Sin made the decision. "Let's go on."
Caleb remounted. The wind shoved at them, blowing hard, strong now even in the shelter of the trees. At last they reached a rocky stretch. The trees thinned out to nothing—and Jennifer Randall came limping at them, falling, picking herself up, staggering forward, and sobbing as she tried to run.
"Oh, thank God! Help. You have to help…" She stumbled down on them, her hands out, her face smudged and her hair wild in the whipping wind. The horses grew nervous, they pranced and tried to shy away from her, dislodging rocks that tumbled down the mountain behind them.
Sin passed his lantern to Sophie and swung out of the saddle. The Randall woman fell into his arms—and then immediately started struggling to get free. "Oh, God. Oh, we have to hurry…"
Sin tried to calm her. "Hold on. Slow down…"
"No. Listen. I … had to start a fire. I was hoping someone would see and come rescue me. But then the wind … oh, we have to hurry! We have to hurry now!"
They all understood then what the woman meant.
"Douse the lanterns," Sin commanded.
Sophie and Caleb obeyed. The world went dark. They looked higher up the mountain. There, rising above the thick crown of trees, ribbons of smoke spiraled in an eerie, curling dance toward the silvery moon.
"Come on." Sin put an arm around the Randall woman. "We've got to move." He helped her over to the others, stopping beside Caleb's horse.
The woman's handsome face turned ugly beneath its layer of grime. "No. I will not ride with that—"
Sin spun her to face him. "We don't have time for any of your games now."
The woman looked into those hard, dark eyes, bit her lip—and nodded.
Caleb put a hand down and Sin hoisted her up in front of the groom. Then he went to his own horse, lifted the flap on the saddlebag, and brought out his cell phone. The wind whistled hard around them as Sin punched up 911.
They had some degree of luck. The wind didn't turn. They found Black Angel where they'd left her and led her back with them.
They were crossing the meadow where the wild roses grew when the first helicopter sailed by overhead, laden with fire retardant to drop on the blaze.
"Most beautiful sight I ever saw," Caleb declared, watching as the copter swung away toward the mountains behind them.
"Let's just pray they're in time to contain the damn thing," Sin added bleakly.
Jennifer Randall whined, "Can we please get moving? I need a doctor. My ankle is killing me."
At the Mountain Star, the firefighters in their crosscountry vehicles were already arriving. The head of the team took a few precious minutes to question the Randall woman, then suggested someone drive her to Sierra Nevada Memorial to have her ankle x-rayed. Myra volunteered for that job. Sophie cast the cook a grateful glance.
As the owner of the property, Sin was allowed to head back out with the firefighters. He suggested they also take Caleb along, to show them the smoothest way overland.
Sophie stepped up. "I'd like to go, too."
Sin focused those eyes on her. "Stay here. You have guests to worry about."
His imperious tone rankled. And she feared she might go crazy, sitting there, doing nothing, just waiting for news. But she knew he was right.
In the cottage, the guests gravitated toward the kitchen, where Sophie kept Myra's radio tuned to a local station, which provided periodic reports on the fire. They all clustered around the big table, sharing pot after pot of Myra's coffee, telling old stories of other forest fires they'd heard about or seen, falling silent whenever the radio announcer came on with more news. Overhead, through the hours, they heard the helicopters rattling by.
Myra returned at a little after ten to report that Jennifer Randall had no broken bones. "A bad sprain is all."
"Where is she now?" Sophie asked.
"I drove her home. She complained all the way—that her ankle hurt and her nerves were shot. She says she's going to sell that horse of hers. You should have heard her." Myra stuck her nose in the air and pursed her mouth. "'Black Angel has become totally unmanageable.' That's exactly what she said."
One of the guests asked, "You're talking about the woman who started the fire?"
"I'm afraid so," Sophie said.
The guest shook his head. "If the forest service had any sense, they'd stick her with the bill for this mess."
A murmur of agreement went up from the others. Sophie stood. "How about more coffee?"
"I'll have some."
"Me, too."
Myra clucked her tongue. "I'll get it." She bustled over to the counter to get the pot.
By midnight, the wind had died down. The radio announcer said the fire was ninety-five percent contained. There would be no more reports unless it kicked up again. They heard the firefighters returning, driving past the house and out to the highway. No more beating helicopter blades disturbed the quiet of the mountain night.
The guests wandered back to their rooms, keyed up from too much coffee, but all determined to try to get some sleep. Caleb came in at twelve-thirty, to find Sophie and Myra in the kitchen alone.
"It's gonna be okay," he said. "They got to it soon enough. It looks like Sin's lost about ten acres of trees. But he said he could afford that just fine."
"Sin?" Sophie asked gently.
Caleb shuffled his feet. "All right. He's not so bad. I could get used to him if I had to—just as long as he doesn't go breaking your heart again."
Myra demanded, "But where is he now?"
"He's comin'. He waited to ride back on the last truck. Should be here pretty soon now."
The cook pushed her bulk out of her chair. "Caleb, you didn't eat a bite of dinner. Let me—"
"Naw. I'm not hungry. I want to check on the horses and get me a little sleep." Caleb headed out the back door, leaving Sophie and Myra alone again. Sophie turned to her friend—and found those green eyes studying her.
