The Texan

by Joan Johnston

  He wanted her like he’d never wanted a woman in his life. His heart was beating so hard his chest hurt. His body throbbed. His brain had shut down, because all the blood had left his head and journeyed to other regions. He grabbed her buttocks in both hands and spread his legs wide and pulled her into the cradle of his thighs, rubbing against her, with only a scrap of cotton and a layer of denim between them.

  “Oh,” she moaned. “Yes.”

  “Oh,” he moaned. “No.”

  He clutched her tight against him, holding her there so she couldn’t move, even though he could feel her wriggling against him. “We have to stop, Summer.”

  “Why? It feels so good, Billy. It feels so right.”

  Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her pupils dilated, her lips swollen and pouty from his kisses. He tasted her lips and told himself it was for the last time. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  She rubbed her breasts against the swirls of dark hair on his chest, and he felt her nipples tighten into buds. His hands left her rear end and circled her back, holding her tightly in his embrace to stop the exquisite torture. Unrestrained, her hips thrust against him again.

  He laughed. “Stop it, Summer. You’re killing me.”

  She rubbed herself against him and said, “You don’t feel dead.”

  But he was dying to have her, when he knew it wasn’t something a friend would do. “You should be saving yourself for that special man in your life,” he said, putting her away from him.

  She grabbed the sides of her shirt to cover her breasts, then crossed her arms for good measure. “I hate it when other people think they know what’s best for me. I have a mind and a will of my own, Billy. If I want to do this with you, I will.”

  He grabbed her by the arms and looked deep into her eyes. “Are you willing to marry me, Summer? To live in my house and work this ranch with me?”

  Startled, she gaped at him. “Are you proposing?”

  “I’m asking if you really want to be with me, Summer. Enough to give up your life at Bitter Creek and become a part of mine.”

  “I don’t get my trust fund until I’m twenty-five.”

  He shook her. “What does that have to do with anything? Do you want to marry me or not?”

  “How do I know? Until a few days ago, I never thought of you as anything but my friend.”

  “A moment ago you were ready to give me your virginity.”

  She flushed. “Why are you doing this, Billy? I wanted to give you … this gift.”

  “And then what?” He didn’t want that kind of memory. The kind a man never got over. The kind that would keep him from loving any other woman. He let go of her arms and took a step back. “Make up your mind. Do we do this? Or go back to being just friends.”

  “Can we still be ‘just friends’?” she asked, her brow furrowed. She tried buttoning her shirt, realized half the buttons were missing and gave up. “How am I supposed to forget your kisses? What it feels like to have you touch me?”

  “We remember those things. We just don’t repeat them,” he said.

  “For how long?”

  “This isn’t a game, Summer. I’m not a toy you can play with when the mood strikes and put back in the box.”

  He didn’t see the slap coming. But he knew he deserved it. Maybe it was better if she left angry. So long as she left. He wasn’t sure how long he could resist the urge to drag her back into his arms.

  She made a whimpering sound in her throat and met his gaze with golden eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry. I’ve never hit anyone in my life. I feel awful.”

  She needed a friend to hold her. She needed a friend to commiserate with her. She needed a friend to love her.

  Billy knew she was depending on him to be that friend. He pulled her into his arms and held her, commanding his unruly body to forget any ideas it had about doing anything more than comforting the woman in his arms.

  “I don’t want to lose your friendship,” he said.

  “I don’t want to lose yours,” Summer replied, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

  Her shirt had come open, and her breasts were warm against his chest. He reached between them and pulled her shirt closed. Then he hugged her again, let her go, and stepped back. “We can make this work,” he said.

  “Yeah. Right.” She lifted her shirttail to dab at the tears in her eyes. “I like you so much, Billy.”

  “I know,” he said with a lopsided grin. “I like you, too.” That was the problem.

  She stuck out her hand, and he saw it was trembling. “Friends?”

  He took her hand, shook it once, and let it go. “Friends.”

  • • •

  BLACKJACK HAD BEEN STUNNED WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME after spending Sunday afternoon with Lauren Creed, to discover his wife sitting behind his desk with a drink in her hand.

  “Surprised?” she asked, as she swiveled the chair to face him.

  “How the hell did you get out?” he demanded.

  “The wheels of justice are slow, but they do eventually turn.”

  “I was supposed to be notified when you were being released.”

  She pointed to the blinking red light on his answering machine. “I believe they did call. You weren’t in.”

  “How did you manage to get them to let you go?”

  “I finally found a doctor and a lawyer and a judge you didn’t control,” she said with irritating calm. “And, after all, I’m not really crazy. It was a simple matter to convince the doctor that I was as sane as he was. Even simpler for the lawyer to seek a court order from the judge for my release. And here I am, a free woman.”

  “You had a man murdered.”

  “So you say. But really, Jackson, there just isn’t any proof. Why, you had as much reason to want Jesse Creed dead as I did. More, if you consider your behavior with the lovely widow while I’ve been locked away in that hellhole.”

  Blackjack gritted his teeth. “Keep Ren out of this.”

