Just West of Heaven

by Maureen Child

  She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let that happen.

  Swallowing hard, she turned her back to the man watching her and fumbled at the waistband of her simple black skirt.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “What I have to,” she said, as her fingers worked the buttons free.

  “Sophie...”

  She sucked in a long, deep gulp of air, prayed for courage, then let her skirt drop.

  “Jesus, woman!” he said. “You can’t do that.”

  Stepping out of the material puddled at her feet, Sophie risked a quick glance at his stunned expression before saying tartly, “You left me no choice.”

  “Damn it, Sophie.”

  Still clutching her hammer and the nails she’d selected, she walked stiffly to the blackboard, uncomfortably aware of the draft whipping beneath the hem of her petticoat. Chills raced along her calves, thighs, and even higher, creating a wicked sensation that made her feel weak in the knees.

  He grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him. In the dying light of the sun, his features looked ferocious. Jaw tight, eyes narrowed to slits, he stared down at her and asked, “Are you tryin’ to make me loco?”

  “I’m trying to fix this blackboard,” she managed to say, despite the knot in her throat.

  “If you aren’t the stubbornest, most pigheaded—”

  “I believe that’s redundant.”

  “What?” he asked, then shook his head. “Never mind.” Tossing a glance over his shoulder at the doorway, he looked back at her and said tightly, “You can’t walk around in your petticoat.”

  “You didn’t leave me much choice,” she pointed out and felt the cold fingers of the wind play along her legs again.

  His grip on her arms tightened as he drew her closer to him. “Sophie Ryan,” he muttered, his gaze moving over her face with a fierceness she felt. “Why in the hell did you have to come to my town?”

  Heaven knew, she’d asked herself that question countless times in the last week or so. It was as if fate had played a nasty joke on her—sending her to the one man who not only turned her blood into liquid fire, but who had the authority to ruin her life. Yet, right now, at this very moment, she couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. Her stomach spun and her head felt light. His touch sent warmth spiraling to the very center of her, and with a certainty she’d never known before, she said, “You’re going to kiss me again, aren’t you?”

  A muscle in his jaw twitched and she thought for a moment he might try to deny what she’d already seen in his mind. But then that moment passed and he drew her even closer against him.

  “God help us both, Sophie,” he whispered, his breath dusting across her face as he bent his head lower, “but you’re damn right I am.”

  Then his mouth came down on hers and Sophie’s mind went blissfully blank. His lips met hers and she went up onto her toes to meet him. Reaching up, she wrapped her arms around his neck and felt him slide his own arms around her waist. He held her tightly, so tightly, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to breathe and a part of her didn’t care.

  This was what she’d waited for most of her life. This flash of heat. Of wonder. He parted her lips with his tongue and she gasped in astonishment at the gentle invasion. But surprise quickly faded to be replaced by a wild, quickening hunger that tore at her insides and sent wicked ripples of anticipation to every inch of her body.

  His tongue stroked hers, building a fire that threatened what was left of her composure. Her body trembled, her mind raced. Hesitantly at first, and then more boldly, she returned his intimate caress, exploring his mouth with her lips and tongue and wondering why it was that books never explained everything.

  She’d never guessed, never dreamed, that anything could be as magical, as completely overwhelming, as this small intimacy. And as he claimed her, his hands roving up and down her back, she let her mind dissolve, let fears of the future fade into nothingness and gave herself instead to the wonder of this moment.

  He tore his mouth from hers and trailed his lips along the column of her throat. She felt every damp kiss. Every tendril of heat that quickened inside her. And she trembled with the force of the sensations ricocheting through her.

  His hands moved again and she felt the slightest brush of his fingers across the swell of her breast and Sophie inhaled sharply and pushed free of his grasp.

  “You touched my—my—” She couldn’t even say it.

  “I surely did,” he said, then dragged in air like a drowning man coming up for the third time. “Not nearly as much as I wanted to though,” he admitted.

  Shock scuttled through her, mingled with an entirely different reaction that seemed to settle and burn low in her body. And it shamed her to admit even to herself just how much she wanted to feel him touch her breast again.

  “Look, Sophie,” he said, his voice sounding as tight as the invisible band around her chest. “Maybe I didn’t go about that just right, but—”

  Oh, she thought he’d done it splendidly. “But what?” she managed to ask.

  “But I’m not sorry.”

  Thank heaven. She didn’t want him to be sorry. She wanted him to touch her again. Despite the risks, despite the danger, she wanted to feel his hands on her again. And she knew she couldn’t allow it. But just because there wouldn’t be any more kisses in her future didn’t mean that right here, she had to pretend to be unmoved by what they’d just shared. “Neither am I.”

  “Well, then,” he said, taking a step closer and reaching for her again.

  “But,” she said, holding up one hand to stop him in his tracks. “That’s not to say I’m a woman of loose morals.”

  “’Course not,” he agreed, still reaching for her.

  “However,” she said, already thinking far ahead, “it would probably be best if you didn’t do that again.”

