by Renee Roszel
The bonfires were ablaze, and Sara had removed her parka. She wore an oversize sweater that seemed suddenly stifling now that his arm was about her waist. Their bodies touching intimately, Ransom murmured, “Really, what I said in Aleut was ‘The fog is lifting and tonight there will be stars.’“
A bit dazed, she explored the world around her and realized it was true. The fog had dwindled to nothing more than a few twisted, diaphanous fingers. Sometime before the dance was over, darkness would fall and there would be a clear, star-filled night.
Caught firmly in Ransom’s embrace, she suppressed a shiver—not because her wool sweater allowed in any chill, but because she wasn’t sure she could resist him under a sky full of twinkling stars. She hoped this local band of mature, responsible adults would avoid playing sexy ballads while Ransom held her in his arms. If not, Sara was very afraid she would be unable to reject the man who quietly regarded her with lazy seduction glittering in his eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
THE EVENING BECAME Sara’s worst nightmare and fondest dream. Millions of years ago, stars gave off their cool, flawless light so that at this very minute their faraway shimmer would pay delicate homage to one particular man’s lashes and the breeze-tossed gleam of his hair. What a cruel, yet wondrous coincidence, Sara thought, that she should be the one woman in the universe obliged to witness such perfection—and at this breathless proximity.
Ransom embraced her as they moved languidly to the mellow strains of the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love.” Driftwood bonfires burned low, flickering pleasantly. The wood smoke mingled with the briny tang of the sea and the crispness of the night, as the dying tongues of flame gently illuminated couples who lingered on the sand, swaying to the enduring love song.
Sara was dancing with her eyes closed, savoring the sensory pleasures of being in Ransom’s arms. She could feel his strength as he moved against her. Taut, honed muscles that could easily crush her, held her with the lightness of a baby’s kiss. His ever-taunting scent, a musky blend of cedar and leather, hovered about her, whispering bold promises of even more stimulating delights to come—if she was willing.
Ransom had acted like a perfect gentleman the whole evening, his gallant behavior lulling her into a sense of security. After all, they were in the midst of a crowd, all people he knew. What could he possibly do here? At long last, and after much inner turmoil, Sara gave up the vigilant fight and decided to trust him, succumbing to his easy charm.
She lay her cheek against the inviting flannel of his shirt and sighed, nuzzling ever so lightly. Though a faint voice in her brain nagged that this was a fool’s paradise, she refused to heed it, relishing, instead, the heat of strong fingers splayed across her lower back, softly massaging away every ounce of lingering resistance.
“Sara,” Ransom murmured near her ear.
“Hmm?” She made the sound through another sigh, not wanting to break the spell by opening her eyes.
“You are beautiful, you know.”
Something intense flared through her body. Alarmed by the power of her reaction, her eyes snapped open to search his face. “W-what did you say?” she croaked.
She saw tenderness in his perusal and a hot ache swelled in her throat. Somewhere in the perimeters of her mind, she became aware that they’d moved away from the other dancing couples and were behind the bandstand, shrouded in darkness. The crowd seemed distant, and the music little more than a delicious backdrop to their own unfolding drama. Her skin prickled pleasurably as she sensed she was about to be kissed. No, logic cried. He won’t! In breathless expectation, she could only stare up at him. He was surely only a hallucination that would fade into the night and desert her in the midst of her foolish fantasy.
He said nothing more as his rapt gaze continued to hold her captive. She had an overwhelming urge to be close to him—closer, much closer, than mere dancing would allow.
His eyes sparked with some primal emotion, taking Sara’s breath away. A dizzying current of desire rushed through her, a desire she could no longer deny. In one mindless instant, she flung her arms about his neck. Trembling with need, hoping that she hadn’t misread his expression and that he’d reject her, she lifted her lips in a wordless plea craving to know at least once more the fiery rapture of his kiss.
