“I am not leaving,” he said again, the anger gone as if it had never been. What replaced it was hard to say but she sensed it was no less dangerous. Her hair, mussed as it was, tickled the underside of his arm and the muscle in his chest jumped spasmodically.
“I am not leaving.” He pushed his weight forward on the door, backing her up against it. He did not touch her but they were close enough that they could breathe each other in. The bolt on the door slid home.
She stared up at him, the scent of his body, both the sweat and a faint smell of smoke and chemicals she wasn't familiar with, were mixed with the clean perfume of the soaps from his bath earlier. It was intoxicating. Her hand had slipped from the door knob and it came forward to lightly touch his chest. She'd felt a fluttering in her stomach at his forceful refusal. What she was feeling was most definitely not fear and it was growing the longer he stood so close. But she knew, deep down, she mustn't allow herself to give in to what she wanted. It was too late for that. There was nothing ahead of her but trouble and an end to the life she'd thought just hours before would be her future. He had no place in it. In fact, he had no life ahead of him if he didn't go.
“Yes, you are.” Her brows drew together as she summoned up anger to strengthen her resolve. She pulled it from the hatred she now felt toward Fat Farley. Any compassion or tolerance she'd once tried to foster into some form of fondness toward the big oafish brute had been torn away as surely as her clothes had been.
“I don't want you here.” She hit him with closed fists then tried to push him away instead of caressing and exploring the beautiful contours of his muscled chest as she longed to do. “Get away from me. Just get away. I don't want you here and this is my home. It's up to me, not you. Go.”
He let her hit him, not moving back or trying to stop her. Only compassion seemed to reside in his expression as he continued to watch her face, weathering her fists.
The fists opened, her palms placed against his chest as she intended to push him again. Instead they slid across the hard muscles, slipping behind his back and she pressed herself against him. Her eyes burned with unshed tears but there was no danger they'd find their way to the surface. She could be grateful for that but not for the way her lips trembled – hell, her whole body trembled. She no more wanted him to see that than the proof of her weakness in girly tears. Biting her lip, she placed her cheek against him, hearing his heart beat, while she tried to pull herself back together.
“You need to go, Miguel. Please. What good will it do you to stay here now? I don't want you to be caught. I couldn't bear it. Please.”
The feel of his bare skin against her own, the rise and fall of his chest setting the pace for her own breathing, were impossible to resist. She shrugged her shoulders, using first one hand then the other to expose more of her own flesh to his. Exploring how it felt, pressing even closer, she felt comfort in his body's warmth against her heat. Her breathing quickened as she felt his hips against her and her own hips moved slightly, seeking more. Even his legs... she twined one of her legs around his to keep as much of him in contact as possible. Touch by touch, she lingered on the experience and what was happening inside her until she got to his back, concentrating on the feel of muscles and...
She gasped then moved quickly, slipping from under his upraised arm to get a good look at the skin on his back. It was red. There were raised blisters and... “What happened? Is this what that blast did? I felt the heat but you were on top of me. I didn't know it had done this. I'm so sorry.”
He glanced over his shoulder, concentrating more on keeping himself together than on whatever his back looked like. Which was something, considering his 'my body is my temple' attitude. Generally speaking, there was another part of his body temple that needed his focus and the tensing of his hands on the door in front of him were a good indication of the tensing of the rest of him.
She hurried away from him to retrieve a salve from the kitchen before he could catch her and he groaned quietly as he pushed away from the door to follow.
Chapter 9
The salve was a home remedy, made from a native plant, and was excellent for treating burns. Her turmoil and emotional weakness were gone once she could concentrate on something else. She still trembled and felt weak but now it was from an entirely different cause which didn't disappear so easily though she did try to ignore it.
“Sit down. You should have told me about this earlier.” Her scolding was softened by the concern behind it. She pulled out a chair at the table and set the jar down then pulled her coveralls back over her shoulders. “This will do wonders for the blistering.” She raised an eyebrow, a stubborn set to her jaw, reminding herself as much as she was informing him. “Then you must go.”
Sighing, he wiped a hand across his face and walked over, sitting down heavily in the seat she'd indicated. “I wish you would stop saying that.”
“Why? It's the truth. You cannot stay.” She tried to sound just as sure as before but there was reluctance and something else she couldn't afford to explore behind the words now.
In silence, she went to work on the skin of his back, her hands gentle as they applied the salve in whisper soft strokes. She allowed time for the first layer, a thin one, to penetrate in order to give the numbing qualities of the salve time to do their job. Then, with wider strokes, she applied the second thicker layer. The salve worked well. It was one of the secrets of the planet, only given up to its new inhabitants after years of experimentation. It was almost as effective as what modern medicine had to offer. Or, at least what they were ever allowed to see of what modern medicine had to offer.
“There. That should help. How are the backs of your legs? Are they burned as well?” She was suddenly too aware of his bare torso, not to mention how much she wanted to see more of him. She blushed then backed up, embarrassed at her thoughts, deliberately turning her back to him before he could answer.
