“It’s amazing!” Andrea agrees, slipping past Laurel to the cushioned window seat that offers the best view through the huge pane of windows. Across the road and far below us, foamy waves break on the rocks. Rebecca steps onto the landing beside me, and I reach for her, needing to feel her. Cupping her shoulder, I draw her close, and we stand together beside Laurel that way, staring out the window. For long moments, none of us speaks because we’re awestruck by the mysticism of the view, the memories, of the knowledge that Alex Richardson left some part of himself here years ago. And of the knowledge that in a very elemental way he lives because he lives between us.
“I want to show you something, Andrea,” Laurel says, dropping to her knees. “It’s in the window seat.” Lifting the cushion up, then tugging on a rope handle, the bottom gives way to reveal a cubbyhole. “It’s something your daddy and I put in here, a long, long time ago. Come look.”
“What is it?” Andrea asks, lifting onto her tiptoes to stare over Laurel’s shoulder.
“You have to see.”
Delicately, Laurel removes a fragile bird’s nest from inside. “It’s a robin’s nest. We found it over in Lighthouse Field one day,” she explains. “Our treasure, we called it. Of course everything was treasure back then.”
Andrea peers at the downy husk of a nest, her blue eyes sparkling. “It’s really old, then.”
“Yeah, it is,” Laurel agrees quietly, and her voice fills with a wistful tone I understand completely. Alex should be here. But Laurel shakes the mood, her clear blue eyes widening mischievously. “I want to tell you a story about your daddy,” she says and Andrea kneels in front of her, nodding encouragingly. “Did you know that he always knew you were coming one day?”
“How?”
“I don’t know. But he did. Whenever we played games up here, and imagined that we were a prince and a princess in the turret, he would say, ‘let’s remember this and bring our kids up here one day.’” I’m not sure where Laurel’s going, but I listen intently, feeling Becca’s heartbeat beneath my hand. She’s wearing this soft, oversized sweater that lets me nestle her right up against me, be as brazen as I want.
Laurel goes on: “'Let’s play like it’s later,’ he’d say.”
“What do you mean?” Andrea asks.
“He always wanted to pretend that we had grown up and that there was another little princess. He was the daddy and she was the little girl.”
“Is that true?” Andrea asks, her voice breathy and quiet. Frankly, I’m thinking Laurel must’ve made this story up, until she reaches into the window seat and retrieves something else, something that must be fragile and precious from the way she holds it in the palm of her hand. Then I see it, and it’s unbelievable. Three tiny sculpted figures. “I made these for his Christmas present,” she explains, revealing two little red-haired children, a boy and a girl. “When we were ten. Look, this is the other princess,” she says, showing a redheaded little girl.
“Wow! He knew I was coming,” Andrea says in wonder, and whether it’s even precisely true or not doesn’t really matter as she cradles the little figurine in her palm. She feels known, wanted. She feels as if she were destined in some way to be linked to the man she will always remember as father.
“You have no idea how much he wanted us to have you.”
She nods, pressing the little child doll to her lips, and just stares out at the ocean. Pensive, as she often gets, and none of us push her. After a while, she quietly asks, “Aunt Laurel?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“He really was my daddy, wasn’t he? Even though he was my uncle, he really was my daddy, right? In the ways that count?”
“Oh, yes, pumpkin. Absolutely.”
Andie cradles the little figure in her hand for a moment, then delicately, almost prayerfully, places it back into the bottom of the window seat. Like she’s offering a benediction.
Then she turns back to us, focusing on Laurel. “Aunt Laurel, can I ask you something else?”
“Anything.”
“What do I call you now? Now that I know you’re my mother?”
Laurel kneels there, right down on Andrea’s level. “Whatever feels right, pumpkin,” she says. “You can call me Aunt Laurel, like you always have.”
“Or Mom?” Andie suggests, her blue eyes hopeful.
“If that feels right, that’s okay too,” she answers with a gentle smile. “I carried you for nine months, Andrea, and there’s a place inside of me that will always belong to you. I will always be your mother, no matter what you decide to call me.”
