by Lisa Bingham
“She could borrow some of mine.”
As she stepped outside, Bronte glanced back in time to find Elam and P.D. locked in a passionate embrace.
Bronte felt a surge of longing rush through her body. Dimly, she remembered what it felt like to be held, to be kissed, but it had been so long ago, and she’d been so young. She’d barely been out of high school when she’d met Phillip—and maybe she’d been too naïve to handle the challenges to follow. Phillip had been nearly twelve years her senior. He was already established as a young, hotshot orthopedic surgeon. He had money, success, and drive.
But Bronte had since learned that there were more important qualities to be found in a companion.
“Please, Jace. I’ll give Emily my Hulk pajamas. Let her stay for a sleepover.”
Jace laughed, squeezing his brother’s shoulder. “I don’t think your clothes would fit her, Barry.” He looked over the top of Barry’s head to regard Bronte with warm, silver-blue eyes. “But if you asked nice, I bet Bronte would let Lily and Kari stay for a cup of cocoa. After all, we’ve got to watch the movie Kari was making and give her a chance to post it on Facebook before she leaves the Wi-Fi signal.”
Bronte opened her mouth to refuse, but when she found both of her children regarding her with hopeful expressions, she immediately melted into a big puddle of mommy indulgence.
“I could use a cup of hot chocolate myself,” she said.
The children whooped and ran toward the house.
EIGHT
JACE glanced down at Bronte, finding a curious expression on her face.
“You okay?” he asked, wondering why, more than anything, he wanted to wipe away the crease of concern that marred her brow.
She appeared dazed—as if her thoughts had been a million miles away. Then, a soft smile began in her eyes, spreading out to lift her lips.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”
Somehow, he sensed there was a wealth of meaning behind her statement that he didn’t understand. But then, the crease disappeared altogether.
“Actually, I think I’m great,” she said softly. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
Her shoulders lifted, and damned if he didn’t love the way she looked in his jacket, like a little girl.
No. Not a girl.
She might be slight and slim, but there was no disguising her very womanly shape—even when it was drowned in his Carhartt.
“That was … beautiful. I’m glad my children were able to see it.”
Their steps slowed, then stopped altogether.
Jace felt a slow satisfaction settle through his body. “It never gets old. Each birth is an occasion.”
“You’re a lucky man.”
Jace was pretty sure she was right because the cool breeze was teasing her hair and moonlight kissed her brow, the slender length of her nose, and those lips. She had great lips, full and kissable.
What the hell.
But even as he told himself to slam on the emotional brakes, he knew it was too late. Bronte Cupacek was like no woman he’d ever met—soft, tender, sweet. But there was more to his attraction than that. Yes, his brothers would probably accuse him of being drawn to her because of her vulnerability—and maybe that was true. But he sensed that her troubles had tested her to her very core, and she’d endured it all. Because there was a quiet strength to her manner. One that intrigued him.
Unbidden, he lifted a hand, pushing back one of the dark strands of hair that had escaped the ponytail at her nape. But even after the piece had been tucked behind her ear, he continued to touch her temple, her cheek, the slim column of her neck.
“I can’t stop, Bronte,” he whispered, even though he suspected that she already knew.
He spread his fingers wide, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lips, once, twice.
“I keep telling myself that you’re married—”
“I’m not married. The divorce was official months ago. The marriage … a long, long time ago. And the last of the papers were mailed earlier tonight.” The words were whispered—and he sensed that something had happened in the last couple of days to make her believe them. There was no hesitancy in her tone as there had been the last time she’d spoken of her relationship with her children’s father.
“Tell me if you want me to quit,” Jace murmured, even as he bent down and prayed that she wouldn’t.
“I don’t want you to … quit.”
She smiled and he was lost—lost in her smile, lost in the sweet scent of her hair and the velvety texture of her skin. Then his lips touched hers.
She tasted of cranberries and sunshine, her mouth soft and full. But he didn’t want to frighten her off. So he sipped and tested, reveling in the way that she leaned into him, one hand bracing on his chest—right at the spot where his heart had begun to knock at his sternum.
Still framing her face with one hand, he slid the other around her waist, noting that she was still so thin, almost fragile in his arms. Parting his legs slightly, he drew her against him, wanting to pull her into the safety of his arms, wanting to wash away her worries, if only for a few moments of pleasure.
When she seemed to melt against him, he couldn’t help himself. His tongue bid entrance and was immediately received. Deepening the caress, he tasted her softness, her sweetness even as her own hands swept around his waist and she hooked her fingers into the belt loops of his jeans. Then, they were straining toward one another, hard to soft, male to female.
Instinctively knowing that he had to take things slow, Jace reluctantly drew back, resting his forehead against hers as they both gasped for breath. Somehow, he’d lost his hat. But even though he was manic about keeping it off the ground, he didn’t even bother to look for it. Instead, he tried to think of something to say—knowing that Bodey would have a smooth line that would be appropriate for the situation. But since he couldn’t think of anything, he remained silent, absorbing the warmth of her body, watching the tic of her pulse as it fluttered against her temple.
