She tried a silent plea, willing with all her being that he read it in her gaze and give his son what he needed.
To her shocking dismay, he let the drawing fall from his hand.
“Father?” Gabriel started to say.
Rio’s long stride took him out of the room before Sarah could move.
“Stay here!” She didn’t look to see if the boys obeyed her order, but she did pause long enough to close the parlor doors.
She went after Rio. On some deep, inner level she knew what she would find when she reached the kitchen.
He didn’t disappoint her.
Chapter Ten
No, that was wrong. He didn’t disappoint her. He confirmed her thought.
Rio stood framed in the pantry’s doorway holding a whiskey bottle. Sarah had never allowed any liquor in the house, but there were a few bottles left from Catherine’s wedding, then a few more added when Rafe visited over the holidays.
She should have destroyed every one of them, but her own growing need to finally put her past behind her made her keep them. That, and seeing for herself that men like Rafe and Greg could drink without turning into animals.
Now she wished she had gotten rid of them.
Even as she watched, he ripped the cork free and tilted the bottle to his lips. She could only stare, overwhelmed by images from the past. It wasn’t Rio she saw leaning against the door frame, but Judd raising the bottle for another drink while she pleaded with him to stop.
Sarah wasn’t about to plead. She was no longer that weak, begging woman.
“You miserable bastard! How could you crush your son’s pride like that? How dare you call yourself a father?”
Rio’s answer was to raise the bottle again and drink deeply enough to feel the liquor’s burning heat seep inside him where cold twisted and squeezed like an enormous snake. His eyes burned from the sleepless night and all the other nights that preceded it. For a few minutes back there he had been tempted to rip the drawing to shreds.
The knowledge sickened him.
How could he think of destroying something that Lucas had made?
And now, his own demons weren’t enough, he had to face the widow as a warrior, ripping him apart with her words.
How dare he?
He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You forget yourself. I am his father, iszáń.”
“I am your husband, Sarah. Don’t ever, ever forget that.”
As if she had. The words from the past sent Sarah staggering back until she felt the wall behind her.
“No. No,” she whispered, shaking her head from side to side.
“It is not for you to say. They are my sons.”
“They need someone to speak for them.”
He slouched in the pantry’s opening and took another long pull from the bottle.
“Don’t you understand? You hurt your son. Do you believe whiskey will help you forget it? It won’t. There isn’t enough liquor to make what you did to him go away. And what of Lucas? What will he do to forget? Or were you planning on sharing that bottle with him?”
For an instant everything in Rio’s world, including the blood in his veins, stilled. He stared at her.
There was something more than her attacking him over Lucas and his drawing. He sensed it, but the thought was vague, too much for him to reach for now.
Sarah had closed her eyes briefly. It hadn’t been Rio that she saw, and the words weren’t for him alone. Ghosts. Hated, haunting ghosts.
It was the paleness of her face that forced him to speak. “I asked you before and ask again. Where does the wisdom of a child’s needs come from?”
Unable to answer him, Sarah tilted her head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. That dark, disturbing voice of his seemed to demand the secrets of her soul.
“What the hell good is this gift of his hands and his eyes? Where will my son use it? When will he be given the chance?”
“Only you know,” she said in a dull tone.
“In the mountains of Mexico where the renegades have their hidden camps? You know nothing of us. Less of the path we are forced to take.”
She glanced at him, then away. He was drinking again and with every drop of liquor that he swallowed, more demons were loosed into the room.
“You keep your thoughts and tongue to yourself. My son has no time for foolishness. He’ll need sharp eyes to keep watch, to find game for hungry bellies. His hands are useful as tools to gather wood, to wield a skinning knife, not a damn pencil, with skill.”
She pounced on the last. “At least you admit that he can draw with skill. Pity you didn’t tell him. He needed to hear that from you.”
“Silence your tongue!”
Rio lurched from the doorway to the table. He set the bottle down and ripped the wet headband off his head and tossed it onto the table. He tunneled his hands through the damp length of his hair. His temples pounded like ceremonial drums. No amount of rubbing would ease the pain. No amount of liquor would drown the truth of the widow’s flaying tongue.
He didn’t know himself anymore. He didn’t like what he was thinking, didn’t like what he’d done or said.
A rendering sorrow twisted inside him. He had not known that Lucas could draw so well.
Another thing stolen from him. Stolen from his son, as well.
He caught the edge of the table, shoulders hunched forward as he struggled to contain his temper.
Unfortunately, his grandfather’s passionate blood ran in his veins. The Irish inheritance, he’d named it years ago. A cauldron of temper, and love of horses and music, and deep family devotion, and inevitably, the lusts of the flesh.
He looked up then and glared at Sarah. What the hell did she know of lust?
Sarah had been staring at the bottle, then his large hands splayed on the edge of the table. They appeared strong enough to rend the wood. She switched her gaze back to Rio’s face. He was watching her intently. Their eyes locked and she could not summon the will to look away.
The world grew very still around her. She felt the hair stir on the back of her neck. A prickling sensation coursed down her spine. It was happening again.
Every sense she possessed was poised on the edge of acute awareness of this time, this place and this one man.
