He stared. "Gone?" His fingers tightened on her arm.
She nodded. "Everything. Of mine, that is. What the flames didn't get, the water did. It's … gone." She said the word again, as if she needed to keep repeating it. "I'm sorry. I … didn't know where to go. A lot of people said I could go home with them. Kristen. Jim. Bette. But—" she shook her head "—I couldn't. I didn't want to be there. I wanted to be … here."
Her voice wobbled on the last word. She looked horrified, as if by admitting it, she was committing a social gaffe.
And so was he, J.D. felt sure, as he thought, Oh, the hell with it, and pulled her into his arms.
It was as close as they'd ever been. Closer than the night she'd brought the cookies. Closer than he had any business being. Way too close for his physical well-being or his mental health.
He didn't give a damn.
Not about himself.
Only about her.
He couldn't not hold her.
Touch mattered. He had told her early on when she got Dancer. "Horses learn they can trust you when you touch them without hurting them. I talk to them through my hands."
Now he was talking to Lydia the same way.
His hands held her, close and sure. He rested his cheek against the side of her head and turned his face toward her so his lips touched her hair. He could still feel her body trembling, could hear the quick shallow thread of her breath. Against his bare chest he could feel the hard, fast pounding of her heart.
Lydia's heart hammered in rhythm with his own. Her fingers, curled into fists, pressed against his sides. Then he felt them uncurl and clutch him, her nails pressing into the muscles of his back. Hanging on.
Hanging on tight.
He stroked her back. He kissed her hair.
"It's good you came," he whispered. "You did right. You should have come. Shhhhh. Hey, I'm here. It's okay. Everything's gonna be all right."
It was the worst possible thing. It was a disaster. Nothing was going to be all right – for him. But right now none of that mattered.
He heard her swallow. Felt her tremble. And then felt the silent sobs that shook her body and the hot scald of tears against his neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered brokenly. Her hair brushed his cheek as she shook her head. "I don't mean … don't mean to do this. Don't want to do … this."
He believed her. He knew her well enough to know she would hate her own weakness. "It's okay," he murmured. "Okay." He rocked her as they stood there, soothed her, comforted her.
Wanted her.
Even then, fool that he was – inappropriate as it was – J.D. couldn't deny it. He shut his eyes. Come on, God. Enough is enough. She doesn't need this tonight.
And neither do I.
Lydia gulped. Her fingers, which had been digging into his back, curled into fists again, as if she were trying to stop herself from hanging on to him. But then, as if the struggle was too great, she flattened them again, hard against his back, holding him closer, harder, tighter.
And J.D. held her – loved her – relished the perversity of the moment that had brought her to him and wondered how long it would last.
How long he would last!
And then far too soon Lydia let out a quick harsh breath and her hands dropped. But still she sagged against him, her head bent, her forehead resting in the curve of his neck for a long moment. And he murmured, he stroked, he soothed.
He stored up every second. Knew he would remember this the way he remembered those most important moments in his life – the first eight seconds he'd ever lasted on a bronc, the night he'd first kissed a girl, the last conversation he had with his mother before her death.
Finally, with one more shaky breath, Lydia pulled back and looked up at him. She had a determined, albeit watery, smile on her lips.
"Thank you." Her voice wavered only a little. She wiped a hand across her eyes. "I didn't mean to collapse on you."
"You didn't." He wanted to keep holding her, but dropped his hands, too. "Hey," he said lightly, his own voice slightly rough. "No problem. Always ready to lend a shoulder to a pretty woman."
Lydia made a face. "Oh, yeah. Real pretty." She shook her head. "Hardly."
He didn't argue with her. She was a lawyer. He wouldn't win.
But to him she was more than pretty. She was beautiful – whether she was sitting across the table, riding on Dancer, lugging lumber, or out on the range watching a mamma cow feeding her calf. And she'd never been more so than she was now, even with blotchy cheeks and red eyes.
