Still Close to Heaven

by Maureen Child

  His fingers trailed along the inside of her thigh and neared her center. Damp heat coursed through her in response to his caresses, and she held her breath, sure she would explode if he touched her… there.

  Then he did. And she didn’t.

  Jackson bit back a groan as he smoothed his fingertips gently over her tender flesh. She bucked beneath him, and a low moan sighed from her throat. Lifting his head from the breast he wanted to suckle forever, he lifted himself up on one elbow and looked down into her face. Pale moonlight washed the room in a silvery glow. Her honey-colored hair gleamed against the white sheets. Her porcelain skin seemed to shimmer when he touched her.

  His gaze moved over her, slowly, lovingly. He wanted to commit every inch of her to memory. He wanted to know her body so well that all he would have to do is close his eyes and she would be there. With him.

  Always.

  Her small, perfect breasts with their rosebud nipples called to him, and he dipped his head long enough to sip at them. He smiled to himself when she shivered.

  His thumb traced across the nest of blond curls at the joining of her thighs, and his groin hardened beyond the point of pain. Now, there was only a throbbing, insistent ache that clamored to be eased. He turned his head to watch as his hand slipped down between her legs to cup the damp heat he craved more than life itself.

  No, he corrected himself as one finger dipped inside her. This was life. Being with Rachel. Swallowing her sighs and bathing himself in her warmth was life. The only life he wanted.

  Or cared about.

  She planted her feet on the mattress and lifted her hips into his hand. Leaning over her, he kissed her gently then pulled his head back to watch her face. He wanted to see completion streak across her features. He wanted to look into her eyes and know that he'd at last done something right.

  "Rachel," he whispered. "Look at me."

  She shook her head from side to side.

  "Open your eyes, sweetheart."

  Deliberately, he inserted two fingers into her depths and the invasion startled her eyes wide open. She looked up at him, and he stared back into the blue gaze that would follow him through eternity.

  "I want to watch you as I love you."

  "Jackson," she said on a choked moan, "something's happening to me."

  "I know, love," he reassured her and leaned down to plant a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth.

  She reached for him, her hands grabbing at his shoulders.

  His thumb stroked the bud of her sex, and she clutched at him desperately.

  "Hold on tight, Rachel. I won't let you go."

  His fingers moved in and out of her heat, slowly at first, then faster, harder. He accommodated his movements to her needs, watching her face for the clues to what she wanted. Craved.

  Her hips rocked against his hand, and his body screamed to be a part of hers. His thumb continued to stroke, caress her most sensitive spot until he saw her breath catch. She lifted her hips again, higher this time, straining toward him, reaching for the completion he knew was just beginning.

  Her tight, hot sheath convulsed around his hand, squeezing him as the tremors of satisfaction shook her. She cried his name out loud and as the last of her climax rippled through her, he claimed her sighs in a soul searing kiss.

  Several moments passed before he lifted his head and looked down into her eyes. She smiled, shivered, and said, "Jackson, that was wonderful. I didn’t know it would be so —"

  "I know," he cut her off because he did know. Never before had he been more interested in a woman’s satisfaction than his own. Never once had he put off his own gratification in favor of pleasing the woman in his bed. Now though, even if he left this room with his body as hard and aching as it was at that moment, he wouldn’t regret a thing.

  "We’re not finished," she asked softly. "Are we?"

  "Greedy girl," he answered with a chuckle.

  But she didn’t return his smile. Instead, she nodded. "I do feel greedy, Jackson. I want everything. I want to hold you, feel your skin against mine. I want to know what it is to have you become a part of me."

  His chin dropped to his chest. What had he ever done to deserve a woman like this? The answer came rushing back to him. Nothing. He didn't deserve her. And his Hell would be knowing for eternity that he would never have her.

  Except for now. For whatever time they could snatch for themselves before he was sent away.

  Her fingers reached for his shirt buttons. He watched her for a long moment, then brushed her hands aside and yanked the shirt off, sending buttons flying about the shadowy room.

