by Lisa Bingham
Now, with his senses absorbing the nuances of her breasts flattened against his chest, the fuzzy fabric of her pajamas, the still-damp riot of her hair, he knew that he wanted more than a physical release. He wanted to wallow in everything this woman aroused in him—frustration, delight, arousal, and a he-man protectiveness that he couldn’t tamp down.
But the timing wasn’t right. Not yet. While he’d spent time with Barry at the Big House, he’d realized there was still a part of him that wasn’t ready to let go of his memories of Annabel. And he couldn’t do that to P.D.
As if sensing he would take things no farther, P.D. gradually released him and straightened, self-conscious. Offering him a faint smile, she fled from the room with a halfhearted, “’Night.”
He could have kicked himself for the flash of hurt he was sure he’d seen in her eyes. But even as he pushed to his feet to follow her, he lost the nerve. What was he going to say? I still think of my wife when I’m in your arms?
Shit, shit, shit.
Turning resolutely toward the sink, he washed the dishes and returned them to their proper cupboards. He wiped the stove and put away the cereal—even took the time to rearrange the refrigerator shelves to military precision. Then, knowing he was merely delaying the inevitable, he turned off the light and went through to the living room.
While he’d been finishing up, P.D. had doused the overhead light and turned on a lamp near the couch. Pillows and blankets were piled on the armrest as well as a folded towel and facecloth and a new bar of soap. Lifting it to his nose, he smelled the same citrusy scent that had clung to P.D.’s skin.
Grabbing the towels, he padded toward the bathroom, where he cleaned up for the night. He was walking back when he realized that the door to P.D.’s bedroom was open. Moonlight slanted through the mullioned panes of the sash windows to paint her bed in a patchwork of light.
Despite the warmth of the evening, P.D. had pulled the covers up to her chin. He could see her huddled in a near fetal position, as if she was still cold.
Sensing his regard, she rolled over and blinked at him.
“I set some pillows and blankets on the couch,” she whispered, despite the fact that they were the only two people in the house and he wouldn’t have faulted her if she’d wanted to shout.
“I saw. Thanks.”
She didn’t move and he couldn’t bring himself to back away.
After several moments with only the ticking of the clock to rattle the silence, Elam braced his hands on either side of the doorway. “Having trouble falling asleep?”
She nodded, frowning. “Every time I close my eyes, I keep seeing that fire. If I hadn’t been there—”
“But you were,” he interrupted, not wanting her to go down paths of worry she didn’t need to tread. Sighing, he hooked the heel of his boot with the toe of the other and began tugging his feet free. Then, crossing the room in stocking feet, he climbed onto the huge brass bed, drawing her against him spoon fashion. After running a soothing hand down her hair, he held her close until her bouts of shivering stopped and she began to relax.
“Elam?” she murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep.
“Mmm.”
“Thanks … for everything …”
He smiled against the top of her head, knowing by the slow cadence of her breathing that she had finally dropped off for good. “No problem, Prairie Dawn. It’s been no problem at all.”
*
THE next morning, P.D. awoke by degrees as if her consciousness were a piece of driftwood being slowly pushed to shore. When she finally blinked and stretched, her body felt stiff and sore, but her mind was clear—revealing how long it had been since she’d really, really slept.
Stretching her arms over her head, she turned, feeling the pillows beside her—not really remembering why, merely sensing that she was missing something …
And then she remembered Elam climbing into bed behind her, holding her close whenever her dreams threatened to be tinged with fire, until, finally, the horrors of the evening faded beneath the warmth of his body and a sense of well-being.
Blinking against the light streaming through the window, she rubbed at her shoulder. There was a bruise from the recoil of the shotgun, just as Elam had predicted. And yes, the clothes she’d left in the hamper did lend a slight eau de campfire to her bedroom. She’d need to throw them in the washer before she went to Vern’s.
Vern’s.