It could have been seconds, minutes, or hours when she finally took a step back. He let her go only because he feared that if he didn’t, she would flee.
“I, uh … I …”
Obviously, she couldn’t think of anything to say either, and for some reason, he found the fact incredibly endearing.
Nodding toward the house, he said, “Let’s get you warmed up with some hot chocolate before you head home.”
He didn’t mention their kiss—even though it had been a great kiss as kisses went. A part of him wanted to crow from the rooftops that they’d finally succumbed to the temptation that had simmered between them for days, but he resisted the urge.
Instead, he took her hand and laced their fingers together. Then, spying his hat in the grass, he scooped it up and planted it on his head before escorting her into the warmth of the house.
*
FROM his vantage point on the service road, Bodey offered a low whistle.
“So that’s the way the wind blows,” he murmured.
His arm was draped over Ceci Kroener’s shoulder, where it had been for the last hour while they’d talked and kissed beneath a row of towering poplars.
“I wouldn’t jump to any conclusions yet,” Ceci said. “From what I’ve heard, they’ve known each other for over six months, and Jace has been slow to do anything but watch her three children at night.”
“I see the grapevine has been hard at work,” Bodey said ruefully, instantly catching the inaccuracies in her statement. Ceci, who worked at one of the local beauty shops, had her pulse squarely on the town gossip, but as usual, the stories were exaggerated with each telling.
“Even so, I wouldn’t trust what you’ve heard. Bronte has only been in town a little over a week, she and Jace did not know each other beforehand, and the woman has two children, not three. You can’t blame the man for taking things slow.” He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Remember our first weeks?”
He loved the way
her cheeks flushed with color. He knew what she was thinking. Unlike most of the girls he’d dated, Ceci had played hard to get at first. She’d said he was the kind of guy who couldn’t maintain a relationship for more than a month, so why should she have anything to do with him? But, even though her estimation of his staying power was completely correct, Bodey had changed her mind about indulging in a quick, passionate fling within a couple of dates. After that, they’d hooked up anytime they could.
“That was different,” Ceci argued.
“In what way?”
She grimaced, admitting, “I knew the first second I saw you that I’d have a hard time keeping my hands off you.”
“I was irresistible,” Bodey drawled.
Ceci elbowed him hard enough in the stomach that his breath escaped in a comical “oof!”
She shot him a pithy look. “Somehow, I doubt a woman who has traveled cross-country from Boston with everything she owns in her van is in an emotional place where she would tumble headlong into a romance. And there are children involved.”
“Wow. On that point, the grapevine is being more accurate than usual. Her girls seem nice enough.”
“I’m not just talking about the girls.”
Bodey met her gaze, realizing that Ceci was also talking about Barry. “My brother isn’t that big a deal. Elam has already made it clear to Jace that Barry can live with him. If Jace wanted, Barry and I could even move to the Little House and I could take care of him.”
Ceci rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t keep a hamster alive, Bodey. Besides, Barry is used to Jace being in the parental role. Your baby brother loves spending time with you—he’d love living with you. But I think he would soon begin to pine for Jace if he weren’t around.”
“Hell, the tongues must have been wagging like crazy at the Kut ‘N Kurl.”
But Bodey had to concede that she was right. Bodey was Barry’s buddy and Elam’s role was what it had always been—that of a big brother. But Jace … he straddled the line between brother and parent.
“I’m still rooting for them,” Bodey said, his lips against her ear. “Jace deserves someone special in his life.” He tightened his arms even more. “Someone who will tempt him the way you tempt me.”
He watched a wistful smile spread over her face. One that wasn’t completely happy. Then Ceci sighed and met his gaze head-on.
“Come on, Bodey. Now you’re trying too hard.” She offered him a crooked grin. “We both know that, for the past week, we’ve been slipping into ‘friend’ mode.”
Bodey opened his mouth to insist she was wrong, that he still counted the hours until he could be with her.
But staring down into a gaze that was a mixture of compassion and regret, he realized that Jace wasn’t the only Taggart who’d been discussed at the shampoo sinks.
“Ah, hell,” he muttered under his breath. In an instant, his posture sagged and the arm around Ceci’s shoulders became that of a brother.
Ceci patted him on the thigh. “Don’t worry about it, Bodey. We had a good run—longer than most girls you’ve dated.”
Embarrassed, Bodey rubbed at the spot between his brows. “Look, I didn’t start dating you with some kind of expiration date in mind.”
“I know.”
“Truth be told, I’d love to have someone steady in my life. Like Elam has P.D. But I can’t seem to … sustain a relationship.”
“I know.” Ceci grinned. “Cheer up. Now you can play the field again.”
Yeah. Whoop-ee.
Normally, Bodey didn’t let his fickleness bother him. He was still young and sowing some wild oats. But seeing Jace and Bronte kissing in the darkness had brought out all sorts of feelings of inadequacy. Bodey loved women—he loved everything about them. He simply didn’t seem to have the right genes to give him some sticking power. And after Elam and P.D.’s courtship had shown him how a real relationship should work …
He was beginning to think that something inside of him, some emotional means of bonding with a woman, was broken.
