Walk in Beauty

by Wind, Ruth

  Overhead, an enormous blue jay—a camp robber—claimed a branch. With a flurry of wings and noisy straightening, he harangued the intruders, screeching at them like a fishwife to get out of his territory. Jessie laughed.

  “You still like those evil creatures?” Luke asked.

  “Yes, I do.” She grinned. “They’re sassy and strong.”

  Drawn by her grin, he stepped closer and then paused. All at once, the tumult of emotions that had risen at the surprises of the past day dropped away. Left in its place was a calm, sharp desire—a hunger that had never ceased, not in eight years; a need that still thrummed through him, like the eternal sound of drums in a heartbeat. He wanted her. Plain. Simple. Clear.

  He licked his lip. “You’re a blue jay,” he said, touching the array of bracelets on her wrist and then the earrings winking through her hair.

  “Am I?”

  Earlier, she had kept up walls of fear between them when he stood this close. Now there was nothing, only Luke and Jessie the way they’d always been. Before she could protest, he bent and brushed a kiss over her cold lips.

  The contact sent a zinging rush over his nerves. In the tiny second it took, he felt the slight dryness of her chapped lips and a hint of the warm moisture beyond. Her hair brushed his cheek, and her chin jutted up a little so she could meet him halfway.

  He lifted his eyes to meet her surprised gaze. A snowflake caught on her cheek and he brushed at it, feeling his heart thump and his soul swell a little from the headiness of finding something lost. In her eyes he caught a flicker of pain and fierce desire. He winked.

  Before she could protest, he quickly stepped away and joined his daughter in the snow.

  * * *

  The walk back took much less time. Jessie felt oddly free and calm as they hiked down. She and Luke didn’t speak, but she felt his kiss lingering between them, not quite a promise, not fierce enough to be a threat. He seemed as content as she to simply be quiet.

  Back at the truck, Giselle begged to be allowed to ride in the rear with Tasha. Jessie frowned, and Luke shook his head firmly. “Nope—there are tools and all kinds of other junk back there right now. Maybe another time.”

  Exhausted by the long walk and her romp with Tasha, Giselle looked mutinous. Jessie recognized the expression and stepped forward to gather her into a hug before she fell to pieces. “I think,” she said to Luke over her daughter’s head, “we have one very tired young lady here.”

  He returned her smile. “I’ve got some stew at the house. Some lunch and a nap and she’ll be fine.”

  “I really think we need to go back to the hotel.”

  “Why would you want to pay good money to eat at a bad restaurant when you can eat my home cooking for nothing?” he said lightly, opening the bed to let Tasha into the truck. “If you want to go back to the hotel after lunch, I’ll take you.”

  Holding her daughter close to her chest, Jessie looked at him. His black, glossy hair was tousled from his play in the snow, and the wind had stung dusky color into his high cheekbones. Tasha leapt into the truck and turned to give an adoring, thankful lick to her master’s chin. Luke scrubbed her ruff, smiling fondly.

  It was so easy for Luke, Jessie thought. He just opened up and loved things—dogs and cats and cloudy days and little girls. So easy. And they all loved him right back.

  Just as Jessie had.

  Her silence stretched a long time. Luke seemed to sense her gaze and he turned. Across the snowy ground, with a child of their making and a cold wind between them, they looked at each other. His strongly chiseled face was grave. She hoped hers showed nothing, but was afraid he could still read her all too well.

  “Hotel or rabbit stew?” he asked at last.

  Jessie couldn’t repress the chuckle that rose in her throat. “You didn’t tell me it was rabbit.”

  He slammed the doors closed on the back of the truck and winked. “Tastes just like chicken,” he said, tongue-in-cheek.

  Jessie inclined her head, thinking with relish of his fragrant stews. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  She nodded. “I guess it is.”

  He grinned, and the expression gave his eyes a devilishly sexy tilt. “Will you show me how to make Mrs. O’Brien’s biscuits?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, pretending reluctance. “Maybe her biscuits are one of those things that just needs a woman’s touch.”

  “Maybe. It’s worth a try, eh?”