Her eyes strayed to the clock, bounced away, then returned again in disbelief like a rebounding Ping-Pong ball when she realized it was one o’clock.
One p.m.?
As if hit with a jolt of electricity, she kicked against the covers and scrambled from the bed like a crazed jackrabbit. Rushing to the window, she looked outside, noting that shadows were already beginning to creep across the lawn and through the trees.
Holy, holy hell!
She rushed into the bathroom, wincing at the tangled mass of her hair. It had been a mistake to go to bed without braiding it first, but she dragged a brush through the knots, then drew it back into a ponytail. She kept her makeup simple. Then, with an eye toward the mess she would encounter at Vern’s, she dressed in something easy to clean: jeans and a Farm Girls T-shirt emblazoned with FARM GIRLS HAVE NICE CALVES.
Opening the door to the hall, she peered gingerly in both directions, wondering if Elam had stuck around. But the house was quiet. Too quiet. And damned if she didn’t quite know how she felt about that. She wouldn’t have expected him to hang around this long. But … it was disconcerting that he hadn’t at least said good-bye.
As she made her way into the kitchen to grab something to eat, she stopped short, laughing out loud. On her kitchen table was a potted plant with a scrap of paper held to one of the branches with baling twine. Bending forward, she read the nearly illegible scrawl:
Thought you might need cheering up.
Couldn’t find flowers, so I bought you this.
E.
Bewildered, she looked at the marker sunk in the dirt. A lemon tree. He’d bought her a lemon tree.
There were blooms on the end of each of the branches, and when she leaned forward to smell them, she was enveloped in a heavenly scent.
P.D. couldn’t account for the way the unusual gift made her feel as if she were being lit from the inside out. He must have noticed that her favorite soap had a citrusy scent. To her, nothing smelled more like liquid sunshine than a lemon. And it didn’t escape her that after he’d left for the morning, he’d taken time out of his busy schedule to buy the tree, then had returned to leave it on her table.
Had he also taken the time to check on her while she’d been sleeping?
Lord, please tell me I wasn’t drooling or slack-jawed.
Buoyed by Elam’s thoughtfulness, she set the tree on a table by the front window. It was only as she was stepping outside that it dawned on her that, since Elam had brought her home the night before, she was essentially marooned without a vehicle. But even as she stutter-stepped to a halt, she saw her rattletrap truck waiting in the driveway. Apparently, Elam had been even busier than she’d supposed.
Her smile grew even wider when she noted that Elam had washed the vehicle and vacuumed the interior—a monumental feat for this rusty bucket of bolts. She could definitely get used to this treatment.
But her good mood began to seep away with each mile closer to Vern’s. Now more than ever, she was going to need the prize money from the Wild West Games. Where she’d once hoped to use the cash to expand the kitchens, now she might need it to recoup any expenses the insurance wouldn’t cover.
With so little time before the Games would begin, she needed to check on the restoration people, arrange for security while she was gone, and start checking her supplies. Most of her fresh ingredients would probably be tainted with smoke. She would have to determine how long Vern’s would need to remain closed, then reorder staples, produce, and perhaps even meat.
Her mind was already forming a mental
list as she checked her watch and pushed the truck to its top speed of fifty. But with everything she’d prepared herself to find when she turned down the lane, she hadn’t expected to see a parking lot full of cars.
As she pulled into one of the spaces, she saw Helen hurrying toward her.
“Hello! How are you feeling?”
Bemused, P.D. gestured to the scene around her. “What’s going on?”
“We’ve had a few friends drop by and offer their help.”
“But—”
“The restoration crew has already soaked up the water left by the fire department. They’ve got fans set up to dry out the moisture that has seeped into the walls and woodwork. They were going to bring in a contractor next week to deal with the electrical repairs and patch up the walls. Then they’ll bring in a paint crew and a flooring company. In the meantime, we’ve got more volunteers than we can handle, so I put them to work carrying out the tables and chairs in the dining area so they can be scrubbed and dried in the sun.”