And it made him feel marginally better to know that once, at least, Lydia Cochrane had lost control – even if it only happened when a fire virtually wiped out her life.
"I should go," she said now and started for the door.
He grabbed her arm. "Go? Where? You just said your place burned to the ground."
"I know, but … I can't stay here. I wasn't thinking. I was on automatic pilot, I guess. Going where I've been going lately." She gave a shaky laugh.
"You should have come here. You belong here," J.D. said.
"But I can't stay. You're here."
"I'll leave."
"No! No." The second negative was less sharp than the first, but no less firm. She looked straight at him. "I'm not running you out. I've already caused you enough grief."
"I caused my own grief," J.D. said gruffly. "It has nothing to do with you."
"But you don't want me here."
"Of course I do," he lied.
"No, you don't. Tonight you could hardly wait to get rid of me. You were shoving me out the door."
"I was not!"
"Here's your pie. What's your hurry?"
"I was not!"
"You wanted to get rid of me!"
"Because I can't keep my damn hands off you!"
"What?" She stared at him, mouth ajar.
He spun away. "Forget it. Never mind. I can move up to the bunkhouse at Trey's."
"No," she said again. "Don't! Stay! Did you mean … what you said?"
He would stuff both his boots in his mouth before he would say yes. "Leave it, Lydia."
"No. Did you?"
She was standing right behind him now. He could feel her breath against his naked back. One finger touched him, ran the length of his spine.
"J.D.?" The finger still touched him. "Did you mean what you said?"
"Yesssss." The word hissed furiously through his teeth. She drew a breath. "Well, then…" There was a wealth of promise in her words. They were an invitation. A temptation.
And ultimately, if he responded, J.D. knew they'd be his damnation.
Her finger trailed down his spine once more, and he jerked away from her and stalked to the far side of the room.
"I'm not going to bed with you!"
"But—"
"No!" He wanted to shut his eyes, wanted not to have to look at the forlorn, stricken expression on her face. He didn't dare.
He needed all five senses and every brain cell he had working for him to get out of this mess without making a bigger one. A much bigger one.
"Look. Lydia. You can stay here. You should stay here. It's your place to be here. But not with me! Definitely not sleeping with me!"
"I love you."
Oh, Christ. "No, you don't."
"I do. I have … for years!"
"What?" He shook his head. God, this was a nightmare. What the hell was going on? The day had been heaven – all the way up to the end anyway – and now he had this?
"Ever since I saw you riding a pinto when you were fifteen," Lydia said with quiet certainty. She swallowed hard, then went on. "I've loved you since then."
"No, you haven't." J.D. was just as certain. "That's not love. That's … that's teenage girl stuff. That's … crazy."
"Maybe. But it's lasted."
"Well, it's got to stop."
"Why? You said you … you couldn't keep your hands off me." She muttered the words, as if they embarrassed her.
They sure as hell embarrass
ed him! "That's teenage guy stuff," he said. "And, no, I'm not a teenager anymore, but you wouldn't know it from the way I've been actin'." He raked a hand through his hair. "Look, Lydia. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said … what I said. It's just…" But he couldn't find the words. "Men get like this," he ended lamely.
"You're saying it's lust? Hormones? That I could be any woman?"
"No! Yes! I don't know. No, you … couldn't be any woman."
She smiled at him.
"Stop it!"
"Stop what?"
"Smiling!"
"Why?"
"I don't want you smiling! There's nothing to smile about!"
"Of course there is. I'm not any woman." And she kept right on smiling. h fact, her smile seemed to be growing broader. She looked almost happy.
"Hell," he muttered. "I'm leavin'."
But she grabbed his arm as he started toward his room. Caught him and pulled him right against her the way he'd done to her the first night she'd come to the ranch. The way' he'd held her just minutes before. They were face-to-face again. Toe-to-toe. Nose to nose.
"Don't go, J.D."
He didn't move. Barely breathed. Looked into eyes so deep and green he could drown in them. Ached with a need so profound he could die from it.
