by Lisa Bingham
Becky smiled. “Sure. No problem.”
Within seconds, Becky arrived with the rule book for the Games, a glass of soda for P.D., and a small cast iron skillet that she set in the middle of the table. In the center, nestled in a pool of lemon sauce, was a perfectly formed shell of piecrust shaped like a flower bud. A scoop of homemade vanilla-bean ice cream was beginning to melt beneath the heat of the pastry.
“You can take the rules with you and look them over in more detail when you’ve got a minute. But it boils down to following some commonsense safety precautions, especially on the gun ranges, remaining on our outlined routes and designated checkpoints, and using only the methods of transportation we’ve been assigned or earned through special bonus challenges. And there’s to be no cell phones or modern technology. The competition will be stopped each night, which means we have to remain at the last checkpoint we’ve reached for the day. I guess they didn’t want a bunch of teams stumbling around in the dark.” She pointed to the dessert. “You’ll want to dig in while it’s hot,” P.D. urged. “It’s one of my latest concoctions.”
Elam hesitated only a second before slipping the information about the Games into the pocket of his jacket. Then he cracked the blossom open with the tip of his spoon. He immediately released a fragrant puff of steam and a lava-like flow of cherries, blueberries, and apples. After combining the contents with a bit of ice cream and a dab of the lemon sauce, he took a bite.
“Oh, wow.” He closed his eyes, and the look of utter pleasure had her body responding in ways that it shouldn’t. For a moment, Elam’s barely submerged anger at the world was displaced by a primal delight that had her thoughts roaming once again to sex.
Yeah, right. As if she had a snowball’s chance in hell of inspiring Elam Taggart to taste anything but her food. She’d learned long ago that men who were as primitively masculine and dangerous as Elam were attracted to dainty women with blond hair and big blue Alice in Wonderland eyes. They gravitated toward delicate creatures who wore sizes that had no numbers to speak of, just lots of zeros. Females who needed to be protected from the harsh realities of life by a big, strong he-man who would wrap them in cotton wool during the day and silk and lace at night.
P.D., on the other hand, had already seen her fair share of the worst the world had to offer. With parents who were more concerned with free love and recreational medication, P.D. had discovered early on how to protect herself from her parents’ so-called “friends” when they groped her in the dark. She’d learned where to scavenge food if she got too hungry, and the best places to curl up outside to sleep if the haze of marijuana got too thick in the bus. Most of all, she’d found out that there wasn’t a damn thing a man could do for her that she wasn’t perfectly capable of doing herself. Even if sometimes, deep down, she longed for someone else to help shoulder her burdens.
Just as she inwardly insisted that she would never actually surrender control to a man who would curb her independence, Elam extended one of his extra spoons.
“You’re going to have to help me with this.”
Her first instinct was to refuse. There was something intimate about sharing food with another person. It was one of the unspoken rituals of courtship. And there was nothing like that between P.D. and Elam. They had a … business arrangement of sorts.
But she couldn’t deny that she wanted to share that intimacy with him. Even if it was only an illusion.
When she didn’t immediately react, he loaded the spoon and held it toward her. And for an instant she could see all the wariness and pain that he carried with him like an unshakable burden. But there was something else there as well. The wish—the need—for human contact, however small that contact might be.
She leaned forward, accepting the bite, then drew back slightly, but only slightly, so that he wouldn’t think that she was rejecting his gesture of …
Of what?
Friendship?
Because there could never be anything else between them. Not with the weight of their respective baggage preventing even the thought of anything more.
He held the spoon toward her, handle first, and wordlessly, she accepted his challenge. Then, they were finishing the dessert together, their spoons coyly darting and chasing across the plate until the last morsel was gone.
Finally, Elam sat back in his chair, lacing his hands over his taut belly. His posture was more relaxed than she’d ever seen—and she sensed that this was the first meal in months that hadn’t come from a fast-food joint or a can. When he spoke, it was with the low, rumbling purr of a satisfied man. And what she wouldn’t give to find out what other activities might satisfy him.
