A Man of the Land (Masterson Family Series Book 2)

by Devine,Carol

  Zach kept waiting for some memory to hit him like a two-by-four but the impact was more subtle than that. Flashes of Dad spending many an evening at this desk, slaving over the ranch books, his back bent in subjugation.

  With the decline in cattle prices in those years, Matthew Masterson had done everything he could to make the Bar M into a successful farming operation. He'd expanded, buying more land to the east. What he hadn't counted on was the rise and fall of inflation. Once property values crashed, loans were called, and he'd lost everything he'd bought plus half of the ranch's original land he'd put up as collateral. From that point on, the family had lived on the edge of subsistence, with Dad using every extra penny to buy back the sections of the ranch he'd lost. Even in good years, he invested every cent, chasing his losses.

  A feeling of failure permeated the atmosphere of the house in those days. Zach had hated it and so had his mother. She had not been able to stand the uncertainty of living hand to mouth. Neither could his father, for that matter. But that was something Matthew Masterson had never been able to admit. He took it out on his children instead.

  Sarah tugged on his arm, making Zach realize how long he'd been staring at the desk. "What do you think?" she asked.

  Wanting to shield her from his gloomy thoughts, he tucked a wisp of hair behind her ear. "I think you've been working too hard."

  It must not have been the right thing to say. She withdrew and headed down the hall toward the kitchen. He followed, unable to take his eyes off the sun-streaked pinwheel of brown formed by the hair loosely coiled at the back of her head, her colors: gold, amber, sienna and rich coffee served with cream.

  "Sarah, I'm sorry," he said as he entered the kitchen. "The study looked great. It really did."

  He halted, the heels of his boots sounding loud to his ears. This had been his mother's domain and he didn't even recognize it. Open, airy, the room reflected Sarah's sunny disposition now. The once-grubby knotted pine cabinets had been painted white, matching a serviceable refrigerator, dishwasher and oven. Every surface gleamed, even the tiled floor.

  "Wow."

  In a mock swoon, she place the back of her hand to her brow and pretended to fall at his feet, and he felt her pleasure in his unprompted and unguarded reaction. This was how he would always remember her, joking around and teasing him the way he like to tease her, comfortable with him now, the two of them standing in a kitchen with a smile of delight on her face. This room defined her best, the heart and soul of any house, the gathering place for those who needed food and other kinds of sustenance.

  Like love.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sarah sat Zach down at the kitchen table and plied him with a piece of apple pie and a cup of coffee. She was rapidly running out of things to show him. Only the upstairs remained with its five bedrooms. Lord knew she wasn't quite ready to face the big one with the four-poster bed.

  Luckily Zach didn't appear to mind. He sprawled on the ladder-backed kitchen chair, lazily eating his pie, surprising her with his ease in what was supposed to be the symbol of his broken family and his broken childhood. She had expected him to be resentful towards her for forcing him to come here. Bribing him here. She couldn't forget the price she was willing to pay. But he wasn't reacting to her or the house in the resentful way she'd forecast at all.

  He was telling her stories, funny ones about his growing up years, even those years after his parents' divorce. Apparently, he'd been quite the rebel, and judging by the fondness of his recollections, proud of it as well.

  Zach admitted his father hadn't felt the same pride. What father would? Yet Sarah didn't hear the pain of a son misunderstood. Instead Zach sounded like he was saying just the opposite, that he, not his father, was the one to blame. He'd brought it on himself.

  Sarah leaned across the kitchen table, her gaze seeking his. "You were a boy. It's not your fault," she said.

  "Sure it was. I could never be what my father wanted me to be. I didn't even try."

  "What did he want you to be?"

  Zach laid down his fork and shrugged. "He needed me to toe the line, be responsible, do chores, ride fences, bale hay, become exactly the same thing he was. And you can bet I always did the opposite of what he said."

  "You were very young then, were you not?"

