by BJ James
Hank stirred tautly in Steve’s arms. Her protests were low and commanding, but he didn’t hear her as he snarled again at Sandy. “She may be the boss, but you’re a hell of a sight bigger.”
He didn’t wait for an answer as he stalked to his truck. The door was flung open and she was tucked safely inside when he faced the foreman again. “You can tether the horses to the truck and ride in with us, or you can get back under your own steam.”
The invitation was less than gracious, and Sandy responded in kind. “I’ll bring the horses along in my own good time.”
“Fine!” Steve slammed one door, stalked around the truck and ripped open another. When he climbed in Hank was sitting rigid and erect, fighting the threatening tremor of rage. “Don’t say it.” He leveled a finger at her. “Don’t say one word.”
Throwing the truck in gear, showering loose earth beneath his wheels, he spun into the road.
“Stop the truck, Steve!” Hank demanded over the roar of the engine and flying dirt.
“No.” He kept his glowering stare on the road.
“Stop it now!”
“Be quiet, or else.”
“Or else!” Her voice crackled with anger. “Or else what?”
“This.” Brakes locked, tires skidded, the truck spun right in a perfect one hundred and eighty degree reversal. Before it stopped rocking he was reaching for her, dragging her to him. “Or else this. This, dammit! Always this.”
She opened her mouth in a protest lost as his closed over it.
The first kiss was ruthless. A passionate punishment for what she’d done to herself, for making him care. A reckoning with his own vulnerabilities.
The second was honest. The admission of who she was, what she was, and how important every part had become to him.
The third, when her hands barely brushed his chest—neither keeping him nor pushing him away—was desire. The need to hold her, shield her. The hunger to touch her, filling every lost and solitary part of soul and heart with the excitement and wonder she brought him.
Hank neither resisted nor fought him. Instead, she forced herself to simply endure. Holding herself fastidiously aloof, she pretended her heart didn’t flutter in her chest like a caged bird longing to be free. Denied that she liked the feel of him under her hands. Clung, as to a lifeline, to the memory of outrage even as it vanished in smoke.
When his mouth gentled, slanting and teasing, smoke became fire and her battle was lost. Her breath grew ragged and her skin softly flushed with dew as passion ignited. A shattered sound vibrated in her throat as she met his kiss, reveling in the scent of him, the taste, the textures. The seductive maleness.
God help her, she’d forgotten. Forgotten how it could be with a man. Forgotten how it was to walk the tightrope between lust and love. The exhilaration, the yearning, the beautiful madness. The danger.
Sensation built upon sensation, and then yet another. A feast, too much, too rich. The slow heat of passion that knew no ebb, too exquisite to bear, too beguiling to deny.
As her body throbbed with desire...sang with it...ached with it... she wondered how she could forget what she’d never known.
“Never,” she murmured into his kiss, and her body trembled with the joy of him.
As she trembled, so did he, meeting the sultry demands of her kiss, drinking in the fire of her passion. Until the most ancient and primal needs swept away the discipline of mind and body. With unanswered torment clawing at him, and the last bit of reason spinning nearly out of reach, a small, still voice whispered, stop.
Stop? How could he? When she was so warm and pliant in his arms, how could he? Yet the whispers would not be quiet. Would not be silent.
Calling back the anger that would keep him sane, making it his lifeline, he backed away. Slowly, regretfully, with every ounce of will left to him.
Her lashes fluttered, and in her bewildered gaze he saw the fragility, the faltering strength. The cost of her day. Touching her throat, trailing the back of his fingers over the vulnerable flesh, he vowed not to contest her stubborn course, but to make it better.
“Steve...” Grappling through the fog of fatigue, she strained to regain her composure.
“No.” He stopped her with a fingertip at her lips, wishing he could kiss her again, but certain he dared not. What he had to say required a cool head and thoughts tightly marshaled.
Hank stared up at him, not quite sure what had happened. All she understood was that he was angry. He was always angry with her. A circumstance that threatened to become a perpetual state. Yet in anger, he kissed her, one emotion seemed to spark the other.
