by Cindy Gerard
With a sultry drop of her lashes, she touched a hand to his chest—then brought her knee up hard in his groin.
With a gasping groan, he doubled over, but managed to snag a handful of her hair just before she lunged out of reach.
They fell to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs, shifting satin and a string of muffled curses.
“Just like...old times...” he gritted out between clenched teeth as they wrestled.
With a final roll that landed her on her back beneath him, he pinned her small frame to the floor with the weight of his body and rode out the worst of the pain.
She swore, breathless and bucking beneath him. “You can’t keep me here.”
Now that the pain was lessening, he was beginning to enjoy their little scuffle. “Watch me.”
With a last second dodge of his head, he narrowly avoided the rake of her nails across his cheek. Pinning her hands above her head, he lowered his mouth close to hers.
“You come anywhere near my mouth with your tongue, and so help me, I’ll bite it off.”
She was a fireball and a shrew, and damned if she wasn’t turning him on. He was debating the wisdom of putting her threat to the test when a tickle of awareness shimmied up his spine.
Maddie tuned in to the presence of their audience the same time he did.
They turned their heads in unison, both knowing it wasn’t the cat who had joined them. Sara Jane stood, sleepy-eyed, in the hallway.
“Are you guys playing kissy-face?” She scowled down at them, twisting a long ribbon of hair around her finger.
“Don’t...don’t you think you should go back to bed, sweetheart?” Maddie suggested, her voice tight and high.
Sara shook her head with the sageness of an ancient. “That’s what Daddy used to say when he and Mommy were playing kissy-face.” Her big sigh was wrought with resignation as she turned and padded on her little pink bare feet back to bed.
“So,” Clay said after a lengthy silence in which both of them were far too aware of the fit of their bodies and the heat of the moment. “You wanna play kissy-face?”
Maddie sucked in a deep breath and with concentrated effort leveled a chilling glare. “When cowboys ride cows.”
Four
The clouds had broken by the time the club cab, with Jesse at the wheel and Garrett, with Emma curled up on his lap, reached the Wind River Range and the end of the road.
Garrett preferred to think that Emma had slept through the shift from pickup to horseback with little more than sleepy murmurs and restless sighs. In truth, he knew she was passed out cold.
“You sure she just tied one on?” Jesse glanced over his shoulder, his silhouette one with his horse as they climbed the rugged trail up the side of the mountain. “She’s been out a long time.”
Garrett looked down at the unconscious woman in his arms. Moonlight peeked through the ceiling of towering pine boughs, danced across the dewy soft planes of her face. He’d wrapped a sleeping bag around her to stall a chill from the coolness of the night. Gathering it a little closer to her face, he resettled her on his lap.
“She’s fine,” he said and willed it to be true. Her breathing was even, her sleep peaceful. There was no reason to read it as anything but a combination of exhaustion and wine.
Jesse nodded, tugged his bandanna back up over his lower face to protect it from the slap of tree limbs and set his sights back on the trail.
If Garrett hadn’t been so concerned about getting caught and getting Emma to the cabin, he’d have laughed at the picture they must have made. To an unwary observer, the pair of horses picking their way stealthily up the mountain side mounted by masked riders in black would look like a page out of the annals of history—or a scene from The James Boys Ride Again.
He’d never seriously connected himself to the gene pool that had produced his notorious ancestors. Jesse had always been the one in the family to perpetuate the outlaw image. Still, what he was doing was so far afield from his nature, Garrett couldn’t help but wonder if his connection to Frank and Jesse of old hadn’t played a part in the actions he’d taken tonight.
It was too late to analyze now. He only hoped he hadn’t wallowed around in self-pity for so long that it was too late to save his marriage.
They’d unloaded the horses an hour ago, leaving the truck hidden in a copse of trees, waiting for Jesse’s return. Jesse led the way because Garrett hadn’t wanted to scale the trail along the canyon rim by himself. Not when Emma’s safety was at stake. While the risk was minimal in daylight, under cover of darkness the climb could get tricky.
This was territory all three James boys knew as well as the faces that stared back at them in the mirror each morning. This section of the Wind River Range, with its craggy cliffs and restless wind was ingrained in their psyches. Their affinity for the mountain and the river was as elemental as speech, as basic as pride and honor. Wind River was the place they’d taken for granted as children. It was the place they’d played out their adolescent fantasies. They’d been mountain men here. They’d been outlaws. They’d lived by the Code of the West and ridden with the speed of the wind.
It was a place of memories and reflections—and it was the one place where they still returned to find their centers as men.
The best part of Garrett’s past was here—and as they cleared the summit and began the descent to the valley where the roofline of a distant cabin separated itself from the shadows, he was risking everything on the hope that he’d find the best part of his future here, too.
Emma woke to a sweet breeze, birdsong and the mother of all headaches. Slowly she willed her eyes open—then stared in astonished wonder around her. Everywhere she looked, everything she touched was as alien as it was wonderful.