  “Sure.”

  Giselle fell asleep before they had driven out of the canyon. She slumped against Jessie’s shoulder. “I am definitely buying this child a dog,” Jessie said quietly. “Tasha wore her out—and believe me, that’s no small feat. She’s like that battery—she just keeps going and going and going…”

  Luke glanced at the girl. “She’s out cold now.” He shook his head and signaled to join the main street out of the canyon. “She’s so much like Marcia, it’s almost eerie.”

  “I guess you’ll want her to meet Giselle.”

  A strange expression flickered over his face. “Mmm.”

  “‘What?”

  He touched his jaw, shifted the truck and glanced in the rearview mirror. “I, uh, already made arrangements. She’ll be here this afternoon sometime.”

  “You had no right do that without my permission.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I did it last night when I was feeling so blown away. If you want me to take you to the hotel now, I will. Marcia doesn’t know it’s you guys—I just told her there was somebody I wanted her to meet.”

  Jessie stared at him, holding the warm weight of her child against her, and suddenly realized it was not only Jessie who was upset by all this. Luke, too, had to grapple with the demons of the past. “No,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”

  He gave her a grateful smile and reached over to touch her hand. “Thanks, Jessie.”

  All at once she realized how much she had relaxed in his company. He was so damned easy to be around, so easy to talk to. He never seemed to expect anyone to be anything except just what they were.

  Alarmed, she moved her hand gently from his and saw a ripple of hurt cross his features. Pressing her lips together, she resolutely turned her face to the window. “It’s only fair.”

  His voice sounded tired as he said, “Fair doesn’t have much to do with any of this.”

  “No,” she agreed softly. “I guess it doesn’t.”

  Chapter Five

  At Luke’s house, he gave Jessie the keys. “I’ll get Giselle. Why don’t you get the door open?”

  “I don’t mind, Luke. I carry her all the time.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t.”

  Jessie moved out of his way, watching as he scooped the child into his arms, shifting so her head fell on his shoulder. In spite of herself, Jessie smiled. Giselle’s mouth hung slack and her arms flopped around Luke’s shoulders.

  As they neared the porch, a small yellow car pulled in front of the house, and a woman got out. Wearing an ivory serape striped with orange, she had ribbons of black hair cloaking her small, slim body, and a face open and mischievous at once.

  Marcia.

  Jessie glanced at Luke, then back to Marcia, who crossed the yard eagerly.

  Marcia caught sight of Luke, with the child draped over his shoulder, then glanced at Jessie. A tangle of emotions crossed her mobile face—surprise, dismay, joy, excitement.

  In twenty years, Jessie thought in astonishment, Giselle would look exactly like this woman. Exactly. And Giselle had inherited that same buoyant energy.

  “Oh, my God,” Marcia cried at last, breaking the silent tableau on the lawn. “Jessie.” She shook her head, coming forward to take Jessie’s hands in hers. “Daniel didn’t tell me it was you.”

  “I’m beginning to think Daniel had an agenda that had nothing to do with the project.” Jessie clasped Marcia’s small, cold hands in her own, tightly. “It’s so good to see you.”
>
  “Ditto.” She laughed and hugged Jessie fiercely, then moved toward Luke. “She’s your daughter?”

  Luke turned slightly, nodding. “She’s sound asleep right now. I’m gonna lay her down and you can talk to her later.”

  Bustling forward, Jessie unlocked the door and stepped out of the way. Luke gave her a smile as he moved by, and somehow it lightened her heart a little. She smiled back, brushing the top of Giselle’s head as she passed.

  Marcia flung off her serape and dropped a big canvas bag on the couch. “I have to get a couple of things from the car,” she said, pausing at the door. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. “I—Daniel didn’t tell me—” She shook her head. “I didn’t know you and Luke’s old girlfriend were the same person.”

  Jessie raised an eyebrow. Obviously, Daniel had known all of it. If he knew Marcia and Luke, Jessie and Giselle, there was no way he had not put all the pieces together.

  “I think Daniel was pretty careful to make sure none of us figured it out.”