The feeling was just a hairsbreadth shy of being painful.
His hand moved to the bottle. Her gaze tracked the move. She saw his fingers curl around the amber glass and followed the bottle’s rise to his lips only to find that he still watched her. He tipped the bottle and she watched him swallow, wondering why she stayed, why she couldn’t find the words to condemn him to hell and order him from her house.
She shivered. The small whispers of awareness continued to make her uneasy. Rio, with his dark, dangerous look, made her uneasy. She’d never experienced a reaction like this around any man.
Then again, she reminded herself, she had never been in a situation like this.
“I wonder what secrets you hide, iszáń. At times you seem fierce as the she-bear protecting her cub. At others, the wary fawn. Which, I ask myself, is the woman.”
Sarah blinked and took a step to the side. Her chin came up. “I can be both. There is no shame in my being wary of you.”
“Yes. I threatened you.”
“Seeing where you get your courage,” she said, making a gesture toward the bottle, “I have a right to be wary. Men who drink can’t control themselves. They become animals.”
A mocking smile creased his mobile mouth, but there was no mockery in his eyes. He studied her as if he were silently repeating her words to himself, and she was sorry she had spoken.
He shoved himself away from the table and walked around to block her escape.
“You flayed me over my son. Shall I do the same? Drink with me, iszáń.”
Sarah eyed the bottle with something akin to horror. Her lower lip trembled. There was a dangerous, challenging air about him that set her already
raw nerves on edge. She badly wanted to run. Emotions clogged her throat. She could barely shake her head in refusal.
He leaned close, whispering. “No secrets to hide? No voices to drown?”
His chest sawed in and out with every angry breath he took. Her gaze went to his corded throat, then to his face that could have been carved from stone. She was forced to breathe the scent of him, damp, musky and all male.
His free hand rose and she cringed, wishing the wall behind her would open. But he only touched her hair.
“Don’t.” She turned her head.
“Was he an animal, Sarah?”
She was distracted, hearing her name for the first time from his lips. Soft. So whisper soft it sounded like a caress.
“Drink with me.”
If he’d shouted a demand with anger, she might have shoved him away. But the words escaped his lips quietly, the way a snake slithered after prey. She couldn’t focus. And it wasn’t her home she stood in, not her kitchen, as the outside sound of the storm receded to be replaced by the tinny sound of an out-oftune piano, and laughter. God, the laughter, seeping through the floor, the walls, filling the very air she breathed. And Judd, pinning her against the wall, forcing the bottle to her lips. And the fear that made her open her mouth, fear that choked her as she swallowed, fear of what would happen if she didn’t do what he wanted. That cold, hard constant knot of fear that no amount of whiskey could warm.
The drunken slur of his voice, cajoling, then angry. Silken whisperings. And then the rage.
She wasn’t fully aware that she crossed her arms protectively over her chest, that she hunched her shoulders, ducked her head. And trembled with fear.
This time he would make good his threat.
This time he would kill her.
“Have you tried to outrun the voices calling out to you? Have you climbed until your hands are raw and bleeding and found yourself on the highest point of a towering pinnacle of stone only to have your pleas for mercy turn to ashes in your mouth? Have you not found the blackness that waits in emptying the bottle? The blackness that steals all feeling, even the pain? Speak to me, iszáń. Let me hear your soft woman’s words now.”
She could barely swallow, much less find the moisture needed to speak. But her focus came back. She wasn’t with Judd in some nameless town surrounded by strangers who wouldn’t stop him.
This was her home. Her kitchen. The man who leaned close was whispering of her heart beating like a captive bird beneath his hand cupping her breast.
“Have you found the path to forgiveness, Sarah? Do you know the way?” he asked, nuzzling the sensitive skin beneath her ear. “Will you share the path with me?”
His face was buried in her hair, his hand sliding over her shoulder in a circular, caressing motion.
Sarah’s eyes cleared. She ground her teeth together in an effort not to scream at him to take his hands off her, to leave her be, she had no peace to offer him when she still searched for it herself.
His lips nibbled delicately at her throat. Her insides somersaulted, and she softly moaned. He took hold of her hand, lifting it to slip inside his shirt, holding it palm down against his skin. Sarah made an attempt to withdraw her hand, but Rio wouldn’t let her. The heat of his body drew her to curl her fingertips into his hard flesh.
He sucked in his breath sharply.
Sarah snatched her hand back. She took a half step that molded his body from knee to chest against hers. Her gaze went to his. His lips hovered scant inches above her mouth. There was nothing she could do about her nipples beading in response, or the warmth that trembled through her body.
Sarah was afraid to move. He was perfectly still. Raw hunger made his eyes appear bleak as his gaze became fixed on hers. She fought the almost irresistible urge to thread her fingers up through his hair and draw his head down to her.
Rio swallowed. There was color in her cheeks, and he thought it better than the sad, lost look she had a few minutes ago. He should leave her be. He had no right to touch her. But his body howled in protest and he strained toward her.
“Sarah?”
A forbidden and unaccountable feeling of tenderness swept through her. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before. She knew what he wanted, and she wished she could grant him his desire.