  She smiled and lifted one hand to stroke his chest. Her touch sent lightning-like jabs of desire streaking through him. He bit back a groan and eased off the bed.

  Rachel lay in the center of the mattress, wearing nothing but an opened chemise and a welcoming smile. She watched him, making his movements clumsy. Hurriedly, Jackson yanked off his boots, then stripped, tossing his clothes to the floor.

  He saw her gaze drop to the hard, thick length of him. Her eyes widened slightly.

  "I won’t hurt you," he said softly.

  "I know that," she answered, opening her arms to him.

  He knelt between her parted thighs and leaned over her. Her hands smoothed across his back, and he felt her touch burn through his flesh right down to the bone. Jackson kissed her, long and slow, caressing her tongue with his, darting in and out of her mouth in a tease of things to come.

  Her palms slid down his back to his hips and the backs of his thighs. He arched into her, brushing the tip of his shaft against her still sensitive flesh. She groaned, lifting her hips slightly.

  Unable to wait another moment, Jackson sat pack on his haunches and parted her thighs farther. Gently, his fingertips opened her damp, pink flesh to ease his entry.

  As he pushed himself inside, inch by tantalizing inch, he stroked the hard bud of her pleasure. Every soft moan that escaped her fed his own needs and desires. She fanned the flames consuming him until they were both caught in an inferno from which there was only one escape.

  Rachel tugged at his thighs, silently urging him closer.

  Deeper. Jackson surrendered and pushed through the final barrier within. She gasped loudly at the jolt of discomfort, but almost immediately began to writhe and twist beneath him.

  Lost in a world of sensation, Jackson rocked his hips against hers. Again and again, he plunged deeper inside her.

  She lifted her legs to wrap about his waist and she locked her ankles together, holding him to her.

  He reached down, slipping one hand between their bodies to find the core of her. As his body tightened into an almost unbearable tension, he ushered Rachel over the edge of pleasure again. Her body cushioned his as he emptied himself inside her and then together, they drifted through the soft haze of completion.

  #

  "Have you seen Rachel?" Mavis looked past Hester to scan the crowd again. But it was no use. She hadn't seen her friend in more than an hour.

  "No," Hester said and glanced up at Charlie. "But we've been dancing."

  "Gettin' better at it too, I think," he said and took her hand in his.

  "I can't imagine where she could have gone," Mavis went on, talking more to Sam now, since Hester and Charlie seemed too involved in each other to notice anyone else.

  "Maybe she got tired and went home," Sam offered and draped one arm around her.

  "Rachel?" Mavis laughed gently and laid her head down on his shoulder. "Rachel never gets tired, Sam." She straightened up abruptly and looked at him as a new idea occurred to her. "Maybe she’s sick. Or hurt."

  "Oh my," Hester gasped, "do you think so?"

  Sam met Charlie's gaze and shook his head before talking to Mavis. "She's not sick. Or hurt. Or dying. Or even missing."

  "But Sam…"

  "Honey, Rachel’s all grown up. She doesn’t need you worrying over her like she's a child."

  "But —"

  "Beside
s," Sam winked, "I saw her and Jackson slipping away to the shadows after that little fracas on the dance floor."

  "You did?" Mavis shot Hester a quick, thoughtful look. "I sure did, and it didn’t look to me like they were wanting company."

  "Rachel and Jackson?" she asked.

  "Sure." Sam grabbed her hand and turned her toward the dance floor.

  "But she never said a word to me," Mavis said, almost pouting.

  He tipped her chin up and dropped a quick kiss on her mouth before grinning. "And you never said a word to me in five long, wasted years."

  Mavis blushed prettily.

  "Hester," Charlie said. "Why don’t we go try out that dance floor again?"

  Hester looked at him, then to Mavis. "If you think we should go find Rachel, just come and tell me."

  Mavis nodded as she watched Hester, a new spring in her step, move off with her beau.

