“We’ll change your shirt. Get your arms back in the sling, where they belong. Then I’ll make you eggs instead of cereal and . . .”
He was watching her too closely, too solemnly, and the smile was gone. Though she missed it, she was glad. His smile reminded her far too much of things that were dead and gone.
“What?” she asked when he continued to stare at her.
“You’ll have to get the eggs.”
“You don’t have any eggs?” Why was she surprised? “Fine, I’ll get dressed and go to the store.”
He made a scolding click with his tongue as he shook his head. “City, city, city girl. Eggs come from chickens.”
“I thought chickens came from eggs.”
“Funny. The eggs are in the henhouse, underneath the chickens.”
“Oh.” Duh, her mind taunted—with Dean’s voice. “Right.”
“I can have cereal,” Brian reiterated. “I don’t mind.”
Kim was tempted, but if she let herself be intimidated by something as simple as gathering eggs, she’d never win her own personal war.
“No. You like eggs. Scrambled.”
His face closed; the memory sprang between them. Scrambled eggs at midnight. Sharing the plate, the fork, each other. Laughing, talking, loving. Living, crying, dying.
Kim snapped her mind as closed as Brian’s face and hurried on, trying to fix her blunder. “Better yet. Over hard.”
His eyes widened. Her cheeks flamed as she heard what she’d said. She wished she had, literally, put her foot into her mouth; maybe then she could shut up.
Desperate to make amends, Kim returned to her list. “First the shirt, then the eggs.”
She stepped closer and quickly released the buttons without looking at his face. The heat of his skin warmed her chilled fingers. The sight of his chest, broader, stronger, but still just as smooth, just as supple, made her throat go dry. She muffed taking the shirt off, catching the sleeve on a splint and tugging impatiently.
His hiss of pain drew her gaze from his arm to his belly, where the muscles rippled a line to the bruises beneath his ribs. The sight of them brought back memories that refused to let her be indifferent any longer.
She touched him, palm to waist, fingertips along his back. He went still, watching her as prey might watch the predator—or perhaps it was the other way around.
“Did you do this yesterday?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Anger? Pain? Or merely the past?
“I didn’t do it playing football.”
He remembered. How could he forget? How could she?
Brian had been the quarterback; Kim, a cheerleader. They were nauseatingly adorable and perfect. The month had been September; the air, cool; the night, silver and blue.
He’d made the play, won the game, gotten the girl. They’d gone to a party in someone’s woods. Bonfires and beer cans. The laughter too loud, the population too dense. She’d only wanted to be with him. He’d held out his hand, and she’d gone into the darkness with him gladly.
They’d walked. Talked. Kissed. Sat on the hood of his car, then crawled into the back seat. She’d touched his side and he’d grimaced with pain, just like today. And like today, she’d slowly unbuttoned every button to reveal every bruise. He’d watched her then, too, his eyes hungry, not far different from the predatory cast in them now.
She hadn’t understood what she was seeing, why or how he’d been hurt. Then he’d shrugged. “The pads only do so much.”
Shock had taken the place of confusion. “This happens every game?”
“More or less.” He winked. “No guts, no glory.”
To a seventeen-year-old girl, his strength, his bravery, his willingness to put himself on the line for the team had seemed epic. She’d put her mouth to the bruises, put her mouth on him, and that night he had become her first, just as she had become his.
The past faded, but the bruises remained. His belly quivered beneath her hand, and before she could stop herself, she stroked him—just one brush of her thumb against his skin. No one’s skin had ever been as smooth or enticing as Brian’s.
His splint smacked her hand, heavy and awkward, pinning her to him even as his fingertips struggled to pull her away. But he was as helpless right now as she.
She tilted her head back, and the stark memory of his face made her reckless.
“No guts, no glory, she repeated.
Their lips met—she was never sure afterward if she’d kissed him or he’d kissed her—it hardly mattered. The first touch of his lips and she dove.
Open mouth, open palms. Open heart, open mind. The spirit of Brian washed through her. Colors swirled behind her closed eyelids—crimson to garnet, sage become emerald, cerulean into sapphire.
The kiss was everything she’d known, yet nothing at all of what had been. Gentleness banished, softness consumed, the embrace was him—hard and dark—his flavor a claret of sadness at midnight.
She’d loved him, lost him and so much more. She’d gone on, but she couldn’t seem to stop missing what had never even been.
CHAPTER SIX
Brian had lost his mind. There was no other explanation for what was happening.
Only a crazy man would beg to be crushed again by the very same woman who had crushed him before. But then his sanity had been in question more than once in his lifetime.
Since he was already halfway down the path to insanity, he might as well enjoy the journey, so Brian stepped in closer and he kissed her some more.
She tasted the same; she smelled the same, too. Of snowflakes on evergreen branches, holly, ivy and brown sugar.
Her lips were just as soft; her tongue, as eager. Her body slid along his in both new and familiar ways. Her hands on his bare skin knew exactly where to touch to make him moan. But he couldn’t touch her, not really, and while that was as frustrating as hell, it was also arousing.
