“Hey, squirt, where’s Jefferson?”
Emily lifted her head and shrugged. “I expect he’s not far, considering the way he’s favoring that leg.” She was accustomed to seeing Tristan in various attires, but this time she was surprised. “Since when do you wear a tie?”
His hand ran down the sedate magenta paisley. “Is it straight?”
Emily shook her head and rose to help him pull it neatly to center. “Where’re you going?” He stood still long enough to let her finish. Barely.
“Coronado.”
“So, I, uh, shouldn’t wait up for you?”
He grinned, and slipped his arms into a finely tailored black suit coat. “Like you’ve ever bothered to do that.”
Emily smiled faintly and leaned back against the island, her arms crossed.
“Hey.” Tristan chucked her chin up with a long finger. “You and Jefferson could come with us.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “I bet that’s not what ‘sweetheart’ had in mind.”
He shrugged. “So, come anyway. It’d do you good to get out and have some fun for once.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
Faintly exasperated, she shook her head. “We don’t all work in our own homes, at our own leisure, you know. I do have to go to work in the morning.”
“Consider it a celebration that Jefferson’s back.”
Emily heaved a sigh. “Tristan—”
“Okay, okay.” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head and pulled her hair. “Behave while I’m gone.”
“That’s a laugh,” she murmured. “Why don’t you behave for once?”
Tristan just smiled and with a wave he left. He must have found Jefferson easily, because she heard their deep voices, if not their words, soon followed by the slam of the heavy front door.
After a deep, cleansing breath, she went in search of Jefferson. The huge great room was empty, and she peeked in Tristan’s office and the den. She finally found him in the rear of the house where Tristan had glassed in a high-ceilinged atrium.
She watched from a distance as he seemingly examined the leaf of a fern. He slowly moved along the brick-paved floor, disappearing behind a ficus, then reappearing on the other side. He’d folded up the long sleeves of the loose white shirt another couple of turns, and a second button was loose at his throat, hinting at the strength of his chest. She watched him silently, filling up an empty place inside her with just the sight of him. Longing, sweet and bitter, flooded through her.
Why did she have to feel this way about Jefferson, of all people? Why couldn’t she have picked an easier man. Like Stuart Hansen, a manager from her office whom she occasionally dated. Or Luke, the man who owned the stable where she kept Bird. Or even Tristan, for that matter. Why Jefferson? It was a question that had plagued her for years.
Unfortunately, she was no closer to an answer than she’d ever been.
Sighing, she pushed open the French door leading into the atrium. “I’m going to put fresh sheets on the bed in the guest room,” she told him, attracting his attention. “There’s a bathroom attached. With a whirlpool tub. It might feel good on your leg.”
Jefferson gently snapped a tiny white flower from its stem. “Fine.”
“Well.” Emily flipped over her wrist to look at her watch. It wasn’t the least bit late. Maybe she should have taken up Tristan’s offer. Then at least she wouldn’t be alone with Jefferson. “It’s the first room to the left at the top of the stairs.”
“Tris showed me when I arrived.”
“Oh.” She fiddled with her watch again.
He crushed the bloom between his fingers. “If you’ve got somewhere you need to go, don’t let me keep you.”
“Hmm? Oh, no. No. I’ll just go take care of those sheets.” She spun around and headed for the stairs.
At the top, she snatched a set of clean sheets from the linen closet and went into the guest room. A single duffel bag sat at the foot of the bed. The bag had probably once been black leather, but now was worn nearly colorless in most places. She reached out to move it, pausing over the collection of airline stubs hanging from the handle. There must have been a dozen or more, and with merely a glance knew she didn’t recognize any of the abbreviations.
Closing her fingers over the handle, she moved it to the top of the dresser, out of her way. It hardly weighed enough to warrant the size of the bag. Jefferson obviously had perfected the art of traveling light.
