Past Promises

by Jill Marie Landis

  “Not exactly the actions of a man who supposedly hates you.”

  “Don’t look so smug, Myra. And for heaven’s sake don’t start thinking there is anything between us, because I can assure you that I don’t—”

  “My, my, my. How did Shakespeare put it? ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much’?”

  Jess felt herself blush. Myra’s knowing smile set her teeth on edge. “I’ll go get that coffee now.” She hurried out the door before Myra could mention Rory Burnett’s name again.

  Distant thunder in the night,

  Lightning flashes, what a sight,

  Slashes past the eastern hills.

  Four-legged critters hide until

  The quiet rain comes falling down

  Seeping into brittle ground.

  With his left leg casually hooked across the pommel of his saddle, Rory contented himself with memorizing his latest poem while he waited for Jessica to cross the creek bed and rejoin him. They had been scouring the area for remains of her former camp and had actually found quite a few.

  Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He tried to ignore the heat of the July sun as he studied his companion. She sat up unnaturally straight, somehow managing to look like a schoolmarm even in the saddle. He was amazed at how quickly the flesh-and-blood woman he had glimpsed beneath the surface of his proud little paleontologist had disappeared. Gone was the sky-blue calico dress, too large in all the wrong places, but it had set the blue in her eyes dancing. Gone was the streaming fall of golden, unbound hair. In no less than three days she’d turned back into the very businesslike Miss Stanbridge with her high-necked blouse, sturdy shoes, and plain beige skirt. She had lost her confounded spectacles and her silly helmet, which she had temporarily replaced with an old poke bonnet of his mother’s. He noticed she was still wearing his mother’s beads.

  During the three days it had taken Jess to revert to her former self, Rory had a chance to watch her, to memorize every line and curve of her. He loved the way she moved, prim and proper it was true, but ever graceful, sometimes even innocently sensual when she let down her guard or forgot she was not alone. Her fingers were usually stained with ink these days, for she spent long hours rewriting her notes and drawing new maps of the areas she had already surveyed.

  At mealtime, while he contented himself with watching the lace of her shirtwaist collar tickle the underside of her jaw, Jess listened attentively to his conversations with the men. Often she asked polite questions about their work, and he suspected her queries were to bring the others out of their shyness and put them at ease. The first morning she joined them for breakfast, his usually boisterous crew was more than tongue-tied with a female suddenly in their midst.

  After two days the cowhands were more relaxed in her presence, and he knew that to a man they respected her because she was always gracious, reserved, proper.

  The men also saw her as the guardian of Myra Thornton’s person. It was no secret among them that Woody Barrows was smitten with Jessica’s companion, and although he turned five shades of red, he asked the younger woman’s permission to visit Myra—only if chaperoned by three of the others, of course. All the men were trying hard to please their guests. Even Scratchy was scraping together some new culinary surprises. What those surprises consisted of no one could guess, but Rory suspected the changes had something to do with Myra Thornton’s very vocal interest in his recipes.

  At breakfast earlier that morning, Fred Hench had bemoaned the fact that the book they had so enjoyed one afternoon at Zanzibar had been washed away in the flood. Rory hid a smile when Jess quickly glanced his way. Was she thinking about the haunting love poem she had read aloud or the kiss they had exchanged shortly afterward? He didn’t know for certain, but something had set her cheeks afire.

  Never one to run for cover, she had looked directly at Rory when she said, “Yes, Mr. Hench, I’m afraid Mrs. Corelli was carried away with the rest of our things, but I’m sure if you’d enjoy another reading session, Mr. Burnett could find something suitable in the library.”

  Rory promised her he would look.

  He repeated the first stanza of his poem again. As usual, he didn’t know which direction the work would take, but he thought he might dedicate it to Whitey’s memory. As at-home in the saddle as he was the big, overstuffed chair in the parlor, he shifted and looked over his shoulder to be certain Jess was all right She was off her horse, bent to retrieve something off the ground. She’d been collecting items left by the floodwater, stuffing them into a flour sack tied to her saddle. They clinked and clanked as she rode, the bulges against the muslin giving no clue as to their identities.

  That morning, before they headed out he had called Jess into his office to tell her he had sent Gathers with the list of supplies she wanted to the general store in Cortez. What he didn’t tell her was that he didn’t have much cash to spare.

  He was hoping Willie Henson would extend him credit. Jess had stormed into his office, irritated as hell and trying hard not to show it because two days had passed since Whitey’s burial and he hadn’t had time to take her back to the campsite. And even though he was now making good on his promise, she still hadn’t thawed much, even under the hot sun.

  His stomach rumbled like a bobcat’s growl. He stuck his fingers between his teeth and whistled. Jess looked up and waved.

  “I’m hungry,” he shouted across at her. “Let’s eat.”

  Like a homesteader with her face hidden beneath the deep brim of the poke bonnet, Jess cupped her gloved hands about her mouth and shouted back, “Let’s just go a bit farther. We’ve almost reached the site of the old dig.” Without waiting for his agreement, she saddled up, led her horse into the dry creek bed, and cantered off.