He fought the rising tide of need, knowing he should put a stop to the kiss before it led to something more, something he couldn’t control, something that might leave him more broken than he already was. But for one more moment he wanted to remember what it had felt like to be loved by her—or at least to believe that he was.
They’d learned so many things together. Spanish and French . . . kissing. Biology and . . . biology. Phys ed and baseball—first, second and beyond. Algebra and the discovery of the unknown.
He’d learned some things without her, too. That sex wasn’t love. Forever didn’t really mean forever. And desire, however pleasant, could still make a man feel emptier than he’d ever felt before. He might still love her, but how could he still want her after what wanting her had done to him?
It was that thought, that feeling, more than any other, that allowed Brian to step away and keep himself from kissing her again when she opened her eyes and looked at him with the same expression he had seen a thousand times.
“Brian?” she whispered, and reached for him.
He stumbled back, stepping on the shirt that still trailed from his splint, yanking it clear, ignoring the pain.
“Don’t touch me, Kim.”
The dreamy cast disappeared from her face. Her cheeks flamed. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. You never used to say that.”
“You want to talk about all the things I used to say?”
She flinched. “No.”
Her arms curled protectively around her middle as she turned, shoulders hunched. Seeing Kim in such a defeated posture made Brian regret his hasty words. She’d hurt him. Badly. But that didn’t mean he had to hurt her back—no matter how many long, lonely, empty nights had been spent thinking about doing just that.
He gentled his voice. “We could do this, Kim. We could go in your room, or up to mine, fall on the bed and have sex until our eyes crossed, but it isn’t going to change anything.”
“What will?”
Her voice, wistful, tugged at a part of him he’d buried along with so many other pieces of himself.
“Some things can’t be changed. What’s done is done. What’s gone isn’t coming back, and our—”
“Shut up!” She spun around, her eyes wide and wild. The color had drained from her face; her lips trembled, then tightened. “You don’t want me to touch you? Fine. I won’t. But I don’t want to talk about what happened that night. Not ever. Do you understand?”
She was shivering now. Brian wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. They’d sworn never to tell another living soul what had happened. He hadn’t, but for some reason he’d figured Kim had. A friend, a lover, even a doctor. How had she kept the secret inside herself for so long? How had he?
“No, I don’t understand,” he murmured. “If we can’t talk to each other, then who can we talk to?”
“Talking won’t change anything, either.”
Brian wasn’t so sure about that. The temptation of talking with Kim about what only they could talk about was nearly as enticing as kissing her had been. He could give up the kiss, but he wasn’t quite sure if he could give up talking about what they’d both lost one rainy June night.
“You say no touching. I say no talking.” Kim was already backing away from him and toward the door. Running again. He shouldn’t be surprised.
“That’s how it has to be,” she muttered, almost to herself. Then she raised her chin, looked him straight in the eyes. He blinked at the depth of pain he saw in hers. “I—I can’t, Brian. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
Her hand fumbled on the doorknob. She cursed, took a deep breath, tried once more, then she was gone, fleeing toward the chicken coop as if the rickety structure held salvation or at least sanctuary.
Brian sat at the kitchen table and contemplated his thumbs. His skin was hot, hotter still where she’d touched him. But with his milk-drenched shirt on the floor and the past in his mind, a chill spread from the outside all the way in to his heart.
For eight years he’d nursed his anger, his pain, his loathing because that was the only way he could go on without her. He had to believe that she’d left him without a backward glance, that she had never wanted the life he needed, never mourned all they had lost. Kim had callously gone on to bigger and better things, leaving him to muddle through alone.
But one glimpse into her eyes had shown him a truth he had never allowed himself to consider. Kim was still raw, still bleeding.
She was broken inside; just like him.
Kim made it to the chicken coop without crying. But her heart was pounding so loudly the beat echoed in her head, in time with the voice chanting, Go, go, go. You’ve got to get out of here.
So much for her pledge to stick this out and make all who’d ever doubted her eat their words. Of course, she’d been talking about farm work when she’d made her silly vow. She’d never considered that Brian might decide to dredge up their past and wallow in it.
What kind of guy was he anyway? Every other man she’d ever known—father, brothers, lovers, save one—did not care to chat about feelings, painful or otherwise. They would definitely not bring up the most god-awful night of her life and ask her to share.
But then, Brian had never been like any other man or boy she’d ever known.
A sob escaped Kim’s lips before she could stop it. She clapped a hand over her mouth and stumbled inside the chicken coop.
The smell made her forget everything else. People who thought pig farms reeked had never been near a chicken farm. But the shock of chickenshit only lasted so long. An instant later all she’d been trying to forget came roaring back.
They’d been so happy, crazy with passion, drunk with devotion. They’d had problems, sure. But they’d been young and in love for the first time. They’d believed they could overcome anything. Together they’d seemed strong, invincible. They’d learned differently.
Excitement faded to fear. Fear turned to pain. Dear God, the pain. Through everything Brian had been there. He’d held her, talked to her, never let her lose hope. Until all hope was gone.