A shadow of contrary emotion swept across his face. Growling a low curse, he pulled her harshly, almost brutally to him, his mouth covering hers. The roughness of his kiss made her gasp, but she held on tightly, accepting both his anger and his passion. After a moment he became gentler, inviting more. They clung together, and she returned kiss for kiss, touch for touch, with reckless abandon.
Thunderstruck by her eager response, Sara moaned against his mouth, clutching at the soft hair at his nape. Light-headed, she was aware only of the soft demand of male lips, of thigh boldly touching hip, of powerful arms wound possessively around her. Nothing else mattered.
But soon, all too soon, Ransom groaned and drew his lips from hers. Sara’s lashes fluttered heavily against his cheek, and she felt weak, overcome by his kiss. Not wanting the experience to end, she whimpered, “No...” and impulsively lifted her mouth to meet his again.
He moved his hands to her shoulders, holding her slightly away. “Sara, we can’t.”
Enveloped by a sense of loss, she focused on his face. Savage longing glistened in his eyes, but also a stricken look, one that made her bite off her cry to be crushed within his embrace, devoured by his loving. The reason he watched her with such guilty yearning suddenly came to her, and with a rush of compassion, she caressed his cleft chin, declaring brokenly, “Don’t feel as though you’ve cheated on your wife, Ransom. I understand your guilt, but such thoughts are natural after—”
“I know you’re trying to help,” he interrupted, self-reproach staining his tone, “but you’re wrong. I don’t feel like I’ve cheated on Jill.” His lip curled. “If only it was that neat and tidy.”
She took a halting step backward. “I’m sorry....” she began, perplexed by his cryptic remark. His expression was one of silent anguish, and his jaw worked in agitation. At a loss, Sara watched as his eyes narrowed. Seconds ago she had been wrapped in his arms, and now he looked down at her as though she was the enemy.
Sorrow stabbed her heart, for she had just discovered what all those love songs meant—she’d become Ransom’s woman, mind and body, heart and soul, from the moment their blistering kiss began. The tragic irony was that he clearly regretted his lapse.
“Tell me,” she implored, “what did I do wrong?”
“Nothing,” he replied hoarsely. “It was my doing. First to last.” Pivoting, he muttered, “Forgive my weakness. It won’t happen again.”
As she watched him walk away—again!—his rejection held her immobile. She began to shiver as the chill of both the night and stark reality seeped into her bones. The music died and with it, some hopeful light went out inside Sara. For once having reveled in Ransom’s embrace, she knew the most ardent caresses of other men would pale by comparison.
Sinking listlessly to the ashen sand, she hugged herself, feeling very alone. Ransom’s final words echoed in her brain each time a wave broke on the shore its snakelike hiss taunting over and over, It won’t happen again. It won’t happen again. ....
SARA WORKED at the kitchen counter putting together a chicken casserole. It was six o’clock in the evening. Tag and Lynn had just left to go visit several other young people in the village. All morning and afternoon Sara and Ransom had sought refuge behind civil masks for the sake of the children. But now that the youngsters were gone, they were displaying their real feelings, and the atmosphere had gone icy. The house was deathly still but for the scrape of Sara’s spoon against the mixing bowl and the occasional flip of a magazine page in the distance.
Ransom was in the living room, his feet propped up on the coffee table, apparently absorbed in a magazine. But he couldn’t fool her. The pages were turning too rapidly for any real understanding, unless Ran
som was a graduate of some speed-reading course.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
Sara rolled her eyes heavenward. Ransom had disposed of three pages in two seconds. Mr. Speed-read strikes again. She glanced at the cookbook and grimaced. Had she already put in the dash of curry? She hesitated, a teaspoon poised over the bowl. A little curry gave the dish zest. Too much made it appetizing only to die-hard curry lovers.
“Do you like curry?” she called coolly.
“No.” His reply was equally crisp.
In an uncharacteristic surge of churlishness, she dumped the spice in. That would show Mr. It-won’t-happen-again exactly how little she cared about him or his likes and dislikes.
He flipped another page, observing dryly, “I presume we’re having curry for dinner.”
“Curried chicken casserole.”