"You'll be waiting up for him, won't you?"
They both knew who Myra meant by "him." In lieu of an answer, Sophie picked up an empty coffee cup and carried it to the sink.
"Do you love that man?" Myra said to her back.
Sophie set the cup down and turned to face her friend.
Myra asked again more gently, "Well, do you?"
Sophie told the truth. "Yes."
"Does he love you?"
"He's never said."
"Maybe you should ask him."
"Maybe." Sophie looked down at the floor, then up at Myra once again. "If he and I … worked things out, there would be some changes around here."
Myra pushed in her chair. "No sense in running from change. It always finds a person anyway."
Once Myra headed up the back stairs, Sophie sat at the table alone, waiting and listening for the sound of that last truck coming in. Eventually she got up, washed out the coffeepot and set it up for the next morning. There were a few dishes waiting in the sink. She opened the dishwasher and loaded them in.
At ten after one, she heard the sound of a vehicle outside. She froze in the act of wiping a counter. The sound faded away quickly toward the front of the cottage. Sophie still didn't move. She strained to hear the front door opening, but that sound never came.
She looked down at the sponge she'd been using to wipe up counters that were already clean—and realized that if she wanted to speak with Sin, she would have to go looking for him.
She dropped the sponge and ran out through the west parlor to the front hall, where she threw back the old door and hurried out onto the walk. She caught a glimpse of taillights disappearing toward the highway.
And that was all. The moon shone on the grass, making it gleam whitely. Somewhere off in the trees, a dove cooed. The crickets played their never-ending, chirruping song. And off to her left, the little-girl statue still laughed without sound as the water from the fountain cascaded down.
She ventured farther along the walk, out under the broad pale face of the moon. The
night was still, the wind that had threatened such havoc faded away now to nothing but a hint of a breeze. On that breeze she could faintly smell wood smoke, an acrid reminder of disaster averted.
Wood smoke. Crickets. The splash of water in the fountain and the gentle cooing of a dove. But no sign of the man she'd been waiting for.
Still, Sophie knew where to find him.
* * *
Chapter 16
« ^ »
He sat on the black rock, his back to her, looking out over the dark creek that flowed by a few feet away.
Sophie tiptoed across the soft bed of moss, coming up on his left side, and then hovering there, not sure how to begin.
He turned his head and his eyes met hers. He didn't look surprised to see her.
She asked too brightly, "Is there room for me on that rock?"
He said nothing—but he did scoot a little to the right, leaving a space for her beside him. Carefully she edged onto the rock and sat down.
"Clouds gathering," he said.
She followed his gaze. A grayness crept across the sky, blotting out the stars and drifting in gauzy tendrils over the broad face of the moon.
She said, "Rain would be good to finish off whatever's left of the fire."
He looked at her again. "We were lucky. This time."
She dipped her head in a brief nod. "I know."
"The land needs tending, Sophie. Whatever happens between you and me, I'm going to take steps to thin out some of those trees."
"I understand."
He stared at her for several seconds, his eyes hard, as if he didn't believe she understood at all. Then he turned his gaze to the dark waters of the creek once again.
She waited, not sure how to talk to him, doubting that he even wanted her there. The creek murmured softly as it flowed by and the leaves of the willows and oaks rustled, whispering to each other in the now-gentle wind.
Finally she drummed up enough nerve to reach out and lay her hand on his arm. The contact, as always, sent desire singing through her. She concentrated on ignoring it, on finding the right words to say. "Sin, I can't tell you how much I appreciate the way you dealt with Jennifer Randall tonight. In fact, if you hadn't been here—"
His hand closed over hers. "Don't."
"But I—"
"Don't thank me. No damn testimonials. Not now. Not tonight."
She swallowed, nodded. "All right."
Slowly he brought her hand to his mouth. His lips brushed her fingertips. She hitched in a gasp and he smiled, black eyes gleaming, both feral and knowing at once. "If you're so grateful, then show me."
She closed her own eyes, drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "How?"
His teeth scraped the pads of her fingers, so lightly. "You know."
And she did. She knew very well.
He pushed his other hand beneath her hair and clasped her nape, just the way he used to do. She shuddered in longing. The scent of him teased her: sweat—and wood smoke, from the now-vanquished fire.
"Kiss me." It was a command.
It never entered her mind to disobey. She lifted her mouth and he took it fiercely, holding her head still as he plundered the secrets beyond her lips. She felt his teeth, rasping, scraping the inner surface of her lower lip.
She had no choice but to kiss him back—and not because he demanded it, but because she hungered as he did. Because her whole body yearned.
With a lost cry, she reached for him, clutching his strong shoulders, the need in her rising, answering his. Her tongue met his, twining. She pressed herself against him, offering her body, reckless, on fire…
Then, without warning, he tore his mouth away from her.
Oh, how could he do that? She couldn't bear for it to end. Her need for him seemed to hang there, pulsing like a heart, in the charged air between them.