  "Let's not go off half-cocked looking for Rachel and Jackson, honey," Sam whispered in her ear and she shivered as his breath teased her skin. "Maybe if they get enough time alone, she'll be able to hog-tie that man into sticking around town."

  "That would be nice," Mavis said.

  "Sure would," her fiancée agreed. "Him and me could make our fortunes building houses and such."

  Sam went on, but Mavis wasn’t listening. Instead, she was thinking how perfect everything would be if Rachel fell in love with Jackson.

  Then, they would all be happy.

  Except Sally, she thought with a pang of guilt. Even now, Sally was at home alone. She claimed to enjoy the chance to put her feet up more than having her toes stomped on by some man. But Mavis knew her friend had stayed away because she had no escort.

  It had been different before.

  The four of them had attended socials together. United in their spinsterhood. Yet, Mavis wouldn't trade the miracle of Sam for anything.

  Besides, Sally wouldn’t be lonely much longer. With three friends looking out for her, the town laundress would probably be married by the end of the year.

  Smiling up at the man beside her, Mavis took a quick moment to count her blessings again. How it had happened, she would never know. But she wasn't one to question good fortune.

  "So," Sam said with another slow wink, "shall we get out there and show ol ' Charlie how real dancing is done?"

  She nodded and tucked her hand through the crook of his arm.

  "You know, Mavis," he said as he led her through the crowd, "this is the best town social I’ve ever been to."

  "Yes," she agreed. "I just wish Rachel was here having a good time with the rest of us."

  #

  Rachel cuddled in close to Jackson, resting her head on his chest. His arms wrapped tightly around her, his deep, even breathing told her he had fallen asleep.

  Muted sounds from the social came to her through the partially opened window and she hoped her friends were enjoying their evening as much as she had. Everything was perfect, she thought. Or, it would have been. If only Jackson's heart were beating.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The first hint of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky, thrusting rose pink fingers up through the clouds. Sally shivered, drew her thick, white shawl higher about her shoulders, and stepped up onto the dance floor. She kicked at a fallen Japanese lantern, and the toe of her shoe pierced its fragile paper skin.

  Pulling her foot free, she took a step, then another, more quietly. In the early morning hush, even her own breathing sounded overly loud. A quick glance at the buildings lining each side of Main Street reassured her that the town was still sleeping. No doubt, everyone but her would be getting a late start on their day because of the party the night before.

  Quickly, she let her gaze slide over the remnants of the town social. Tables and chairs, still littered with dirty plates and cups, were sprinkled around the outside edge of the dance floor. Paper bunting, limp now with morning dew, sagged like a tired old man. She walked slowly, stepping over another lantern that had fallen from the wire still strung from one side of the street to the other.

  Her foot came down on something soft, and she paused to look. A half smile touched her lips briefly as she bent down to pick up the crushed rosebud. A straight pin stuck out from its stem, and Sally knew that the night before, that rose had been pinned to someone's dress. A man’s gift to his lady.

  She inhaled the still-heady fragrance as she straightened up. Running the tip of one finger over the damaged petals, she couldn't help wondering who had lost it so carelessly. Sally sighed and tucked the bent stem into a button hole at the neck of her plain white shirtwaist, then secured it with the pin. She glanced at the blood red blossom and smiled sadly.

  She felt a bit like that damaged flower.

  Worn, bruised, and forgotten.

  A strangled half-chuckle shot from her throat at the thought. Surely she wasn’t feeling that sorry for herself? Town social or no, her life hadn't ended because she had spent the evening at home, alone. In fact, nothing really had changed. At least, not for her.

  But perhaps that was what was wrong. Nothing had changed for Sally Wiley.

  Mavis and Hester had found good men to love them.

  Rachel was more and more involved with the cousin who had turned up out of nowhere.

  But Sally's life just went slumbering on.

  She inhaled sharply, shook her head, and lifted her chin. Enough of that, she told herself sternly. She had never been one to indulge in self-pity and she surely wasn’t going to start now.

  She glanced around her again, making absolutely sure that no one in town was stirring. Then lifting her arms to an invisible partner, she began to dance.

