“I’m sorry,” she began.
“When we make love, it’s not going to be because either of us wants to run from something. It’s not going to be because we have Marissa between us. It’s going to be because we want to be together.”
He bridged the space between them, cupped her face in his hands. Need me, just me, he wanted to say. “We won’t think about the past, Kendall. It’s all about being together.” His mouth pressed hers. “Us. Just you and me. And when we are,”—his lips coasted over hers—“it won’t be in the back of a truck.” He trailed his tongue over her top lip. “It won’t be hurried.” He nibbled on her bottom lip. “It’s going to be slow.” He took her mouth in another kiss, this one longer, deeper, as he wrapped his arms around her, held her close. “And sweet, oh so sweet.”
TWENTY MINUTES later, through no fault of the Montgomery ranch water heater, Kendall shivered under the shower spray. Delayed reaction, compounded by guilt was to blame.
She’d witnessed a boy, a childhood friend, shot. Now he clung to life through medicine and the expertise of professionals.
And she’d all but begged Logan to make love to her.
How could she not when Logan had been nestled, strong and sure and warm, in her arms?
Now, with the water running over her shoulders and down her back, she admitted he’d been right. She’d made all the decisions about their relationship. With him being away in the military, what else could she do? And though he’d come home, learned about Marissa, Kendall had no clue how long he intended to stay. She couldn’t get in a habit of depending on him being in her or Marissa’s life. With a jerk of her wrist, she turned off the water and stepped out of the tub. She dried off, wrapped the towel around her, and, using the sink and the bar soap on the counter, washed out her underwear. She hung them over the shower bar, and taking care to be quiet and not wake Carter, crossed the hall into the bedroom Logan had shown her.
From the age of eight, when she’d lost her mother, she’d been basically on her own. Her father had buried his grief by attending to his congregation. So it quickly became second nature for her to make her choices in terms of wardrobe, bedtime, meals, and an assortment of other things. She’d done exactly the same when it came to her daughter. From the beginning she’d had no one to depend on when it came to Marissa’s welfare. No one to share the decisions.
Her hands shook as she dropped the towel and slipped on a shirt from the two Logan had left for her.
Logan had confronted her about her decisions—all of them. Yet, in spite of his questioning, he hadn’t turned away from her. Instead he’d held her, kissed her.
Promised her they would make love.
While she sat on the edge of the bed, she lifted a hand to her throat, rubbing the frantic echo of her heartbeat.
As with so much else where Logan was concerned, her feelings contradicted. On the one hand, she wanted him as she’d never wanted another man. For that very reason she feared the intimacy that would bind her heart deeper and stronger to him.
She made a quick call, reassuring Audra that she was fine and being assured that Marissa was asleep. Then she called the hospital to learn there was no change in Robbie’s condition. She was just hanging up the phone when a light knock sounded at the door. “Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
Tears burned her eyes, but she pushed them back. “I’m fine. You . . . um . . . you can come in if you want.”
A brief pause, then slowly the knob turned, and the door opened. Her breath caught at the sight of him standing there. He’d changed, thank God, out of his military uniform and into jeans and a T-shirt. His shirt hugged all the planes and ridges of the chest and shoulders that she ached to caress and explore. Instead, her hands curled into fists on her lap.
“I talked with Audra. Marissa is asleep.” She smiled a little. “I guess she’s used to me working nights, so she didn’t question why I wasn’t at home.”
“I called the hospital,” Logan said. “There’s no change in Robbie’s condition.”
“Yes, I called also. I, uh, didn’t call the station.”
“I spoke with Sheriff Owens. There’s been no sign of Lloyd Miller.”
She nodded, plucked at the hem of his shirt she wore, fiercely aware she wore nothing underneath. Logan stared at her, almost as if the same thought had come to him. At least she had the comfort of knowing, because of their height difference, his shirt tails fell to her knees.
“Logan, about earlier tonight.”
“I told you how I felt about that. You don’t want to go there right now, Kendall.”
She watched, fascinated and aroused by the sight of his throat working. “Okay.”
“I heated up some soup for you,” he said.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
“You need to eat, Kendall.”
Leading with her heart, she took the hand he extended, and he guided her into the kitchen. He’d lowered the lights to dim. One squat candle sat on a dish in the center of the table, adding the scent of cinnamon to the chicken soup simmering on the stove and the freshly baked bread waiting on the cutting board.
Her stomach rumbled, and she managed a weak smile.
“I love it when I’m right,” he teased. “Sit.” He gestured to the chair where a glass of golden wine waited.
She sat and took the first sip as he went to the stove, lifted the pot, and poured soup into two bowls. He looked far more natural and comfortable than she would have expected as he cut four slices of bread and set them in a basket. Her heart filled to aching with the kindness he showed her.
“Smells good,” she said. “I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Heating up canned soup is hardly cooking.” He set down the bowls, turned back to the refrigerator, and got out a container of soft butter. “But Carter and I both learned how so we could avoid starving once Mom got sick. Dad couldn’t boil water without ruining it.”
