Snowed in with the Bear

by Montrose, Isadora

  CHAPTER TEN

  Amanda~

  Belatedly she pulled herself together. Adjusted her clothing. “This can’t happen again.” Despite her best efforts, her voice shook worse than her hands. How could she have betrayed José like this?

  Bascom just gazed steadily back at her. He had fastened his shirt crookedly. But his jeans were zipped and his belt fastened. His face had scratches that hadn’t been there when the lights went out. The marks of her fingernails. Good heavens. He nodded. He still did not speak, but his smile was knowing.

  Damned if she was going to oblige him with a post-mortem. “I need to check the generator,” she croaked.

  “Right.”

  His scent made her want to lean back into his hardness and repeat the insanity of their recent encounter. She stepped sideways out of his personal space, but his masculine smell pursued her.

  In fact the kitchen reeked of sex. She needed to open a window or douse the kitchen in bleach. What the fuck had she been thinking? Or rather, not thinking?

  “Generator’s in the basement.” She retrieved two flashlights and smacked one into Calvin’s outstretched hand. She placed an LED lantern in the center of the abandoned breakfast table.

  The dishes. She needed to do the dishes and straighten the kitchen. Regain normalcy. Something like panic tightened her chest.

  He stuck his flashlight in his waistband. “We do need to discuss what happened,” he said firmly. “But it can wait until we’ve checked out the oil tank and the generator. The power will probably go out for real before long.” His chest was still rising and falling as if he had run a long way.

  Which proved there had been two of them going at it like minks. It was cold comfort to know that he had been as affected by the explosion of lust as she had. What the hell had she done?

  The gauge on the oil tank in the basement indicated she still had a full tank. Which might or might not be enough for them to weather the storm. It depended on how long the blizzard lasted. How long would she be cooped up with Calvin Bascom, reliving her folly?

  “There’s a working fireplace in the living room, isn’t there?” Calvin asked.

  There was, in fact it was so efficient it could heat practically the entire house. “Yup. And a couple of cords of firewood out by the carport.”

  “Any inside?” he asked dryly. “In the woodshed?”

  “I don’t have a woodshed.”

  “Sure, you do.” He took the stairs two at a time all the way to the kitchen, where he opened the door to the pantry.

  Her canned goods were organized in rows. Flats of bottled water were neatly arranged on the floorboards. As she had said, no woodshed. But Calvin reached up to the interior lintel and pulled a lever she had never noticed.

  The pantry shelves rotated outward revealing a dim, narrow, breezy room half-filled with firewood. Strings of swaying cobwebs testified to it having been undisturbed since last winter. Two bolts on the rear wall indicated it was actually a latched door.

  “Why didn’t anyone mention this?” she asked in exasperation. “I wish I had known this was here when I had that cord wood delivered.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “How did you know about it?”

  “This was Luther’s idea.” He tested the swinging panel with masculine pride. The heavy canned goods did not prevent the unit from moving easily on their pivot.

  “Your brother lived in this house?” She knew his twin brother Luther had died when he was a young man.

  “No.” He shook his head sadly. “Luth never got the chance. Our Great Granddaddy built a bunch of these houses for the staff. Luther was the one who figured out a way to get the woodshed handy to the kitchen, without wasting space on an extra door.”

  She peered around him. “Is there a light?”

  He flipped a switch, covering his hands in cobwebs.

  “Yuck,” she muttered. She loathed spiders.

  He grinned at her. “Don’t be such a girl,” he teased.

  “I am a girl.” Despite her best intentions, her voice came out sultry and flirtatious. “I just don’t like spiders.” She paused. “I knew a fellow once who was eaten by spiders.”

  He laughed. “That’s a flat-out lie.”

  She shook her head and backed farther into the kitchen, determinedly chattering. A Texas tall tale should move his thoughts away from sex. “Sucked him dry as a bone. Left his husk to blow in the wind.”