“When Daddy and Rebecca get married, I might call Rebecca Mom too,” Andrea says softly. “That won’t make you mad, will it?”
I feel Rebecca’s body tense against mine; know that she’s holding her breath. This is the first either of us has heard of this request.
Laurel nods her encouragement. “Of course that’s okay.”
“You know, I’m lucky,” Andrea says with a shy smile, glancing back at Rebecca for a moment. “’Cause I’ve had two daddies. And I get to have two mothers too. Not everybody gets that.”
Laurel whispers, “And I’m lucky, because I have you.”
Andrea hurls herself into Laurel’s arms, burying her face against her birthmother’s chest. For endless moments, they hold one another, Laurel stroking her long shiny hair, Andie snuggling even closer. “I love you, Andrea,” Laurel says, and I see tears glint in her eyes. “Very much, sweetheart.”
“I love you too,” says Andrea, her voice muffled. Then she leans back and stares right up at me. Fixing me with that unnerving, blue-eyed look that sometimes reminds me so much of Alex, she asks, “Daddy? I’m glad I know the truth.” I can’t help the tears that instantly mist my eyes. “That you really are my daddy.”
“Me too, sweetheart.” I hold her tight and close, afraid of so much as breathing. “Me, too.”
“Know what else?” she asks, eyes sparkling. “I’m gonna teach Rebecca how to really surf next summer. She’s gonna rip! And I’m not even gonna think about my scar again ’cause it doesn’t matter anymore,” she says. “That scar’s just a tiny part of me.”
Pure wisdom, from the mouth of a nine-year-old, and the thing is, I know that she’s right. I know that of all the perfect, beautiful memories that Alex and I once shared, of all the new memories I’m forging with Rebecca and Andrea—and of all the most tragic times in my life—one thing is true.
For better or worse, they’re all a part of me.
About the Author
To learn more about Deidre Knight, please visit www.DeidreKnight.com. Send an email to Deidre Knight at [email protected] or join her Yahoo! group to join in the fun with other readers as well as Deidre Knight! http://groups.yahoo.com/group/DeidreKnightgroup
Look for these titles by Deidre Knight
Now Available:
Parallel Fire
An injured horse. A wary woman. Healing them could cost his heart.
Second Hope
© 2009 JB McDonald
Nat Jackson knows what she’s good at: healing horses. Relationships? She learned about the price of those from her mother. When Cole Masterson shows up at her Second Hope ranch with a bad shoulder and a lame horse, she’s more than willing to treat the animal. But his money comes with a catch—he insists on staying at the ranch while his horse undergoes treatment.
The horse, she can handle. Resisting the man…that’s a complication she doesn’t need.
Money is no object when it comes to his horses, and Cole knows Second Hope offers the best in equine rehab. He hadn’t counted on Nat’s fractured heart awakening his desire to mend it. Her skills have his horse on the fast track to health, though. There’s not much time to work his way through her defenses before it’s time to leave.
Nat has no intention of getting her hopes up only to have them dashed. Cole’s already thrown his heart over the fence—and he has no choice but to follow it in pursuit of the woman of his dreams.
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br /> Warning: This book contains hunky cowboys, gorgeous horses, awesome cowgirls, lots of tight Levi’s, and heartbreaking injuries. Oh, yeah, and m/f sex.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Second Hope:
Cole’s gaze landed on her. She was looking about as if seeing a treasured friend, gaze light with joy. The filtered sunshine poured over her, making sweat-damp skin glow, creating soft shadows in the curves of her body, the planes of her stomach. Her tank top was snug, outlining the heavy curve of her breasts and the long lines of muscle down her torso. Jeans hung low on her waist, a leather belt with a silver buckle accentuating the swell of her hips.
Streaks of dirt smeared one arm and shavings pooled near her ankles, in the folds of her jeans. Her scuffed boots had mud caked on the heels. Her nails were dirty, and her black hair had escaped from its braid, clinging to the long line of her neck.
