by Lisa Bingham
He smiled, a slow, sweet smile that tugged at her heartstrings. “Most of all, I want you to consider the fact that what we have together is … beautiful. And I want to see where it will take us. Because as crazy as this sounds”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“I think I might be falling in love with you.”
P.D. waited, sure that she hadn’t heard him correctly and that his next few words would contain a “But …” When he didn’t supply one, she gave him one of her own.
“But at the hotel, you said we should enjoy … this … as long as it lasts.” She waved a hand in a vague gesture between them.
Elam frowned, then reached to caress her cheek with his thumb. “Is that why you were so anxious to leave?”
She didn’t answer, but the moisture that flooded her lashes must have been more than eloquent.
He leaned forward to brush her lips with his. “I meant the hotel stay, P.D. I didn’t mean us.”
Elam drew back and the expression on his face was so gentle … so adoring, she couldn’t believe that it was directed toward her.
“What about Barry?”
Elam’s brow creased.
“Elam, tonight he was talking about Emily and asking me to be his sister and I don’t want to confuse him or—”
Elam laughed. “That’s what he was trying to explain to Bodey.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb, whispering, “But don’t you see? You’re already his sister. You bring him food and footie pajamas and you care that he’s healthy and happy. Despite his injuries, Barry’s a bright kid. Besides, a wise woman told me that it’s best to explain your feelings. So we’ll be honest with him.” He leaned closer, his words against her lips. “We’ll tell him that we care about each other, but relationships are best if you give them a little time.”
Time.
This man was willing to give her something that had proven to be so elusive to her in the past. Time.
P.D. leaned forward, kissing him softly, sweetly, absorbing the enormity of having a man who wanted more than anything else in the world to spend time with her.
Elam Taggart, a man who’d been to hell and back.
A man who wanted her, Prairie Dawn Raines.
Looking deep into his eyes—eyes that were fierce with passion, possessiveness, and joy—she shoved away years of insecurity, loneliness, and regret and threw caution to the wind, baldly stating, “I think I’m falling in love with you, too, Elam Taggart.”
She tugged him onto the sofa next to her and he gently drew her onto his lap. “Ah, sweetheart … I was a dead man walking until you burst into my life like a ray of sunshine.”
He drew back, his eyes intense, willing her to believe him. “I loved Annabel. I’ll never lie about that. But what you have to believe is that what I feel for you is just as intense, just as all-consuming”—his voice grew husky with the depth of his emotions—“just as magical. It’s the same … but different.”
Tears sprang to P.D.’s eyes, but this time, she didn’t bother to fight them back. Instead, she reveled in the emotion she saw shining from Elam’s eyes. The heat from that gaze sank deep into her heart, seeping into that tiny corner she’d never allowed anyone to touch. Burying her forehead in Elam’s shoulder, she realized that she didn’t have to hide from her fears anymore. Elam accepted her as who she was, scars and all.
“You are so beautiful,” Elam whispered against her hair.
And for the first time in her life, she felt beautiful.
Special.
Loved.
Elam was quiet for a moment, then he said carefully, “There’s just one thing I need you to know, P.D.”
She waited, sensing his unease. “I’ve been kind of out of things the last year or two at the ranch. It’s time I stepped up and started pulling my weight again. With the ranch, my brothers … and especially Barry.”
She stopped him with a finger on his lips. “I don’t mind. In fact, it makes me feel a little less guilty about the time I’ll need to spend at Vern’s.”
Elam laced their fingers together. “We’re a pretty good fit, aren’t we?”
She nodded. “We’re a very good fit.”
The phone in Elam’s pocket rang and he swore, reaching to throw it onto the seat beside him. But when P.D. saw Bodey’s name on the caller I.D., she said, “You’d better answer it.”
“He can call back—”
“Just answer it.”
Reluctantly, Elam unlocked his phone and held it to his ear. “This had better be good.”
P.D. could hear the indistinct cadence of Bodey’s voice, but not the words.
Then, Elam relaxed beneath her, leaning back against the cushions and bringing her with him so that she lay across his chest.
“Yeah, I’ll tell her. See you tomorrow, Bodey.”
He ended the call—and this time, he hit the power button so that no one else could disturb them.
P.D. patiently waited for him to tell her what Bodey had said. But when he began laughing, she tipped her head up to see him better.
“What’s up?”
“Bodey wanted to pass on some news.”
“Mmm?” She began tracing idle circles around the studs of his shirt.
“We won.”
P.D. frowned. “We won what?”
“We won the Wild West Games.”
It took a moment for the full meaning behind the words to sink into her brain, and when they did, she pushed herself upright.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Evidently, our costumes were judged when we were wrangling over how to get your skirts to fit under our table. The scores for our outfits pushed us to the top.” He grinned at her. “They’ll be bringing the check for ten thousand dollars by tomorrow.”
She stared at him a moment longer, then laughed and said, “We won.” Then louder and more excitedly, “We won!”
Her arms wrapped around his neck and she began peppering kisses all over his face. But when he held her still to capture her lips, she whispered, “We have to tell Helen.”
