond her. Too much had happened too quickly. Her mind was overloaded, her heart vulnerable and aching.

  She didn't want to spend the rest of her life—and much of Jessie's—looking over her shoulder, always fearful, never being able to set down roots. Never feeling at ease or safe or comfortable. Never being able to express her love for the tough, kind-hearted, impossibly sweet man holding her so tenderly, stroking her so gently, wrapping her in a feeling of safety, his warmth sinking into all the cold, lonely places she'd held inside since they'd locked her away from all she loved, all she longed to have again.

  She felt herself melting into that longing, allowing herself to rest for just a few minutes. Just until the shaking stopped.

  Ford felt the increase of her weight against him and closed his eyes in relief. He hadn't meant to upset her. He'd slice off half his tongue before he'd put that raw look of pain in those blue eyes again.

  Thing was, he didn't know what to say to make things right. He never had—not to his mother when he'd tried to tell her how much it hurt his daddy when she went with other men, not to Lucy when she was hell-bent on falling in love with the wrong man. And not to the woman he was coming to care for more than he'd thought possible.

  The word love drifted through his mind again like smoke from cornstalk twists, filling him until he felt raw inside. His mother had claimed to "love" his father, even as she was destroying his manhood inch by bloody inch. His mind told him there were women who didn't cheat and who didn't lie when they said those words. Women like Sophie. He wanted to believe that with all his heart and soul. Maybe he even did a little. Maybe that's why he felt so foul because he'd hurt her.

  Because he didn't know what else to do, he smoothed his hand down her back, petting her the way he'd helped Jessie pet the baby rabbit. Beneath the shapeless shirt she was wearing, her skin felt nearly as smooth as Peter's fur. He flattened his palm, enjoying the sensation running over his skin.

  She was so small, so precious. A treasure he hadn't really believed existed. Not for him. Never for him. Drawing a breath, he savored the musky allure of her shampoo before pressing his cheek against hers.

  He felt her sigh, then strain against his arms. Reluctantly, he eased his hold and lifted his head. "Better now?" he asked gruffly.

  Sophie lifted her gaze to his and nodded. His smile was crooked, his eyes probing, yet gentle. "I don't usually give way like that," she murmured, knowing that she should step from his arms, yet unable to make herself move.

  "Everyone's entitled," he said, his eyes crinkling. "'Specially when a jackass like me says something stupid. I truly am sorry for that."

  She felt a smile trembling her lips. "You were entitled, too. I really was staring at, uh, you know."

  He cocked his head, his expression part arrogant male, part tickled little boy. "You know?" he echoed solemnly.

  Her cheeks felt scalded. "I think it's time I made you that soup."

  "I don't want soup. I want to make love to you again." He drew her close and smoothed his palms down her spine, setting up a chain reaction of shivers.

  "You should be in bed," she said, lifting a hand to stroke his whisker-rough cheek. He turned into her hand and kissed the palm before capturing the hand with his.

  "You should be with me." It was a simple statement, simply stated in the raspy Southern drawl she was coming to adore. No matter where she went, or how long she lived, she knew she would never again hear the lazy cadence and slurred vowels of Southern speech without aching inside.

  "All right, but only to sleep," she conceded, struggling to hang on to the little authority he'd already granted her.

  He narrowed his eyes, and shook his head. "No way. If we go back into that bedroom together, we're goin' to make love."

  A thrill ran through her, dancing along her nerves, warming inside and out. "But your shoulder. You're still recovering."

  He ran his hands down her back, then drew her closer and, at the same time, spread his legs so that suddenly she felt the hard bulge of his arousal pressing intimately against her.

  "From where I'm standin' I don't know how much more recovered I can get," he drawled ruefully, but his eyes were liquid fire.

  "I see what you mean," she said, choking off a laugh.

  "Figured you would."

  The electric shock at feeling his full arousal faded into an urgent need to feel him inside her, filling her so completely. Curling up against him, she clung to his neck, and he groaned.

  His mouth took hers greedily, his hands roaming her back, her hips, his fingers cupping her bottom, urging her hard against him.

  His kiss became fevered as he concentrated on exploring her mouth, his lips hot, his tongue tempting hers.

  She returned the kiss eagerly, running her hands through his hair, feeling its silky thickness sliding coolly over her fingers. Delicious, erotic sensations spun through her, driving her more and more frantic. He groaned, then dragged his mouth from hers.

  "Lord help me," he exclaimed hoarsely, pressing his hot cheek against hers. His breathing was raspy, hers more so as her lungs demanded oxygen. Finally he drew back, his expression fierce, a dusky flush layered over the tan.

  "I need you, Sophie," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "It scares the spit out of me how much."

  Her breath seemed dammed by her suddenly aching throat. "I need you, too," she admitted when she could find her voice again.

  He drew a long breath, then stepped back and held out his hand. "Come with me, darlin'. It's time we took ourselves to bed."

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

&nbs
p; Day had slipped into dusk while they'd been in the kitchen, and the bedroom was bathed in pale light shining from the west window. Above the trees the beginning of a glorious sunset was faintly visible, though Sophie had little chance to enjoy the view as he turned her away from the window and into his arms.

  "Happy New Year, sweet Sophie," he murmured, and she smiled.

  "Happy New, ah, Year," she murmured on a rush of pleasure as he brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

  "You smell good," he whispered, nuzzling her gently. "Like woman."

  "Ah, what?" She eased her head back, tangling her fingers in his hair.

  "Woman," he repeated thickly before touching his tongue to her throat. "My woman."

  He drew back, but only to align his mouth with hers. He tasted and tempted with his lips and his tongue, while his hands stroked and molded. She pressed her palms against his spine, feeling the hard flesh beneath the terry cloth, remembering the texture of skin and flex of muscle. His kiss grew more demanding, more fevered, until both were out of breath, but still he wooed her, exploring the contours of her throat with his mouth until she was quivering and her thighs felt like water. Swaying, she clutched his shoulders for support.

  With a harsh sound he drew back, his eyes narrowing. It took her a moment to realize his face had gone paper white. The word he ground out with a tight jaw was anything but poetic.

  Searching his face with anxious eyes, she expelled a shaky breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I knew we shouldn't have started this," she declared, her voice sounding like a stranger's to her ears. "You're in pain, and don't try to deny it."

  "I'll be in worse pain if you get all noble on me," he said, holding his right arm against his chest.

  "It's past time for your pills," she said as firmly as her galloping senses would allow. "I'll get you another glass of water."