It made no sense. Yet, in the back of her restless mind, a vague and elusive thought insisted that if she would only consider carefully, it made perfect sense. Later, she decided. Later, when her mind was clearer, when she wasn’t so befuddled by weariness and the intoxicating aftermath of his touch. Perhaps then she might decipher the irresistible mystery and mystique of Steve Cody.
“Later,” she promised herself.
“Not later,” Steve insisted, giving the wrong interpretation to her muttered promise. “Now! You’ll listen to me now, Benedict.”
“Listen?” Suddenly, she was more than exhausted, as the surge of adrenaline dissipated, taking with it a part of her reserve. Indignant with herself for what she considered weakness, and with him for more reasons than she could count or comprehend, she turned turmoil and warring emotion back at him. “Listen. Listen! All I ever do is listen, and all that you ever say is angry.”
“That isn’t quite the case,” he continued firmly in the face of her outburst. “But we won’t debate the point.” He waited, holding her heated stare, giving no ground. When she sighed wearily, looking down and away, for once defeated in a battle of wills, he lifted her face with a touch that refused to let her retreat again. “Tonight we lay down some ground rules.
“Ground rules!” She sounded like a magpie. “We don’t need rules.”
“If you’re going to train the horses, we do.”
“Oh yeah? Such as?”
“Such as you don’t put in two days work in one at the Rafter B, then come to the Broken Spur. You don’t drive yourself so hard. When there’s something I can do to help,” the grave line of his mouth hardened, “something you and Dr. Bonner agree is allowed, you let me do it. When you’re tired, you say so.” He tilted her face, absorbing the effects of a day already imprinted on his mind. “You say so, do you hear?”
“I hear! I hear!” Hank snapped, straining to break free.
“Okay.” He took his hands away, holding them upright in a peaceful gesture. Sliding back under the steering wheel, he gripped the leather-bound circle tightly. “That’s it. That’s the list. Is there anything there you can’t live with?”
Hank drew a long, considering breath. “No, I suppose your ground rules are pretty sensible.” Then, surprising herself, she added, “More sensible than I’ve been. I expected more.”
Encouraged by her compliance, he risked another point. “There is one more I would have tacked on, but I figured it would shoot down the rest.”
“Must be pretty impossible.”
A grim smile left his eyes untouched. “Impossible for you.”
“Try me.” She challenged.
“Black Jack.”
“Let me guess.” A gesture stopped him before he could say more. “You want me to stop riding him across the range.”
“Yes.”
“You’re right.” She leaned back, closing her eyes. “That would blow the whole list.”
Knowing when to cut his losses and walk away had served him well in the rodeo. It served now. For a long while he sat watching her, even in the muted light, and with lines drawn by exhaustion, she was lovely. As lovely as she was tough, as resilient as she was stubborn. A Benedict. A small smile flitted over his face. “Right.”
The engine roared, the lights came on. “I suppose four out of five should be considered good odds.”
&
nbsp; As the truck turned, coming around half circle in the direction that would lead to the Rafter B, Hank nestled deeper into the hard backed seat. More asleep than awake, she muttered, “With a Benedict, two out of three would be good. Three out of four, amazing. Four out of five? A blooming miracle.”
When their dust settled and the moon broke full over the rim of the canyon, Sandy Gannon rode out, with Black Jack trailing in his wake and a grin on his face.
Bonita sat dozing over the newspaper when the peremptory crack of a single knock roused her. The ranch and bunkhouse had long ago fallen into the hushed, desultory hour when inspection and repair of personal equipment were complete and conversation stuttered to a halt. Even the most gregarious cowboys had drawn into themselves, contemplating their day and welcoming the end of it.
Savannah would not knock, and no one else would come calling. Unless there was trouble.
Her chins quivering, Bonita jerked to her feet in alarm. Bare feet tapping over stone tiles, she hurried to answer a second knock, as sharp, as peremptory. Giving no thought to safety or her own protection, she threw the massive door open and peered into the darkness. “Yes?”