“It’s beautiful.” Cole smiled softly.
Nat glanced at him. The moment of realization when she knew he’d been watching her was plain. She laughed quietly and looked away, wandering off toward the nearest oak. “I’ve always liked this place. When I first started the ranch I’d come out here just to get away. Clear my head. See something alive and growing, rather than the horses that needed so much help. Out here, nothing needed me like that.” She glanced back, one hand spread on the trunk. “We got a lot of wrecks, in those days. We couldn’t afford the best of anything yet, and a lot of the horses were rescues. A lot of them couldn’t be saved.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he simply remained quiet.
She looked at the tree, head tipping back as she gazed upward into its branches, chin tucking as she lowered her face, tracing the line of the trunk back down to her hand. Her thumb rubbed over a scar in the bark, and she smiled faintly. “This was the first horse we managed to pull through. Just Aaron and I then—he was a snot-nosed little punk trying to get as far from his family as he could without leaving the horse world. Blue mohawk and stoned every night. And then we healed King, and something about that healed Aaron.” Her smile grew, blooming across her face. “He called his parents that night. He’d run away when he was sixteen, and it was the first time he’d spoken to them in five years.”
“Maybe he just needed to know he could do something good without them.” Cole could remember the first time he’d succeeded at a job without standing on his father’s or brother’s shoulders. It had been liberating. For the first time, he’d felt grown up.
He wondered, suddenly, if Nat had ever been a child in that way. If she’d ever had shoulders to stand on. “Your grandmother helped you with this place, didn’t she?”
Nat shrugged. “She gave me the money. When she died, she left me the rest. I think she was trying to keep my mother from having it. They never spoke. My grandmother didn’t approve of my father, whether or not he was a doctor.” Her smile was bitter. “She had more sense than my mother did.”
Cole wandered closer, lifting his good hand to brush it over the wooden scar she kept fingering. The bark was paler here, and there was a line of smaller scratches, a few inked lines from a marker, some dates. “Are these all the horses you’ve helped?”
“The ones we saved, that first year.” Nat pointed to one of the red lines. “These are the ones we lost.”
There were more than a few, but they didn’t outnumber the scars. “You did well.”
Nat chuckled, shifting to lean against the tree, shoulder pressed to wood. “Considering what we had? We did all right. The cases got tougher as time went on, but we got a lot more rich people too.”
“Like me.” He grinned.
Her mouth tipped, echoing his expression. “Like you. Only most people just send their horses. Not sure how good I’m gonna be at mending rotator cuffs.”
He laughed at her teasing. “Well, you have to start somewhere, Doctor Nat.”
She just shook her head and chuckled in return, but her eyes were lighter now, the sadness gone. “Does it hurt much?”
“Not much. I think it’s healing pretty well.” He stretched his neck, rubbing at where the sling dug into his shoulder. “I think this is giving me more pain than the tendon, anymore.”
“You could adjust it?” She stepped closer and he went still, turning his head slightly so she could get a better look.
Her touch was featherlight, her scent intoxicating. Like blueberries and cream, rich and sweet without being sickly.
“Is this any better?”
He couldn’t tell any difference, but he could feel her body heat. His gaze caught hers, and fire rippled between them. “Yeah.” His voice dropped into its deepest registers, coming out husky.
Nat’s tongue flicked out, dampening her lips. Dark pupils dilated to spill black across her irises. “You didn’t even pay attention.”
Cole smiled. It stretched over his face, slow and seductive. “No. I didn’t.” He didn’t think she cared, from the way her eyes flickered to his mouth, following his lips as he spoke. His hand rose as if of its own volition, rubbing away a smear of dust along her jawbone. She had a delicate jaw, for all that she was strong. Like a razorblade, sharp and fine. It narrowed down to a perfect little chin under a full mouth. He remembered that mouth from the night before. Remembered how her lips had parted under his, the tiny exhale he doubted she’d been aware of. The way her tongue had stroked his, the way she’d tasted, felt, smelled.