  CHAPTER Ten

  Well, she’d surprised him again. The way she’d reacted, responded to him, he’d half expected Sophie to start dreaming of—and demanding—orange blossoms. In his experience, a “good” woman who’d been kissed like that would even now be planning a wedding.

  Naturally, Sophie would be contrary.

  Although, truth be told, the women he usually found himself kissing weren’t the kind to be dreaming of courtship and marriage. They were more interested in the solid clink of coins and how to seduce their next customer. So for all he knew Sophie wasn’t acting strangely at all. But there was something in her eyes that told him different.

  “It was just a kiss,” she said softly, unconvincingly.

  “That wasn’t an ordinary kiss and you know it.” Damn it, whatever reason she had for pulling back, he wouldn’t let her get away with brushing off a kiss that had rocked him to his socks.

  Ridge took a good long look at her, from the flash in her eyes to her lips, red and full from his kiss. The blood in his veins was still boiling. He wanted her.

  Bad. But even more, he wanted to know why a woman like Sophie wasn’t slapping his face and demanding a proposal.

  “I think it’s best,” she was saying, “if we both forget this ever happened.”

  All right, that was more effective than a slap.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Why, Sophie?” he asked, his voice a low hush in the dimly lit room. “Why would a woman like you want to forget about this? Why aren’t you trying to trap you a husband?”

  She blinked. “A husband?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sheriff Hawkins,” she said, straightening up and lifting her chin. “I am not in the market for a husband and if I were, he wouldn’t be you.”

  Ridge felt insulted, damn it. He’d never had any intention of proposing, but knowing she wouldn’t have had him anyway stuck in his craw. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. He knew
enough about kissing that he could damn well tell if a female was enjoying herself or not. So what exactly was going on in that head of hers? Something was wrong here, he told himself. And damned if he wouldn’t find out what.

  ●

  Sophie looked into those pale blue eyes of his and told herself that if circumstances were different, she might very well have reacted as he so clearly had expected her to. Just a year ago... heavens, only a month ago, if a man had kissed her as Ridge just had, she would have expected him to come calling at least. But that was out of the question now. She couldn’t build a life with a man on a lie—and she certainly couldn’t tell this man the truth.

  No, she’d long since realized that she would never have a family of her own. Five years ago, there’d been a young man. Bernard Hastings, she remembered, the son of the local butcher. Bernard had had small eyes and thick-fingered hands, but he’d been kind and quiet and hadn’t listened to the gossip about the Dolan family. That alone had been enough to earn Sophie’s affection. When people told him that the Dolan women were touched in the head—that they saw things only God had a right to know—he’d told them all that they were talking nonsense.

  And Sophie began to believe that perhaps she might find a bit of happiness after all.

  For several weeks that spring, they’d gone on walks together and sat on the porch swing and once, just as the sun was turning the evening sky violet, he’d kissed her cheek. And then Sophie had had a vision. And she’d warned him to not take a particular road home that evening. She’d seen it so clearly. A flash flood, his horse losing its footing, and Bernard going down into the swirling water.

  He’d laughed her suggestion away and told her that he didn’t believe in “gifts” or visions and he’d ridden off, dismissing her warning. By the next morning, he’d survived the flash flood, packed his bags, and taken the first train to Boston. Without so much as a good­bye note.

  He hadn’t even been grateful, she recalled. Just scared enough to want to put hundreds of miles between them.

  And that was the last time any man had looked at her with more than dread. Until Ridge Hawkins. The one man she couldn’t have. A part of her sang with regret, but the more logical part of her mind and soul reminded her that she hadn’t come West in search of a man anyway. If she was destined to live her life alone, then so be it. She’d made her peace years ago with the fact that she was going to live and die a virgin.

  She simply had never minded that fact quite as much as she did at this moment. Looking into his eyes, she paused briefly to think about what might have been, then resolutely set those notions aside. Taking a deep breath, she braced herself and lied. “It was a lovely kiss, Sheriff, but that’s all it was.”

  “It was a helluva kiss, Sophie,” he said, reaching out to run the tips of his fingers along her jawline. “Though it’s clear to me it’s been so long since you’ve been kissed, you’ve gotten a bit rusty at it.”

  She shivered at his touch and tried to ignore the sting of his words. “I do beg your pardon for disappointing you in any way,” she said, sarcasm coloring her tone.

  “Didn’t say I was disappointed,” he corrected her with a wink, “just said you needed some practice.”

  Which she couldn’t risk. Oh, she wanted to kiss him again. More than she wanted her next breath. She wanted to feel that rush of sensation sweeping over her. But as long as she was a wanted criminal and he was a law-abiding sheriff, she couldn’t risk it.

  “Well,” she said briskly, trying to ignore the fresh rush of warmth flooding her. “That’s really not your concern.”

  Then before he could respond, she turned around and bent down to snatch up her skirt. But the nails were still holding it in place, so she grabbed the hammer and yanked the nails free. Then she stood up again, still clutching the hammer in a tight fist.

  He shook his head and took the hammer from her by easing her fingers back, one by one. His gaze held hers as he set the tool aside. Still holding her hand, he dragged the tip of one finger across her palm and Sophie sucked in air like a drowning woman.