“Logan.” She placed a tentative hand over his, felt the muscles go taut. “I never told you, I’m so sorry about your dad.”
“I could say the same to you.”
“Yes, well.” She moved her hand and, needing a diversion, began slathering a thick layer of butter on the bread.
“I can’t believe you still do that.”
“What?” she asked, suppressing a grin at his aversion for her greatest vice. “I imagine you’ve eaten stranger things,” she said and took a big bite of the bread.
“No way,” he protested. “I didn’t touch any of that foreign stuff. I stuck to things I knew. That was one of the reasons they called me Cowboy.” He shook his head again. “Some of those guys will eat or try anything.”
“Today, earlier, I saw some boys approach you while you were keeping an eye on Marissa inside the petting zoo area.”
He nodded. “They had the usual questions about being in the service.”
She sipped the wine instead of eating the soup. “Several others stopped by to shake your hand. I even saw Ms. Perkins kiss you on the cheek.”
“People were just being friendly.”
“No, they appreciate your military service.”
He shrugged. “It’s not much different from what you do here every day.”
She started to argue then recalled staring at the muzzle of Lloyd Miller’s gun. Her life could have ended today, leaving her daughter an orphan. It was something she needed to think more about. But not tonight.
She sipped her wine. “What’s the most interesting place you’ve been?”
Over the course of the next two hours she listened, fascinated, to his stories of the places he’d seen, the things he’d done, before they moved on to other subjects.
She eyed the bottle of wine. A part of her wished for the numbness another glass—or tw
o—would give her. Maybe then she’d actually sleep without being haunted by reoccurring images of the day. But she had so little time with Logan. When all she had left was memories, she didn’t want them fuzzy from wine.
She considered pushing, to see if she could once again seduce him. But while the idea had a thrill skipping down her spine, she knew it would be unfair. Besides, she wanted, needed, to know the first move was his this time. She didn’t want him coming to her out of anger or frustration, as would have been the case earlier in his truck when she’d tried to make it all but impossible for him to turn away.
“Logan.” She reached across the table, touched a hand to his. “You look exhausted, and I know you’ve gotten into the habit of getting up and helping Carter with the chores.” She paused, waited for him to nod. “Go to bed.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, but she caught the automatic tone to the words. “You’re the one who needs to sleep.”
“You cooked, so I’ll clean up.” She squeezed his hand, then made herself pull away. “Seriously, doing this kind of routine task is how I settle down after a shift. I’ll sleep better if you let me do this,” she lied. “You’ve done enough tonight.”
“Are you sure?” When she nodded, he still hesitated.
“I’m fine, Logan. I don’t need you to keep watch over me. I’ll just clean up the kitchen a little and then go to bed myself.”
She would not, could not, ask him to hold her, or comfort her against the nightmares that she knew were waiting to spring once she let down her guard. He’d done so much for her already that she couldn’t tell him she needed him.
“I’m used to doing things alone.” She could handle anything except depending on him.
Logan glanced around the kitchen as if seeing how much work he’d be leaving her with. Finally he stood and looked down at her. “Why don’t we take a ride after I finish giving Carter a hand in the morning?”
“Uh, well, not sure that’s possible.” She plucked at the front of his shirt, indicating her lack of wardrobe.
“Didn’t I tell you? Sheriff Owens sent an officer by your house, and Audra packed up a bag for you. He dropped it off while you were in the shower. It’s by the front door.”
“You’re just now telling me that I could have put on my own clothes instead of your shirt when I got out of the shower?”
“I can’t say what kind of clothes are in the bag.”
She turned in the chair to see him walking out of the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway to look over his shoulder at her. Through his fatigue he sent her a smile.
“I will say I’m glad you didn’t spot your bag, since I like seeing you in my shirt.”
Chapter Eight
TIRED AND ACHING, Logan made his way from the barn to the back door of the house. The noonday sun was warm on his back while a light breeze took the edge off the heat. The morning had gone easier and quicker than he’d expected. None of that eased the foul mood Logan had been in all morning.
It was all Kendall’s fault.
He’d gone to bed hurt by her dismissal. I don’t need you. I’m used to being alone. Then he’d slept hard with wanting her, had spent the morning on edge with both feelings. That the usually taciturn Carter called him on it—more than once—rubbed Logan raw.
He stopped before reaching the house, closed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He was a seasoned soldier. He’d witnessed the brutality men inflict on others. He’d seen the hollow, shattered look on the faces left behind. None of it had chilled his blood the way news of Kendall being involved in a shooting had done.
Logan changed direction, went over to the small pen where Carter kept a couple of pigs. He turned on the water spigot and filled the trough with fresh water.
He still didn’t quite believe he’d allowed his anger to spring free when she’d made that comment about wanting him. It’s not as if a part of him—a part that even now encouraged him to go accept her invitation—hadn’t wanted to be with her. With that one sentence she’d brought back clear, vivid memories of what it had been like to slip inside her the first time.
