by Judy Duarte
Watching the evening news made him long for another assignment, one that would allow him to make a difference in people’s lives. One that would enable him to ride off in the sunset and leave Thunder Canyon in the dust.
A Gunsmoke rerun triggered thoughts of Old Town and of Juliet’s love of the Wild West.
Bowling For Dollars reminded him of her silly urge to visit Buckhorn Lanes and watch the Gutter Busters do their thing. Or—God forbid—join the league his parents belonged to.
Trading Spaces merely made him think about how badly Juliet’s apartment needed a remodel.
Dammit. He turned off the TV and stood. There wasn’t anything worth watching, anything that didn’t remind him of Juliet in one way or another.
He didn’t like fighting with her. Didn’t like stomping off and leaving things unresolved—a defense mechanism that had always worked well for him in the past.
And he damn sure didn’t like thinking that their relationship—or whatever the hell it was—had been irrevocably damaged.
He probably ought to go to her place and tell her he was sorry. Not about being stubborn and refusing to socialize with his parents, but about snapping at her.
She’d only meant to be helpful.
But apologies didn’t come easy for Mark.
He strode into the small bathroom and turned on the spigot, setting the shower in motion. Then he stripped off his clothes and climbed under the steaming spray.
The steady pulse of water helped some, but not enough. As he toweled himself dry, his thoughts remained on the argument they’d had, on the way Juliet’s eyes had flashed in anger. And on the pain he’d spotted in her gaze when he’d taken her home. That last, sorrow-filled glance that had nearly torn him apart.
He blew out a ragged sigh. Damn. He didn’t want her angry. Or her feelings to be hurt.
Against his principles, he threw on a pair of jeans and a shirt, then brushed his teeth and ran a comb through his hair. He didn’t see any need to shave.
Five minutes later, he stood at Juliet’s door, feeling like a kid who’d hit a baseball through his neighbor’s window, asking for the ball and promising to replace the glass with a hard-earned allowance.
He knocked, and several moments later, she answered, wearing a pair of black slacks and a pink blouse, its buttons pulled taut by her breasts.
A shy but pretty smile made him momentarily forget why he’d come, so he just stood there. Their gazes locked. Caught up in something he couldn’t explain.
The scent of peach blossoms and spice taunted his senses, making him take a second whiff.
And a third.
She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, and sexual awareness slammed into his chest, taking his breath away, along with the words he’d intended to speak.
She swung open the door, allowing him inside.
A part of him wanted to rewind, to start over. To head back to the Wander-On Inn and pretend he hadn’t come to talk to her.
But he had. And he realized how much he’d missed their easy banter, their camaraderie. How much he’d missed her.
“I…uh…came to…” Oh, for cripes sake. Why couldn’t he just spit it out? Why this awkward, adolescent reaction to the sight of her?
Her hair was loose and hung like a veil of silk past her shoulders, the glossy strands begging to be touched.
She didn’t speak and merely stared at him in the same way he looked at her. Why wasn’t she making this easier on him?
“I’m sorry,” he finally said, his voice coming out soft and hoarse at the same time. “I didn’t mean to be so hard on you.”
“I’m sorry, too. My brother used to get mad at me when I didn’t mind my own business. It’s tough to keep quiet, though, when I care about someone and want to help.”
He raked a hand through his hair, realizing now wasn’t the time to tell her he didn’t need anyone’s help. He was ready to put this argument behind them. For good.
“Go ahead and invite my folks to dinner,” he said. “That is, if you want to.”
“And you’ll come, too?” Hope glistened in a bright-eyed smile that dimpled her cheeks.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll come, too, just as long as it’s on my last night in town.”
She didn’t respond to the stipulation he considered a hell of a compromise. Still, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.
Once inside, the warm, fresh aroma of chilies and spice waylaid him, and his stomach growled in response.
Had she expected him? Had she made enough for two? Would she ask him to stay?
His stomach growled again, this time too loud for her to have missed.
“Dinner will be ready in a minute or two. Will you join me?”
Maybe she was just trying to be polite, but right now, he didn’t care. The meal smelled incredibly good, and he was too hungry to be sensitive. “Yeah, I would like to eat with you. Thanks.”
He watched in silence as she set the table. Then, taking a seat across from her, he relished one of the best chicken dishes he’d ever had. The sauce was on the mild side, but it was tasty just the same.
Throughout dinner, they seemed to tap dance around the sticky subject of his parents and the rift they’d had, which was a big relief. Mark preferred to glance up from his plate and see her smile, rather than frown.
After they ate, she stood and began to clear the table.
He reached for her arm and stopped her. “Let me help.”
“All right.”
They carried plates, silverware and glasses to the kitchen, and when they got to the sink, they reached for the faucet at the same time, fingers brushing, gazes locking, hearts pounding. Awareness flaring.
Time seemed to stand still, and a megadose of adrenaline blasted his libido, sending it into overdrive.
Mark didn’t know why he did it. Didn’t know why he couldn’t keep his hands to himself. But he wanted to kiss her in the worst way.
And in the best way.