“I don’t … I don’t know what to say,” P.D. said weakly.
“Don’t say anything. Come eat.”
Belatedly, P.D. realized that the banana she’d meant to bring with her had been forgotten in her haste to leave the house. But when she saw Syd stretched out in his camp chair keeping watch over a line of squat black Dutch ovens, her stomach suddenly rumbled. “Oh, no, you didn’t.”
“We did. Dutch oven potatoes, chicken and dumplings, and even my famous chocolate cherry cake. Give us a minute to set up a table to hold the plates and cups.”
Helen hurried toward Syd, but P.D. remained behind. She wouldn’t be able to eat anything until she’d taken a look inside.
When she glanced up to see Elam striding from the building with an armload of scorched two-by-fours, she couldn’t prevent the flutter of anticipation that settled deep in her belly. One that was quickly followed by awareness when he looked her way and smiled.
He threw the refuse into a skip that had been parked near the back door, then walked toward her. There was such power and effortless grace to his movements that gooseflesh pebbled her arms and her heart skittered against her ribs. He could have been the cover model for Western Male with his boots and tight jeans, faded T-shirt, and leather gloves. Instead of his usual cowboy hat, he wore a baseball cap embroidered with the logo for Taggart Enterprises.
As if sensing her gaze, he lifted the hat away and swiped at the sweat on his brow with his wrist. His hair was shaggy and tousled, needing a trim. But she didn’t mind. In fact, she would have given anything at that moment to run her fingers through the waves, but he quickly replaced his hat.
“Hi there,” he said, tugging a pair of work gloves from his hands. Again, she was struck by the strength in those digits, the slender concert pianist finesse of his movements. How could the mere sight of them turn her on?
“Sleep well?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Good.”
She gestured to the people moving in and out of her restaurant. “How did this happen?”
“Small-town gossip, I suppose.” He tucked his fingertips into his pockets. “Apparently, they’re worried this little accident could play havoc with the daily special.”
Dear heaven above, did he have any idea how sexy he looked? His clothing coated his body like a second skin, revealing musculature that would have done an underwear model proud. Since she’d seen him last, he’d trimmed his beard close to his face, and the tidier lines highlighted his angular features and high cheekbones. Today, his eyes were blue and green with flecks of brown. Faint lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes and the angle of his lips had softened.
“How about you?” she asked. “Did you sleep well?”
His expression was boyishly sheepish. “Yeah. Better than I have in a long time.”
The remark sent a rush of pleasure spilling through her veins. Silence twined between them, warm and sticky and fraught with awareness.
“I … I should probably check on the progress inside,” she said, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. If there weren’t so many people around, she would have thrown herself at Elam. But she didn’t want to frighten the man off with such a public display.
“Food’s ready!” Helen called.
“Go ahead,” Elam said, tipping his head toward the rear door. “I’ll get you a plate.”
“Thanks.”
When she would have brushed past him, he snagged her elbow and pulled her back. Then, before she had a clue what he was up to, he bent and lightly brushed his lips over hers.
“Don’t be too long,” he murmured before releasing her.
And the last thing she saw before she headed inside was Helen’s enthusiastic thumbs-up from the other end of the yard.
EIGHT
THANKS to Helen and Syd’s impromptu Dutch oven lunch, the parking lot outside Vern’s soon took on a festive air. The tables and chairs from the dining room which had been brought outside to be washed were quickly put to use. Someone with a jacked-up Ford and a killer sound system had opened the windows and put on an old Brad Paisley CD. One by one, the volunteers made their way past the squat Dutch ovens and loaded up their plates, then gathered in groups to talk and eat.
Since everyone had been drawn outside, it didn’t take long for Elam to see that P.D. still hadn’t emerged from the building. So after setting their plates down in a shady spot, he headed back inside.
As soon as he stepped into the kitchen, he was assaulted with the smells of smoke, burnt wood, and scorched plastic. The dampness left from the fire hoses added an unpleasant humidity to the air as the heat from the day tinged the moisture with smoldering undertones.
