Tag kissed Liberty awake when the horizon to the east had just begun to lighten with dawn. His lips were soft and his body was warm—he’d already been to the shower.
He held her head, his gaze meeting hers, evaluating, she knew. “What would you normally do,” he asked, “on a pretty Sunday morning? After your man made sweet love to you and you had the day ahead to spend as you wanted?”
She smiled, because she’d already gathered that part, hadn’t she? That however she spent her day, it wasn’t going to start until he’d taken some time with her.
Because his hand was roving over her, spreading its heat like it always did. It slid down to cup her neck, his thumb brushing over her pulse. No doubt, he was feeling the leap of it as his kiss ramped up and his thigh pressed between hers. Then along her shoulder, skimming over her upper arm before finding its way back to where he wanted it. Where she wanted it. To her breast. Holding her, lifting, lightly squeezing. His thumb at her nipple now, circling, rubbing.
Keeping those brown eyes soft on her, he did it all. Turning her on, making her yearn. Driving her up until she was pleading again, needing. Filling her then, still watching her, holding her gaze leashed with his. Touching her, inciting her, using those magic fingers until, at the end, they were twined with hers, grasping hard, clutching, while their breaths caught and their bodies surged and he took them over.
He closed his eyes only for those last seconds, when he held her hard and came, spurting into her. Relishing the pleasure of it, she knew, the male satisfaction of filling her with his seed, that ultimate emblem of possession.
He sighed out his pleasure, slowly loosening his grasp on her, letting his head fall beside hers. They stayed like that for many minutes, Liberty’s arms softly around his wonderful shoulders, her body so…pleased and satisfied. Their breathing slowly eased. Finally, he kissed her again, drew out of her, rolled over, and pulled her up alongside him.
“So, you were saying…”
“Was I?” she asked, smiling.
“How you’d spend your day.”
She settled her head into his shoulder. “Well,” she said. “Vacation week, so no class prep. Not until next weekend, anyway. So, I’d…write. The new score I’m working on. Take some breaks for exercise—the gym sometimes, or a hike. Yoga.”
“Tell me about the new score.”
“A friend wrote the book for this one. It’s…a little dark, but hopeful. Post-World War II, friends who’d fought side by side, finding they don’t fit into their old lives anymore.”
“The book—that’s like…”
“The storyline, the dialogue. A musical has that—the story—and the score.”
“And dancing.”
He’d liked that, last night, she knew. Not so much dancing himself as…watching her do it around him. “Yeah. That’s the choreographer’s job. It pretty much comes last. At least, if you’re working geographically distant, like Marty and I are.”
“Marty’s your…friend.”
“Yeah.”
“Any chance he’s…”
She smiled into his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“Really?” Tag asked. “He’s gay?”
“He’s black. I thought that’s what we were talking about.”
“Oh.” Dammit.
Liberty could hear the curse even if he didn’t say it out loud.
She laughed. “All right. He’s gay, too.”
He slapped her butt for that, but kissed her forehead, too. “That’s good. I like that.” A lot.
More words he didn’t need to say out loud for her to hear.
“Do you need a desk? Office space?”
She shook her head, knowing he’d feel it against his chest. “Have you not seen my crazy-cool piano?”
He squeezed her hard, possessive again. “Good. We’ll do that, then? I’ve got some office work to do and chores outside. We’ll see what Ry rustles up for breakfast, get some work done, then…take a ride. Or hike. Whatever you’d like.”
He wanted her to see how it could be, would be, with her living on the ranch with him. Making it as attractive as possible—which it very much was—but not dissembling either. He had work. She could do her work, too, that creative effort she loved so much but found so little time for in her current life. He’d make space for it—physically, if she needed it. Providing the piano for it, which truly was no small deal. Giving her time for it, too. Like he valued it, wanted it for her.
Valued her.
And they’d have time to spend together. He’d make room in his life for her, because she was important to him.
It was all so very tempting.
But she wasn’t naïve, and she knew there were issues. The Harper brothers had seemed to make a life they intended to live together. They shared the ranch, and they’d clearly built their lovely home with the plan that it would accommodate all three of them.
They’d already demonstrated—twice, so far—that bringing a woman into the mix was, well, problematic, to say the least.
Kira and Jilly hadn’t found and kept a place on the ranch for themselves.
Liberty had to wonder if it could be different for her.
Or, maybe, different for Tag. She didn’t know if he’d had doubts about the two women—though Orion appeared to think so. She didn’t think he’d have said it, if he did, or do anything but support his brothers and their choice of women.
But maybe it would matter that she was Tag’s choice. He wasn’t exactly egalitarian with his brothers, not quite. He was the oldest, and, though he didn’t, as far as she could see, really throw his weight around, she knew that his word, his opinion meant a lot to his brothers.
His choice counted.
Chapter Six
The week followed in essentially the pattern Tag had set, and Liberty enjoyed it immensely.
He made love to her every night. There had been a couple times when it might not have happened, nights when he was especially fatigued from the physical work of his days, or following the afternoon when he’d ridden with her to the watering hole he and Keegan had finished, laid a blanket out there, and made love to her in the almost-warmth of the sun.
