by Day Leclaire
Amusement brightened her eyes. “Do you think when I leave I’ll miss the ranch more than the man?” She’d set him back on his heels with that one, she realized, stifling the urge to laugh.
“Most women would,” he muttered, then held up his hands. “I know, I know. You’re not most women. Maybe I should write that down so I don’t forget. You have a pen handy?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep reminding you.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Are we done?”
“Just one or two more questions,” she assured. “Tell me about Randolph.”
Jake grimaced. “Randolph’s a couple years older. Until I appeared on the scene, he considered himself the heir apparent, despite his distant connection. It was a nasty shock to discover his error. From the minute I arrived, it became his goal to make my life a misery.”
“And Evie?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, elf. That’s a private matter.”
“No problem. I have a pretty good idea about what happened there.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” he muttered.
He took a quick swallow of brandy, as though screwing up his courage—which was utterly ridiculous. Jake was the bravest man she knew. “What is it?” she asked gently.
His breath escaped in a harsh laugh. “You don’t miss much do you?”
“I try not to,” she confessed with a shrug. “Is there something else you want to tell me?”
“Not tell you exactly. I want to thank you.”
Her brows winged upward. “For what?”
“For tonight.” He leaned closer and cupped her face, his thumb tracing the generous curve of her mouth. “And I wanted to apologize. I should have told you the true reason for tonight’s gathering. I didn’t because…Because…”
She leaned into his touch. “Because you wanted to protect me from embarrassment.”
He closed his eyes, a muscle jerking in his cheek. “No, dammit. That’s not the reason. It’s the excuse I used, but it isn’t the truth. I was afraid to tell you about that clause in my grandfather’s will. I was afraid of what you’d do.”
She gazed at him in bewilderment. “I don’t understand. You’re not afraid of anything.”
“I didn’t think so.” He looked at her then, holding her with a fathomless golden gaze. “Until I met you. You scare the living hell out of me, sweetpea.”
The words hung between them—simple, brutally frank and utterly devastating. “You’re afraid of me?” she whispered, shocked. “Why?”
He didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to reveal another chink in his armor. But she deserved his honesty, if nothing else. “You’re the first person ever to believe in me. To offer unconditional trust. You see people so clearly. And yet when you look at me, you see someone I don’t know.” His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “Don’t you understand? That image, that man you’ve created for yourself isn’t real. And the one who does exist can only hurt you.”
“Then one of us is wrong. And just in case you were wondering…” Her eyes gathered up the firelight, reflecting its fierce heat and energy. “It’s not me.”
It seemed an eternity before he could respond. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked roughly.
The answer trembled on her lips, but she caught the words just in time, altering them ever so slightly. “Make love to me.”
His laughter came easier now. “That shouldn’t be too difficult. I can’t keep my hands off you.”
“I don’t remember asking you to.”
His hand slipped from her cheek to curve around her neck. “Come here.” He exerted the slightest pressure, tumbling her into his arms.
Their mouths collided and their limbs entwined, an overwhelming urgency setting the mating dance into motion. Though he’d taught her the steps well, she’d come into her own over the past weeks, bringing a unique style and grace to the ritual. Completely unselfconscious, she rose to her knees and shed her clothing. She didn’t tantalize, didn’t tease, nor did she display any uncertainty in this moment of utter vulnerability. She simply gifted him with her body, offering herself, heart and soul, without hesitation or reserve. It had always been this way with her.
And it never failed to humble him.
Finally the last of her clothes were removed and she knelt, poised before him. She was made for firelight, he determined in that moment. The glow from the leaping flames licked at the alabaster hillocks of her breasts before melting into the shadowy delta at the juncture of her thighs. He reached for her and froze.
The deep bronze of his hand stood out like a stark blemish against the pale perfection of her skin, the contrast between them as startling as it was unwelcome.