  “Damn,” he whispered beneath his breath. “Do I really want to be saddled with a woman like that?”

  Since he couldn’t think of anything else he’d rather be, he kicked his horse and rode after her.

  “I think this is all that’s left of our site,” Jessica said, dismounting again. She went down on one knee beside a dark smear of rock exposed in the silt.

  Knowing they wouldn’t be having their meal until she was good and ready, he swung off of Domino and looked down at the faded sunbonnet. “Bad news?”

  She stood up and brushed at her skirt. All trace of the digging they had done was gone. “I’m afraid so. It looks as if the fragments were dislodged and washed away. By now they are spread all over the creek bed from here to Mexico.”

  “Anything deeper?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, but I think if there was anything significant, it would have been exposed by the tremendous force of the water.”

  “Disappointed?”

  He saw her breasts lift and fall as she gave a silent sigh. “Not really. It would be terribly hard to work here again after what happened to Whitey, but I will if this is the only promise of any sort of find. I’ll map out the area and come back if need be, but I won’t regret a chance to start over somewhere else.” She challenged him with a look. “The mesa, for instance.”

  “Let’s eat.” Reins in hand, he walked over to two flat stones that stood opposite each other. Jess came up behind him as he began to lay out the food Scratchy had packed that morning.

  “Nothing fancy here.” He rummaged in the bag and pulled out some sandwiches, apples, and two hunks of corn bread.

  “Anything will taste good at this point.” She untied the bow at her throat and pulled the hat off. Her sweat-soaked hair stuck to her forehead.

  “Don’t count on it. Some of the boys have bet that even a starving man would find fault with Scratchy’s cooking.”

  She laughed. “I have to admit it is less than palatable.”

  “You’re being kind.” About to hand her a sandwich, he paused. “That’s better.”

 
“What?”

  “That smile.”

  She looked away. “I guess I haven’t had much to smile about lately.”

  “As I recall you didn’t let yourself laugh much even before the flood.” When she refused to pick up his verbal gauntlet, he changed the subject. “July Fourth is in two days. I’ve talked it over with the men and we’ve agreed that our annual Independence Day celebration should go on.”

  “Celebration?”

  He took a bite of his own sandwich, chewed, and then explained. “Every year Pa always held a cookout and rodeo followed by a barn dance for any of the neighboring ranchers and Utes that wanted to attend. We’ve had over seventy-five people come to the Silver Sage for the day. The ladies bring covered dishes, we roast a side of beef, and the men compete in calf roping, bronc busting, and other events. Then we have the dance—of course it’s nothing fancy, just a few fiddlers and guitars in the barn—” He stopped when he saw her frown at the napkin spread over her lap. “If you’re thinking we shouldn’t celebrate this year because of Whitey, well, we all knew how much he was looking forward to it and how disappointed he’d be if we canceled it on account of him, so we decided to hold it in his honor.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” Her blue eyes finally met his as she admitted quietly, “I was just thinking that I’ve never been to a dance.”

  “Never?” Dancing was a part of every celebration, be it a barn raising or a baptism, but when he thought about it, her admission didn’t surprise him any. “No, I guess you wouldn’t do much dancing in a museum basement.” Somehow he couldn’t quite imagine any of the colleagues she so wanted to impress engaging in anything that resembled fun.

  “But, of course, I won’t be there.”

  He had intended to surprise her with the dress from Durango for the occasion. “If that’s because you don’t have anything to wear—”

  “That’s not it at all. I just don’t have time for such frivolity.”

  “You don’t mean to tell me you intend to work that day?”

  “I do indeed.”

  “There’s not a man within miles who’ll miss the rodeo to bring you out here on the Fourth.”

  “Then I’ll work in my room. I have plenty to do.”

  He drew his leg up, planted his boot on the rock, and rested an arm across his knee. “Well, Miss Stanbridge, it’s nice to see you’re back to normal.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “WHAT DO YOU mean by ‘back to normal’?” Jessica picked up her napkin, shook the crumbs out, and began folding it, carefully avoiding eye contact.

  “You’ve put on those stiff, businesslike airs you wear like a suit of armor.”

  She used the neatly folded gingham square to dab at the perspiration across her brow. “All I’m trying to do is concentrate on what I was sent out here to accomplish.” When he didn’t say anything to that, she finally glanced up and caught him at his irritating habit of trying to hide a smile.

  “Is that all?”

  Jessica stood up. “That’s entirely all, Mr. Burnett.”

  “So it’s as bad as all that, is it?”

  “What?” She turned in time to see him stand and move up behind her. Jessica brushed her skirt.

  “It’s bad enough you hardly ever say my name, now we’re back to ‘Mr. Burnett’ again?”

  She swallowed hard. “Since you can’t avoid personal discussion, I’m afraid the time for informality is over.”

  “I don’t think that’s what you’re afraid of, Jess.”

  Still standing with her back to him, she crossed her arms protectively over her breasts. She felt him move closer. Unwilling to appear the coward she knew she was, Jessica stood her ground. She felt him behind her, sensed the heat he radiated.