He wanted to kiss her lips, devour them, strip off her clothes, love her. He wanted to be a part of her, make her a part of him.
And when it was over, what then?
They had no future. If he stayed sane, they wouldn't even grab the moment.
"Don't go."
He shuddered. He bent his head and drew a deep breath.
"Don't go," she insisted.
"I won't go." He gritted his teeth. "But I'm not sleepin' with you."
She just looked at him. Then, "Thank you." she said. And she leaned forward and kissed him.
He swallowed a groan.
"I love you, J.D."
He shut his eyes. "No, you don't."
"I do."
She didn't. She couldn't. Because if she did, God help them both.
* * *
She wasn't sorry.
She'd expected she would be. She'd not only worn her heart on her sleeve, she'd embroidered it bright red and shouted it so he couldn't help but hear.
But she wasn't sorry.
Her passion wasn't unrequited. He'd admitted it. He'd said he couldn't keep his hands off her. Which wasn't a declaration of love, of course, but it was still pretty amazing. And liberating.
The not being able to keep his hands off bit wasn't quite true, though. He managed to do just that.
He took her into the smaller bedroom at the back of the house and together they made up one of the twin beds.
It was the room he'd shared with Gus when they were boys. Nothing much in it had changed, she didn't think. judging from the pictures of high school rodeos and baseball games on the walls and the somewhat threadbare plaid bedspreads that looked about twenty years out of date.
"I'll clear all this junk out tomorrow," he told her.
But she said, "Oh, don't worry. It's interesting. I don't mind it."
"I do," he muttered.
She smiled.
Her apartment had burned down tonight and she couldn't seem to stop smiling. She helped him finish making up the bed, then accepted his offer of some bacon and eggs.
"I'd like to take a shower," she said.
"Sure." He got her a towel and washcloth. "I'll get the bacon cooking."
She watched him as he hurried away. And she said – for the third time that evening, "I love you." She said it softly.
But she meant it.
She couldn't tell if he'd heard.
She didn't mean it.
That nonsense about loving him. She didn't mean it. She was in shock. She'd lost her home tonight. She was destitute, bereft. She didn't know what she was saying.
Dear God, she couldn't mean it? Could she?
He cracked eggs in a pan and laid out rashers of bacon. He tried to think clearly. He couldn't make sense of anything that had happened. His world, pretty unstable anyway lately, seemed to have flipped completely upside down.
Over the sound of the shower he heard her call his name. "J.D.? Can I borrow a shirt?"
"A shirt?"
He turned to see her standing in the hall wearing his bathrobe and – he gulped at the sight of bare legs peeking out beneath it – probably damn little else.
"I need something to put on after my shower. To sleep in," she explained. "I don't have any clothes."
It was not an announcement for the fainthearted.
J.D.'s voice cracked. "I'll get you a shirt. Go on back to the bathroom."
He got her a T-shirt, then grabbed a white long-sleeve dress shirt out of his closet, too. He hadn't worn it since Rance's wedding. Didn't figure he'd wear it again anytime soon. He knocked on the door and stuck them toward her when she opened it a crack.
"Thanks. Um—" she hesitated "—you wouldn't have, um, a pair of … boxers, too?"
His underwear? She wanted to borrow his undershorts?
He nodded numbly. He brought her a pair of boxers. They were plain, serviceable blue. Nothing fancy. Gus had shorts with stripes and stars and livestock on them, "To wow the ladies," he always said.
No one had ever been wowed by J.D.'s undershorts. Certainly no woman had ever borrowed any, either.
Trying not to think about her slipping her legs into his shorts, he went back to the kitchen and burned the bacon. Then he opened the back door and stuck his head out and breathed deeply of the cool night air. Very deeply.
It didn't help.
Nothing helped.
Especially not coming back in to find her standing in the kitchen clad in his long-sleeve shirt, cuffs rolled back, breasts peeking out from the half-unbuttoned neck, and the hems of his blue shorts visible beneath the shirttails.