With another pleading cry, she tried to hold the kiss.
But he kept that from happening, his hands gripping her shoulders. He whispered roughly against her parted lips, "This damn rock's too hard."
She stared at his mouth, dazed, longing for his kiss again—and yet knowing that making love right now would fix nothing, really. Too much remained unresolved between them. Too much begged to be said.
He frowned at her. "Don't even start."
She blinked. "What?"
"Thinking."
"But, Sin—"
He rolled off his side of the rock and reached for her hand. "Come on."
"I don't… Where?"
"To that guest house of yours."
They went in through the back door. He led her to the front room from there. And then he left her in the middle of the floor and dropped into one of her two overstuffed chairs.
His dark gaze ran over her. "Take off that shirt."
She looked down at the front of herself and then back up at him.
"Take it off."
So she did, unbuttoning each button very carefully, her fingers awkward and slow. Finally she had all the buttons undone. She slipped it over her shoulders.
"Let it drop."
The shirt whispered to the floor. "Now the bra."
She reached behind her, undid the clasp. Holding the scrap of lace against her breasts to keep it from falling, she slid the straps down.
"Sophie. Let it go."
She straightened her arms. The bra dropped away. He rose from the chair and approached her, taking her hand, leading her to the sofa. "Lie down." She obeyed. He knelt at her feet, pulled off her boots and her socks. Then his hands found the snap of her jeans, flicked it open, took the zipper down. She stared into his eyes as he peeled the jeans off, taking her underpants with them.
At last, she lay naked to his gaze.
He began to caress her, teasing, arousing—laying claim to every inch of her.
He parted her thighs. His dark head dipped between them. Sensation rolled over her, a wave of fire, consuming as it took her down.
"It's raining," he whispered, his hand at the heart of her again.
She listened to the soft pattering on the roof as her body lifted, opened, invited him once again. She moaned, and the rain went on, soft and insistent as her own hungry sighs.
They went to the bedroom. She helped him undress, her hands working swiftly now, undoing all the buttons, pushing the shirt back and off his hard shoulders.
She wrapped her arms around him, felt the teasing scrape of chest hair against her aching breasts. And then she was sliding down to her knees, parting the fly of those black jeans he wore, eagerly taking him into her mouth.
Sometime later, they lay across the bed.
His lips closed over her breast, drawing deep, pulling the need from inside her once again. He let go, looked into her eyes. "Do you still hear the rain?"
She nodded, her fingers combing through his silky hair, listening to the soft, insistent drumming sound.
His hand strayed down, found her—tender, wet, open. Brazenly ready for him.
He arched a dark brow. "This doesn't solve anything, does it?"
She bit her lip, shook her head—and then cried out as his fingers delved in.
He reached across her, opened the drawer in the nightstand, brought out the small box. With great care, he peeled open the foil wrapper. "Help me."
They lay on their sides, facing each other. He wrapped her leg over his hip. She hitched in a breath as he filled her.
He put his hand on her nape again, held her eyes with his own—and began to move.
When the fulfillment came that time, the words rose inside her, pushing so hard, needing to get out.
She started to say them. "I lov—"
He put his hand on her mouth. "No. Don't. Not tonight…"
"But I—"
"No."
She moaned. The words retreated. All that remained was the two of them, the sweet hot point of connection.
The end came, swift and complete, shuddering outward from the center of her, blotting out everything, even the rain.
>
* * *
Chapter 17
« ^ »
Sin woke right at dawn. He opened his eyes and saw Sophie asleep beside him, the covers pulled close around her against the morning chill.
He wanted to reach for her.
But he didn't.
He shouldn't have seduced her last night. She was already confused when it came to him. What had happened last night would only serve to confuse her further.
He slid to the side and lowered his feet to the floor, careful to disturb the covers as little as possible. Once free of the bed, he gathered up his strewn clothing and crept out to the kitchen. A few minutes later he slipped outside fully dressed.
He tried the back door of the cottage. It was open. Inside, the smells of breakfast greeted him: bacon, coffee, biscuits. Myra stood at the counter by the sink, peeling the rind off half a cantaloupe.
He had a thoroughly sleazy urge to try and slink past her.
Before he could decide whether to act on that urge, she turned and spotted him. "I suppose I don't have to wonder where you've been." She held the half cantaloupe in one hand and brandished a paring knife with the other.
He knew that anything he said at that point would only make things worse. So he gave her a shrug.
She made a sort of tsking sound and waved that knife again. "Are you going to marry that girl or not?"
He shrugged again. "I doubt if she'll have me."
Myra looked at the knife and then at him. She grunted. "All right. Go on with you. Have a hot shower. It looks like you need one."
He turned and made for the stairs.
After his shower, he shaved. He put on clean clothes. By then, twenty minutes had passed since he'd mounted the stairs. He knew he'd lose his mind if he stayed in that room. So he yanked open the door and got out.
Myra was watching for him, standing at the stove this time. "Are you eating with us, then?"
"I'm not hungry." He started for the back door.
She slid her bulk sideways, just enough to block his path. "A man needs a good breakfast."
Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones Page 17