A bulking figure stood on the veranda. A tall and strange, misshapen creature. With a hand over a palpitating heart, she gasped a muffled scream and lurched back.
“Bonita?” The voice was at odds with the monster her native superstitions had conjured.
“Who are you? What are you?” Her mind told her there should be menace in the voice. Yet that she heard none did not still the fearful rush of her pulse. “What do you want?”
“You are Bonita, aren’t you? Bonita, who makes fabulous bear sign.”
“Bear sign?” Arched brows flew up, her chins drooped. “Senor Steve?” The little woman stared harder, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, seeking a man she’d heard much of, but never met.
One shape became two that merged. A tall and wickedly attractive man with a woman in his arms.
“Savannah!” Bracelets jangled as usually competent hands fluttered in panic. “iDios mio! Is she hurt? What happened? Where is Señor Sandy?”
“Shh...” Steve quieted the torrent as he stepped further into the light. Savannah. Sandy called her sis, and he, Benedict. Here, then, was another who avoided the masculine appellation. “Savannah’s fine. She’s only worn down. On the way home she fell asleep in the truck.
“I don’t want to wake her.” He advanced farther into the foyer, searching doorways and stairs as if each held the key to a great mystery “Which room is hers?”
Bonita had been staring raptly at him, noting that this man who threatened the order of Savannah’s life held her as if he would never let her go. Prompted by his question, she leaped into agitated action. “Her room is first at the top of the stairs. Senor Jake sleeps downstairs at the back of the house.”
“He’s in his room now?” Steve was acutely aware that it was a little late to be concerned with bringing Jake Benedict’s curiosity and then his wrath down on his daughter. But until this moment he’d thought only of the woman he called Benedict, and her dire need for rest.
“He retired early,” Bonita explained. “He pushed himself too much, and the day exhausted him.”
“Family trait,” Steve quipped gruffly, and ignored Bonita’s questioning look. “I’ll take her up now.”
Bonita would have gone with them, but something in his manner warned her away. As be climbed the stairs with a strength that belied old and recent injuries, she stood by the first riser, her hand on the balustrade. A vigil she would keep until Steve Cody descended the stairs alone.
Her bedroom was large, but Spartan. The few personal touches were clustered unobtrusively on a small dresser. Pretty bottles of lotion and perfume, a tube of lip gloss, a brush and comb, reminding that Savannah Henrietta Benedict, who lived and worked like a man, was very much a woman. Incongruously, but perhaps not, in a separate place of honor lay a worn and stained boot heel with a star carved in its side.
A picture of a young woman much like Savannah stood on a table by her narrow bed. It didn’t take a mastermind to determine this was Camilla Benedict, mother, wife, nemesis. Truant.
The familiar jut of a very determined chin sparked a smile in his dark eyes. There appeared to be no quit in the woman, yet she had. He wondered why.
Savannah stirred restlessly in his arms, reminding of his self-appointed guardianship. Crossing to the bed, he laid her on the thin, utilitarian spread.
As he backed away, considering what he should do next, Savannah muttered unintelligibly, shifted and turned to lie slightly on her side. One arm was thrown over her head, the other crossed at her waist. Her braid lay like a gleaming lariat at her breast.
Steve stood by the bed, looking down at her. For an instant, in a quirk of memory, the spare but lovely figure became a pale and helpless body, the wasted prison of a keen and gentle mind. More memories threatened, recollection burned into him, that could never quite be dismissed. With a jolt, he shook the remembrance aside and knelt by the bed to do what he could to make Savannah Benedict comfortable for the night.
First were the boots, falling with a soft thud on the bare floor. The belt followed as he slipped it expertly from the narrow waist of her jeans. He considered her shirt, worn and old, drawn taut over her chest and slender torso. One snap had pulled open, revealing a wisp of lacy lingerie and the creamy swell of a perfect breast. It would be simple to deal with the remaining snaps, and then the bra, releasing her from its restraint.