  Marcia lifted her eyebrows and slipped out the door.

  Then she popped back in and gave Jessie another quick, excited hug. “When I was eighteen, I had the most terrible crush on you. I wanted to grow up and be just like you. It broke my heart when you left.”

  From the archway between the kitchen and living room, Luke spoke in a calm, but very firm voice. “Marcia.”

  She rolled her eyes, but squeezed Jessie’s hand. “Back in a flash.”

  Jessie turned toward Luke with a grin.

  “She keeps going and going and going,” Luke said with a shake of his head. “See what I mean?”

  Jessie laughed. “Yes.”

  He gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s make those biscuits. I’m starving!”

  His kitchen seemed to be the heart of his house, Jessie noted as she shed her coat and followed him in. The rest, though warm enough, was rather neat and plain. On the counters in the kitchen were stacks of mail and magazines, a pile of paperback books, a basket of small woodworking tools. By the back door slumped a spare pair of boots. Magnets stuck notes to the fridge, notes scrawled in his large, bold hand—Meet Smith 9 am For Stairs. Buy Stamps!

  Reading the notes, Jessie smiled to herself.

  “What?” Luke asked, taking down bowls and a canister of flour.

  She shifted her smile to include him. “Nothing. Do you have an apron? I can’t do this without getting flour all over me.”

  “Maybe.” He pulled open a drawer and dug below a stack of kitchen towels.

  It struck Jessie that he was not, like many men, at a disadvantage without a woman to organize his household. “You know, it surprises me that you’ve never gotten married,” she said suddenly.

  He gave her the apron he’d found in the drawer and straightened to give her a rakish smile, tossing a thick lock of hair from his forehead. “I’ve been waitin’ for you.”

  “Oh.” She laughed, caught off guard by his teasing. Recovering, she added, “I seem to have that effect on men.”

  He chuckled as he put the stew on. Marcia came in, carrying a soft leather briefcase. She sat at the table. “Do you all want to talk for a minute? I had news from Daniel this morning.”

  Luke adjusted the flame under a pot of stew and turned. “Sure.”

  “What did he say?” Jessie measured flour into a bowl, unconcerned. Daniel treated everything as if it were an urgent issue. It was a method of getting things done, she supposed, but sometimes made him seem like the boy crying wolf.

  Marcia opened the briefcase. “The other night, someone slaughtered some of the weavers’ sheep.”

  Jessie looked at Luke. “The blood on my car?”

  “My guess.”

  “They got your car?” Marcia asked with a frown as she riffled through the papers before her to pull out a single sheet. “That makes me uncomfortable. It means somebody knows what we’re doing all the time.”

  “That’s what I said this morning. It might be time to pull back a little. That’s four or five incidents in just under a week.”

  Marcia shook her head. “We can’t—not just yet. When Daniel called from Dallas this morning, he was worried about the weavers. Before he flew out yesterday, some of them talked to him. They’re scared. There’s a lot of talk of witches. He’s worried everyone is going to pull out of the project.”

  Luke swore.

  “I know. The trouble is, a lot of them were pretty wary of the project to begin with. They were afraid that if they got rich, they’d draw attention to themselves and get witched.”

  Jessie nodded, remembering some of the early meetings she had attended with Daniel when he’d set the whole thing up. “He seemed to convince most of them, though.”

  “Ah, hell,” Luke groaned, drawing a hand over his face. “Witches?”

  “You might not take it seriously, dear heart,” Marcia said with raised brows, “but a lot of people still do. And whoever is behind the harassment knows that and is using it. Animals slaughtered and noises on the roofs of hogans—they’re trying to scare the weavers off.”

  “And it’s working,” Jessie said.

  Marcia nodded. “Unfortunately. But I think it’s more than that, too. I talked with a grandmother early on and told her how much she could earn—” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “She laughed hysterically. No matter what I said, she didn’t believe me. I think that’s part of the problem now. They’ve never really earned what was possible for these rugs. Now they don’t believe they can.”

  “So what now?” Jessie asked, folding her arms.