She flipped back the dark blue down comforter and smoothed the fresh white sheets in place. She had the edge of a plump bed pillow caught between her teeth when Jefferson silently appeared in the doorway. Ignoring him, or at least pretending to, she finished pulling on the pillowcase and dropped the pillow next to its twin at the head of the full-size bed. With a flick, she pulled up the comforter once more and, reaching across the bed, smoothed a wrinkle.
“I remember when you used to refuse to make your own bed.”
Emily tossed several decorative pillows back onto the bed and straightened.
“You insisted that it was a waste of time, when you were only going to mess it up again when you had to go to bed.”
“It was good logic,” she answered lightly. “Squire never climbed on you boys when any of you didn’t clean your room. Or didn’t make your bed each morning. Apparently that was something he reserved for girls.”
Jefferson crossed to the opposite side of the bed and stooped to pick up a small square pillow that had fallen to the floor. His fingers hovered over the deep blue and maroon needlepoint pattern. “Was it so bad, then? Being raised by Squire?”
Emily shook her head. This, at least, was something she could be perfectly honest about. “No. It wasn’t bad.” She smiled faintly. “What could be bad about being raised on a ranch? There were dogs and cats. Horses. The swimming hole. And several big ‘brothers’ to tag after. It wasn’t bad.” She headed back into the hall and the linen closet. It had been heaven on earth to a lonely little girl. It would be heaven on earth to a lonely woman, too.
He followed her to the doorway and leaned against the doorjamb. “How often do you get back to the ranch?”
She pulled a couple of oversize towels from the closet and turned back to the bedroom. “Two or three times a year, I guess. I’ve tried to get back each Christmas, but with work and all…” She passed by him and hung the towels over the brass rods in the bathroom. “When you’re the low man on the totem pole, other people usually get first crack at holiday vacations.”
“Squire doesn’t celebrate much at Christmas, anyway.”
“Considering that your mother died on Christmas Eve, who can blame him?” She halted and squared the edge of his duffel bag against the comer of the dresser. She glanced at him. “You were never around on Christmas, either. Even when you still lived at home, you went to the cabin rather than stay in the big house. Sawyer was in Europe by then. Dan was—”
“Off raising hell,” Jefferson finished. “And Matthew was either closed up in the office or out on the range somewhere. Just one big happy family.” Jefferson watched her, his eyes brooding. “And Tristan—”
“What?” She prompted when he broke off.
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
Emily leaned her hip against the dresser and absently caught her hair back to weave it into a loose braid. She could take a stab at what Jefferson was thinking.
“Your mother died giving birth to him. Naturally that left a mark on him.” She dropped the braid and headed for the door. “If you want to watch a video or read, you’ll probably find something to your taste in Tristan’s room. He’s got everything under the sun.”
“What are you going to do?”
Escape. She cupped the side of the doorjamb with one palm. “I brought home some work from the office.” It wasn’t strictly a lie. “You, um…Let me know if you need anything.” Her lips sketched a smile and she fled.
Jefferson pinched the bridge of his nose and collapsed on the side of the
bed. Arms outstretched, he gingerly lifted his leg until he sprawled across the bed diagonally. His toes tingled as sensation returned. His head was pounding and his hip ached worse now than it had six months ago when he’d first been discharged from the hospital in Germany. Even his shoulder was kicking up a protest. Due, no doubt, from the horrendously long flight from Amsterdam. He had some pain medication in his duffel bag, but just then he didn’t have the energy to retrieve it from across the room.
Restlessly he shifted, and his hand brushed against the pillows. He nudged aside the assortment of ruffled and tucked shapes until he reached the plain white bed pillow. Slowly his fingers closed over the edge and he pulled it to him. When it was near his face, and he could almost smell Emily’s clean, pure scent on the pillowcase, he closed his eyes with a sigh.
And slept.
Chapter Two
When her head jerked upright just before hitting the edge of her laptop, Emily blinked, owlishly. She stared at the garbled spreadsheet displayed on the screen. Her fingers must have been pressing on the keyboard. Blinking, she erased the gobbledygook, closed the file and shut down the computer system.
A huge yawn made her eyes water, and she rubbed her eyes. Another yawn.