“So what do you need me to do?”
P.D. blinked at him, suddenly overtaken with images of Elam Taggart stripping the shirt from his body, then reaching out to do the same to hers. But with some difficulty, she remembered the gist of their conversation.
“We should probably practice some of the skills,” she offered tentatively.
His eyes narrowed, more green than blue in the dim light of Vern’s. “And?”
“And I’ve never fired a gun. Bodey was going to teach me, but …”
“What kinds of weapons?”
“Single-action revolvers, double-barrel shotguns, and rifles.”
“Do they supply the weapons and ammo, or do we?”
“We have to supply our own. If you can give me a list, I’ll make a trip to Cabela’s to get what we need.”
He shook his head. “I can handle that. Meet me at my place tomorrow morning, and I’ll give you a crash course.”
She felt a quick thrill at the thought of seeing Elam again so soon, even though she’d known spending time with him was inevitable.
“This may be a bit of an endurance test …” P.D. began. “I’ve been trying to walk and hike as much as my own schedule would allow.”
“You think I’m out of shape?” Elam drawled, one brow lifting.
If there was one thing that could be said about Elam, it was that he was fit.
“No!” When the word emerged too forcefully—too “I am already hung up on the sight of your rock-hard abs”—P.D. tried to corral her thoughts. “No, I thought I’d better lay it all on the table so there are no surprises.” She toyed with her spoon in a show of studied casualness.
“And?”
“Well, there is one more thing that hasn’t been mentioned.” He wasn’t going to like it. Even Bodey had groused about the final requirement. “You’ll be expected to …”
She paused, trying how to phrase the words, and Elam scowled, growling, “Expected to what?”
From his tone, he assumed he’d be required to do something horrible like arena sex or nude cactus jumping. But then, what she had to say might be even worse in his opinion.
“We have to dress up, right down to the underwear.”
A look of utter horror crossed his features, and she nearly laughed, realizing that he’d leapt to conclusions. Clearly, he expected her to outline something outrageously out of his element like space aliens or Comic-Con characters.
Laughing, she said, “Relax. Since the Wild West Games are being held in honor of Bliss’s sesquicentennial, we need to wear clothing appropriate for the period. For you, that’s probably not much different than what you wear on the ranch: twill pants, a button-down shirt, maybe a vest. There’s a final Cattle Barons’ Ball. That night, there will be a costume contest, which is twenty-five percent of our score. For that you’ll need something dressier, maybe a frockcoat or tails. I’ve got a friend who designs period clothing for the local SASS group—the Single Action Shooting Society? She said she’d be happy to supply us with what we need. Have you heard of SASS?”
She wasn’t sure if Elam was familiar with the national shooting club that dressed in Victorian clothing and participated in staged shooting events, all in the hopes of gaining the winning time.
“Sure. Bodey’s a member. I was, too, before I went into the military.”
> “So you’ve already dressed up before?”
He grimaced. “I wasn’t as rabid about the costuming portion of the sport as some are.”
So P.D. continued to push the requirement. “If you want, I could arrange for my friend Helen to meet us here tomorrow night. We could try things on in my office.”
P.D. worried that she’d taken things one step too far. But shoot, it wasn’t as if she were the one insisting on the costumes.
Fearing that Elam might refuse, she said, “If you’ll do it, I’ll throw in dinner. Every night for a week.” Not wanting her offer to sound like the bribe it was, she hurried to add, “As a way to thank you for filling in for Bodey this way.”
His lips twitched. Obviously, he knew when a carrot was being held over his head—or a bison burger, for that matter—but then he nodded, ever so slightly. “You’ve got a deal—even though you had to know I couldn’t pass up food like this. Not after my own bad cooking.”
The band was returning to the stage after its break. And even though it was nearly nine thirty on a weeknight, the crowd showed no real sign of moving on.