  “Daniel wants to have another big meeting to reassure the weavers that no matter what, they aren’t gonna lose. If the dealers won’t pay what they should, we’re prepared to open galleries of our own.”

  “That doesn’t really address the witch problem, though.”

  “I know. We’re going to lose some of the traditionals no matter what, but maybe if we find this ‘witch,’ some of the people on the fence will be reassured.”

  Jessie idly stirred the flour with a fork, pursing her lips as she tried to think of anyone she’d met who might be a likely culprit. She shook her head when no one came to mind. “When is Daniel planning to do this meeting?”

  “I don’t know. As soon as possible.” Marcia glanced toward the window, frowning. “Trouble is, he’s stuck in Dallas and doesn’t know if he can get away. He’s going to call me here tomorrow and let me know what’s going on.”

  “So, in the meantime are we supposed to meet the gallery owner tomorrow?” Luke asked.

  “Definitely. Word is, this guy is pretty sympathetic. He might be a big help.”

  Jessie nodded. “I’ve heard that, too.” Turning toward the waiting bowl of flour, she measured baking powder and salt and stirred them together.

  “Wait,” Luke said. “You’re supposed to be showing me how.”

  Marcia stood up. “How long till lunch is ready? I’d like to take a quick shower.”

  “You have time,” Luke told her.

  When she left, Luke stepped close to Jessie, close enough that she could smell the faintly foresty scent of his skin and feel his warmth along her side. A quiver rippled over her spine. Resolutely, she ignored it and stirred the flour. “The trick to making good biscuits,” she advised, “is you can’t bother the dough too much.”

  “Why don’t you walk me through it?” he suggested, taking the fork from her hand. “‘Teach a man to fish...’”

  “And he’ll teach his woman to clean it.” She grinned. “Next step is the margarine. It has to be cut in, not worked in with your hands. That’s what makes the biscuits flaky.”

  He gave her a quick glance, and Jessie felt the impact of his dark eyes all the way to her toes. Nostalgia again. Or was it? He was still so damned delectable. To avoid that sensual, beautiful face, she focused on his hands. Mistake number two. The long brown fingers were deft and graceful, and Jessie found herself admiring the lean strength o
f his wrists and the vein that ran down his forearm. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself tracing the length of that vein, into the hollow of his palm, saw herself—Stop it!

  Once the margarine and flour had been cut into tiny nuggets, she led him through the stirring. “No more than twenty strokes.” When the flour was moistened, she nodded. “Good. Now, the crucial part. You have to knead it, but only just a little.”

  She watched as he dipped his hand in the canister and scattered flour on the counter, then upturned the bowl with the slightly sticky dough. With the heel of his palm, he folded the ball over itself, kneading with sure, strong movements. “How do I know when to stop?” he asked.

  “By feel, really.” She reached out and pressed two fingers into the dough. “A little more. It should feel pliant, but firm.”

  “Ah—like a breast,” he said with an evil grin.

  Jessie’s gaze flew to his hands, and an odd heat seeped through her. Dough made her think of skin anyway, and now, watching his beautiful, strong fingers curve around the plump roundness of the biscuits, the analogy was all too appropriate. Once more, she was assailed with awareness—the heat of his hip so close to hers, the movements of his skillful hands and the glossy fall of his hair around his neck.

  Her body tingled and she found herself swaying ever so slightly toward him, awash with a deep, sensual hunger. More than anything—more than food or air—she wanted him, wanted to taste his mouth and touch his hair and feel her body pressed against the hard, long length of him.

  “Is this enough?” he asked.

  Jolted, she lifted her eyes and found him gazing down at her with a faintly amused expression around his lips. Get real, Jessie, she told herself, and taking a breath, tested the dough again. “I think so. Now roll it out about an inch thick, so you have fluffy biscuits.”

  His eyes crinkled. “Gotcha.” Deftly, he cut the dough with a water glass and paused to admire the raw biscuits on their pan. “My mouth is watering already.”

  “Mine, too.” The smell of the herbed stew filled the air. “That doesn’t smell like rabbit, though.”

  He laughed. “It’s beef.”