Still functioning, barely, she remembered to put the computer disk in her briefcase so she wouldn’t forget it in the morning. Standing up from the leather chair she’d been perched in, she set the computer on the coffee table and arched her back, wiggling her bare toes. The antique clock sitting on the mantel chimed softly, and she realized it was after three in the morning. Yawning yet again, she padded out to the kitchen and retrieved a cold bottle of water from the refrigerator.
Before shutting off the light and heading upstairs, she peeked into the garage. Jefferson’s rental was parked neatly beside her Mustang. His work? Or Tristan’s?
She twisted off the cap to the bottle and shut off the few remaining lights, checking the front door and the back French doors that overlooked the swimming pool beyond the atrium. In darkness she moved back through the great room and up the stairs. The door to Jefferson’s room was open and the light was still on.
Pausing at the head of the stairs, she sipped on the water, studying the rectangle of light cast upon the dark green and maroon carpet runner that ran the length of the upstairs hallway. The house was quiet in the way that houses were. She could hear the quiet tick of the clock on the downstairs mantel. The gentle sighing of wood as it settled for the night.
She set the bottle on the square newel post and moved over to the doorway, peering around the edge. Jefferson was stretched across the bed at an awkward angle. One leg, obviously the one he’d injured, was flat on the bed, but his other leg was bent at the knee and hung over the edge of the bed, the worn slanted heel of his leather cowboy boot flat on the floor. His face was turned away from her, tucked in the edge of the pillow that sat beside, rather than under, his head.
She bit the inside of her lip and leaned against the door frame. Who was she kidding? To pretend that life would just continue on as normal, now that Jefferson had returned. However temporary his return might be. “Oh, Jefferson,” she murmured, watching him sleep for a long moment.
Without a sound, she went to her own bedroom, turned on the light, retrieved the softly nubby afghan that usually sat folded at the foot of her bed and returned to his room. She snapped off the lamp and decided against trying to remove his boots for fear that he’d waken. She leaned across him, lightly spreading the blanket across his chest.
He didn’t stir. She began to straighten and her fingers grazed the thick ends of his hair. She froze, her fingers tingling. Swallowing, she curled her fingers into a fist and snatched her hand away before she could succumb to the temptation of running her fingers through its heavy softness.
She didn’t know what happened then. One minute she was tucking her hair behind her ears and backing away from the bed. The next, Jefferson sprang at her with a feral growl, his large hands gripping her upper aims like manacles. He swiveled and pushed her onto the bed hard enough to jar the breath from her chest.
Speechless, she stared up at him.
His breath was harsh, and his hands tightened painfully as his weight pressed across her midriff. “You’re dead,” he growled.
Shock held her immobile as surely as his hands around her arms. “Jeff…er…son,” she gasped faintly.
Even in the pale light coming from her room down the hall she could see his teeth bared. Her heart was pounding painfully, and her head ached with the adrenaline shooting through her veins. “Jefferson. It’s me.”
His eyes, blackish pools, looked down at her, unblinking. In another time. Another place. A terrible, dark, painful place.
“It’s me. Emily,” her soft voice shook, but he held himself still for a long moment. “Shh,” she whispered faintly. “It’s okay, Jefferson.”
His arms seemed to sway, and he loosened his iron grip.
“It’s all right now,” she breathed, and closed her eyes on a faint sob when he lowered his head to the curve of her breast. As gentle as they’d been painful, his hands slid up her arms to her shoulders. Wide-eyed, she lay stiffly beneath him, looking down at the crown of his head as he seemed to just collapse. As abruptly as he’d charged.
Biting down on her lip, she closed her eyes tightly. Tears burned their way from beneath her lids anyway. Oh, Jefferson, what’s happened to you?
She hauled in a shaky breath, half-afraid that he’d rouse again, in Lord-only-knew what kind of state. But he was still.
After long minutes she lifted her hand and smoothed his heavy hair away from his forehead. Letting the tears come, she lay there, still trapped beneath his weight. Her hand gently stroking through the silky blond strands.
“It will be okay, Jefferson,” she whispered. “Everything will be okay.”