“I'll, uh, I'll get you a shirt to cover up. And I'll give you the rest of the jar of salve to apply. The burns don't look too serious. They'll heal in a few days.” She went in search of another shirt, only then wondering when he'd lost the one he'd been wearing. Or why he was still barefoot. Or where the other clothes were...
“Did you lose track of where you put your boots and stuff?” Her question was tossed out from the top of the stairs before she headed down the hall to her brothers' room; more for something to fill the silence than out of real curiosity. She didn't pause long enough to hear an answer.
Once in the bedroom, she found a shirt for Miguel. On impulse, she pulled off her coverall and moved to the chest of drawers that held her other brother's belongings. He was still taller than her, but shorter than the eldest. She dug through in search of something to replace her ruined clothes, believing she'd left the space jockey downstairs, and though she had, he hadn't stayed put as she'd planned.
“I did not lose them,” came his voice, uncharacteristically subdued from the doorway, which was why she didn't hear him, on top of being caught up in memories and the frozen grief that she'd never allowed an outlet for.
The summer air was hot but, clad in only her panties, Lyrianne hugged the shirt to her as she shivered. She buried her face in the soft material and inhaled the scent, letting memories of her brothers warm her from the inside. The happy memories didn't last that long, however, before grief intruded again.
There had been no tears when her brothers had disappeared. There had been none when her mother had taken her last tortured breath though her father had begged her to release her grief. And she could not shed them now while her father lay in repose in the room down the hall. Instead, she stood with her back to the door, unaware that she had an audience in the only form of mourning she would permit herself. She sang to herself and her lost family. It was her parents' favorite song, taught to her on Papa's knee. It was the best she could do.
Sometime while she sang, he retreated, not wishing to intrude on her sorrow though he sorely wanted to intrude
on her state of undress.
Hanging his head, brutally chastising himself for his selfish admiration of the sleek line of her body, the pilot headed back to the bathroom he had used earlier and unbuttoned the trous. Letting them gather around his ankles, he set to applying the salve, sighing audibly with relief now that there was no one to witness it.
The sting of the burns had been distracting, near maddening every time the cloth brushed over them, but there had been far too much to deal with and little time to suffer. Even his backside had not been spared but it was a small price to pay for leaving his more tender bits unscathed.
While he worked, he considered what he would do next, not realizing the singing had stopped. He hadn’t bothered to close the door either and when she came up behind him and took the ointment jar from his hand, he nearly crushed the pottery in his fist. He gave her an apologetic smile, somehow the information that he was naked stalled from reaching his brain. The haunted look in her eyes had been put to rest for the time being, replaced by a need; a need for his company and comfort. They were not hers to ask for and she would not dream of letting him know. Would she?
Clad in one of her brother's shirts and a pair of shorts, temporarily covering her until she could get to her own clothes, she placed her hands on his hips to guide him as she sat down on the toilet seat to finish applying the burn treatment, trying very hard not to admire what she was looking at.
“I didn't expect you to come up here, but since you have, I could use a little help. Before you go, that is. There's no point in trying to hide Farley's truck now but I have something else I can't do alone. It won't take much time, I promise.” Her voice was light, giving no indication of where her mind had been only minutes before as she sang or where it was now that he was so close again.
Considering that he was more undressed than she, he wouldn't have expected her hands-on approach. Maybe some screaming, eye covering, door slamming... That she did none of these things only inflamed his want of her. She was unlike any woman he had ever met and he wasn't sure if he should be thrilled or self-conscious by her apparent lack of distress.
Did she not find him attractive? Had her touches meant something else? If his naked body did not move her, what else did he have to offer?
Staring straight ahead at the wall across from him, Miguel discreetly moved his hands down to cup himself, feeling rather silly. “Yeah, of course I will help.” What else could he say? What else could he do? If she was determined to get rid of him, there was little he could do about it in the end. He flinched as her fingers brushed across his backside, his well-muscled cheeks embarrassing him as they tightened under her touch.
She didn't notice his discomfort. Her heart was beating so loud in her ears she was afraid he'd hear it. It took all her willpower not to pull the shirt over her head and press herself against him. She wanted to hold onto him and not let him go. She longed for him to give her what she had never desired so fiercely as she did now. Those times in the barn had been fun, exciting, wickedly naughty, but they'd never inflamed her as just the sight and touch of this man did.
With a sigh, she patted an uninjured part of his deliciously firm and sculpted behind, her touch lingering despite herself. Her fingers even started to slide forward, getting halfway around his hip before she stopped them. Reluctantly and only slightly ashamed of herself for her behavior, she handed him a towel to wrap around himself.
“I'll have to see if I can find you another pair of pants that don't rub so tightly against the burns. Maybe a pair of my father's; he's about your height.” Her father. He needed to be taken care of. “What I'd like to ask...”
