by Carol Grace
He clenched his teeth. "You don't have to explain."
"I want to."
"It's not necessary."
"I know that. I just don't want you to think I'm like all those other women."
"I don't." She was like no other woman. But he couldn't say that. She'd get the wrong idea. The idea that be was going to do something about it. What he was going to do was just the opposite. He was going to stay the hell out of the kitchen, and if he was in there, he was not going to tie her apron strings, eat her cookies or drink her coffee. He crossed the room and poured his coffee down the sink. There.
When be turned he saw Sarah quietly standing in the doorway, her bright eyes moving from him to Christine and back again. How long had she been there, how much had she heard?
"Have you got it?" Christine asked, clearing the kitchen table of her cookbooks and recipes. She motioned to a chair and Sarah plunked her books and binder on the table. They sat next to each other, forgetting Parker in their concentration on the work in front of them, the overhead light shining on Sarah's straight, fine, flyaway hair and on Christine's shiny short brown curls.
He saw his daughter open her book, he heard Christine say something about the poet, about the poem, but he didn't know what. His mind was a jumble of thoughts, of painful memories and of unrealized expectations. Life hadn't turned out the way he'd thought it would, he realized as he quietly walked behind them and out the back door. He'd expected a boy, he'd gotten a girl. A bright, energetic girl he wouldn't trade for anyone. But he'd also expected a wife who'd stand by his side, only he'd been betrayed instead.
Christine, whose senses had just come alive, didn't know who she was or even who he was. It was best that she didn't. Because to know him meant to leave him. That's what he had to conclude when Cheryl left. He didn't know what else to think. Before she left he thought everything was fine. He thought he was in love. Thought she loved him back. Yes, it was a shock. A shock he thought he was over by now. Maybe he was. Maybe it was just the hurt that was still there.
He walked around in the dark, circling the barn, the pens, the sheds. Listened to the sound of crickets, to the blare of the TV from the bunkhouse and the laughter. Then he walked by the kitchen again, peered in the window. They were still there, Christine talking earnestly, Sarah listening intently, a frown puckering her forehead. It was a touching scene, but a twinge of anxiety hit him below the ribs. What was happening? Where was it all heading?
After breakfast the next morning, Christine went to the garden at the back of the house to dig root vegetables for a soup. The air was cool but the sun shone on the feathery carrot tops that poked through the rich soil. She was on her knees with a trowel in her hands when Parker found her.
"She's at it again," he said, dispensing with any kind of greeting.
Christine rocked backward. "What?"
"Sarah. She says you can teach her what she doesn't learn at the school in town. She's got it all figured out."
Standing above her and frowning at her the way he was doing was intimidating. "What did you say to her yesterday?" he continued.
"I don't know. Nothing. I certainly didn't encourage her. Although..."
"Although what?"
"I told her that if she did live at home and go to the school in town, I'd be happy to help her in any way I could."
"Even if you were permanent, it wouldn't work. You know why."
She sat squarely on the ground, her head tilted back to look up into his cool, clear blue eyes. "The ranch is no place for a woman or a girl, is that it?"
"I take it you don't agree with me."
"So far it suits me fine," she said mildly, "and Sarah..."
"So far," he repeated. "You haven't even been here two weeks and you're an expert at women and ranch life."
"I didn't say that." She felt the blood go to her head in an angry rush. "I just wonder how you would have liked being sent off to school in Denver at that age when you loved this place so much. I know, I know," she said seeing he was ready to dispute hear, "you're a man, she's a girl. But don't you see how much alike you are?"
"Not really," he said dryly.
At that moment Sarah came trotting up on her mare Sugar and stopped at the edge of the fence. "Come riding with me," she called to them. It was not a request, it was an order. Christine smothered a smile. How could Parker not see the similarity between him and his daughter?
Christine looked at Parker and he looked at her. "Go ahead," she said.
"I think she means you," he said.
"Both of you," she shouted, reaching down to pat Sugar on the shoulder.
"I don't think I know how..." Christine said.
"Then it's time you learned," Parker said, extending his arm and pulling her up off the ground. She ended up facing him from inches away, his rough, calloused hand still holding hers, his eyes, the color of the Colorado sky, locked on hers. For one crazy moment she almost thought he was going to kiss her. And for one crazy moment she wanted him to. More than anything. But Sarah's voice cut through the suddenly heavy atmosphere.
"Hey, you guys," she yelled. And they broke apart. Christine brushed the dirt off her hands, feeling as guilty as a teenager caught by her parents instead of his daughter. The next thing she knew she was outside the barn door, mounting a friendly, aged mare called Cindy.
"Foot through the stirrup front to back," Sarah instructed, still astride her horse.
"Now swing up," Parker said, giving her a boost and letting his hand linger on her fanny just a moment longer than absolutely necessary. What was wrong with him? What was it about her he couldn't resist? Those smoky gray eyes that changed with her mood? The touch of her hand, the sweet curve of her hip? It was all of the above and more. It was her smile, the one she tried to hide. It was the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't looking. With something that might have been desire. He didn't know. It had been so long.