  "Farm kids grow up fast, Sarah. You know that. And you can take my word for it, children of divorce grow up faster. I was the bad kid, the one who got into trouble at school, who wouldn't back down in a fight. I can't tell you the number of times he kicked me out of the house. I'd sleep with the dogs in the yard just to spite him."

  She reached across the table to touch his hand but he got up, carried their dishes to the sink and washed them by hand.

  "Thing is, I felt sorry for him. Everyone he loved turned against him. He never got over my mom leaving him or the splitting of the family. How could he? I, for one, wouldn't let him forget it. I screwed up wherever I went, in church, sports, 4-H, any place I could. Even when he died and I came back here, it wasn't for the funeral but to board up the house. It was my way of thumbing my nose at his memory. That's when I began my campaign to talk the rest of my family into selling everything he'd spent his life saving."

  "Which you have done."

  "Yes." The dishes clinked on the sideboard, dried and ready to be put away. He turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest. "How will you be able to leave this place after putting in so much of yourself?"

  "I shall weep," she admitted. "But this is to be the home of another. I only hope the family who buys it will be happy here."

  Zach didn't have the heart to tell her that her labors had been for nothing. The knowledge was depressing, even to him, so he pushed it from his mind the same way he pushed everything from his mind. He rebelled. "You remind me of my father, Sarah. Have you noticed? I always want the opposite of what you want."

  Sarah knew he was being facetious, for the devils had come back to his eyes. He was suddenly restless, looking at her, even though he scarcely moved. Only his hand came up and he crooked his finger at her, asking for her to come to him, the beginning of a smile carving his face.

  "So hesitant, Sarah. Were you hoping I would let you out of your part of the bargain?"

  She couldn't bear to tell the truth and say yes, so she said nothing, unwilling to share the secrets of her soul. This part was between her and God anyway, for it had been in her nightly Bible reading that she had justified the idea to offer her body to Zach. Sacrifices were lauded. After all, in Genesis, Abraham had offered his only begotten son as proof of his faith. And the New Testament, the body of Christ himself. Her virginity seemed a small thing in comparison.

  Zach twined a finger around one of the wispy curls that had fallen around her neck. He spoke no words. There was only the hungry roaming of his gaze upon her face.

  "There are many rooms upstairs you haven't seen yet," she whispered.

  "There's only one room I want to see right now," he said, pressing the promise of a soft kiss against her hot cheek. "The one with the biggest bed."

  And so it begins, she thought.

  She took his hand and led him back through the long hallway and up the stairs to his parents' old room. Zach watched her open the door and step aside, her eyes downcast. He'd guessed this was the room she slept in. Lord knew, he imagined her enough, stretched out across the wide bed, tangled in sheets and blanket and little else. But to see her here in the flesh brought it home to him, how dry his imagination had been. Colorless, texture-less, defined by raw desire rather than Sarah's reality.

  He stepped past her and flipped on the lights. The first thing he'd noticed was the quilt she had hung behind the bed. Blue had been the dominant color in the wedding ring design, a restful powder blue that was picked up in the throw pillows, the skirted table between the windows and especially the walls. Even the ceiling was painted sky blue, making him think of a cloudless Colorado sky. There was no bluer sky in all the world.

  The bed w
as covered in white chenille. A spinning wheel, of all things, stood on the far side, unearthed from the attic no doubt, for Zach couldn't remember ever seeing it before. There actually was a skein of thick yarn wrapped around the spindle and puffs of natural wool in a basket underneath.

  "I used to do it at home," Sarah said, catching him staring.

  He glanced at her. She had gone completely pale, bleached by the incandescent light.

  "Don't forget to look at the bathroom," she said, moving swiftly to open another door, revealing a small space tiled in black and white. Light blue towels hung from various brass bars. The claw-footed tub was an immaculate white as were the matching pedestal sinks. "Nice," he said without taking his eyes off her face.

  She bit her lip and retreated back to the bedroom. He followed, wondering why he had agreed to come here, to this room, to take her here of all places. But he knew why. The answer lay in the heavy beat of his blood. Even now, with all he'd encountered in regard to the house, the one feeling that overrode all else was lust.