But he wanted her to need him, not use him as an escape.
He’d managed to bank his anger and lust while she’d been in the shower. Then, he’d seen her wearing his shirt and, he knew damn well, nothing else. He had only himself to blame. After all, he could have told her about the bag someone from the Sheriff’s Department had delivered. Instead, he’d liked the idea of her wearing his shirt.
He blew out a long, hot breath and began to recoil the water hose. Rising, he scanned the ranch, saw signs of time and neglect that Carter simply couldn’t handle on his own. Logan felt a prick at his conscience. This had been his childhood home, and while the old man had given the ranch to Carter, the brothers had worked well side-by-side since his return.
Would making love with Kendall complicate or clear away the debris from the question of whether or not he should stay here or go back to the military? Maybe it was self-serving, but he didn’t believe that avoiding this grinding need for her would resolve the issue.
He made his way across the yard, climbed the steps, and stepped into the kitchen, coming to an abrupt stop. Every question and doubt disappeared. There was only her.
She stood at the sink, obviously having found a pair of jeans in the bag that had been delivered. But she’d ignored any other items Audra had no doubt packed and instead wore another of his shirts.
When she turned to face him, he could see bruised circles of sleeplessness under her eyes, see the darker look of pent-up desire in her gaze. The need for her was sudden and savage. He didn’t stop to think, didn’t say a word as he crossed the kitchen. He had to touch her, brand her as his.
Her arms opened, inviting, accepting him as his mouth took hers. He all but devoured her, not concerned with whether or not he bruised her lips. All he cared about was the taste of her. She answered every demand his mouth made, responded to every brush of his hands. She trembled, and he knew it wasn’t from fear. This urgent grinding need was something they shared.
“Why?” he demanded, as his hands came up under the length of his shirt, as they felt the slick softness of her skin. “Why my shirt instead of one of yours?”
“I like”—she breathed hard, kissed him—“wearing your shirt.”
His hand found her left breast, felt the warmth of bare skin. Thankful she’d decided against a bra, he squeezed, pebbled her nipple. His mouth continued to assault hers as she continued to torment his. At one point he thought he heard the back door open, then close, but couldn’t be sure. Didn’t care.
She tugged his shirt free of his waistband, stunned him when she ripped the ends apart, sending buttons flying. Her small hands immediately slid up his chest and back down to his abdomen, torturing him with the feel of her nails on his skin, the anticipation of her traveling lower, cupping him. He groaned when she boosted up and wrapped her legs around his hips.
His hands moved to her waist, gripped tight as he settled her on the countertop. When she kept her legs secure around him, as she wiggled and ground them center to center, the consuming need sank sharper claws into him.
Her head fell back, exposing a throat he had to taste.
And like that, with that one single hint of vulnerability, with that open expression of trust, something settled and calmed inside him. He still wanted her, wanted her with a near violent hunger. Suddenly, savoring had more appeal, would give him the time to appreciate what they gave one another. Speed and mindless release had their time and place but not the first time he and Kendall made love again.
His mouth gentled, pressing light kisses along her jaw, finding pleasure in the small samples. His hands caressed, her moan telling him his rough hands enticed rather than irritated. His body remained hard, no longer straining but instead yiel
ding to her softness. And so he slowed their tempo, gentled a return to composure.
“Logan.” Her hands and legs kept him close, refused to let him put any distance between them. When her cheek nestled against his chest, he drew in a deep breath, far more content than he would have believed possible given their position and how this need for her throbbed in his groin.
“What happens now?” she asked into the silence.
He considered saying nothing, simply lifting her into his arms and carrying her into the bedroom. There they could release this raging need together. Through the window he saw Carter polishing a saddle in the sun.
“Now we go somewhere where we can have a little privacy.”
IT HAD BEEN years since Kendall had ridden a horse. At the moment she was grateful that she needed all her concentration to stay in the saddle. She knew Logan had suggested the ride to keep her mind off Robbie’s unchanged condition and Lloyd Miller’s disappearance.
Even so, more than an hour later, her mind could recall every detail of Logan returning to the kitchen after a morning spent working with his brother.
Where had all that emotion come from? One minute she’d been recovering from the phone call where she’d been trying to explain to a teary Marissa that she wouldn’t be home today. And the next, she’d all but stripped him bare in his kitchen. Not once had it crossed her mind that Carter could come into the kitchen and see them.
It was the shirt. Kendall ran her fingertips over the brushed cotton she wore, felt a smile curve her lips at the memory of ripping his shirt open.
It had been so wonderful. Exciting, rushed, passionate. She loved the idea that she’d somehow driven him to the point of not holding back. She loved the feel of his calloused hands skimming her skin, the desperate taste of his mouth on hers. She loved knowing he’d been aroused by her actions, by her response.
Cowboy On Her Doorstep (Montgomery Brothers Book 1) Page 12