How could she not have noticed? he wondered in despair. She was heavenly light battling hellish darkness, the rich, warm earth fighting the intrusion of stone and brick and cement. She offered the eternal hope of spring during the deepest despair of winter. She was all he could ever want, offering possibilities that could never be his.
“Don’t,” she whispered. He jerked his hand back as though burned and she laughed gently, the sound a welcome balm. “I didn’t mean not to touch me. I meant—don’t think. Don’t analyze. Don’t question it.” She took the initiative, gathering him into her arms. “Just for tonight, won’t you lock your demons outside? They’re not going anywhere, are they?”
“No,” he conceded, warning, “they’ll still be waiting come morning.”
“Then we’ll worry about them tomorrow.”
She was right. This moment offered a respite between battles, and he’d be a fool not to take advantage of it. With infinite tenderness he rolled them onto the carpet, anointing her with mouth and tongue and teeth. He felt the first flush of desire wash across her skin like a stormdriven tide, and he cupped her breast, the frantic pounding of her heart filling his palm. She twisted beneath him, lifting her hips to mesh with his, moving with all the sinuous grace of a sun-warmed feline.
He tried to go slow, but desire became a rapacious hunger, a demand that turned his kisses hard and urgent and made each caress more aggressive than the last. He reveled in the delicious mix of passionate heat and fluid softness, sinking into her warmth, then driving into it, compelled by a force too powerful to resist. He heard her frantic sobs, responded to the incoherent pleas, wanting more than life itself to give her the release she so desperately sought. He angled her hips upward, melding his mouth with hers. Instantly her muscles tensed in reaction and she exploded in his arms. It was all he needed. With a harsh cry, he drove home, following her over the edge. In that instant, their eyes met.
And what he saw there knifed deep into his soul.
For in those misty green depths he saw love. A permanent love—pure and faithful and absolute. He knew then that she’d given a forever-after love to a temporary husband.
And with that terrible knowledge, the demons came storming back.
CHAPTER NINE
JAKE WOKE several hours later, struggling to get his bearings in the pitch-black room. His muscles protested the amount of time he’d spent sleeping on the floor and yet he hesitated to disturb Wynne. She lay curled on her side, tucked tightly into the protective curve of his body. The fire had died long ago and a new moon, skulking in the shadow of the earth, ducked between bits of starlight as it traversed the nighttime sky. Gingerly he eased the cramp plaguing his leg.
With a gusty sigh, Wynne rolled over to face him. “What time is it?” she murmured.
“Time for bed, wife. Do you want your own room, or would you rather sleep with me?”
She yawned. “I don’t know why you even bother to ask.”
“I’m asking because we’re in a new place. And after the dinner party…”
“New or otherwise, my place is with you,” she told him firmly and snuggled deeper into his arms.
Something in her words revived the memory of their earlier lovemaking. He remembered the expression in her eyes—th
e one that spoke of miracles and storybook endings and eternities. He didn’t doubt that look had returned. It was in her voice, in her touch, in her soft, eager kisses.
The urge to distance himself became overwhelming. “Your place may be with me for now,” he warned harshly, “but sleeping in my bed won’t seduce me into keeping you any longer than necessary. What does that figure out to—a few days, a week, a month?”
His coldheartedness went unnoticed. “It doesn’t matter how many days we have,” she countered. “We also have an equal number of nights. And I want each one to be wonderful—a beautiful memory you can recall when I’m long gone and half-forgotten.”
Her unstinting generosity was more crippling than any protest or tears or recriminations. He stood, sweeping her into his arms, and strode purposefully from the room. “Let’s find a bed. We may only have here and now, but we can turn it into one hell of a memory for later.”
“When memories are all we have left?” she asked wistfully.
But he didn’t answer, was incapable of answering. For even if he found the right words, he’d never have gotten them past the tight knot blocking his throat.
The boys returned late the next day, exhausted and excited and bursting to tell Wynne and Jake all about their adventures.