Tears ran down Kim’s cheeks, reminding her of the way the rain had traced the windowpane of a sleazy little motel in Wisconsin. She scrubbed away the tears, banished every memory. They still swirled at the edges of her mind, but she was used to ignoring them. Going on, doing something, anything, staying busy. In her other life she was known as a party girl—smile, laugh, dance, drink—anything to keep the sobbing child within herself at bay.
She contemplated the chickens. Somehow, she didn’t think dancing was going to work right now. Well, when in Rome—or a stinking chicken coop . . .
Kim snatched a basket from the wall and approached the nearest hen. She’d never gathered eggs before. With five older brothers the farm chores had been parceled out long before Kim arrived.
Her mother had always kept her close, tried to teach her wifely chores like cooking, canning, cleaning. Kim had rebelled, resenting the implication that a farmwife was all she could be. As a result, she knew diddlysquat about quite a bit, including how to get an egg out from underneath a chicken. But how hard could it be?
She approached slowly, cautiously, hand outstretched, mind focused on taking shallow breaths through her mouth and thinking of nothing but the chicken. The instant she touched feathers, the hen pecked her hard enough to draw blood.
“Ouch!” She jumped back, bumped the nesting boxes on the other side and caused a small, cackling riot, which sent feathers shooting in every direction.
When the hens quieted, she tried again, with similar results. Annoyed, frustrated, furious, she refused to give up. One thing Kim had never been short on was stubbornness.
Ten minutes later, her hands were bleeding, her hair was full of feathers and her basket was still empty.
But at least she no longer thought about anything but chickens.
Brian waited and then he waited some more. How long did it take to grab an egg or two? He would have figured her gone, but he hadn’t heard the car. Maybe she’d walked away.
And if so, what would he do? The time they’d spent together had shown him one truth. Despite the years that had gone by, they were both tormented by their memories.
It was this thought that haunted him as he waited. She was back; she was here. He wasn’t so foolish as to believe she might stay, but if he could get her to talk to him, if he could talk to her, then maybe, just maybe, they could move on.
But how was he going to get her to talk about a past they had both buried?
Since the answer to that question was not to be found in his kitchen, Brian hauled himself to his feet, hunted out the least disgusting T-shirt in the laundry room and managed to get it over his head and his hands. Then he headed for the chicken coop.
He heard the ruckus as soon as he stepped out of the house. The door wide-open, feathers sputtered out along with furious squawks.
Brian peeked inside just as Kim crept toward a hen already fluffed to twice its size with outrage. Murmuring nonsense, she slowly reached out and got pecked for her trouble.
“You’re not doing it right,” he said.
Kim gasped and spun around. Her hair was white with feathers, and her hands ran rivulets of blood. His amusement faded at the sight. Blood had never bothered him, unless it was hers.
He raised his gaze to her face, and the tear tracks made him take a step toward her. Had she been crying because of the chickens or despite them?
“Forget the damn eggs,” he snapped. “They’re not worth bleeding over.”
“If I don’t get them, who will?”
“Dean.”
“Uh-uh. No way. No how. No, sir!”
Brian was glad to see a spark of spunk beat back the dull resignation in her eyes. The shadows still hovered, but then, so did his.
He leaned a shoulder in the doorway. She scowled at the hen. The bird ruffled her feathers with disdain. Brian could almost see that chicken brain at work.
There is no way this amateur is going to get my hard-laid egg!
“Well?” Kim demanded, cutting him a si
deways glare. “What am I doing wrong?”
He hesitated. If he refused to tell her, would she give up and go inside? The set of her mouth and the narrowing of her eyes told him that wasn’t likely. She was going to do this with or without his help. Brian sighed.
“Don’t bother to be polite,” he directed. “Just dart in. Grab the egg and get out from under before she knows what hit her. From the looks of your hand you’re giving ‘em too much time to think.”
“Chickens think?”
“They’ve outsmarted you.”
“Thanks.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, here I go.”
She darted in and yanked out an egg. It exploded in her fist. Silence settled over the chicken coop, broken only by the occasional miffed cackles of one or two hens.
“You’re not doing it right,” he repeated.
As egg slime slid over her fingers and dripped onto her slippers Brian held his breath, uncertain if she would burst into tears, laugh or throw a chicken at him.
She did none of them. Instead, she shook the egg off her hand, shifted to another chicken and tried again. Brian found himself reluctantly impressed with her determination. If only she’d been half as determined about their relationship as she was about the eggs.
He stopped those thoughts before they could bring back his bitterness. As he’d told her earlier, what was done was done, and he’d better start living what he preached or he might never truly live again at all.
This time Kim didn’t break the egg. At least not right away. Her still slimy fingers opened to reveal it perched on her palm.
Her expression of wonder turned to horror. “Uck!” She yanked her hand out from under, and the egg dropped to the ground, where it broke.
“To make scrambled eggs, you really need to break them into a pan,” he pointed out.
“D-did you see what was on that thing?”
“The usual.”
“The usual? There was . . . was . . . stuff on it!”
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