What was he doing, giving riding lessons to the cook when he had office work to do today, bills to pay and calls to make to order new breeding stock? Maybe it was just too nice a day to stay inside. Maybe it had been too long since he'd gone for a ride with his daughter just for pleasure.
"Keep a firm grip on the front of the saddle," he instructed Christine. "Now, take the reins and hold them loosely."
She did as he said, then glanced at him. "What next?"
"Just stay there. I'll go saddle up Chance."
Sarah clapped her hands and her horse pawed the ground. "I can't believe he's coming with us," she said to Christine.
He went back into the barn to get the Appaloosa, wishing Sarah wouldn't make such a big deal of it. Christine might think he was going with them to be with her, when it was just the day, the season, spring in the air. Whatever it was, it felt good to be throwing a saddle on Chance, to hear his welcoming whinny. "Try to act casual," he muttered in the horse's ear. "Like we do this every day." I should do it every day, he thought as he joined the others and mounted his favorite horse.
Sarah was telling Christine what to do. "Keep your arms straight and don't twist the reins," she said.
"Ready?" her father asked, noting with pride his daughter's erect posture, her ease and comfort on her spirited mount. She was an accomplished rider. She should be. She'd been riding since she could walk. Pop had seen to that.
Christine's forehead was etched with tiny worry lines. He reached over and untwisted her reins. Then he put his hand on her shoulder for reassurance. "To start going, press your legs against the side of the horse. Don't worry, she hates to run. A real wimp."
"Just like me," Christine said under her breath.
"I don't believe that," he said more to himself than to her as they left the corral, three abreast. "No wimp would have taken this job. No wimp would live through being struck by lightning."
She shrugged, but a flush of pleasure tinted her cheeks.
Sarah glanced at Christine who was clutching the reins tightly in her hands and she smiled deligh
tedly. "She's doing good, Dad, isn't she?" she asked.
"Not bad."
"Can we go a little faster?" Sarah asked, trotting ahead of the others. "I'll meet you guys at the duck pond." Without waiting for an answer she galloped off.
"I thought you were supposed to go riding with her," Christine said. "I'm spoiling your ride. Your quality time together. That wasn't the idea."
Parker watched his daughter disappear in a cloud of dust over the rise. What was the idea? Had the little imp done this deliberately to throw him together with Christine? Sarah had had nothing but good words for the cook since she'd seen her. He knew it was partly because she sensed a potential ally in her struggle to stay on the ranch. But could she also have something else in mind? A replacement mother? After knowing her for only one day? Ridiculous.
"Let's try trotting," he suggested, shifting the reins to one hand and nudging his horse with one knee.
Christine's eyes widened, and she gripped the horse tightly with her legs as Cindy increased her speed, lifting the front leg on one side of its body along with the hind leg on the other side. The two legs hit the ground at the same time and they were riding together, the two horses and the two people, only a foot apart. The wind blew their hair, the horses' manes. Instead of bouncing helplessly in her saddle, Christine rose and fell with the rhythm of the horse.
"Hey," he said, "what are you doing?"
"I don't know," she shouted into the wind. "Am I doing it right?" Without waiting for his answer, she laughed delightedly and pushed old Cindy to a gallop. Parker followed, watching the wind toss her hair, mold her shirt to her body, wondering for the hundredth time what she'd been in her other life. Who'd taught her to cook, who'd taught her to ride and, more important, who'd taught her to kiss? For some reason he wished it had been him.
Chapter Six
Parker dug his heels into his horse's flank and galloped after Christine, feeling the wind in his face, and the power of the horse under him. When he caught up with her she flashed him a triumphant smile. They rode together into the wind. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ridden for pleasure. Just for the hell of it. Couldn't remember when he'd ridden with someone. For pleasure. And it was pleasure. A pleasure to watch her ride high in the saddle, back straight. The sun shone on her fawn-colored curls. Her smile dazzled him. He couldn't tear his eyes from her.
At the duck pond he dismounted and reached for her. She swung around and slid into his arms. Her knees buckled and he caught her. He slanted a kiss across her lips. There was a moment of hushed silence as if he'd taken her by surprise. Maybe he had. But when she shivered in his arms, he heated things up. One hot, hungry kiss, but it wasn't enough. He felt her hands tighten on his shoulders and when her lips parted, his tongue caressed hers. Hungry for more, he claimed her for a deep, soul-searching kiss. She sighed and he pulled her closer, tighter. The wind died down to a whisper. The only sound was her breathing—or was it his—hard and fast.
She pulled away and braced her hands on his arms. "That was... that was wonderful," she breathed, her gray eyes cloudy, her lips so full, so desirable he leaned forward, wondering
"The ride.. .or the kiss?" he asked. He knew, he just had to hear her say it.
"Both."
It was all the encouragement he needed. His arms went around her and crushed her to him. Forgotten were all the words of warning he'd given himself, the pain and the anguish of the past, the proximity of his daughter. All he could think about was Christine and how much he wanted her. He cupped her face in his hands, studied her long-lashed eyes, straight nose and determined chin... angled his mouth to taste again, to sample
The pounding of his heart seemed to reverberate until the ground shook under his feet. Like a stampede coming their way.