“And then this big, old bull came right at Dusty,” Buster told them, his feet spread wide, his Stetson tipped back on his head in perfect imitation of Jake’s stance. “I thought he was a goner for sure.”
Chick tugged on his brother’s elbow, whispering rapidly. Buster shook him off. “But Dusty didn’t budge one bit. All’s he did was spit. It was so cool.”
“You weren’t in any danger, were you?” Wynne questioned in alarm.
“Naw. They made us stay clear of all the good stuff.”
Chick sidled closer to his brother, whispering more urgently.
“Not now,” Buster replied in annoyance. “I’m not done with my story, yet. So then Dusty whipped out his lasso and roped that critter slick as you please. See you gotta get one rope around the cow and the other around this thing on the saddle.”
“Saddlehorn.” Jake tossed out the word.
“Yeah. Saddlehorn. That way the horse does the work and not the cowboy. But you have to wrap the rope around so’s you don’t lose no fingers. Dusty called it dal—Dal-something.”
“Dallying.”
Buster grinned at Jake. “Yeah, dallying. Will you teach me how to do it? Huh, Dad? Will you?” His words stumbled to a halt as he realized what he’d said and he turned white as a sheet. Shooting a stricken look in Wynne’s direction, he turned and ran from the room.
Jake swore beneath his breath. “I’ll talk to him,” he said to Wynne.
She caught his arm. “Please, let me.”
He gave a terse nod, and, gathering Chick close, she followed at a discreet distance. She could hear Buster’s frantic sobs coming from his room and entered, crossing to sit on the bed next to him. Chick glued himself to her other side. Gently she ruffled her nephew’s sun-streaked hair. “Are you all right?”
“I didn’t mean to call him that,” Buster managed to say through his tears. “I know he’s not my dad. You told us we’re just staying with him for a little while. He’s a temp…Temp—”
“Temporary,” Wynne supplied regretfully.
“Yeah, a temporary husband. I remember you telling us all that. About how marrying Jake is like a summer job except it’s during the winter. Only…” Tears threatened again. “Only I wish we didn’t never have to leave.”
“I know.” Those two simple words spoke volumes.
“Why can’t we stay?” He lifted his head to look at her. “I like it here. Chick does, too.”
Chick nodded, his pleading gaze matching Buster’s.
“I’m sorry, but that’s not fair to Jake.” She swallowed, struggling for composure. “You see, I promised that we’d only stay for a little while. I can’t go back on my word. It wouldn’t be right.”
“Can’t you ask him to change his mind? If he says yes, that wouldn’t be going back on your word.” He threw himself into Wynne’s arms. “Please let us stay. We’ll be good. And we won’t make no more trouble. I promise.”
Hearing the desperation in her nephew’s voice, she closed her eyes. If she didn’t see his pain, perhaps she wouldn’t be tempted to give in to it. Because refusing Buster’s request was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life, especially when she wanted it as badly as did he. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, fighting back tears of her own. “Please try to understand. I can’t. When the time comes, we’ll have to leave.”
With a silent groan, Jake leaned against the wall, his hands balled in fists, his teeth clenched. This wasn’t what he’d planned. This wasn’t what he wanted. He’d never intended to inflict such hurt. Dammit to hell! Why did he destroy everything he touched? Just once in his life he’d like to be the fantasy man Wynne saw, rather than the man fate had dictated. Just this once he wished…He straightened, his spine rigid, his mouth a taut line. Who was he kidding? Wishes weren’t for men like him.
They never had been. They never could be.
Jake examined another receipt and checked the total, a distant sound breaking his concentration. He looked up briefly, before returning his attention to the invoices spread across his desk. Hours had passed since that incident in the hallway and he’d closeted himself in the library, focusing on a backlog of paperwork. It was a blessing not to think, not to feel, just to go through the daily grind like some computerized automaton.