“I think you’d better take me home,” Ceci said.
Bodey opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Ceci was right—and Bodey owed it to her not to try to draw things out when she was clearly ready to move on.
*
IF Jace had thought that the rest of the evening would match the magic of his first kiss with Bronte Cupacek, he was sadly mistaken. As soon as they walked through the door, Kari looked up from her mug, caught their linked hands, and scowled.
Suddenly, it was as if a bomb of chaos detonated. Kari jumped to her feet, shouting, “Is this why we came here from Boston? So you could cheat on Daddy?”
Lily, who’d been carrying her hot cocoa from the microwave to the table, lost her grip. The mug crashed to the floor, shattering, and splattering her legs with the scalding liquid. She began to sob, piteously, huge tears rolling down her cheeks. When Barry tried to move to comfort her, she screamed, “Get away from me. Get away from me! Get away from me!”
Jace watched the blood drain from Bronte’s face. She staggered slightly, snatching her hand away from his, and rushed toward Lily. Grabbing a dishcloth from the counter, she tried to clean up the mess, but Lily dodged away from her, running outside.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Kari said, her voice dripping with vitriol. “You’ve ruined everything! We never should have come here. Never!”
She ran out of the room behind her sister, slamming the door behind her. Barry tried to follow them, but Jace caught him around the waist. “No, Barry!”
“I have to go find Emily,” he sobbed, huge tears running down his cheeks. “She’s sad. She needs me.”
“They need their mom, Barry.”
Barry turned to Bronte, and before Jace could stop him, he said, “You’re mean. Why did you make Emily cry? Why did you come here if you were going to make her cry?”
He ripped free from Jace’s grip, this time running through the kitchen and into the family room.
Bronte stood gripping the dish towel, her eyes sparkling with tears. But as the swinging door slapped into place, she knelt to wipe up the spilled cocoa.
“No, Bronte. I can get that.” Jace moved to pull her up, but she shook her head, carefully mopping up every drop. Then, after gathering the broken pieces of the mug in her hand, she set the cloth in the sink with more care than it deserved and threw the crockery into the garbage.
“Thank you, Jace. For taking care of my children these past few nights.”
Then, before he could say anything more, she shrugged out of his jacket and walked outside, intent on finding her girls.
*
BRONTE lay curled in a near fetal position in her grandmother’s bed. Her head pounded and her eyes were swollen and sore from crying. But worst of all, her heart ached in tandem with her children’s.
What a mess. What an absolute mess. In the past few hours, she’d tried to talk to her children about the divorce, about why they’d come to Utah. She’d tried to keep things as upbeat and general as possible.
Your father and I have grown apart.
This is a fresh start for all of us.
Her explanations sounded weak and halfhearted even to Bronte. But she couldn’t force herself to shatter the last of their illusions by sharing the ugliness of the whole truth.
Your father is a drug addict. He’s been an addict for years. I tried to help him, but he’s become irrational and violent. When he threatened your safety, I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—live through one more day of fear.
From its spot on the bedside table, her cell phone chirped, signaling that she’d received a text.
Her eyes squeezed shut and she battled against the pressure building in her chest. Trust Phillip to continue his never-ending campaign to harass her. Since she’d insisted on a formal separation several years ago, his messages followed a familiar, sickening cycle: a request for money or time with the girls or a reconciliation, followed by flattery, sharp-edged cajoling, bitter
complaints, then acid recrimination, and finally threats. At first she’d read them all, blaming herself for not being kind enough, patient enough, loving enough—until he’d torn down every shred of self-respect that she’d been able to scrape together.
Early on, she’d blamed herself for not seeing the signs, for not knowing that her husband had begun to depend on the painkillers prescribed by a colleague for a knee injury, that he’d then begun to “self-medicate” with samples from his clinic, then with forged prescriptions, then whatever street drugs he could score. By the time her suspicions were finally confirmed, his medical license was in jeopardy and their home life was in turmoil. So they’d agreed he would go to rehab.
Within a few months of his return, things began to slip again, expensive items in their home disappeared as he pawned them for cash. Soon, he was missing appointments at work, or she would find him passed out on the bathroom floor. Which led to another rehab … and another … and another. Before long, Phillip’s relapses were occurring within days of his return from the treatment centers, then hours.
It was at that point that Bronte had insisted on the formal separation. She needed to get her children away from the toxic environment that Phillip’s addiction created—and she’d thought that the threat of losing his family would finally shock him into sobriety.
But he’d loved the promise of euphoria more than he’d ever loved any of them.
Her phone chirped again and she growled, snatching it from the table. She’d divorced him, damnit—and she didn’t need to worry how her children would react to the news because they’d already made their feelings clear. They hated her for not sticking things out, for not trying harder, for dragging them halfway across the country, for—
She was about to turn the phone off when she caught sight of the number. It wasn’t one she recognized, and the area code was from Utah.
Bronte hesitated before touching the notice to see the entire text.
R U OK?
The previous message was the same.