“When exactly did it become curried chicken casserole?”
“About five seconds ago.”
She heard the magazine slap onto the top of the coffee table. Next came the brisk stride of an angry man crossing the living room rug. She flinched when the hollow clomp of boots hitting the kitchen tile announced he was within strangling distance. Her body quivered because of his troublesome closeness, and she refused to face him. Instead, she began to chop an onion. It was a treacherous occupation, for the knife was razor sharp, and Ransom was standing all too near her for her hands to go unaffected. She rebuked herself for letting it matter, but she couldn’t help it.
Her indifference was a transparent ruse, which she was sure he knew. And she was also sure he knew she was still smarting from his rejection on the beach.
“I told you I was sorry, Sara. What more can I do?” he asked, sounding provoked.
She chopped the onion into atoms, her teeth clenched to prevent her from telling him what she’d like to see him do— preferably in a hand basket!
“Aren’t you even speaking to me?”
After scraping the onion bits into the mixing bowl, she slammed the cutting board down and shot him a baneful look. “Do not tempt me, Mr. Shepard. You might force me to utter words that dirty-mouthed thugs save for really bad days!”
Unwittingly she wielded her knife in his direction, and he took a prudent step backward. When she realized what she was doing, she banged it onto the counter with such force the cutting board rattled. “I’m not going to slice anything off, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she grumbled.
“I’m grateful,” he said almost gently. “But I wouldn’t blame you after the way I behaved last night.”
Her chest tightened, and she found herself mute. Unable to look at him, knowing her face must be bright red, she began to frantically stir the contents of the mixing bowl.
“You were so lovely, I...”
She stirred as though demons had possessed her wooden spoon.
“I’m a lonely man, Sara. You’re beautiful and warm and, well—” his voice was almost a whisper “—I’m only human. I’d told myself I wouldn’t kiss you again—not ever.” He chuckled bitterly.’ ‘But ever since the first time I did...”
Her mad stirring slowed on its own. She waited almost without breathing, erratically moving the spoon around, her mind wholly on the gaping space left when his sentence had faded away. Her lips thinned. She’d be darned if she’d ask, but her mind cried, Ever since the first time you did, what happened?
When the casserole was mixed, she heaped it into a loaf pan and shoved it into the oven. Stifling the impulse to return to his side, she did her best to ignore him, tossing utensils into the sink and running water over them.
“Sara,” he said regretfully, “I was wrong to kiss you. But, damn, you’re one exciting woman.”
She faltered with her scrub brush, but tried to hide it by redoubling her efforts to scour the mixing bowl. Though she feigned disinterest, all five of her senses, every cell of her body, were zeroed in on his words.
“You taste wonderful, and I’m angry with myself for liking it,” he said, his voice thick. “I don’t plan to—” He cut himself off with a raw curse. “Forgive me, Sara. That’s all I have to give you.”
His clipped footfalls receded rapidly. As soon as she was sure he was gone, she let out the breath she’d been holding and her body seemed to become boneless. At least Ransom had shown some decency by not reminding her that she’d been the one to fling herself into his arms last night. Even so, they both knew who’d kissed whom. A shudder of humiliation ran through her at the memory, and she clutched desperately at the sink’s rim, hating herself for her stupidity.
Two hours later, the four of them sat in silence, each enduring the spicy casserole, in his or her own way. Tag was stirring his portion into his rice and peas, eating very little. Sara noticed that every few seconds he’d dart a nervous glance toward his father. It seemed that rather than being put off by the dinner, Tag had some other problem weighing heavily on his mind. She inspected him discreetly, wondering what the boy was fretting about.
Ransom cleared his throat, and Sara’s gaze skittered his way. He’d graciously managed to finish his entire serving without complaint. Sara hated to do it, but she had to give him credit. He was attempting to make amends for rejecting her.
Trying to get her mind off Ransom, Sara said, “Tag, you and Lynn have been awfully quiet this evening.” She smiled first at Tag, who was at the end of the table to Ransom’s left, and then at Lynn, to the right. “Anything wrong?”