The comforter under which she slept was old and worn and snugly warm. The bed on which she lay was big and wide and as soft as downy feathers. Flowers—a fresh bouquet of wild irises, goldenrod and buttercups sat on an old oaken bedside table. Wonderful scents drifted in through the open window—clean mountain air, the earthy tang of pine, the brilliance of sunshine. From somewhere in what she’d decided could only be a cabin, the rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and frying bacon wafted on the air and sent her tummy rumbling.
Confused, disoriented, she pressed the pads of her fingertips against her throbbing temples, then stretched experimentally. Except for her head, she seemed to be fine—exhausted but fine—although the only thing familiar, she realized, as she resumed her study of her surroundings, was the white satin nightgown she was wearing.
Above her, open beams framed a vaulted ceiling made of rough-cut logs aged to a golden brown. The walls of what she had decided was a loft bedroom were constructed of the same coarse timbers. The austerity of the loft was broken only by a scattering of framed pictures—one of which was a photograph of two men that looked so old it could have been a tintype. She was trying to pin down why their faces looked vaguely familiar, when she heard the creak of weight on wood.
She jerked her head toward the sound—and saw Garrett standing there.
The sudden rumble of her heart intensified the pounding in her head.
His expression was guarded as he watched her from the top of the stairs that led to the loft and to the bed on which she lay.
A barrage of emotions tumbled through her, fast, fierce and varied. Confusion and disbelief, maybe even a hint of suspicion, tangled with an odd mix of anger and relief. But above them all she felt awareness. Of the look of him. Of the scent of him. Of a damnable wanting that hadn’t died or even diminished after all this time.
She’d seen him like this hundreds of times: barefoot in blue jeans, a mug of coffee in his hand. His shirt had been hastily thrown on, hanging open to frame a broad chest heavily dusted with dark curls. The blue eyes that watched her were intense and brooding. The black hair she’d so ruthlessly shaved was almost back to its usual length and had been brushed through by the restless rake of his fingers.
He was vi
rility personified, strength incarnate, innately sensual. And now, as always, he was so beautiful it made her chest hurt.
He’d been hers once. She’d known him once. She didn’t know the man who watched her now. Just like she was beginning to think she didn’t know who she was anymore—and that uncertainty had become far too recurrent a theme in her life. Now here she was, entrenched in a whole new set of unknowns.
Gathering the quilt to her breast, she eased herself up until she was propped against the headboard. She didn’t know where she was, how she’d gotten here or why an anger that was both justified and warranted had less force than this aching awareness.
“How are you feeling?”
His voice was soft with concern, a gruffly velvet murmur that glided across her skin and made her shiver.
With wary anticipation, she watched as he walked to the bed and sat down a measured distance away. His open shirt not only showcased the tanned width of chest, but the washboard leanness of his belly, where dark curls thickened then delved below his navel and beyond.
With concerted effort she ignored his question, worked past her physical reactions and got right down to the heart of the matter. “What’s going on, Garrett? Where’s Sara?”
“Sara’s fine,” he assured her and offered her the coffee. She hesitated just long enough that he pressed the mug into her hands with a patient smile. “She’s still with Maddie, and they both know you’re with me.”
He sounded so calm. So controlled. Both factors were typical of Garrett—and intimidating now, when she couldn’t calm her thoughts long enough to figure out where she was or how she’d gotten here. Couldn’t control her reactions when the simple shift of the bed beneath his weight turned her insides to warm knots of yearning.
She closed her eyes, searched through the cobwebs clogging her mind. With a groan she remembered the celebration Maddie had proposed they commemorate with a bottle of wine. That memory explained the headache. It also explained why she couldn’t piece together more than misty, fragmented images: Garrett whispering to her in the night; the hum of an engine and the bump of the road; the pleasant scent of leather and horse; moonlight peeking through moving clouds and gently swaying pine boughs.
She let her head drop back against the pillow, willing it all together. “You—last night. You came to Maddie’s. You brought me—” She made a vague gesture that encompassed the cabin and relayed her confusion. The return of the Southern drawl into her speech was telling of her uncertainty. “Here?” she deduced, struggling to regain her composure. “You brought me here from Maddie’s?”
At his slow, confirnaing nod, she narrowed her brows. “I can’t believe she’d willingly let you do that.”
Though he made an effort to stall it, one corner of his mouth lifted with the slightest hint of a grin. “I wouldn’t say she was willing, exactly, but she understood that her permission really didn’t factor into this.”
It took a moment for the implication to settle. When it did, so did an onslaught of memory. She set the coffee mug on the bedside table with a trembling hand, unable to mask her disbelief. “You...kidnapped me?”
He looked away, then back. “If you want to call it that.”
Stunned, shaken, but unable to muster any real fear, she dragged the hair away from her face. “What else would you call it? How could you do that?” Disbelief overrode anger. Both colored her words, just as guilt colored his.
“You didn’t leave me many options.”
“My God...” Still at odds with what he’d done, she sat up straighter, suppressed a groan at the resurgence of pain pounding in her head. “I don’t believe this.”
“If it’s any consolation, I’m having a little trouble believing it myself right about now.” His smile this time was thoughtful, apologetic. “It was one of those it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time sort of things.”
Still in denial, she touched the flat of her hands to her temples as if to hold her head on. “What—were you drunk?”