“She already knows. She was there when the contest people called.” He kissed her softly, then drew back to murmur, “We’ll sink the whole ten thousand into Vern’s.”
“But—”
He stopped her objections with another kiss.
“But, Elam, you—”
“You’ll need the money to hurry the repairs along.” He began interspersing his speech with kisses that grew longer and more passionate. “Because …”
Kiss.
“I’m dying to get more of your cooking …”
Kiss.
“As well as more of this …”
Kiss.
“And this …”
Melting into the embrace of her wild Desperado, Prairie Dawn Raines was more than happy to oblige.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Those who know me will recognize that Bliss, Utah, bears a striking resemblance to my own hometown in northern Utah. I came to this valley as a newlywed and a “city girl.” Now I’m a country girl through and through, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
The Single Action Shooting Society, also known as SASS, is a real organization. For several years, I shot with the group under the moniker “Twisted Sister.” I’ve been told the rather “ribald” scenarios I’ve presented during the costume contests have helped me win more than a few times.
I was introduced to SASS by the real Helen and Syd, who are only marginally fictionalized in the book. Helen is a master costumer and seamstress, and Syd, the love of her life, keeps me well supplied with reloaded ammunition. Thanks to both of you! If you happen to attend a SASS competition, look for “Queen Helen” and “Syd Shaleen” and say hello. They’ll either be shooting stages or selling Helen’s hand-sewn items from their tent. If you have a minute, check out my website, where Helen has graciously given me permission to include her recipe for Dutch Oven Cherry Chocolate Cake, and Syd, who really did help to put the space shuttle into orbit, will include the ATK
/Thiokol scientists’ diagram of the perfect arrangement of charcoal briquettes. If you’ve ever had their cooking, you’ll agree they are masters at their craft.
The little secluded cabin located in a hidden valley is also real. Thank you, Tom and Cindy, for the invitations to your Fourth of July celebrations. Visiting your cabin is like dropping out of civilization into an idyllic piece of the past for a few hours. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate our nation’s beginnings. Don’t be surprised if your getaway reappears in more of the Taggart Brothers’ novels.
If you’d like more information about my crazy life as a writer, teacher, mother, or the wife of a farmer/cattleman, you can visit my website, lisabinghamauthor.com or my Facebook page, lisabinghamauthor/facebook.com or join me on Twitter @lbinghamauthor.
KEEP READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM
RENEGADE
COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!
WATERBOARDING.
Caning.
The Rack.
Bronte Cupacek tightened her fingers around the steering wheel and swore to heaven that when the government of the United States outlawed cruel and unusual punishment, there should have been special provisions made for mothers locked in minivans for the duration of a cross-country trip. Especially if said minivan contained two adolescent siblings who’d been at each other’s throats twenty minutes into the journey.
What had she been thinking?
But then, she hadn’t been thinking at all, had she? On that first, chilly April morning, she’d been so consumed with guilt, panic—and yes, a healthy dose of fear—that she hadn’t bothered to consider the ramifications of her actions. With the haste of a thief leaving the scene of a crime, Bronte had awakened her two daughters at the crack of dawn, helped them cram their belongings into all the suitcases they possessed, and then stuffed everything into the “Mom Mobile.” Less than forty minutes after their frantic preparations had begun, she maneuvered away from the Brownstone she’d shared with her husband for sixteen years, and began the long drive west.
Bronte hadn’t even looked as Boston was swallowed up in her rearview mirror. She drove in a daze, the black highway an endless ebony ribbon stitched down the middle with yellow thread. For the sake of her girls, she pretended that she’d been planning this spontaneous adventure for months. They visited Gettysburg, Mount Rushmore, and highway markers commemorating countless historical sites—all much to Kari’s dismay. At fifteen-going-on-thirty, she considered history of any kind “lame” and Bronte’s choices in entertainment “lamer.” Lily was less inclined to complain, which worried Bronte even more. With each tick of the odometer, she retreated into mute, self-imposed exile—to the point where Bronte would have suffered any personal indignity for a hint of a smile.
By the time they’d reached the Great Divide, Bronte had given up telling her girls they were “on vacation.” Clearly, she’d been no better hiding the need to flee than she’d been at disguising the bruise on her cheekbone. Day by day, it faded from an alarming shade of plum to the sickly yellow of an overripe banana. She’d tried to conceal the injury with layers of foundation, but at bedtime when she rubbed the makeup away, she would catch her daughters surreptitiously studying the telltale mark. But they didn’t ask what had happened. Somehow, they must have known that to acknowledge something was wrong would pry the lid off Bronte’s tenuous emotional control.
She supposed it was that need—that obsession—to finally put this journey behind her that caused her to pull off the road and stare blankly at the sign proclaiming:
BLISS, UTAH—POPULATION 9672
(Sign donated by Bryson Willis—Eagle Scout Project 2014)
The world still had Boy Scouts?
“Why are you stopping?” Kari demanded. She glowered at Bronte from the passenger seat, radiating the pent-up vitriol of a teenager who’d been forced to leave her friends two months before the end of the school year. “Let’s just get to Grandma Great’s house. The sooner we get there, the sooner we can go home.”