And her own. She should hate him for the memories he forced her to recall. Hate him for all he had done to shatter her peace.
His mouth captured hers. It was not an expected kiss. Hunger. Possessiveness. A kiss that demanded complete surrender. For a moment she resisted. Her mind was set against him. But her body had other needs that overruled. Heat. She heard herself moan.
There was something almost savage in the way he kissed her. No gentle coaxing. No practiced art. This was raw, needy, seeking her response, and then demanding more.
Sarah gave.
There was no choice when measured against her own needs.
He ravaged. He possessed. Something she wasn’t willing to give threatened to break free. She wanted to push him away. Her arms curled over his shoulders.
She wanted more.
More than pleasure. More than passion. She had tasted those before. The feelings churning inside her made her ache and yet frightened her, too.
Then, suddenly, he released her. She stared up at him. Thoughts and emotions shuddered through her. She still felt the wanting. Still tasted him on her mouth.
Wearily Rio scrubbed a hand over his face. He tried to push back the sudden rush of anger, the memories, too. Whiskey. How could he forget? The sleeping bear he must never let loose again.
He took a deep breath. The fault was his. Not the widow’s. Never the lovely, giving Sarah’s.
She couldn’t know what he dealt with, nor did he want her to. Noting that his hand holding the bottle trembled with tension, he bit back an oath. His blood felt hot and heavy running through him. He could have taken her, could have buried himself in all that woman’s softness and for a little while found peace.
Lightning slashed through the torrent and thunder, but all he heard was the raspy sounds of their mingled breathing.
He couldn’t look at her. Didn’t want to step away.
Sarah sagged against the wall. She was shaking. Her hand lifted as if to touch him, then fell to her side. She had her own demons. She didn’t want his.
But his needs called to her and she found that she could not, would not, walk away from him,
She eyed the bottle he still held. He’d been in jail but not for killing those two men. Those boys admitted they hated being taken from him and sent to the mission school.
“Rio,” she began softly, finding the courage to speak. “Drinking won’t help. But I think you already know that. Don’t let your sons see you like this. They’ve suffered, too.”
“My drinking, it frightened you.”
It wasn’t meant as a question, but Sarah thought of it as one. Judd always accused her of caring too much for people. Strangers. He’d laugh at her concerns, or stop her whenever he was around. She had met Rafe McCade over such an incident. But Rafe was a good and decent man. He’d acted to stop a brutal beating on a woman and a horse.
And Judd was dead. He could no longer stop her. And she couldn’t stop herself from trying to help this one man.
“Yes. It makes me afraid.”
She pressed her hands flat against the wall, hoping she could keep her voice steady. He couldn’t know the cost of her admitting that.
“Your husband drank.”
“Yes.”
He held the bottle out and stared at it. “This is the only solace I found for her death.”
“But you had your sons!”
She didn’t think. She rushed at him, snatching the bottle from his hand and threw it across to the dry sink. The sound of shattering glass and the fumes of whiskey filled the room.
Horrified at what she had done, Sarah could only stare at the shards of glass glittering beneath the light. Suddenly she rounded on him, an
d saw Lucas hovering near the doorway.
“Stay in the parlor with your brother,” she ordered. “This isn’t for you to hear.” With a sharp look at Rio, she added, “Or to see.”
“Are you a coward?” Anger laced her low voice. “Is that the man you’ll show your sons? You can’t hide in that bottle. You won’t find anything you’re looking for there. You asked if I knew of a way to forgive myself. I don’t know.” Her voice fell with pleading. “Rio, you’re alive. You have two beautiful sons who love you. Don’t you understand the gift she left you? How can you think to harm them? And yourself?
“Don’t you dare throw that away! You loved her? Then how can you let yourself wallow in self-pity? Is that how you keep her memory? How dare you? How dare you?” Her voice rose on the last in a shrill, shaken note. She shook beneath the force of the emotions let loose.
“If he drank and you hated it, why do you mourn him?”
Her head jerked back as if he had slapped her.
“This isn’t about me, damn you!” She caught herself before she backed away from him.
With a defiant lift of her chin she searched his bleak features for a few tense moments.
“You told me I know nothing of the path you’re forced to walk. Maybe that’s true in your eyes. But I do know how your sons are feeling right now. I know what it is to see someone you love destroy themselves before your eyes. I know how helpless they feel that they can’t stop you, can’t give enough love or caring to make you see what you’re doing.
“Go to your son, Rio. Tell Lucas what you told me. Tell him his work is skilled. That you’re proud of him. Go now,” she whispered, motioning toward the doorway. “If you don’t do it now, you’ll end up mourning the loss of more than you realize.”
Silence hung in the room when she finished.
Rio knew she was right. What was it about her that made him believe every word she spoke?
In a move that surprised him as much as it did Sarah, he held out his hand.
“Come with me.”
Chapter Eleven
Rio thought about the passion in her voice. It was nothing sexual. Nor was there anger. She merely pleaded with him to see his sons as she saw them. He doubted that she was aware of the intensity of her gaze or her stance. Her thoughts were all for Lucas. Only for him. The depth of her compassion moved him.
Theresa Michaels Page 9