  As if to make her point, the wind battered the wall of the woodshed, rattling the basket of kindling by the inner door. Tiny flakes of snow blew through the cracks in the wood siding and coated the cobwebs. She shuddered involuntarily.

  He shut and locked the pantry access panel. “I take it that means I get to haul in the firewood when we run out?” He washed his hands at the sink.

  “No need. There’s plenty.” She had stuffed the niches on either side of the fireplace with as much wood as they would hold. “You go light the fire – I’m going to do the dishes while we still have power.”

  Bascom’s brown eyes narrowed, but to her relief he stalked off to the living room leaving her alone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Calvin~

  If she wanted a fire lit he would light one. Under her delectable ass. Who would have thought that capable, unflappable Arutta would be so spooked by sex? Admittedly wild and amazing sex. But still. She was as skittish as if she hadn’t initiated matters with her own earthy grizzly mating-dance.

  Her living room wasn’t elegant. But it was comfortable. Cozy. Welcoming. With furniture that was the right scale for bears. And warm walls the pleasant color of weathered adobe. He thrust his unsophisticated approval away.

  His own condo had been decorated by a top-flight designer who catered to a high-end clientele. Accordingly, it was sleek and streamlined. A study in gray and white, the designer had helpfully told him, designed to showcase his superior taste. Which it assuredly did. Well, the designer’s anyway.

  It was his own crude preferences that made Arutta’s large coffee-colored sectional with its cheerful gold and orange cushions, and her big maroon leather recliner, seem welcoming. The wooden coffee table looked as if it wouldn’t be hurt by feet stacked on it, even if they were shod. Her sectional framed the fireplace. It was an inviting setup.

  The only commonality between their homes was the simply framed painting by Georgia O’Keeffe that hung over the fireplace mantel. He had one too. Arutta’s thick oak mantel was cluttered with dozens of Christmas cards, tucked among vases and china animals. The cards reminded him that Christmas was coming. Which seemed appropriate, as apparently all his Christmases had come at once.

  He knew he too had received Christmas cards. But he had no idea what his housekeeper did with them after he had opened and read them. She couldn’t place them on his mantel because it was a slim bar of polished granite that barely projected out of the rough stone fireplace wall. It was the idea of a mantel, his decorator had explained. An ironic comment on the convention. He figured it was ironic that a rich man didn’t have a place to put anything.

  He was glad to see that Arutta’s red brick fireplace had been fitted with a glass-doored insert designed to heat the room efficiently rather than suck most of the heat up the chimney. That made it as good as a wood stove. Firewood was neatly stacked in deep niches on either side. There wasn’t any room for more wood. They probably wouldn’t have to dip into the woodshed, much less risk going outside.

  Looked like Calvin Bascom wouldn’t have to prove his valor by letting some arachnid attempt to suck his husk dry. Who would have thought Amanda Arutta was afraid of spiders? He foresaw a lifetime on spider patrol.

  He crouched before the fireplace. The fire had been expertly laid. As soon as he set a match to the kindling the flames caught. It wouldn’t be long before the logs were ablaze. He closed the doors carefully and stood up, turning in a circle to inspect the rest of the room.

  “See, there’s plenty of wood,” Arutta said from the doorway.

  She f
lipped a switch and her Christmas tree came alive. The tall blue spruce stood in front of the big picture window. It was sparsely but brightly decorated – as if she had run out of ornaments. In fact, it looked like his mother’s sort of tree, a testament to years of little fingers concocting crooked stuff out of pipe cleaners, cardboard and glitter glue. Cute.

  She sat down in the recliner and pulled her sweater-coat tightly around her body. Her face was stony and her eyes dared him to mention the 500-pound black bear in the room. He braced himself. He didn’t make a habit of hitting on his employees. And he didn’t make a habit of leaping on women. But he couldn’t ignore that bear. Nor did he want to.

  “We have to discuss what happened,” he said.

  Her face froze. “There’s nothing to discuss,” she disagreed brusquely.

  He sat on the couch and watched her. “I didn’t use anything.”

  She shrugged. “You ought to know that shifters don’t catch sexually transmitted diseases.”