A few hours later, her eyes were gritty with the snatches of sporadic sleep, and the gray light of dawn was slipping through the slats of the cherry shutters hanging at the windows. The arm trapped beneath Jefferson’s shoulder was completely numb. But he seemed to be sleeping easier now. More naturally, if the deep breathing that wasn’t quite a snore was any indication.
Grimacing against the pins that immediately began stabbing her fingers when she gradually worked her arm from beneath him, she edged away from his weight until she was free to slip from the end of the bed.
He sighed deeply and turned back into the pillow, one hand eclipsing an entire corner of it.
Hunched against the furious feeling returning to her arm, she found herself reaching for the afghan that had fallen to the floor at some point. Far too disturbed to wonder at her daring, she slipped the covering over his shoulders before leaving the room and closing the door softly behind her.
The bottle of water was right where she’d left it on the newel post, and she swayed, fresh tears clogging her throat. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed the bottle and closed herself in her own bedroom. She poured the water among the various plants growing in her room, and the empty bottle she dropped on the pristine white eyelet bedspread. Her clothes landed haphazardly where her hands dropped them, and she stood there, numb. Unthinking. Sleep would be impossible. Goose bumps danced across her skin, and she automatically pulled on softly warm sweatpants. She covered the T-shirt she pulled on with an oversize sweatshirt that Tristan had cast aside.
Her cold fingers nimbly pulled her hair into a braid and she fastened a Velcro wrist wallet containing a house key and five dollars around her wrist. In minutes, she was quietly letting herself out the front door, into the chilly dawn. The afternoons in mid-August might be sweltering. But the crack of dawn in San Diego was bound to be cool. And, that morning, foggy as well.
Emily eyed the house as she methodically warmed up her cold muscles, and then stretched gently. When she set off up the block in a slow jog, all she could see in her mind were Jefferson’s eyes. Wounded. Black with pain.
Her jogging shoes thumped steadily as she rounded
a curve in the street and began the ascent that would eventually, after exactly 2.4 miles, lead to the stable. And Bird. But she didn’t hear the slap of her shoes against the pavement. Nor did she hear the gradual awakening of the neighborhood. Car engines starting. Front doors slamming as morning newspapers were retrieved. She heard nothing. Only the memory of Jefferson’s deadened voice.
“You’re dead.”
It was afternoon when Jefferson finally woke. And he probably wouldn’t have even then if it weren’t for his baby brother standing over him, shaking the toe of his boot hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Jefferson peeled open his eyes, squinting at the bright California sunshine blasting through the windows. “What?”
“Rise and shine, bro. The day is awastin.”
Wearily, Jefferson closed his eyes again. He bunched the pillow beneath his head and scratched his chest. “Says who.”
“Me. Come on, Jeff. You keep sleeping the way you are and we’re gonna have to call in the paramedics just to see if you’re still alive.”
“Go surf the ’net. Or whatever the hell you do on those computers of yours.”
“No work today,” Tristan said cheerfully. “We’re going out.” He yanked the pillow from beneath Jefferson’s head.
“Speak for yourself.”
“Or we can stay here and you can tell me what the hell’s been going on with you the past few years.”
Jefferson pushed himself up until he was sitting. A blue knitted thing drifted across his lap. A stray thought hovered at the edge of his mind as he looked at it. Frowning, he shoved it aside and held out his hand. “Help me up.”
“Damn, buddy,” Tristan said as he pulled Jefferson to his feet. “You’re really gettin’ decrepit, aren’t you.”
Jefferson planted a hand on Tristan’s chest and shoved him out of the way. “I can still whip your butt,” he warned. Pulling his shirt free, he balled it up and dropped it on the foot of the bed.
“Holy sh—”
Jefferson ignored Tristan’s muffled curse as his brother obviously saw the scar on his back and continued into the bathroom. He sat on the closed lid of the commode and studied his boots. He wiggled his toes. At least, he thought he wiggled them. They’d gone numb again. Grimacing, he bent his knee and began tugging.
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