Without electricity, the interior was dim, but it only took a moment for Elam to find P.D. She stood in the center of what would have once been the prep area. Although her back was turned to him, he ached to see the dejected slump of her shoulders and the way she’d wrapped her arms around her waist in an unconscious self-comforting gesture.
For a woman who had always been so self-assured and full of life, she suddenly looked tiny and vulnerable and oh, so alone. Suddenly, Elam realized that this was more than a setback to her business. To P.D., this was her home, her baby. Judging by what little she’d told him about her childhood, she’d fought tooth and nail to bring Vern’s to fruition, and now those efforts lay in ruins at her feet.
His boots crunched over broken glass and bits of metal as he moved toward her, but she obviously didn’t hear him. Her head dropped and he thought he heard her breath catch. The sound affected him more that he would have thought possible, squeezing his heart even tighter because he, more than anyone, understood the devastating loss she was experiencing.
Without a word, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her back against his chest. He pressed a kiss to her hair. “It can be fixed,” he whispered.
The words were her undoing. Her chest suddenly heaved with huge sobs.
Turning her in his arms, Elam held her tightly, sensing that this show of emotion was as painful for her as its roots. She displayed a brave face to the world, but he doubted that anyone in Bliss had ever seen her cry.
At a loss for how to help her, he drew on his own experience, knowing that there were no words that could make things better. Yes, Vern’s could be brought back to life. But it would not be an easy task and the weeks spent in repairs could hit P.D.’s expenses hard.
But what was even more devastating, he was sure, was the emotional cost. She’d lost a portion of her dreams for the future. She had no idea who had done this or why, and a little part of her would always be on guard. Even worse, this moment would be imprinted in fear on her brain so that a hint of smoke from the farmers burning their ditches in the spring or the fields of stubble in the fall would have her searching through the restaurant to make sure things were safe.
Elam bent toward her, enfolding her as tightly as possible in his embrace, feeling her tears moisten the front of his shirt and wishing t
here was more he could do for her. But as quickly as the storm of emotion rushed over her, it soon ebbed, leaving her trembling, her hands gripping handfuls of his shirt.
When he lifted her chin to wipe away her tears, she tried to shy away, obviously embarrassed.
“I—I never cry like that,” she offered in quiet defense.
Elam brushed her hands aside and pulled the hem of his shirt out of his pants to dry her cheeks. “I do.”
He hadn’t meant the words to be uttered aloud, but they left his lips of their own volition.
She grew still, her eyes brimming again. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
He let his shirt drop and framed her face with his hands. “I’m not.” His throat grew dry and his voice husky, but he forced himself to say, “If you have to cry when something’s gone … it meant something.”
Her face crumpled again and he damned himself for adding to her distress. But she nodded, trying to smile amid the tears. Then she threw her arms around his neck and held on to him with the fierceness of a survivor to a life raft.
“Thank you, Elam.”
“For what?”
“For being here.”
He buried his face in her neck, whispering, “Where else would I be?”
*
BY the end of the day, the news P.D. received wasn’t good. The kitchen was a total loss and would have to be gutted and rebuilt. Although the contractor was willing to squeeze her into his schedule as soon as possible, the water damage caused by the fire hoses could require several days to dry out. The process couldn’t be rushed or mold could develop, unseen, behind the walls. That meant that repairs would be delayed for at least a week and Vern’s could be closed for nearly a month.
Thanks to the help of the volunteers, the damaged Sheetrock and part of the ceiling had been removed to the studs to facilitate the process. Huge fans and dehumidifiers had been situated around the kitchen, and the area was sealed off as much as possible. A team of college students from Logan manned the restoration company’s power cleaners, scrubbed and polished the hardwood floors, then manhandled the furniture back into the restaurant. By sunset, when the last of the volunteers had left, everything had been stored safely away.