He wanted to taste her again, feel her under him, smell arousal and sex build. Moving slowly, remembering how she’d taken the lead before, he slid his fingers around the nape of her neck. Her skin was chilled despite the warm weather. When he fitted his mouth to hers she shivered, the finest tremble of skin and muscle, so faint he almost didn’t feel it.
She wavered, seemingly caught between stepping closer and stepping away. He kept the kiss light, gentle, fingertips and soft brushes of his mouth, nothing more. He didn’t want to push.
She stepped closer, fitting her body to his. He nearly groaned with relief, pressing tightly against her. One slender hand wrapped around his neck and her mouth opened, deepening the kiss. Her tongue slid against his and he responded, exploring her mouth, the way she tasted. His pulse beat thick and heavy under his skin, in his groin. He shifted his thigh to press between her legs. She caught her balance, opening for him slightly, pressing back.
The temptation was to push harder, to pin her against the tree and keep things moving along fast until they both came. He fought it, keeping his movements slow and gentle. Once you’d won over a skittish horse, you didn’t mess it up by asking for too much, too soon. Still, his good hand skimmed over her jaw, under it, tipping her head up so he could duck his face into her neck, nibble on the slim line of her throat. Her skin was warm, a little salty, and he could feel the beat of her heart in her jugular.
She exhaled, breath soft and shivering. Cole did it again, teeth scraping gently over flesh, pulling that exact little tremble from her that was so thoroughly intoxicating. His fingertips slid over her skin, down one of the slim tendons that framed her throat, and lit on her collarbones. He brushed over them, marveling over how tiny the bones were, like bird wings arcing in from the points of her shoulders.
Her hands moved firmly over his rib cage, over the heavy pads of muscle, pulling him closer. His fingertips glided downward, touch featherlight against the edge of a perfect breast clothed in the thin material of a tank top and bra. A shiver crept through her, her hand stuttering on his ribs.
Cole smiled against her before placing a careful kiss on her neck, another on her throat, opening his mouth and flicking his tongue across her flesh. Her hands tightened in his shirt, curling into small, demanding fists. With his good hand he grazed her arm, trailing down, feeling the tiny soft hairs and the firmness of muscle under skin. Then he found her waist, kept moving down until he felt the edge of her jeans. He tugged at her tank top, pulling it free to find warm, elastic flesh.
His kissed her again as his fingertips skimmed over abdomen muscle, t
easing at the edge of her rib cage. Her mouth opened, tongue brushing against his lips. She tasted like warm summer sunshine and lazy mornings, long rides and slow laughter. Tongues tangled and slid together, tasting, exploring, growing bolder and more heated. He slid his hand up under her shirt, following the line of her rib cage to the edge of her bra. There he hesitated, giving her a moment to pull back, to slow things down. Instead, she pressed into him with a tiny sound almost caught in her throat.
Sometimes you have to go more than halfway to meet in the middle.
Always
© 2009 Lauren Dane
Caitlin Moore has every reason to celebrate. She’s through with law-school finals, and out for some post-semester fun when she runs smack dab into Eamon Blake, the Irishman with whom she had a summer fling years ago. Time hasn’t dimmed their lingering friendship—or their sexual chemistry.
Eamon isn’t looking for love when he bumps into Cat while he’s in Seattle on a job. Yet over the next year, he finds himself involved in a rekindled long-distance romance that moves from casual to a lot more.
That’s the rub. Cat is determined not to repeat her past mistakes with men and give up the dream job for which she’s worked so hard. Independence is something she’s spent years achieving. Eamon can start over so much easier than she can—why shouldn’t he make the sacrifice this time?
But Eamon doesn’t much relish leaving the life he’s been building in Los Angeles—and he really doesn’t like ultimatums. At an impasse, goodbye seems the only direction to go. Ending it is the right thing to do…or the biggest mistake they ever made.
Warning: Like-whoa sexy Irishmen speaking French in the ear of a very willing Seattleite. Sexin with all the big words.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Always:
Butterfly Tattoo Page 38