  “I wish I could,” Eve said. “I’m afraid she’s in it up to her lovely eyeballs. You’ve been a very naughty boy, Jackson.”

  “I told you eighteen months ago that I wanted out.”

  “Since we’re still married, your behavior is called adultery. I would hate for this to get messy, but—”

  His hands tightened on the back of the horn-and-rawhide chair in front of the desk until they were white at the knuckles. “Don’t threaten me, Eve.”

  “Stay away from her, Jackson. Or you won’t like what I’ll do.”

  “Don’t threaten her. Or me. Or you won’t like what I’ll do,” he said furiously.

  “Actually, I was thinking it might hurt you more if I take Bitter Creek away from you,” Eve said. “I can do it. Especially since you’ve provided such lovely ammunition for me to use in court. I have pictures of the two of you together.”

  Blackjack felt his heart beating hard in his chest. “You hired someone to follow me?” he said through tight jaws, incensed at the thought of someone intruding on his and Ren’s privacy.

  “How else was I going to keep track of you, when I was locked away behind bars?”

  “Don’t push me, Eve.”

  “Then stay away from that woman.”

  He choked back a strangled oath.

  “You don’t look well, Jackson. Have you been taking your heart medication while I’ve been gone?”

  “I was fine till you walked in the door.”

  “Don’t let me keep you, if you’ve got business,” she said.

  “You’re sitting at my desk,” he pointed out.

  She stood. “It’s all yours. I’ve accomplished all the business I had to do here today.”

  It took him a full fifteen minutes to get his pulse back to normal after she’d left the room.

  They avoided each other as much as possible in the days that followed. But Eve’s threat against Ren was difficult to ignore. Blackjack felt like he had a boot on his neck holding his fa
ce in the mud, and he was going to strangle if he couldn’t find a way to escape.

  He missed Ren. When he was with her, she filled a place inside him that had been empty for far too long. But he had no one but himself to blame for the situation he was in.

  All those years ago, when he’d found out Ren was pregnant so soon after her marriage to Jesse Creed, he’d wondered if the child might be his. He’d confronted her, but she’d told him that she’d already been pregnant when they met at the pond. He’d begged her to leave Jesse and marry him, but she hadn’t trusted him to love another man’s child. Especially when he was a Blackthorne, and that other man’s child was a Creed.

  His father hadn’t forced him to marry Eve, just pointed out the advantage of owning the fifty thousand acres of DeWitt grassland she would bring to the marriage. Since he’d believed Ren was lost to him forever, he hadn’t seen a reason in the world not to have the land.

  And he’d gotten himself a beautiful, educated, talented wife in the bargain, who’d borne him three fine sons, Trace and Owen and Clay, and a beloved daughter, Summer. Eve was the perfect hostess. A critically acclaimed artist. A good businesswoman.

  And she’d never refused him in bed. Sex was the one thing they never fought about. Eve had been a passionate and creative and desirable sexual partner. His body had always been satiated. But his soul had never been satisfied.

  It wasn’t her fault he was in love with another woman.

  He might have lived the rest of his life in the kind of marriage a lot of people had—a convenient economic alliance of partners, who were also parents, and had a good time in the sack—if he hadn’t nearly died two years ago of a heart attack.

  Having his mortality shoved in his face had made him think about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. He’d decided while he was still in the hospital that he didn’t want to spend whatever years he had left in an alliance with a wife he’d never loved. He’d been thinking of divorce long before he’d learned his wife had been having an affair with his segundo Russell Handy. That discovery had merely propelled him into speaking the word “divorce” for the first time.

  Blackjack didn’t know why Eve was so insistent on staying married to him. He was going to have to find out exactly what price she wanted to set him free—short of giving her the ranch. Thirty-three years of being his wife didn’t make up for the hundred and fifty years that Bitter Creek had belonged to Blackthornes. She could have all the money she wanted. So long as she didn’t insist he sell the ranch to get it.

  He was sitting at his desk, debating whether to call Ren, when the phone rang. He picked it up, hoping she’d called him, but it was Paul Ridgeway.

  He didn’t have good news.

  Blackjack hung up the phone and put a hand to his heart, which was beating erratically. He hadn’t thought Paul’s news would hit him so hard. He felt breathless. His first thought was to call Ren, because the news concerned her, too. But he realized he owed his wife the courtesy of telling her first.

  He knew exactly where to find her.

  As she had for so many years of their marriage, Eve had disappeared into her studio at the end of the hall on the second floor to paint. She took pictures of interesting subjects, then corrected the flaws she found in the photographs, transforming the blemished world into perfect beauty on canvas. She was a nationally renowned Western artist, but Blackjack figured she kept herself busy painting so she wouldn’t have to face the emptiness of their marriage.

  He knocked on the door to her studio and waited, knowing she rarely answered the door when she was working. And she didn’t. This couldn’t wait, so he opened the door and walked in.

  The sun through the skylight was blinding in the white-on-white room, and he waited a moment for his eyes to adjust. He could smell oil paint and turpentine before he actually saw the oily rags and tubes of oil paint that were scattered on the counters that lined the walls. The chaos in the room was at odds with the rest of the house, which the hired help kept as close as possible to the perfection found in his wife’s paintings.