  “But they do get pregnant,” he replied.

  Never before had he been so careless. When he had discovered his cousin and best friend Patrick had knocked up Heather Dupré first try*, he had lambasted Pat for his carelessness. For opening himself up to a fortune hunter. But now Cal had been just as careless. And all he felt was triumph.

  “It won’t be an issue,” she said coldly.

  “What are you using?” he demanded.

  She turned as scarlet as an apple. “Nothing. But it won’t be a problem.” Her jaw clenched.

  He saw red. Shades of Great Granddaddy Clive. He was leaning over her chair, caging her with his arms and body before he had time to think. “Damn straight it won’t be a problem. Because the moment you turn up pregnant is the moment your life changes. I’m damned if I’m going to have yet another Bascom bush colt running loose. Understood? If you’re pregnant, I’m going to put my brand on you and that kid so fast you won’t see it coming.”

  Her hands pushed futilely at his chest. “Fuck you. Back off, Bascom,” she hissed.

  “I don’t mind, if you don’t,” he growled and let his mouth descend again.

  If she had struggled or protested, he would have let her go. At least, he thought he would have. But instead of punching him in the throat, or biting him, her lips softened and she returned his kiss, pulling him closer.

  In moments he was sitting in her chair. She was on his lap and their mouths were mating feverishly. He tucked curls behind her ears and traced the small shells, gently pinching the soft lobes between thumb and forefinger. She reciprocated by diving through his short hair and massaging his scalp, urging him deeper.

  Once again he was enveloped in the mind-clouding scent and feel of her. His fingers smoothed her jaw where his beard had chafed the delicate skin. He broke away from her mouth to place apologetic kisses from chin to ear.

  But the only thing that called his caresses to a halt was his realization that Arutta was crying.

  *Bear Sin

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Amanda~

  She never cried. Well, hardly ever. Not since she had buried José. And even then, only in solitude. Certainly not in front of other people. Definitely not in the arms of a sweaty man trying to worm her out of her pants.

  But she couldn’t seem to stop. She wept for José, too soon dead. For the babies they had tried and failed to conceive. For her lost clan. For the pleasures and hardships of life. For enjoying herself with a black bear. And all the while, her rich, decadent lover rubbed her back as if she were a sobbing child and laid his head beside hers.

  As if he understood. Sympathized. Shared her grief. As if. But she still couldn’t stop her tears. They came to an unattractive, hiccupping halt on their own. Bascom rocked her gently. He handed her a large folded handkerchief.

  She dried her face and blotted her stinging, tender eyes with the clean white cotton. Tried to sit up to blow her nose. But he held her tenderly and hushed her silently. It was easier to let him stroke her hair and massage her neck than to fight free of his embrace.

  “All you had to say was ‘No’,” he remarked casually. Teasingly.

  She ignored his comment. If she responded, she would have to move, and she didn’t want to move. His hand kept making comforting movements. She blew her dripping nose.

  Great. She now had puffy, reddened eyes and a blotchy face and nose. Not a good look for any woman. A damned disgrace for an officer. She might as well leave her cheek against his wet shirt where he couldn’t see it.

  “You ready to tell me what brought that on?” he finally asked. His hand continued to circle her neck.

  “Guilt.”

  He rubbed a circle on her back through her sweater. “For what? I’m unattached. You’re unattached. Right? If anyone should feel guilt, it’s me. I’m the boss, not you.”

  “You’re not my boss,” she objected automatically. “And I feel guilty for cheating on my husband.”

  She wasn’t a small woman, and she certainly wasn’t weightless, anything but. But she was parked by herself on the couch in seconds and he was over by the fireplace panting and glaring savagely at her.

  “You’re married?” he said ‘Married’ as if she had admitted to having both Ebola and syphilis with a side of tuberculosis. A combination of horror and disgust.

  Who would have thought this cosmopolitan bachelor who was photographed with a different woman hanging off his arm at every society function would be totally scandalized by adultery?