But she was there with him in his bed, and she knew he was at least as aware as she was of how few days they had together, and, so, intended or not, inevitably, they’d come together.
Tag was an inventive, determined, somewhat dominant lover. Liberty would never have considered herself a submissive woman, but she gave him free rein. Full use of her body. Because…it was good. So good.
One night, he tied her—a silk ribbon around her wrists, fastened some invisible place on the platform of his bed. He used her then in every way. Heaving over her to thrust into her mouth, pushing down her throat. Kneeling over her, flicking sharply at her nipples and clit, holding her helpless between the bindings and his weight, until she bucked and screamed out her orgasm. Fucking her then, lifting her legs up, stretching her so far, so her pussy was open and vulnerable and all for him. Using his mouth first until she cried with it, then sinking into her, shoving his cock in hard, lifted above her so he could watch as he thrust in and drove her over again.
Flipping her and finishing in her ass, just like he loved. Slapping her, spanking first, so she was burning, before he penetrated. Then fucking into her like that was all that mattered, his own desire, his own need. Letting her hover, letting her stew at the end, not quite giving her what she needed. Leaving her like she was done, because he was.
Until, silently, he turned her once more. Sitting beside her, watching almost dispassionately, he took her clit between thumb and finger. Keeping her tied, not otherwise touching her, he pinched her. She moaned and, after a moment, he did it again. Then again and again, until her moans were constant and the pinching, too, and it almost hurt, but, instead, it was just…perfect.
So perfect she screamed.
Some nights, when he was tired and meant, she was sure, to just hold her and sleep, he was gentler, almost passive. One
of those nights, when she felt him harden just because they were close, because they were holding each other, he took her hand. He placed it on the hard steel of his erection and moved it up and down until she took over the rhythm of it herself. Then he pushed her lower, so he could fuck himself in the cleavage of her breasts. He held her tits, making the fit tight, and worked her nipples at the same time.
He finished in her mouth.
Then he curled around her, bringing her back against him, squeezed her nipples, and told her to finish herself off. He waited patiently, torturing her nipples, until she couldn’t resist any longer, until she did it.
Mornings were different and, essentially, all the same. He’d wake her after he’d already showered. He’d make love to her sweetly but on task, like he wanted to get it done—to have the pleasure of it—before the responsibilities of his day fell upon him. His kisses and touches were interspersed with quiet discussions of their plans for the day. There was nothing wild about those times, but Liberty felt totally close to him during them, totally a part of his life. An important part.
They’d eat Orion’s breakfast together, alone or in the company of one or both of the brothers. Often, some of Keegan’s and Tag’s chores coincided, like the building of the watering holes. Generally, Orion seemed to have a separate plan—he watched the growth of the prairie grasses. Long and short, she learned, and the short grasses were essential to the bison surviving on the land. “Standing hay,” Orion called it, the nutritious feed the bison could get to even in winter, using their big, heavy heads, driven by the muscles of their humps, to shovel snow out of their way.
He studied it, working in his office or a hoop greenhouse he’d built near the horse barn, reading online, and riding out to take samples from fields on the land.
Keegan often stayed in his rooms until noon or later, and Liberty learned he wrote during those hours.
She did the same. She took over cleaning the kitchen after everyone was done with breakfast, then she went to the piano and worked. On the second day of that, Keegan came out of his room with his laptop and took a seat in the living room.
He could work in silence, but she couldn’t.
“Doesn’t this bother you?” she asked, after he’d sat for a couple quiet hours. He’d gotten up to refill his coffee and brought her a second cup, too. “Hearing the same words, the same notes, over and over?”
“Not today,” he said with a smile. “If I need quiet, I can go back to my rooms.”
She’d noted that, with some relief. The brothers’ suites were distant enough from each other and from the living space, and sound-proofed enough, for serious quiet. It was a good thing, because, well, sometimes, when she had to, she screamed. And Tag made her have to pretty often.
“You tell me, though,” Keegan went on. “If you need the space.”
But she was happy for the company and enjoyed the shared creative effort. A couple times, without asking, he offered a word or a rhyme she’d been struggling for, and, occasionally, he read a sentence or a paragraph to her in excitement or frustration. Just sharing the pleasure of what he wrote, or the labor of it.
He was good, she learned. Once, when he’d been working on a difficult passage, probably not even aware he was saying it out loud, she went and leaned over his shoulder and read. He didn’t mind. He just looked up when he became aware of her, smiled, and talked through what was troubling him.
He had a sweet writing voice that matched his personality. But he also had depth—a profound understanding of the plains and the men and women who inhabited them. He wrote about the environment as though it were its own character, the one that determined all, the force that shaped the lives of the humans who lived there. The uncertainty of it, the unreliability. Drought that went on for months, years, then rains that washed over the dry land and filled the coulees with killing force. Scorching heat and bitter cold. Ice and hail, wind, tornadoes, blizzards. And, the seeming nothingness—the absence of features that people and creatures used to orient themselves, to mark distances traveled or yet to come.
It was lovely work, making her cry as frequently as laugh.