He cupped her jaw, his thumbs caressing the silky skin of her cheeks. Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Didn’t step away.
So he drew her mouth to his.
Chapter Eleven
Juliet knew better than to kiss Mark again, but her knees turned to mush when he cupped her jaw with gentle hands and placed his lips on hers.
And even though she knew it was foolish to encourage a relationship destined to end before it started, she couldn’t fight the attraction or the desire.
The light bristle of his beard scratched against her skin in a pleasurable way. And she threaded her fingers through his hair, still damp from the shower, and drew his face closer still.
His hands stroked her back, her hips, and his tongue swept the inside of her mouth.
The musky scent of his mountain-crisp cologne drove her wild. She couldn’t seem to get enough of him, of his taste, of his caress.
A whimper escaped from somewhere deep in her heart, which only seemed to enflame him, to urge him on. And his growing desire only heightened hers.
Their tongues mated in a desperate hunger, giving and taking. And when he moaned and drew her hips flush against him, she reveled in her power to excite him, pressing into his erection, wanting him. Wanting this.
An ache grew low in her belly, reminding her how long it had been since she’d had sex. And how recently she’d delivered her daughter.
Making love was out of the question, at least for another week or so. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the taste of him and the overwhelming passion that blazed between them.
As he intensified the kiss and the gentle assault on her senses, she realized something special had happened. Something powerful.
If there were ever any question whether she’d fallen in love with Mark before, she knew the answer now. She loved his rebel grin, his wounded heart, his awkward but sweet efforts to look out for her and the baby.
And she certainly loved the effect he had on her body.
&
nbsp; God help her, she was falling—heart first and eyes closed—for a man who would soon leave town, who would ride off into the sunset without her.
She ought to push him away, to put a stop to the passion that continued to build, but she wanted Mark and whatever he had to offer. And she meant to make the most of a kiss that rivaled anything she’d ever known.
No, she wouldn’t put an end to the heated embrace until he did. And she certainly didn’t sense any reluctance on his part.
Mark didn’t know what had caught hold of him, but he didn’t want it to end. Not the kiss, not the fire that raged in his blood.
Passion flared between them, promising a breathtaking sexual experience that would take them to places few people had reached. And that’s just where he wanted this heated exploration to progress—to bed, where he could make love with her all night long, where he could bury himself in her softness and hear her cry out in a fulfilling climax.
The baby cried out from the bedroom, reminding Mark that they weren’t alone, that things were far more complex than he’d let himself believe.
He couldn’t allow their desire to run its course, so he pulled back, wanting to do the right thing, yet filled with regret. “I…uh…guess we shouldn’t be kissing like that.”
“I suppose not.” A flush on her neck validated his suspicion—that she’d been just as carried away as he’d been.
He tried to clear the awkwardness from his throat. “Aren’t you still…healing and stuff?”
“I feel back to normal, but Dr. Hart suggested I wait three weeks for…you know, sex. But I told her I’d be waiting a whole lot longer, since I haven’t been…hadn’t been…seeing anyone like that.”
Until now.
Mark ran a hand along his jaw, felt the bristles he should have shaved, had he known they were going to kiss. A bucket of cold reality splashed over his head, and he wasn’t sure what to say. He damned well couldn’t start making promises about the future.
His game plan certainly hadn’t changed.
And it wouldn’t.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a brief sexual relationship, assuming she was agreeable.
If she hadn’t been told to wait another week for sex, would they have made love tonight? Would he have eventually realized he didn’t have any condoms on him?
He might have one or two in his shaving kit, which was back at the inn, but a hike across the street would have diffused the moment.
He blew out a ragged sigh. This was a hell of a time to risk an unplanned pregnancy.
Talk about complex complications.
He cleared his throat, hoping it would clear his head. “I guess we’ve got another week to think about it then, don’t we?”
“It seems that way.” Her smile was a bit hard to read. Hopeful maybe?
Or was it remorseful?
Mark wasn’t sure. But maybe in the next week or so, he ought to think of a way to casually bring his shaving kit back to Juliet’s place.
Just in case he was invited to stay over for breakfast.
Several days later, Mark sat at the desk in his room at the inn, going over his notes. The scope of his story had changed in the past few weeks. And over the course of his stay in Thunder Canyon, he’d interviewed a slew of people, some more interesting than the rest.
Caleb Douglas had been the first he’d spoken to. At the time, the wealthy rancher and businessman seemed more interested in the grand opening of his ski resort, but that had changed with the influx of fortune hunters. Now, after talking to Caleb several more times, Mark had learned that the man was frustrated about the snafu with the land records down at the town hall.
And who could blame him?
Harvey Watson, the clerk who’d been transcribing all the old records into the new computer system, was on vacation, and rumor had it he might not be coming back anytime soon.
Mark slowly shook his head and clucked his tongue. In any other town, he would be able to access the records via the county computer system. But not in good old Thunder Canyon, which was still rooted in the early twentieth century when it came to modern technology and innovation.
So, early on, Mark had focused his research elsewhere, starting with respected members of the community, like Mayor Phylo T. Brookhurst.