“No.” Though sheepish, his smile inched a little wider. “But fortunately for me you were or I don’t think I could have pulled it off.”
“Will you stop grinning? This is not funny.”
His expressive face relayed both contrition and concern. “I’m hoping that someday it will be.”
She shook her head—and immediately regretted it Pain lanced behind her eyes. “It’s never going to be funny. What it’s going to be is over. I don’t know what you’re planning, Garrett, but whatever it is, it’s going to happen without me. I want you to take me back to Jackson. Now.”
She told herself it was anger, not fear that drove her. Nothing about Garrett caused her fear—not physically. But she still didn’t want to be alone with him. More to the point, she couldn’t afford to be alone with him. She felt too susceptible to everything about him that had made her love him. Too exposed to the emotions that he could kindle with a look or a smile, or the simple touch of his hand.
Anger wasn’t just the weapon of choice. It was the only one she had against him. She made herself get a good grip on it. Then she wielded it like a club.
“Now, Garrett. I want you to take me back now.”
He gave her a long, solemn look, then rose from the bed. Shoving his hands in his hip pockets, he walked to the window, leaned a shoulder against the wall and stared grimly outside. “We need to talk, Em. That’s not going to happen back in Jackson.”
When he turned toward her, no smile touched his mouth. Not a whisper of humor lit his eyes. “That’s why I brought you here. To give us a few days alone and a clear chance to fix things between us.”
There was no threat in his tone, just gentle determination. A fist squeezed tightly around her heart. She could deal with the determination but not the gentleness.
A weariness born of her pounding head and three months of heartache weighed down her shoulders. Still, she held her ground. “It’s too late to fix anything.”
“Maybe,” he agreed after a long moment. “Maybe you’re right. To tell you the truth, I don’t know what to think anymore. But I do know that I want the chance to try. To have that chance, I had to get you alone.
“Look,” he strode back to the bed and sat down again. Hitching a knee onto the mattress, he angled himself toward her. “I know that stealing you away in the night like this was crazy. I’m not particularly proud of my methods, but like I said, you didn’t leave me many options. So I did what I felt I had to do.”
He was too close, too compelling, and he made it too easy for her to want to give in. She knew only one way to combat the urge to do just that. “Then you’ll understand when I tell you I have to do what I have to do. And that’s get out of here.”
Panicked by his nearness and the effect it had on her, she threw back the covers, swung her feet to the floor and stood. Dizziness, in league with the pain, hit her hard and fast. She swayed, groped for something to hold on to—and found Garrett’s hand. Strong. Steady. Supportive.
She tried to pull away, but her damn knees let her down. Just as they buckled, he scooped her up against him.
“Let go of me.” Fighting him and the desire to let him enfold her in his strength and the comfort he of fered, she pushed against his chest with her fists. “I want to leave,” she ground out with all the conviction she could muster.
“No.” His eyes were suddenly as hard as the body pressed against her. “You want to run.”
She opened her mouth to deny his accusation, but he cut her off with a truth she’d been denying even to herself.
“You want to run from this just like you ran away from our marriage.”
Garrett had been prepared for her anger. He hadn’t planned on his own. Neither had he counted on this swift, hard surge of arousal. It hit him like a blast from a furnace as he held her in his arms.
The contact was an excruciatingly tactile reminder of how much he missed her in his life—how much he needed her in his bed. She was silken heat draped in white satin. She was f
ragrant flesh and sensual woman, as potent as wine to his senses, as provocative as sin to his libido. And dammit, he wanted her back.
Last night when he’d sneaked into her room, he hadn’t been able to resist kissing her. When she’d melted against him, he’d nearly drowned in the flood of desire. Her instant, liquid response had told him she’d wanted him with the need and the fire that had been missing from their marriage even before she’d left him. He could have taken her then.
He could take her now. Right now. And they both knew it.
Every shivery breath she drew quivered with the thready ache of arousal. Every heated inch of flesh pressed against him pulsed with the fevered rush of passion.
He knew how to make her beg. Knew how to make her cry out in pleasure then rescue her from the brink of pain. He knew he could make her his again—if only for this moment.
But a moment would never be enough, and that’s all he would gain if he pushed her too far too soon. She needed more than physical release to heal the hurts she’d been nursing. So did he. Now, more than ever, he needed to remember that.
The unsteadiness of his hands gave away his struggle. The longing in her eyes gave away hers. His sweet, vulnerable Emma was as needy as he was. And as incensed by her body’s response as she was panicked by it.
With cautious control he let out a deep breath. With deliberate care he loosened his hold. Her reaction to that small concession was as volatile as a flash fire. She slammed her fist against his chest and tried to shove him away. He held her fast.
If it was a fight she wanted, she was going to get it—if for no other reason than to keep him from tumbling her back on the bed and plunging them both into the path of a need that grew stronger and more dangerous with every heartbeat.
“Listen to me. Listen to me,” he demanded as she twisted and pushed against him.
She was no match for his physical strength. He used it to his advantage. Holding her easily but with care, he battered her with a steady barrage of words she didn’t want to hear.