Bronte had heard that same demand at least once an hour for the last bazillion miles, and it took every ounce of will she possessed to bite back her own caustic reply. Little did her daughter know, but Bronte had serious doubts about ever returning to their “life” in Boston.
Phillip had seen to that.
There was a stirring from the rear of the van. Like a groundhog cautiously emerging from its burrow, Lily raised her head over the edge of the seat and blinked in confusion.
“Is this Great-Grammy’s?”
Kari rounded on her sister before Lily had the time to rub the sleep from her eyes.
“What do you think, genius? That Grandma Great lives on the side of the road?”
“Enough,” Bronte barked automatically. The fact that Kari rarely got along with her younger sister had only been acerbated by hours of travel. The teenager was like a chicken, pick, pick, picking at her more sensitive sibling until both Lily and Bronte were raw.
“If you can’t be nice, keep your opinions to yourself, Kari.”
How many times had Bronte said that in the last hour … week … lifetime?
Kari rolled her eyes and huffed theatrically. She was barely fifteen and already filled with rage and defiance. Bronte had to get a grip on their relationship before Kari discovered the truth about her father or …
Don’t think about that now. Not yet. Later. Once you’re at Annie’s, you can take all the time you want to decide what to do. Away from Phillip’s influence.
She nearly laughed aloud. Yes, she was away from her husband’s influence—thousands of miles away. But he could have been sitting in the seat beside Bronte for her inability to forget him. His ghost had accompanied her every step of the way—and her phone was filled with unretrieved messages, texts, and emails that she should have erased the moment they appeared.
Should have erased.
But hadn’t.
Because there’d been a time when she had loved him so much that a handful of kind words from him had felt as intimate as a caress.
But that had been a long time ago.
A million years and two thousand miles ago.
Ultimately, the state of her marriage had become a case of “fight or flight.” This time, she’d chosen “flight.” And after coming so far, she didn’t have the strength to confront her own actions, let alone those of her daughter. But soon. They were almost at her grandmother’s farmhouse. Once there, she could burrow into the peaceful solitude of this tiny western town and begin to piece together the torn remnants of her lifelong dreams.
“Are you going to drive anytime soon?” Kari inquired, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “Or are you waiting for a sign from God?”
Closing her eyes, Bronte counted to ten before responding.
“I haven’t been here since I was seventeen, Kari. I need a minute to get my bearings.”
Kari huffed again, fiddling with the button to the automatic window, making it go up, down, up, down. The noise of the motor approximated an impatient whine.
“I thought that’s why we bought a map at the last gas station,” she grumbled under her breath. “If you’d get a GPS like everyone else …”
Please let me get through the next few miles without resorting to violence, Bronte thought to herself as she put the car in gear, waited for a rattletrap farm truck laden with bags of seed to pass, then eased into the narrow lane.
As they drove through Bliss proper, Bronte grew uneasy. Over the years, she’d imagined the area would remain like a time capsule, unchanged and completely familiar. Either her memories were faulty, or urban sprawl had begun to encroach on this rural community. To her dismay, she could see that some of the mom-and-pop establishments had given way to newer, sleeker buildings bearing franchise names and automated signs.
For the first time, Bronte felt a twinge of uneasiness. She’d tried to contact Annie, without success. What if they’d come for nothing? What if Annie couldn’t offer Bronte the haven she had hoped to
find?
Instantly, Bronte rejected that thought. Grandma was the one constant in the world. A beacon of love that made no demands. That’s why, when Bronte felt as if she’d drown in her own silent anguish, she’d gravitated instinctively to the spot where she’d been happiest. A place where she wouldn’t have to present a chipper façade to the world to hide the fact that everything she’d once held dear had long since crumbled to dust.
“Well?”
Bronte had stopped at a red light—probably the only one in town. In her efforts to orient herself, she’d missed the change to green. There wasn’t another soul in sight, but trust Kari to pound home her irritation at the minute delay.
“It’s this way,” she murmured—more to reassure herself than her children.
Turning right, she prayed that she’d chosen the correct side road. Victorian farmhouses and bungalows from the thirties were crowded by newer, turreted McMansions that looked alien in such a rural setting. But as she wound her way along the old highway, she began to pick out landmarks that were familiar to her: the train trestle that spanned the creek; the boxlike outline of pine trees surrounding the pioneer cemetery; the old mill which had apparently been converted into a bed-and-breakfast.
“It’s not far now,” she reassured her children.
“I hope so,” Lily admitted, her eyes wide as she studied the passing scenery.
Ashamed, Bronte realized that she shouldn’t have let so much time elapse before coming to Utah. But Phillip had insisted that any place without a Starbucks or a subway wasn’t worth visiting. So Bronte had kept the peace and instead arranged for Grandma Annie to visit them occasionally. The visits had become more sporadic and her children had been denied so much because of Bronte’s cowardice. They’d never ridden a horse or hiked up a mountainside to drink from an icy artesian spring. But this summer, they would have a chance.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Lily whispered. “Will Grandma Great let me use her bathroom?”
“No, she’ll make you pee in a bush, stupid.”