He’d even interviewed some of the prospectors who’d come to town, looking to make their fortunes. One of the wackiest interviews had been with Miles “Mickey” Latimer, a crusty old miner who seemed to be losing it. But it wasn’t just the fact that Mickey was tottering on senility that had made Mark come to that conclusion. Latimer had probably been goofy all of his life. For years, the old man had continued to mine for gold, never finding much of anything, but still working with a pickax and a mule and looking for a mother lode that probably didn’t exist.
What made guys like that practically turn their backs on society? Hell, no wonder Latimer seemed so out of touch.
Mark flipped the pages of his notebook. He’d also interviewed knowledgeable men like Roy Canfield, the editor of the Nugget. And Ben Saunders, the high school teacher and museum docent who knew just about everything there was to know about the town’s history.
But maybe he ought to focus his attention on some of the older folks in town and see if they could shed some light on the ownership of the Queen of Hearts.
Ben had mentioned Tildy Matheson, a woman in her eighties who’d lived in Thunder Canyon all of her life. She might have a better handle on some of those rumors and legends.
Mark picked up the phone, dialed 4-1-1 and asked for Miss Matheson’s number. He jotted it down, then gave her a call and introduced himself. “I’d like to interview some of the citizens who’ve lived in town for a good number of years. I think it would help me get a better understanding of the history of Thunder Canyon. Would it be all right if I came by and talked to you?”
“I’d be delighted,” the elderly woman said. “I don’t get many visitors.”
“When would it be convenient for me to stop by?”
“If you’d like to come now, I’ll put on a pot of tea.”
Mark wasn’t the tea and crumpets sort, but he hated to offend the elderly woman who didn’t get many visitors. “I might bring someone with me, if that’s all right with you. She’s just had a baby and doesn’t get out too much.”
“That would be lovely,” Miss Matheson said. “The babies in my family have all grown up. They sure don’t stay little for long.”
After setting an appointment for thirty minutes from now, Mark called Juliet and invited her to go along. He was glad when she agreed.
Twenty minutes later, they were on their way. Several times, Mark glanced across the seat, admiring his attractive companion.
Juliet looked especially pretty today, dressed in a pair of boots, a midlength black skirt and a cream-colored blouse. In fact, if she didn’t have Marissa with her, most people probably wouldn’t believe she’d just had a baby.
When she spotted him looking at her, she smiled, a rosy flush coloring her dimpled cheeks.
Mark found it hard to keep his mind on driving and hoped having the pretty mother and child come along on the interview wouldn’t prove to be a distraction. They’d almost reached their destination, so he’d find out soon enough.
Miss Matheson’s house was located on Chinaberry Lane in the old part of town.
Juliet pointed to the Victorian home bearing the address the woman had given Mark. “Is that two-story house hers?”
“I believe so.”
“Just look at that architecture,” Juliet said. “Isn’t it charming?”
As far as Mark was concerned, the house might be interesting, but it needed paint and a handyman’s touch.
The yard was a bit overgrown, with rosebushes that hadn’t been pruned in at least a year and a lawn that needed mowing. It was a shame the elderly woman didn’t have anyone to help her maintain the place.
Juliet peered out the window at the grounds. “I’ll bet her yard was a
floral wonderland at one time.”
Her optimism was amazing, but she was right. In its day, the Matheson house had been a showcase.
After they parked, Juliet lifted the baby from the car seat, and Mark carried the diaper bag. They climbed the steps, and when they reached an old, ornate door that needed varnish, Mark knocked. But he beat Juliet to the punch. “Probably handcrafted. Nice workmanship, huh?”
“Beautiful,” she said, studying the stained glass window that adorned the carved oak.
The door opened, and they were greeted by a grayhaired woman wearing bright pink slacks, a pastel-striped blouse and a white sweater.
“Hello, Miss Matheson. I’m Mark Anderson, and this is Juliet.”
“How do you do?” She glanced only briefly at the adults on the stoop, her tired gaze immediately settling on Marissa. “Oh, what a beautiful baby. And she’s a perfect blend of her mother and father.”
Juliet glanced at Mark, as though allowing him to correct the woman, but for some dumb reason he held his tongue.
He told himself it wasn’t necessary to complicate matters. Or was it more than that?
Did he, deep down, like the idea of being mistaken for Marissa’s father? Or of being thought of as Juliet’s husband?
Impossible. He wasn’t a family man. Nor was he good husband material. His ex-wife could certainly attest to that.
“Please,” Miss Matheson said. “Come in.”
Mark waited for Juliet to step inside first, then followed her into the house that held a unique fragrance of timeless memories and lilac sachets. His grandmother’s house back in El Paso had a similar lingering smell—one he found comforting.
Miss Matheson walked slowly, a cane in her gnarled hand to steady her steps, and led them into a living room, where a silver tray and china tea service sat on the coffee table. “Have a seat while I pour you some tea.”
“Please,” Juliet said, to the elderly woman, as she handed the baby to Mark. “Let me help.”
“Why, thank you, dear.”
Mark sat on the sofa, which was upholstered in a blue and green floral print that matched the drapes. He rested Marissa in the crook of his arm.