“What time do you want me to come to your place tomorrow morning?” She still couldn’t believe that she was about to be tutored in the rudiments of shooting by Elam Taggart.
And why did the activity seem more tantalizing than it should have been?
“Whenever you want. I’m usually up by five.”
She grimaced. “I’ll be there around ten.”
THREE
ELAM supposed that was his cue to leave. But he was so relaxed—so full of P.D.’s amazing food—that he found himself loath to move.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease, so … comfortable. Gazing around the dining room, he could see that he wasn’t the only one. At least half of the diners had finished their food and were simply talking or enjoying the music.
Becky approached the table and cleared away their plates. “Hey, P.D., Bart said we’re running low on straws—and some knucklehead put the box on the upper shelf. Again. Do you have any idea where the stepladder has gone?”
A crease appeared between P.D.’s brows, and Elam had the crazy impulse to smooth it away. “Crap. I took it home to replace some lightbulbs. Give me a second and I’ll find something to stand on.”
“Can I help?”
Elam hadn’t been aware that he’d even thought the words until they emerged from his mouth.
P.D. grinned at him. “Would you? I’m tall, but I still can’t reach the upper shelf, even on tiptoes.”
“No problem.”
Elam stood, weaving through the tables in P.D.’s wake. He felt a few sets of curious eyes following their progress, and a spot at his back prickled between his shoulder blades. But the sensation didn’t bother him as much as it used to do. Maybe, after all this time, he’d become old news.
P.D. led him through the double doors into the kitchen, then turned right, heading to a corridor flanked on either side with doors. She chose the closest one and slipped inside, fumbling along the wall until she found the light switch.
As with many of the older buildings in town, there was only a single bulb in the center of the room—and the wattage couldn’t have been very high because the space was illuminated in a faint golden glow that didn’t quite reach into the corners.
P.D moved confidently through the rows of shelving holding bags, boxes, and cans of staples—sugar, flour, dried beans. She turned into an aisle dedicated to paper goods. Packages labeled PLACEMATS vied for space with those proclaiming COASTERS and NAPKINS.
“Yep. There it is.”
She pointed to a box perched on the top shelf that displayed a graphic of a bendable straw. It was wedged close to the ceiling above a sack of granulated sugar.
“Who the heck put that up there? It’s supposed to be in the next row,” she grumbled.
She planted her hands on her hips for a moment, scowling up at the offending bag of sugar. The pose was comically mutinous—as if she were a general and one of her underlings had been discovered AWOL. But even as the thought flashed through his mind, Elam noted how the stance drew attention to the sparkling belt wrapped around her hips and the ripe fullness of her breasts pressing against her tailored shirt.
Ripping his gaze away from places where it didn’t belong, Elam pointed to the sack. “Do you want me to get that down, too?”
Her smile was so sudden, so completely genuine, that Elam felt a sharp arrow of awareness shoot through his body.
“If you wouldn’t mind. I’m a little OCD about my storeroom.”
Since the space between shelves was limited, Elam had to squeeze past P.D. In doing so, his body brushed intimately against hers and his hand drifted to her waist, to that nipped-in spot above the glittering belt. His body reacted of its own accord, but he steadfastly tried to push the sensation away.
Hell Almighty. It wasn’t as if he’d groped her.
Nevertheless, the skin wherever their bodies had glanced together began to tingle.
Ignoring his traitorous response, Elam wedged himself into the corner and reached up. His fingers were able to burrow beneath the box of straws so that he could nudge it forward enough to grab it with both hands. He turned to hand it to P.D. But he’d forgotten how close she was behind him.