The sound came again, and he frowned, tossing his pencil onto the desk. Now what? He crossed to the door and opened it, the sound assailing his ears shocking him so badly, that for an instant he froze. Another heartbreaking sob was all it took to send him tearing down the hallway. He careened off the wall and skidded into the kitchen. Wynne sat crouched in the middle of the floor, her face buried in her hands, quietly crying. Slowly he sank to his knees next to her, feeling as though he’d been sucker-punched. Except for that single, gut-wrenching tear she’d shed on their wedding night, he’d never seen Wynne cry before. Not like this. Not like her heart was breaking.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded, afraid to touch her, searching frantically for an injury.
With a hiccupped sob, she thrust out her hand and shook it beneath his nose.
He took her fingers gingerly in his. No cuts or abrasions, thank heavens. No swelling. No joints out of place. His brows drew together. “Talk to me, sweetpea. Where are you hurt?”
“I—I’m not hurt!” she answered in tragic tones.
“Then what the hell—heck are you crying for?” he demanded, relief bringing an exasperated tone to his voice.
She lifted her head, her huge green eyes overflowing. She shook her hand at him again. “I l-lost it! It went down the dr-drain.”
He stared at her hand—her left hand and understanding dawned. “Your wedding ring. Your wedding ring washed down the drain?” Fresh tears broke loose and, taking them as confirmation, he gathered her into his arms. “It’s all right. Don’t cry. We’ll get you another one.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Her crying intensified. “I d-don’t want another one! I want our r-ring. Th-the one you gave me when we got married.”
Before he could reply, Buster and Chick slid to a halt in the doorway, followed closely by Dusty. “Told you she was crying,” Buster said.
“What happened to her?” the foreman demanded. “What’s wrong with the girl?”
“Her wedding ring went down the drain,” Jake explained tersely. “Go get a wrench, will you?”
“We’ll have better luck with a shovel,” Dusty replied with a snort. “Most likely we’ll have to dig up the whole septic system to find the dang thing.”
Wynne shuddered in his arms and Jake glared at his foreman. “If I’d wanted your opinion on the matter, I’d have beat it out of you. Just get the damn-dang shovel, will you?”
“I’m a-goin’, I�
��m a-goin’. No need to git yer britches in a bunch.” Dusty shot the boys a meaningful glance. “The two of you best be careful. Bad luck comes in threes, ya know.” And with that telling comment, he took off.
Unfortunately he was soon proved right. Not an hour later, Jake broke his hand tearing up the plumbing.
And the day after that Mrs. Marsh arrived.
“Go to the barn and get Jake,” Wynne ordered the boys, as she watched their aunt step from her rental car. “Then play upstairs until I call you. Jake and I would like to speak with her in private.”
“What’s she here for? What does she want?” Buster questioned apprehensively.
“I’m sure she wants to meet Jake and see how you two are doing.”
“Is she going to take us away?”
Wynne gave the boys a quick hug. “Of course not. Everything will be fine. She’s just here for a little visit.”
Chick whispered in Buster’s ear and, obliging his brother, he asked, “Do we have to go to that school of hers? The one that won’t let us be together?”
“Not a chance. Now hurry and get Jake.”
It seemed an eternity before he finally emerged from the barn. Joining her in the kitchen, he washed up while she brewed tea. “That woman parked in the parlor is your dragon?” he questioned in amusement. “You sure her name is Marsh and not Marshmallow?”
“You’ll see,” Wynne predicted ominously. “Don’t let all those smiles and dimples fool you. She’s as tough as old shoe leather.”
“Why do you call her Mrs. Marsh? Doesn’t she have a first name?”
“It’s Kitty, but not even the boys are allowed to use it. I have permission to address her as Mrs. Marsh or ma’am.” She gritted her teeth. “Needless to say, I refuse to call her ma’am.”
“And I thought taking care of your dragon-lady was going to be tough.” Jake picked up the laden tray awkwardly and grinned. “Lead the way, fair maiden. I have a kitty to slew. Or is it slay?”