A couple lunchtimes during those days, Tag came in from outside while Liberty was sitting on the arm of Keegan’s chair, leaning into him. Or Keeg was at the piano, crowded next to her on the bench, helping to fix that riff she’d been stuck on.
Each time, Tag had seemed to take it in stride. He came to her, gave her a kiss that was significantly more than a peck, and asked if she was ready to break for lunch.
Orion didn’t take it in stride so much. He frowned his disapproval at those times and in the evenings, too, when Liberty and Keegan laughingly worked through revivals of shows they’d played in. Tag appeared amused, happily entertained, but Orion mostly, like that very first night, went outside after dinner.
On Saturday, she’d asked Tag to defer a conversation about interviewing at the local high school until Wednesday. When that day came, she learned that the conversation he had in mind was to inform her he’d made an appointment for her with his friend the assistant principal on Thursday.
So, Thursday morning, he drove her into town.
The drama “department,” she learned from Kurt Wheaton, was largely unfunded. An English teacher had volunteered her time, even for the first few years after her retirement. But she’d moved to Phoenix the past winter, and there was no real plan to replace her.
“Her job teaching English is open, too,” Kurt told her. “If you’d be interested.” It was a small school—she would teach basic curriculum English class to all grades and could offer electives like creative writing or literature—whatever she wanted, just about. “Or I could maybe find a small salary just for drama—sponsoring the drama club, coordinating whatever performances you could manage. You’d be working with the band teacher, too. We’ve got a little money for him.”
She discussed it with Tag over lunch at the little diner in town.
There, she saw him in his community. He nodded at everyone who came into the diner and in most cases used names. Many of the customers—nearly all of the men—stopped at the table for a few words and an introduction. The older men were most interested in exchanging thoughts with Tag about the weather or ranching. In many cases, they were pushing seventy or past it, though none of them mentioned retiring. They asked Tag for ideas and listened when he spoke.
The younger men were interested in exchanging a few words with Liberty. That lasted until they took a good look at the hard, possessive edge in Tag’s eyes. Liberty became adept at directing the guys’ attention back to Tag, so they’d see it sooner rather than later, when it became awkward.
The diner cleared out quickly. These were hardworking folks in need of fuel for their bodies. They didn’t dawdle over lunch. So it was quiet around the two of them when they finally got back to the topic at hand.
“I won’t care if you work, one way or the other,” Tag said, after she’d described the options Kurt had listed. “If it appeals to you, any of those choices, if you want to, then, of course, you should. But it won’t be necessary. I don’t need the money, the ranch doesn’t, and you won’t, either. If you work, if you have an income, that will be yours. I’d be just as happy for you to be at the Bluff every day. You could put all the time you wanted into writing and composing. That’s your first love, isn’t it? What you really want to do?”
Liberty looked across the table at him, wondering if he was the devil in disguise, offering her a chance she wanted so much.
“I know you like working with your kids in Denver, too. You could do that here. Volunteer, even, like Kurt said. No need to make a full commitment, all year long like you do now.”
“I’ve known ranch wives in my life,” Liberty said. She’d seen how hard they worked, sometimes hopelessly beaten down with the unending responsibilities. But then she realized her presumption. “If…if that’s what we’re talking. If that offer’s still…on the table.”
Tag frowned, sho
wing his frustration. “I texted you a hundred times while you were still in Denver, telling you that was what I wanted. I can’t think of a single thing that’s happened since you’ve come here that would suggest anything different to you.”
She could. “Orion doesn’t like me.”
“Orion doesn’t like Orion. He’s been hurt, and he…he just needs time to get over it. To get better. It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
Liberty wasn’t all the way sure about that. But she was sure that living on the ranch would never be comfortable unless her relationship with all three brothers was in good stead.
“He’ll come around,” Tag insisted, and she felt the weight of his determination. A very palpable pressure. “And I—we—won’t have expectations about you being a ranch wife.” He used finger quotes on that. “We get along without one now, like we’ve always done. Jilly certainly didn’t take over management of the house. Kira didn’t much either, except she cooked.”
Which Liberty knew could be nearly a full-time job, filling the stomachs of three large, hardworking men.
He read that knowledge in her eyes. “Take a week in the cooking rotation,” he told her. “You wouldn’t have to do more than that. We have a housekeeper who comes in every week and has for years. That won’t need to change just because you’re there—it didn’t with Jilly or Kira. I pay the bills. We each do whatever household shopping is needed during our kitchen week. You do the same, and we’re good.”
“But you all work the ranch. You put almost every hour of your days toward it.”
“Keeg doesn’t. Ry either, for that matter. He’s got that greenhouse off the barn, you know.”
Liberty nodded. She’d learned Ry was looking at developing better drought-tolerance in the grasses and sedges on the Bluff. Plants whose roots would hold the earth even in the worst of droughts, rather than letting the soil blow away in another Dust Bowl. Because there was climate change, and he expected droughts to worsen in the future.
Tag held her hand across the table. He wanted to make his case, but he didn’t want to plead. She knew that much about him.
Three Men and a Woman_Liberty Page 7