  Lightly, gently, her feet moved on the floorboards, making no more than a whisper of sound. She closed her eyes, leaned her head back and imagined a tall, handsome man smiling down at her. He had dark hair, flashing blue eyes, and she knew if he spoke, his voice would roll with a soft Irish brogue.

  Her dance came to a sudden stop. Stunned at the image her mind had painted, her eyes flew open.

  "O'Hara?" she whispered.

  "I didn't mean to sneak up on ya, darlin'."

  She gasped and spun around. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she had conjured him out of thin air.

  He stepped up onto the dance platform, his arms wrapped around a heavy canvas sack. "You’re a good dancer, Sally love."

  Her gaze fixed on that sack, she shook her head. "None of your blarney, Mike O'Hara. It won't help you. I'm not taking that laundry from you until next week."

  He looked down, then up at her again before giving her a smile. "’Tis not what you think."

  "What I think is, you need a keeper." Sally countered quickly. Turning her back on him, she marched to the edge of the dance floor and stepped off, headed for her shop. "Surely there's someone who can see to it you don’t go through so many clothes."

  As she walked, her skirt snapping around her legs, she heard him following.

  "Sally," he said, his voice sounding like a shout in the quiet.

  She turned on him and laid one finger against her lips. "Keep quiet! Would you have the whole town up and listening to you?"

  Mike came to a dead stop not three feet from her. Shifting his burden to a more comfortable position, he glared at her, then said even louder. "I don't care who's listen in', woman!"

  Sally flinched, tossed a glance at the closest building, then gave him a look that could have frosted a lake. "Don't you take that 'Bull of the Range' tone with me, Mike O’Hara," she said in an outraged hush. "I won’t stand still for it. Now, like I said, I'm not taking any more of your laundry until next week. So you might as well just ride into Seattle and find yourself some other poor laundress to work half to death."

  "By Saint Patrick's staff, you are the most…" His mouth snapped shut as if he couldn’t think of the words needed to describe her.

  "Thank you." She smiled acidly, then showed him her back as she marched on to her shop.


  "I've just come from Seattle, woman," he called out after her.

  She slowed her pace a bit, but kept walking.

  His heavy footsteps pounded against the dirt as he came up behind her. "Do ya not have the decency to stand still and let me say me piece?"

  Apparently, the only way to shut him up was to let him say whatever it was he'd come to say. She stopped suddenly, and he crashed right into her. Sally staggered, caught her balance, then tipped her head back to look up at him.

  "Well? I'm waiting. What is it?"

  Now that he had her attention, he seemed unsure of himself. Almost worried. But that couldn't be, she told herself. The burly Irishman was nothing if not confident.

  Not many men could have come to a strange country and in less than ten years built a ranch to rival anyone's.

  "I tried to get back last night," he finally said and bent to rest the sack' s bottom against the dirt. He shrugged his broad shoulders as if working out the kinks in his body.

  Sally deliberately looked away from the shifting muscles hidden beneath his dark blue shirt.

  "But," he went on, "me horse threw a shoe and the bloody blacksmith couldn’t get to it until early this morning."

  She glanced at the sky. The rising sun had lightened it to a soft pink. He must have had the blacksmith up and working at four this morning to be able to get back to Stillwater in time for the dawn.

  What could have been so important?

  "Did ya have a nice time at the social, Sally love?" She stiffened. "I didn’t attend," she said. "But judging by the noise, everyone else had a lovely time."

  He frowned slightly. "Well, I'd hoped to escort you to the doings last night, so I'm sorry you missed it. But I must tell ya, I'm not a bit sorry you didn't go with someone else."

  "What?" Completely puzzled now, she looked up in to eyes the color of his shirt. What did he mean, he had wanted to escort her? He had never asked her. As far as she could remember, he had never even considered her as anything more than a cleaning agent for his clothes.

  "Aye well," he said and cleared his throat. "I’m ahead of meself, aren't I?"