  She tried to explain. “I’m a widow.” That restarted her unwelcome tears. She had to hide behind his handkerchief again, drying her eyes and blowing her nose.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” His words were conventional, and his tone sincere. But when she emerged from the handkerchief, his big, broad face was puzzled. Those expertly groomed brows were snapped together across his forehead in a deep black V.

  How could she explain the guilt she felt for having coupled with him as if she owed José’s memory nothing at all? She couldn’t. Not without insulting Bascom worse than she already had. “We can’t do this again. It’s just wrong.”

  He sat back down in the recliner. “I didn’t know you were a recent widow,” he said apologetically. He cleared his throat. “But you do realize that you can’t cheat on the dead?”

  She lifted her face from the depths of his white handkerchief to glare at him. “The widow of José Arutta has no excuse for screwing around with a fucking black bear!”

  His face stiffened. He visibly clamped his jaw. The bristles showed black against the redness of his flush. The scrapes from her nails were long red gouges. He folded his arms across his chest. His biceps and forearms bulged against the checked cloth of his shirt. And then his mouth fell open.

  “You were married to Gen. Arutta?” His question was laced with perfectly appropriate awe. “Gen. José Aguilar Arutta?”

  “I had that honor.” Her José had been a much-decorated hero.

  “His death was a great loss to every American,” he said quietly. “He was a great soldier.” He stared at her for several beats. “But, truth to tell, I thought the general passed five or six years back.”

  “Five,” she said stiffly.

  He nodded. “And all this time, you’ve not had sex?” The bastard sounded pleased.

  She glowered at him. “Not with a partner,” she informed him through her teeth.

  He whistled. “I never would have guessed that General Arutta was a grizzly. He was a grizzly?”

  “Of course. Naturally he kept his shifting under wraps.” Which was standard in the military.

  “Possessive, was he?” Calvin asked quietly.

  Certainly José had been possessive. He was a fricking grizzly, not some sort of metrosexual excuse for a black bear. Just as she was possessive. She did not share. Of course, a philanderer like Bascom wouldn’t understand fidelity.

  “We were faithful to each other,” she said with as much poise as her consciousness of her red, tear-stained
face would allow.

  “Children?” he asked. His chin pointed to her Christmas tree. “Your kids make those Christmas things?”

  “No. No kids. My nieces and nephews – José’s nieces and nephews made them.” Her voice broke. She and José had tried for nine years to make a child. Unfortunately, she was barren and their efforts had been unproductive.

  “Hmm.” He thought about that for another few seconds. “You’re still marrying me if you come up pregnant. We’ve had too damned much of that sort of crap in my family. I’ll be damned if I’ll add another bastard to the world.”

  “Very forward thinking of you, Bascom,” she snapped. “Not. But you needn’t worry. I’m not likely to conceive.”

  “What are you using?” he asked sternly. As if he had every right to interrogate her about her birth control.

  Yet she answered him. “Nothing. I’m infertile.”

  He sniffed the air like a connoisseur. “You don’t smell infertile,” he observed.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Bascom?” She didn’t fucking smell infertile! As if infertility could be diagnosed by nose.

  “You’re the vet,” he shot back. “You know that swapping studs is the best way to cure barrenness in cattle and horses.”

  It was true, but she was neither a mare nor a heifer.

  “José had a son when he married me,” she informed him flatly. “Our problem lay with me. Not that it’s any of your business.” A thought occurred to her. “What did you mean another Bascom bush colt? Just how many bastards do you have?”

  “Not me. I’ve got no kids. But the lawyers are still hunting down my great-grandfather’s love children. There have been too many Bascoms growing up without knowing their roots. And I don’t plan to add to the number.”

  “Fine sentiments,” she sneered. “But here’s a little tip going forward. Referring to your illegitimate offspring as bush colts isn’t going to endear you to their mothers. Even in Arkansas, men know better.”

  “What has Arkansas got to do with anything?” he demanded. His good humor was returning. He exuded unmistakable masculine satisfaction.