"I'll go to Billings tomorrow or Great Falls or someplace and get my own stuff," she said. "I'll throw what I have in the wash now, if you don't mind."
His tongue was welded to the roof of his mouth. He could only nod.
"Thanks." She carried her smoky clothes to the small room off the kitchen where the washing machine was. "Do you have anything you want me to put in with them?"
"N-no. No, thanks."
He could see her from where he stood as she opened the lid on the machine and dropped the clothes in. Then she had to bend over to distribute them evenly. The shirttails rose. A shapely rear curved the seat of his shorts.
Was she doing it on purpose? Tempting him to see if he'd crack?
J.D. shut his eyes. He went back outside again. "What are you doing?" Lydia came to the door and peered out.
"Lettin' the smoke out of the kitchen. Go eat your eggs. I made some more bacon. Help yourself."
"You're very kind."
He laughed raggedly. "Yeah, that's me. Kind to the bone."
"Well, you are. That's why I lo—"
"Don't say it!"
She didn't. But she looked at him pityingly.
"Go eat. Then go to bed," he said gruffly. "It's gonna be time to get up in two hours."
He didn't sit with her while she ate. He didn't want to be anywhere near her. He went back in his own bedroom and stretched out on the bed. He shut off the light, but he didn't take off his jeans. He was afraid, given the mood she was in, she might come jump his bones.
And that would be bad? He asked himself. Cripes, Holt, you're an idiot.
Yes, he was. He ought to just take what was on offer.
But he couldn't.
Still, Lydia didn't make it any easier when she finally shut off the kitchen light and padded down the hall. Her footsteps stopped just outside his room, and the door cracked open.
"Good night, J.D."
He didn't answer. He pretended to be asleep.
"See you in the morning," she whispered. She started to close the door, then added softly, "You know, sometimes I can't keep my hands off you."
*
* *
Thank God it was close to shipping time.
If he hadn't had to be gone all hours of the day and night, J.D. didn't know how he would have survived.
As it was, bringing Trey's cattle in and shaping and sorting the herd took all his time. He was there from dawn till dark, now, and would be until the trucks came.
A good thing, too.
He needed breathing room.
He'd thought it had been hard before, when she'd just been around in the evenings, cooking him dinner, working on the stable or corrals with him, doing the washing up.
But that was nothing compared to what it was like once she'd moved in!
It wasn't just Lydia being everywhere he was. It was her shampoo in the shower and her hairbrush by the sink. It was her bra hung on the oven handle to "get dry quick," and her stockings over the shower rod, tangling around him every morning.
Those stockings could drive a man right out of his mind. "I hope you don't mind," she apologized. "I don't know what else to do with them."
Strangle me with them, J.D. thought.
They inspired enough night and daytime fantasies to cause permanent sleep deprivation. Even worse, though, were the visions that began rampaging through his head when he'd opened his drawer and pulled out a neatly folded pair of boxer shorts – the ones he knew had curved around her beautiful rear end.
Getting his jeans on over them had been that morning's challenge. The days since Lydia had moved in were full of them.
He was used to being able to grab something and head out the door without seeing her in the morning.
Not anymore.
"Morning." She smiled at him from where she stood stirring something on the stove. It was exactly what his mother had done thousands of mornings in his life. Lydia looked nothing like his mother.
She looked like a million bucks. And a lawyer. She was wearing a very tailored, professional-looking gray skirt and jacket over a man-tailored long-sleeve white shirt.
He stared.
His shirt? Was she wearing his shirt?
No. It couldn't be.
But he couldn't convince himself it wasn't, either.
And then she confirmed it. "I couldn't find a blouse I liked with this suit, and I have to be in court in Helena this morning, so I borrowed yours."
Numb, J.D. shook his head. "Rather you than me," he said raggedly, "if anybody's gotta wear it to court."
A COWBOY'S SECRET Page 11