  He stopped to screw the lid on a can of pungent turpentine before he crossed to her side and said, “I have bad news, Eve.”

  She didn’t miss a brushstroke. She was so totally focused on what she was doing, he wondered if she even knew he was there. Her safari-style smock was bedaubed with vivid colors, and she was holding a palette of greens, which he realized were intended for the mesquite tree she was painting.

  When he put a hand on her shoulder, she jerked, then stared at him in irritation. “I’m working, Jackson.”

  “Stop that for a minute and listen to me,” he said. “I have something important to tell you. It has to do with Owen.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I just got a call from Paul Ridgeway with the FBI in Midland. The same day you got home, Owen went into the Big Bend to track down the man who killed his friend Hank Richardson. He took Bayleigh Creed with him. The FBI decided they wanted the two of them out of there, so they sent Park Rangers to Owen’s last known location. All they found was a dead horse.”

  Eve made a face. “I suppose now you’ll run to Three Oaks to comfort the girl’s mother.”

  “I came here because I thought you might need someone with you when you heard the news,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Well, I don’t,” she said bluntly.

  “Then you won’t mind if I go to Three Oaks and see Ren,” he said, heading for the door.

  “Jackson.”

  He stopped and turned back to her. “What is it, Eve?”

  “Do they know for sure whether Owen is dead?”

  “They haven’t given up hope of finding him. But it doesn’t look good.”

  “Did you call Clay?” she asked.

  “No. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, dropping her palette and brush on a nearby butcher block table with a clatter. She pulled the safari jacket off, and he was surprised to see she wore a plain, round-necked white T-shirt tucked into unbelted Levi’s. He hadn’t seen her in jeans since the last time they’d gone riding together. He couldn’t remember how many years ago that had been.

  She looked surprisingly young. And natural. And touchable. He found himself staring when he realized she wasn’t wearing a bra. She took a step toward him, and it dawned on him she was also barefoot.

  He’d been celibate for eighteen months, and if they’d been a happily married couple, they would be holding each other right now. They might even have sought relief from their mutual fear for their son through vigorous, tension-relieving sex.

  “It’s been a long time for me,” Eve said.

  “And for me.” He hadn’t had sex with Ren, but only because she’d exercised enough restraint for the both of them.

  “I can wait to call Clay.”

  It was the closest he knew Eve would come to an invitation to bed her.

  There was no question he found her physically desirable. And she was his wife, their union sanctioned by God and the government. Sex had always been good between them. She knew all the ways to touch him, to turn him on, to make him want her. His body certainly craved the release hers promised.

  But he found himself strangely unable to acquiesce, because it would have felt like he was cheating … on the woman he loved.

  By making the choice to stay faithful to Ren, Blackjack realized he was turning his back on any hope of a reconciliation with his wife. He felt a sharp pang of loss, a deep-seated grief for the final death of the dream of marital happiness that must have been lurking inside him all these years.

  His nose stung, and he swallowed noisily past the sudden lump in his throat. “I’m … sorry.”

  He saw the tears well in her eyes, watched her brush angrily at them.

  “This isn’t over,” she said. “Not by a long shot!”

  “Eve … I…”

  “Out. Get out! Get out!” She was shrieking like a harpy, her hands curling into claw
s, as she grabbed for something to hurl at him.

  Blackjack turned his back on his wife and walked out the door, closing it firmly behind him.

  Chapter 11

  BAY’S FIRST INSTINCT WAS TO CRY OUT TO her brother. Owen saved her from that folly by clamping his hand over her open mouth and pulling them both to the ground.

  “Whoa there, Red,” he whispered. “Let’s find out exactly who we’re dealing with before we let them know we’re out here.”

  She dragged his hand away and hissed, “Admit it! Your brother’s one of the bad guys. Look at Luke’s face. He’s been tortured!”

  “I’ll admit it looks bad,” Owen said. “But—”

  “Don’t try to make excuses. The fact you’re not standing up waving a big hello to your brother tells me you don’t think he’s so innocent.”

  Bay was shivering with cold. They were hidden by the dark and a few creosote bushes, but they couldn’t stay where they were indefinitely, considering they didn’t have even a layer of clothing to keep them warm.

  “Come here,” Owen said, wrapping an arm around her waist and sitting her between his legs with her back against his chest. “We can share our body heat.”

  “If I weren’t freezing I wouldn’t come within a mile of you,” she muttered.

  “Then I’ll have to be thankful for the cold.”

  His big body was amazingly warm—and male—and when she shivered again, it wasn’t because of the cool night air.

  He rubbed his hands up and down her arms. “Hypothermia and dehydration. Lethal combination.”

  “We’re not going to sit here all night, are we?” she asked. “Can’t we sneak into their camp and—”

  “Might be more tripwires,” Owen said.

  Bay scoffed. “They’re not going to explode any VX mines around here.”

  “They might have conventional mines set up to protect their perimeter. This looks like a military-type operation.”

  “Why is your brother doing this?” Bay asked.

  “I don’t know,” Owen said. “I’m going to ask him first chance I get.”