The boy gulped repeatedly. Lynn eyed Tag sympathetically. Worried she’d said the wrong thing, Sara balled her hands in her lap, hoping whatever the problem was, it could be solved easily.
“Say, Dad,” Tag said, sounding timid, “I was talking to some of the kids this afternoon and I was... I was thinking maybe I could go to high school in Anchorage next year instead of Seattle. And this summer, after you go back to work, I could... I could maybe live at home with you and maybe work at the—”
“I don’t think so, Tag,” Ransom cut in, his features darkening into a scowl. “The Kirkwood Academy is an excellent school. I want you to continue your education there.”
Tag reddened. “But I hate that school. I want to go home and live with you.”
Fury flashed in Ransom’s eyes, and he abruptly stood. “I don’t intend to discuss it with you, Taggart. The matter’s settled.” His sudden departure was followed by a difficult stillness.
Sara felt badly for the boy, but didn’t know what to say. His face was screwed up in an effort not to cry. “Why...?” Tag began brokenly, then clearing his throat, tried again. “Why can’t he love me?”
His unhappiness was so acute it was like a slap. Sara hurried over to him. Kneeling beside his chair, she wrapped her arms about him. “Oh, Tag, he loves you. He’s just having a hard time getting over your mother’s death. You’re his son—he can’t help but love you.”
Breaking free of her comforting embrace, he charged, “He hates me!” Tears streaking his cheeks, he choked out, “I know he hates me!” When he lunged away, his chair fell backward. Its clattering impact was followed speedily by the slamming of the front door.
With a heavy sigh, Lynn, too, got up. “I’d better go to him.”
Sara nodded. “He probably needs a friend right now.”
At the kitchen door, Lynn stopped and peered at her sister. “Tag was real scared of this,” she confided. “I don’t understand why Rance is being such a hard case. Do you?”
Lynn was gone before Sara could respond. But even if her sister had waited for an answer, Sara didn’t know what she could have said. Righting Tag’s chair, she sat down, feeling emotionally drained. Something was very wrong here. Ransom could be such a warm, easygoing person. His kiss had not been the kiss of an uncaring man. So why was he acting this way toward his son?
Although it wasn’t her turn to clean up, she mindlessly cleared the table and washed the dishes pondering the problem. Why did Ransom seem to hate his own child? That was impossible, of course. Sara had seen the framed family portrait
over his bed. Ransom Shepard loved his family. It was his wife’s death that ate at him, not hatred for his son— although it was clear he didn’t want much to do with Tag. Maybe the boy looked so much like his mother that seeing him was painful for Ransom. But that was no excuse to virtually abandon his own flesh and blood to the care of strangers.
She sat at the table for a long time, wondering if, after five years, his problem could still be all-consuming grief over his wife’s death. Lilly had said he’d been completely devoted to Jill, and Sara had heard of people who never got over the loss of a spouse.
Then a thought struck her. What about that awkward moment after their kiss on the beach, when she’d thought he’d been guilt-ridden about betraying his wife’s memory? He’d told her he didn’t feel as if he’d cheated on Jill. So, if it wasn’t grief and guilt, then what troubled him?
The clanging of a distant bell shattered the tense quiet like a gong being pounded near a sleeping person’s ear. Sara jumped so sharply she almost upended the chair at second time.
Never having heard the sound before, she hurried to the front door. What could it mean? She glanced at her watch. It was nearly ten. As she went out on the porch steps to look around, she heard the thunder of boots behind her. Instinctively she slid out of the way as Ransom bounded across the threshold and headed toward town in a dead run.
“What’s wrong?” she called.
“Emergency. Fishing boat’s in trouble,” he shouted back.
“Can I help?” she cried, but it was too late. He was out of earshot.
As she was struggling into a parka, both Lynn and Tag raced onto the porch. “We’re going to help,” panted Tag. “See you later.”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Sara retorted, dragging on her coat. “I’m going, too. I can help.”
“Bring coffee,’’ yelled Tag.