"Hey," Sarah shouted, reining her horse on the other side of the pond. "What's going on?"
They jumped apart as if the earth had parted beneath them. Would it do any good to say "nothing"? As calmly as he could he led his horse to the pond to drink.
"What took you so long?" he asked Sarah as she approached.
"I took a little detour," Sarah explained. "So I didn't have to wait for you slowpokes." She grinned and he shook his head and grinned back at her.
"How'd she do?" Sarah asked her father, nodding at Christine.
"Fine. She's a natural. I guess she's had experience somewhere along the line."
Christine sauntered up to join them. "That was fun," she said.
"You looked like you were enjoying it," Sarah said with another of her broad knowing smiles.
The kid was too smart for her own good, Parker thought. And too cheeky.
"We'll have to find her something more her speed, won't we, Dad?" she asked.
He caught Christine's gaze and he felt the heat rise through his body. With just a look, she had the power to arouse him. Power he'd vowed never to let any woman have again. Without answering, he got back on his horse as Christine was telling Sarah she thought Cindy was good enough for her.
"I'd better get back," he said with a glance at the two of them standing there together, wind-blown, red-cheeked, with the pond and the blue sky behind them. He had to escape. From Christine, from Sarah, from all this togetherness, before he forgot this wasn't real life. Real life was hard work, and if he hung around much longer having fun he'd want more, and he'd want it to last. And that wasn't going to happen.
"Do you like Christine?" Sarah asked her father after the men had cleared out of the dining room that evening and he was finishing his coffee.
He set his cup down. "Of course I like her. Why?"
"Cuz she likes you."
"Does she?" He glanced at his daughter. "How do you know?"
She grinned over her second helping of chocolate pudding. "She told me. And I can just tell anyway." She paused and licked her spoon. "Axe you surprised?"
"No. I mean yes. What I mean is adults use the word 'like' in a different way than kids do. I wouldn't hire someone I didn't like, and I'm sure Christine wouldn't work for someone she didn't 'like.'"
"She might. I mean she had nowhere to go and no choice. She doesn't know who she is. She doesn't even know if she's ever been in love before." Sarah's eyes were wide with wonder.
He frowned. "It sounds like you've been asking her a lot of questions. I hope you're not making a pest of yourself. She's been through a lot, you know."
"I know, she told me. She's a good cook, isn't she?"
"Very good."
"Don't you think I should learn to cook?"
"Sure. Someday."
"What about now? If I lived here, she'd teach me to cook and help me with my homework, like today. What if we found out she was a teacher in her real life, then would you let me stay here?"
"No."
"What if she was a psychiatrist and she told you I had to stay here or I'd have a nervous breakdown, then could I stay?"
"Sweetheart..."
"What if..."
"No. You're staying at the Academy. Look, it's almost summer vacation."
"In the fall then, can I stay here and go to school in Clear Creek?"
"Sarah!" The girl never stopped pushing him to his limits.
"Okay," she said, completely undaunted. Then she left the room, balancing a glass, her empty bowl and a large serving dish. He was certain he hadn't heard the end of it.
He left the dining room and walked through the house. The living room door was open and he walked in. It was cool and smelled slightly musty. They hadn't used the room for months, maybe years. When he was first married, Cheryl changed the furniture around, added a reclining chair, recovered the couch. When she left, he closed the door on the room like he'd closed off the part of his heart that had to do with love. And he had no desire to reopen either one.
But Sarah was dragging a dusty card table out of the closet. When she turned and saw him she smiled delightedly as if he'd never yelled at her, as if she had no doubt she'd eventually get her way, just by chipping away at h
is resistance. The way she'd done when she wanted to raise baby chicks when she was five. But she wouldn't. This was different. This was important. This was her future.
"Oh, good, just in time to play Pictionary with us," she said, leaning the table against the wall.
He backed toward the door. "Not tonight."
"You have to. We need an even number for teams. So far we just have me and Christine and Pop."
"I have work to do," he said firmly.
"Then could you just make a fire for us in the fireplace?" she asked with a little shiver to illustrate her request and he nodded. Just as long as he didn't get roped into some game. Just as long as he didn't have to spend the evening in the same room as Christine, watching her smile curve the corners of her mouth, her gray eyes change color to match her mood, hear her voice with a hint of husky sensuality she wasn't even aware of. No, he was definitely busy tonight. Doing something. Anything. He lit the paper under the kindling and turned to tell Sarah once again he wasn't playing, but she was gone, the card table on end where she'd left it.
Christine came into the room wearing a pair of soft, prewashed jeans, a lambs wool sweater and thick slippers he'd loaned her when she was sick. She had a way of taking his breath away when he least expected it. When he least expected her. Even when he did expect her. Which made it difficult for him to speak, to know what to say. Especially after what happened that afternoon. The memory of their kisses, the heat of their passion, hovered in the air between them.
She seemed to have the same problem catching her breath. Her eyes darted to the fire, then to him and for a long moment she stood hesitantly in the doorway staring at him. "I wasn't...I didn't think...Sarah said we were going to play a game."
"You are," he said, picking up the brass poker and nudging the log. "I'm just making the fire. Don't worry, I'm not staying."