  "Have you any candles up here?" he asked.

  She went to one of the small tables set on either side of the bed and held up two old-fashioned brass candle holders, complete with blue tapers.

  "Light them both, Sarah," he said. He sat on the bed and removed his boots.

  "I'd prefer the dark."

  "I want to see you, Sarah. All of you."

  She opened a box of matches, struck once, twice, three times before the flame burst into life. Her front teeth caught her lower lip as she lit the two wicks, the trembling in her fingers obvious in the shadows wavering on the wall. She blew out the flame, tucked the charred matchstick into one brass holder and carried the second candlestick to the other side of the bed opposite Zach.

  He switched off the lights. She put the candle down on the nightstand, kicked off her sneakers and glanced down at herself, the blouse and the jeans. She abruptly turned her back to him, the ivory nape of her neck revealed as she lowered her head. The subtle movement of her bent elbows told him she was fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.

  "Don't," he said.

  She glanced askance at him, fingers poised on her chest, just above her breasts. "Is this not how the act is done?"

  "I want to undress you myself."

  Her mouth opened in protest.

  "But not yet," he said, soothing her. He went and drew her ice-cold hands away from her blouse. He led her to the dressing table next to a tall bureau. "I have something else in mind first."

  "You do?" A crease worried her brow, making her appear very young.

  He smiled. "Do you have a hairbrush?"

  "What would you need a hairbrush for?"

  "To brush your hair with, silly."

  Her clenched fingers relaxed slightly. "You wish to brush my hair?"

  "If you'll let me."

  She retrieved her brush from a drawer and gave it to him. He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her to the little vanity bench, so she faced the oval mirror above the table. Her reflected face still looked very white even in candlelight. He positioned himself behind her and began to unpin her hair.

  "Close your eyes," he said.

  She hesitated, her reflection wide-eyed and solemn. He rubbed the base of her neck, loosening the knot of tension beneath her unraveling hair and bent so she could see his face next to hers.

  "Please?" he asked.

  Her hands came together in a tight clench. Her eyelashes lowered, becoming feathery crescents against her fine-grained skin. The bristles of the brush made a soft sound. It underlined the building silence in the room. Zach began to hum under his breath, suggesting the melody of Amazing Grace, a hymn she'd once hummed to him. She cocked her head to listen.

  Candlelight brought out the red tones in her waist-length hair, making it ignite in his hands like a river of flame. After a long while he put down the brush and combed her hair with his fingers, letting it curl over his wrists like a waterfall.

  As usual, she was oblivious to what she did to him. He pulled out a front section of her hair and guided it so a long curl brushed the front of her shoulder, followed by his hand, lingering there. His fingers contrasted sharply with the soft cream of her blouse. Womanly heat beckoned him through the silk. Using a forefinger, he stroked the skin beneath her collar, tracing the line of her neck as it curved around and down the line of her throat.

  Her eyes flew open. Keeping his fingers just under the opening of her blouse, he dragged his hand upward and found the bones of her face. She relaxed. Her cheeks had a special warmth all their own. He cupped her blushing with his palms and watched her eyes darken in the mirror. She focused on the erotic contrast between his large masculine hands and the delicate planes of her face.

  His thumbs crept up and framed her forehead, rubbing away the lines of tension. She made a small sound, mesmerized. He rubbed circles around her temples. She sighed and the point of her chin lowered to her chest, resting there.

  He massaged her neck and shoulders, wanting her pliant, boneless even. She went limp and he knelt behind the little stool and whispered, "Remember how you feel right now."

  She raised her head, reflecting her nod. Her eyes were sleepy, the pupils dilated and filled with a lovely sheen. He reached around her neck and undid the top button of her blouse, watching his progress in the mirror. She sat very still, like a statue, also watching the mirror. He undid the next button and the next, working his way downward until he reached the waistband of her jeans.

  He tore his gaze from her reflection and looked down over her shoulder. The cleft between her breasts was braked by the ivory lace cups of her bra. To expose her more fully, all he needed to do was pull apart her blouse.