  When he spoke, his voice was all too near the nape of her neck. She could feel his warm breath across her sweat-dampened skin. “I think you’re afraid of yourself,” he said just loud enough for her to hear.

  An odd warmth crept down her shoulders and somehow wound itself all the way to her breasts. Her nipples hardened into tight, aching buds. A trickle of sweat ran down her temple. She batted it away when it reached the corner of her eye.

  Gathering courage, Jessica knew she had to confront him or he would know he had hit upon the truth. She turned around and looked up into his dark, intense eyes. “I was sent out here to do a job and nothing more. I have no other reason to be here.”

  He took a step toward her.

  She held her ground.

  “I can give you another reason, Jess.”

  “Please . . . don’t.”

  “Don’t what? Don’t make you feel anything? Don’t make you admit to yourself that there’s a real woman underneath all that starched linen and scientific book learning?”

  “Stop it,” she whispered.

  “You’re a flesh-and-blood woman with a need running so deep that you’re not going to be able to deny it much longer.” He reached out for her, and before she could move away, he had his hands on her shoulders. “You’ve been trying to prove yourself in a world of men for so long that you’ve forgotten you’re a woman.”

  She braced herself, put her palms against his chest, and knew instantly it had been a mistake to touch him. She could feel his heart beating through the heel of her hand. Her voice was shaking. “That’s one thing I’ll never be able to forget, because no one will let me, not my esteemed colleagues or you.”

  He was watching her closely, staring, she noticed, at her lips.

  She started trembling, whether in fear or anticipation she didn’t know. She didn’t know if she could bear it if he kissed her again—but could she stand it if he didn’t?

  “If you’re set on making life difficult for me, I’ll find somewhere else to stay and someone else to help me out.”

  “All I’m asking is that you let yourself feel something, Jess, something besides this all-consuming need to succeed.”

  “But—” She could sense her resolve melting away as sure as a candle would melt in the high desert heat. Her elbows unlocked.

  “Aren’t you even curious about what might happen if I kiss you again?” Rory moved closer.

  She licked her dry lips and lied. “No.”

  “You’re fibbing.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  He pulled her close, so close that there was no room for even a breath of breeze to pass between them. “I’ll prove it,” he whispered just before he lowered his lips to hers.

  She lost her grip on the bonnet strings. The faded, gathered material dropped toward the ground until the dry wind lifted it and sent it tumbling slowly toward a clump of sage a few feet away.

  When Jess didn’t resist, Rory pulled her into his arms. He covered her lips with his own and again met no resistance. The way she fit in his arms made him wild for her. Tired of holding back, Rory cursed himself for being as much of a gentleman as he was; still, somewhere deep inside, he knew that he would stop long before he wanted to, knew that he would let her go the minute she insisted—but while Jess remained pliant in his arms he couldn’t help but try to convince her with his hands and his lips that they belonged together.

  The heat and wind picked up as if fueled by their passion. All around them the air sang with the hum of insects. Birds darted through the low brush as here and there a lizard paused to pant and then slip away across the hot ground. Rory’s kiss was fierce, delving, and her lips opened easily beneath his. This time it was as if she knew she couldn’t fight the magic between them any longer.

  Jess slipped her arms around him and held tight. She could feel the strength that emanated from him, enjoyed feeling the whipcord muscles beneath his shirt as he pulled her closer. He was all hard angles where she was soft curves. For that moment in time there was nothing else but the two
of them beneath the wide blue sky and the shimmering waves of heat that rose off the desert floor.

  She clung to him as he bent over her and memorized her with his touch. When his fingertips brushed the underside of her breast, she whimpered against his lips. Wanting more, he cupped her buttocks with his hands and pulled her up against him and felt her accommodate him by rising up on tiptoe.

  Driven to touch her hot, sweat-sheened flesh, Rory tugged her blouse out of the skirt waistband and slipped his hand beneath it. He felt a thin piece of woman’s frippery beneath it and quickly pulled it out of the way. Finally his fingers came in contact with skin, smooth as satin, damp with sweat, as hot as his own.

  She felt his hand, hard, callused, seeking, against her flesh. Even as she lost herself to his caress her analytical mind cried out for her to stop, but her body was out of control. That fact terrified the rational part of her more than anything else. Still, she was powerless to protest as he touched her breast, cupped it, let it mold itself to his palm.

  Rory sighed against her lips. “Oh, God. Oh, Jess.”

  He rubbed his thumb across her nipple and teased it until a sweet, all-consuming ache made her knees weak. She felt her insides melt as a rush of moisture between her thighs shook her so badly that she became frantic.

  When her control was nearly gone, she heard her father’s voice haunting her. Think, Jessica. Think of all you will be throwing away. Think of your good name, of your reputation, the Stanbridge reputation.

  With an agonized groan she managed to pull away and found herself staring into Rory’s smoldering gaze. His hand lingered at her breast. When she fully realized what he was doing, her eyes widened and her lips formed an astonished O.

  His hand slowly slipped away from her breast. His fingertips savored the touch of satin skin along her ribs and then at her waist. Regretfully he drew his hand away. The hem of her blouse hung out of her waistband and fluttered in the breeze.