A part of him urged it. A part knew he should not. He settled, instead, for smoothing the fabric of her shirt and folding back a crumpled collar before slipping the tucked hem free of her jeans. Backing away again, acknowledging the peacefulness of her deep sleep, he realized there was little else he could or needed to do.
Even as the judgment was made, he was returning to her bed, sinking down at her side to gather the braid in his hands. Deftly he loosed the woven mane, combing his fingers through it, letting it slide like silk over his palm. There was no cause for what he did, except that he wanted it. He wanted the feel of dark, gleaming silk flowing over him, touching him.
As she lay, deep in sleep, a vital and enchanting woman, he wondered what he would discover wrapped in it, bound to her by it.
Steve smiled ruefully at the impossible thought. The attraction was there, drawing him to her and growing stronger. But no matter the prevailing truce, they were from opposite sides, rivals for the same prize. When it was resolved, one would win, one would lose. He would be foolish to think the attraction would survive.
“If I lose, I’ll be gone.” Threading his fingers through her hair once more, he watched as it drifted like a mist over the pillow. With the light from a single lamp falling around them in a circle of muted radiance, the scent of sun drenched roses enveloped him.
She loved the canyon and the old house as much as he. As surely as he lived he knew the repairs were hers, not gratitude from a roving cowboy. A gift, instead. Her gift, a labor of love. He found consolation in that as he stroked her cheek, remembering the first time he’d stepped into the house. The scent of roses, her scent, was his first memory. He wondered if it would be his last.
Savannah stirred and turned. Fearing that if he stayed longer, she would sense his presence and wake, Steve slid from the bed. Crossing to the door, he paused for one last look, reluctant to go, knowing that he must before he threw reason and caution aside and answered the clamoring demand of his body.
“You’re a fool, Cody, she isn’t for you. That was ordained before the cards were dealt. Once burned is enough.” Words filled with steely determination, denying what he wanted most. Throwing open the door, he stepped into the hall, catching one last glimpse of her as it closed behind him.
The latch engaged with a metallic click. Savannah stirred, she smiled, caught in a memory or a dream, and was still again.
“She sleeps?” A worried question, mirroring Bonita’s face.
&nbs
p; “Yes.” Descending the stairs, Steve caught her hand in his. “You’ll see that she rests? Guard her from herself?”
“With my life.” The dramatic statement came naturally to Bonita. Her fiery, motherly temperament was the bedrock of the resolve that kept her on at the Rafter B. For Savannah. And for Jake, as she endured his insults and ill temper. But she wondered if this young man knew what he was asking. If Savannah decided to rise within the hour, no one could stop her.
Unless it was this man.
“I will try,” she promised again.
His finger at her chin lifted her face to the kiss he dropped on her cheek. “Thank you.”
Then he was gone in a whirl, his steps echoing, then fading as another door closed behind him. Touching her cheek, Bonita stared after him, a look of awe in her eyes.
“The man could melt a heart of stone,” she murmured, and wondered if he knew.
Chapter 12
Hank Benedict dismounted, stripped the saddle from the mare, then tossed the gear over a waiting sawhorse before leading her to water. As the long Romanesque muzzle dipped to the trough, she stood by the mare, stroking her neck, smoothing her mane.
“She’s great, isn’t she?”
The question was aimed at Steve, who paused to watch as he finished tightening a cinch. His response came drolly on cue, part of an unwritten script. “She’s great.”
They’d found a common ground for agreement, and over a period of days and weeks had even grown comfortable with it. Conversation remained spare, focused on horses, training, and little else. Safe subjects, keeping the door closed on things they’d rather not think or feel.
Workday matters, simple things, Steve mused wryly. All very proper, prudent, and clinically businesslike. But only a fragile and tenuous barrier for seething emotions and mercurial passions that were far from simple. Far from proper or prudent, and never more than a heartbeat from surfacing.
It was there, this nameless thing that wouldn’t be denied, waiting to ignite. Temptation, building like a storm, needing only a careless and unguarded moment to break free.