  He shrugged out of his shirt. Above the rigid line of her shoulders, his chest looked golden in the flickering candlelight. Without preamble, he snaked his hands around her waist. She inhaled sharply, reflexively drawing back. But he was right behind her and she had nowhere to go. His hands slid inside her blouse and discovered the plane of her stomach, taut with tension. He pressed one palm flat against it.

  Her breath caught. Smiling a little, he skimmed his way to her half-hidden breasts and watched for her reaction. She arched her spine, trapping her head against his shoulder. Her blouse gaped open, revealing the lacy cups of her bra and the half-moons of flesh above.

  He covered her breasts with his hands and filled his palms with warm lace. She was unbelievably soft and the silk sliding over the backs of his hands was the same texture. The sight of touching her so intimately excited him no end. Staying in place behind her chair, he nuzzled the nape of her neck, relishing the rush of blood pooling in his loins. He had waited for this moment for far too long.

  Up close, she smelled like roses, spicy and feminine. He burrowed his nose beneath the folded edge of her collar and kissed the point where neck met shoulder, lingering over the salty taste of her skin. She tilted her head and he took full advantage, tasting her bared shoulder with his tongue, wishing he could lick her everywhere at the same time.

  Patience, he told himself. Patience. Still the fantasy drove him and before he knew it, he'd flicked open the front clasp of her bra. Her bare breasts filled her hands. He cupped and lifted and felt her nipples pucker against his palm. Her breathing changed, quickening.

  Delighted by her responsiveness, he examined her face in the mirror. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slightly parted, revealing the hint of white teeth. He rubbed his thumb along her jaw against her cheek and she turned toward him, seeking his mouth, ready to be kissed.

  To touch her freely while he kissed her was heaven. He captured her lower lip between his teeth and gently sucked. He rubbed his thumb along her jaw line and pressed the corner of her mouth. Using the hint of moisture he found there, he wet his lips.

  She opened her eyes. Haunted by the anxiety he saw in them, Zach whispered in her ear. "I promise I'll do everything possible not to hurt you."

  "I know," she whispered, though he
r vulnerable expression didn't change.

  A rush of empathy took him out of his body and into what was on her mind. She had a right to be scared. She had never done this before. Taking her hands, he pulled her up. "Let's dance."

  "Dance?"

  "Have you heard of it?" he asked.

  "Of course," Sarah said, unsure what to make of this new development. "But how can we? There is no music."

  "I can hear it. Can you hear it?"

  Taking her hands, he sang a quick tune and swung her around in a sudden, breathless circle. "Oh!" she cried, grabbing his arms.

  "Too fast?"

  She nodded and his biceps bulged as he lifted her and set her squarely in front of him, a foot away. He pressed her left hand to his shoulder and pulled her right hand sideways so their two arms, linked together, completed the classic dancer's embrace.

  "We'll waltz, then, nice and slow."

  "But I don't know how."

  "Neither do I. We can fake it, though." Humming a heavily cadenced Blue Danube which he recalled from the classic movie 2001, Zach guided her slowly around the room, not quite sure if he should be leading with his left foot or his right. Sarah's face was a study in concentration. She tried to keep up with him but she kept stumbling and he sensed how her courage was being sucked under by the brave front she was putting on to please him.

  Zach abandoned the waltz, circled her waist and pulled her close. "When in doubt, do the box step," he said against the shell of her ear, wishing he knew the magic words that would ease her fears. He led her in a simple square but couldn't hum because he no longer trusted his voice.

  What was he doing to her?

  Sarah found if she moved her legs opposite from his, they swayed to the same rhythm, silent though it was. She closed her eyes. Instinct took over, giving her a sense of what to do. Her fingers stopped clutching and crept upward, seeking to anchor themselves around his strong neck. The stiffness went out of her spine and his hand spread over the small of her back, guiding her feet in better harmony with his. She turned her head and rested her cheek against his chest, and suddenly their movement together became natural, flowing freely from one step into the next.