As she took the box, their fingers brushed, and for some reason, time slowed for Elam. He became overtly conscious of the woman who looked up at him. Her eyes were alight with such inner peace and joy that Elam could barely believe such an expression was possible. In the dim light of the overhead bulb, her features were cast into light and shadow, playing up the delicacy of her features, the lake blue eyes, the smattering of freckles over her nose. Her lips were a perfect cupid’s bow. And her hair …
She had the kind of hair a man would want to touch, to plunge his fingers into, to fan out over his chest.
Shit.
He wanted to touch her. His fingers twitched from the need. And as her eyes darkened, he knew he’d somehow telegraphed his thoughts. But she didn’t back away.
She didn’t back away.
Just once. What could it hurt?
The thought slipped into his consciousness like a traitorous spy. The air around them hummed with hidden electricity. And for an instant, the world could have melted away. There was only this moment, this woman, this want.
But then, he remembered how he’d come to be in this spot.
The Games.
Bodey.
You don’t poach on a brother’s girl.
*
P.D. knew the instant the moment between them was lost. He’d been about to touch her—she knew he’d been about to touch her. Then, in the blink of an eye, everything changed, the awareness dissipated as if in a sudden brief explosion.
And the stranger she’d met this morning was back.
Damnit. She’d wanted to feel his fingertips on her skin. She’d wanted him to touch her cheek, her hair. She’d wanted him to dip his head and kiss her. Even if he couldn’t give her full-blown passion, she’d longed to have him brush his lips against hers. Just once.
He’d been about to do it. She wasn’t so foolish or naïve that she could have misinterpreted his intentions. He’d been looking at her with such aching hunger that her breath had locked in her chest in case the wrong move, the wrong sound should break the mood.
Then his eyes had become suddenly shuttered and his posture grew brittle.
He turned away from her then, reaching up for the bag of sugar. His shirt pulled tight against his back and P.D. fought the urge to place her palm in the vulnerable crease of his spine.
His fingers wrapped around the plastic handle sewn into the top of the bag and he yanked. But rather than freeing the sugar from its perch, the handle suddenly tore free and a shower of granulated sugar poured down from above.
P.D. watched in disbelief as Elam was engulfed by the granulated waterfall. He seemed rooted to the spot until the glittering stream ran dry.
But when he turned toward her, there was such a look of horror on his face that she began to giggle.
To her relief, Elam’s face cracked into a smile. He shook his arms and twisted his head back and forth, and sugar went flying in every direction.
Still laughing, P.D. held up her hands in protection, her lashes squeezing closed. But when she looked up again, Elam’s shoulders and hair were still liberally dusted with sweet snow.
“Hold still,” she ordered, brushing her hands over his chest and shoulders.
And in an instant, the intimacy between them was back.
P.D.’s ministrations slowed, but she didn’t stop. Instead, her hands lingered over the task, absorbing the firm bulge of muscle beneath her palms, the crisp button-down shirt. Then, her fingers lifted to his hair.
In the muted gold light, she could see there were a few streaks of gray at his temples, and she had the inordinate need to touch them. The sugar was forgotten as she took a wavy strand between her thumb and forefinger and traced the entire length.
Elam grew still, so incredibly still—as if his life depended on his not moving. His eyes had grown dark, and P.D. wasn’t sure if he even breathed as she lifted her fingers again, this time to his temple.
His expression held such a haunting mixture of emotions—grief, hunger, want—that she could have been melted on the spot from their power. But he didn’t back away.
She took a tiny step forward. Another. And another. Framing his face in her hands, she lifted on tiptoe and pressed her lips against his, softly, fleetingly.
Elam could have been made from stone. Other than the sudden hiss of his breathing, he offered no response whatsoever. But she sensed no resistance either. So she kissed him again, tasting the sweetness scattered on his lips. Again, he remained still, so still. But his hand lifted to rest against her waist, then slid around to rest in the hollow of her back, pulling her infinitesimally closer.
As if she were dealing with a yearling colt that might never trust her again if she startled him, P.D. pressed a kiss to Elam’s cheek, then his temple. This time, ever so slightly, he leaned into the caress.