She stopped mid-sentence, reluctant to have to ask the favor of him as she'd planned but knowing she had little choice. “Wait here.” She returned quickly, handing him some items from her parent's closet. The pants and shirt were closer to his size than her brothers' had been. Her father had been of a similar height to Miguel, though he had had more girth to him when he'd been healthy – not fat, but heavily muscled from a lifetime of physical labor. She knew the clothes would sit comfortably over Miguel's burns.
She sat down again when she returned to the bathroom, too distracted to realize that he might prefer privacy to get dressed. She wasn't watching him, however. Her eyes were turned down, studying her hands which she held tightly clasped together on her lap.
“I need your help with my father. While you were gone I programmed the combine to dig his grave and Papa...“ she twisted her fingers around, palms up, “... Papa built his coffin at the same time he made Mother's.” She did look up briefly, as if to see his reaction to what she said, but looked down again too quickly to have time to check. Could she explain how her father had made one for himself at that terrible time? Or why? Would this man who had never known the wonderful man her father was understand that it had not been some strange grief-inspired peculiarity? He had not had a wish to join his wife prematurely.
“He wanted their coffins to be made from the same tree – a symbol of their love. He laughed when he assured me it would be many years before he planned to have need of his.” It hadn't been years, though. Not even one year. She breathed in several deep breaths before continuing. “I cannot get him down the stairs by myself. Will you help me?” Her voice was tensed yet almost toneless as she strove to keep her emotions hidden.
Fidgeting with the buttons on the front of the new pants had supplied Miguel with something to do. Besides listen, which he did with both ears and heart. Did she know that she poured all of her love for her parents into the way she spoke? The words, the tone, both were a bittersweet song evoking sympathy, but it was so much more than that. It made him want to take her in his arms and hold her tight and never let her go. He wanted to make outrageous promises that he'd spend the rest of his life trying to keep.
Thus the importance of having something to do with his hands.
“Of course I will help you, querida,” he smiled gently and left off toying with the clothes, their fit much better than the previously borrowed garments. “Do you wish to bury him with any possessions?”
He studied her a moment, then brushed a knuckle over her chin and smiled again. “Just tell me what to do and I will do it.”
She let her smile and her eyes express her thanks as she led the way to her parents' room, not trusting her voice. When she finally did speak it was only to direct and explain as they got her father's body to the barn. The coffin had been under a tarp at the back of the barn and she'd pulled it out to position it on the skid that would be hooked to the back of the mule. She then helped Miguel make the transfer of her father, once again shocked at how the once robust man she'd known her whole life was now a mere shell, weighing less than his much smaller daughter.
There was nothing she had planned to put in the coffin with him. Her father had been very explicit about that. What he would need on the other side was who would be waiting for him; other than his children who would someday, god willing in the far future, join them. He had firmly declared that he had no need of anything else, but she did place one thing in the coffin, taken from the display case in the living room on impulse. She offered a silent apology to her father for her disobedience as she slipped the small disc under his crossed hands.
Once she'd said her final good-bye, she closed the lid and stood back while the vacuum sealer quietly hissed its way around the lid's edge. She then brushed a hand over the silky smooth finish of the wood, beautiful in its simplicity, before turning to Miguel with a smile.
“I put a holovid of my brothers in his hands.” She shrugged, feeling as if she'd had to explain though she had no idea why. “They have no resting place of their own.”
Her demeanor changed abruptly and she straightened her shoulders to look past Miguel to the hoverbike. “If you'd like to accompany me, the family plot is at the top of the hill beyond the house.” She moved around him and began to connect the skid to the mule's cables. “Or you can wait here. I won't mind.”
H
e seriously considered staying behind, feeling like he would only be intruding on her private moment, but in the end he thought of the lonely grave atop a hill with but one witness presiding. It was too much. No one should be buried with only a single person to see it done.
“I will come,” he told her, and moved to help her secure the cables.
The trip was taken in silence, as was the interment. The combine was brought back online by Lyrianne to get it moving from its sentinel position beyond the graveyard. Once it began to refill the grave, she quietly sang the same song Miguel had overheard earlier. Her voice carried over the collection of gravestones and markers that summed up her family and her history. She sang to her parents first, then to her brothers, then to all of them. She was the last of their number as far as she knew and it would end with her.
Once the sounds of the final verse ended on a sustained note, her naturally sweet if untrained voice carrying it through to its end, she turned to Miguel. “Thank you.” She took his hand and squeezed it gently, holding on to it. Her eyes were dry but there was grief and a deep sorrow evident within their blue depths. “I'm glad you were here.”
The combine would finish its task then return to the barn on its own so she turned her back on it, letting Miguel take the controls for the bike's return. Once they'd dismounted in the barn, she took his hand firmly back in hers. She gave him a quick smile but remained silent as they returned to the farmhouse. Not even her limp, which was more pronounced than it had been, made her break the silence.
She couldn't explain why she didn't let go of his hand. She didn't really think about why she held on to him as she returned upstairs to the bathroom but it was only then that she stopped and released him. Walking around him, she turned the taps on in the bathtub, testing the temperature mix before looking at him again. Now it became more clear to her. She needed to be with him.
Catch a Falling Star Page 10