  “You know somethin’, Sophie?” he said softly. “More and more, I’m seein’ just how much you are my concern.”

  Oh, God.

  No. She didn’t want him thinking about her. Couldn’t afford to have him pay even closer attention to her. What if he suddenly became curious? What if he decided on a whim to check into Mrs. Sophie Ryan’s background, only to discover there was no Mrs. Sophie Ryan? Then what? Once he’d caught her in a lie, would he ever believe her attempts at explanations? This just got worse and worse, she thought and pulled her hand free of his grasp. Then, clutching her skirt to her chest, she turned for the door. While she still could.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he called after her.

  “Home.”

  “You can’t walk through town half naked.”

  Blast. She glanced down at her petticoat, then said, “I told you before. I am not your concern, Sheriff.”

  “You are if you leave here like that.” He crossed the room toward her.

  Outside, the last of the sun’s rays had faded and darkness dropped over Tanglewood like a black blanket. It never ceased to amaze Sophie that day slipped into night so quickly around here. Once the sun dropped behind the mountains, it was as if God blew out the single candle lighting the world. But even at night, she was bound to run into one or two people on the street. And she would hardly be able to maintain any dignity as a schoolteacher if she was seen in her undergarments.

  Grumbling to herself, she fumbled her way into her skirt just as he came up beside her. Not bothering with the row of buttons, she simply clutched the waistband together in one fist. The quicker she got back to her room, the better, the... safer she’d feel.

  “Damn it, Sophie, what’s going on?” he asked and his voice sounded as soft as the velvety blackness surrounding them.

  He took her arm in a firm grip and pulled her close.

  As if the last few minutes had never happened, Sophie felt that swirl of exciting sensations ripen inside her again. But she struggled against it. The blasted man was muddling her mind and stirring her body into something she hardly recognized. And she didn’t want to like it. And couldn’t help it.

  “Nothing’s going on,” she said and wished it were true.

  “There’s somethin’ here, Sophie,” he said, cupping her cheek and turning her face toward him. “And I’m not just talkin’ about what’s between us.”

  “Ridge...” Thank heaven he couldn’t read minds.

  “Whatever it is, I might be able to help.”

  “No,” she said, then tried to correct herself. “There’s nothing. Really.”

  He inhaled sharply, blew the air out in a rush and pulled her closer. Then he kissed her again and she was lost. His lips moved on hers with a gentle sureness, as if he were only waiting for her response. And blast it if her body wasn’t doing just that, with or without her mind’s cooperation.

  She felt herself swaying, surrendering, and delving deep inside herself, she finally managed to find just enough courage to end this before it went any further. Pulling away from him abruptly, she turned and bolted out the door, into the night.

  “Damn it, Sophie,” he called after her.

  But she didn’t listen. She kept walking, forcing her steps to match the hurried pace of her heart.

  ●

  “You’re here early.”

  Tall half turned in his chair to smile up at the woman standing beside him holding a coffeepot.

  Mercy James, a tiny thing with dark brown hair and tired green eyes gave him a smile and reached for one of the cups stacked in the center of the table.

  “Coffee?” she asked and filled his cup without waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, ma’ am, and one of your pa’s steaks when you get a minute.” It was the same thing ev
ery night, he thought, looking around the nearly empty restaurant. Saturday nights, the place was packed with cowboys and ranchers, but weekdays, most of the local folks stayed at home for supper. So he generally had the little restaurant to himself but for the occasional straggler.

  “No steaks tonight, but I made a nice beef stew,” Mercy said.

  “Right now, I’m hungry enough to eat the pot you cooked it in,” he admitted, stifling a yawn behind one hand.

  “Been working down at the school again?” she asked, setting the coffeepot down and easing into a chair opposite him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said with a shake of his head. “And let me tell you, that schoolteacher knows how to make a man work. I’m so tired, I’m afraid to order soup. Might drop my head in it and drown.”

  “She’s a wonder all right,” Mercy agreed. “She even got Pa to donate food for the paintin’ party she’s planning for this weekend.”

  “Your pa? Donated?” Ethan James was the most tightfisted man in the county. It was said he could squeeze a two-dollar gold piece hard enough to make it three.

  Mercy ducked her head then looked up at him from beneath a fringe of hair that dusted across her forehead and ended at her eyebrows. “You gonna be there on Saturday? Painting, I mean?”

  “I reckon,” he said, wanting to take a nap at the thought of it.

  “I’ll be there too,” she said, then stood up and shrugged as she reached for the coffeepot again. “Serving the food and all.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tall muttered, his gaze drifting past her to the window that fronted the street.

  Mercy sighed and wondered what she had to do to catch this man’s eye. She’d waited on him nearly every night for months. She always saved him a piece of pie for dessert. And she always made sure his coffee cup stayed full and hot. What more could she do, short of hitting him over the head with her favorite skillet?

  “Would you lookit that?” he muttered and pushed up from his chair to walk closer to the window.

  “What?” She moved to his side and stood as close to him as she dared. The top of her head came to just about the middle of his chest and Mercy figured that was as close to touching his heart as she was liable to get.