The Ranger

by Julia Justiss

  “That will be perfect! I want time to savor and appreciate. I never want to feel the effects of the alcohol wine contains, so I limit how much I drink. And I drink it because I love the taste of ones I choose and how they complement what I cook. On the few occasions when I open something I’ve never had before and don’t like the taste, I give it away.”

  “After the tours, we’ll have dinner in Fredericksburg. There are lots of great restaurants. You can choose from traditional barbecue to German—the early residents of town were of Germanic heritage—to Mexican salsa. There are Italian places, but after eating in your kitchen, nothing would compare. After a couple of hours over a leisurely dinner with soda water, it will be safe for me to drive back.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  They chatted the rest of the way about the wines and wineries Harrison had recommended. After arriving on the outskirts of Fredericksburg, Brice eased his truck into one of the municipal lots from which the tour vans departed. “Have you ever been to Fredericksburg?”

  She gave him a half smile. “I’ve kept pretty close to home.”

  “There’s a really nice outdoor museum showcasing early Texas settlement that includes typical houses, a schoolroom, and some display gardens I think you’d enjoy. There’s also a great World War II museum here—Admiral Nimitz, one of the heroes of the war in the Pacific, grew up here.”

  “Nimitz is one of your herd bulls, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. We actually have Nimitz the Third now. With all the wineries around, Fredericksburg has become a big tourist destination. There are lots of shops and eateries. We can stroll around town before dinner if you like.”

  “Sounds good. But first, wine.”

  Brice pulled the truck into a parking spot on the far edge of the lot, away from the spot where the festival vans departed. “We’re meeting our driver, Mitch Hannessy, here at the corner,” he said as they hopped down and he locked the truck.

  “Thank you for arranging this. And for asking me. You must have known I’d debate over whether or not to come. It’s too much like a real first date.” She shook her head wonderingly. “I haven’t been on a ‘first date’ since I was a teenager.”

  So whatever relationship she’d lost must have been long term, Brice figured. “We’re not calling it a date. It’s just an outing with friends doing something they both enjoy.”

  She laughed. “I did almost turn you down. Then I decided, having met a guy who is courteous, honest, warm, funny and interesting, if I’m not ready to make friends with him, when will I ever be? I’ve been frozen in the past long enough.”

  “I’m delighted you’re taking a chance on me.”

  She looked up at him, meeting his gaze. “I hope I will be too,” she said softly.

  The rest of the day passed as agreeably as Brice had hoped. Their knowledgeable driver gave them some background on the select wineries they stopped at, and his connections with the owners allowed them to have their tastings in smaller, private rooms usually reserved for wine club members.

  Brice enjoyed the wine, but even more, he liked watching Mary enjoy it. She got into avid conversations with the baristas serving them about the raising, harvesting, bottling, and aging of the varieties they sampled. She found two wineries with Super Texan blends she liked as much as her Italian Chianti, as well as a lush Petit Syrah and several interesting red blends.

  By the end of the afternoon, she’d bought almost a case of wine to add to her wine fridge and joined the wine club at her favorite of the wineries.

  They had dinner at a small German restaurant on Fredericksburg’s main street after strolling up and down browsing the shops, including some antique boutiques displaying kitchenware like she collected, though she murmured to Brice that the tourist prices were much too high and she’d continue to do her shopping at Old Man Tessel’s.

  After finishing the event with ice cream from one of the boutiques on the main street, he drove her home, encouraging her to chat about wine and the wineries they’d visited all the way.

  Back in Whiskey River, Brice parked his truck beside her car, tension building within him. Would she invite him to come inside? Bid him goodbye at the door? Over the course of the day, she’d been visibly more relaxed—and the subtle glances she gave him when their hands touched or he took her elbow to help her in or out of vehicles said she acknowledged, if not encouraged, the simmering physical connection between them.

  He hopped down and went around to help her down, then carried in the several wine bags with the vintages she’d purchased while she brought the tote bag with the empty espresso thermos. As he set the carriers down beside her wine fridge, he said, “Thanks again for going along with me. I probably wouldn’t have gone on my own, and I had a fabulous time.”

  “You could have brought Duncan and Harrison.”

  “Right, the newlyweds, who probably would have spent the afternoon gazing soulfully into each other’s eyes and—” Seeing her smile, he broke off. “Ah, you’re teasing me,” he realized, totally charmed that she felt comfortable enough to do so.

  “How could the day not have been fabulous when I discovered several wonderful new wines? Though my budget may take several months to recover.” She paused, a little frown on her face as if debating something. Looking back up, she said, “Would you like an espresso for the road, to keep you alert on the drive to the ranch?”

  He nodded. “I’d appreciate it.” Even more, he appreciated the offer to let him linger. He had hoped, but not expected it.

  “I have some biscotti I baked to go with it. Just a little something light and sweet to complement the tang of the coffee.”

  “‘Tang’? A good description. The first time I had espresso, I nearly choked. Grant had warned me it was ‘strong enough to walk into your cup’—another good Texas phrase. Now, I find a lot of restaurant coffee too weak for my taste.”

  “The Italian blend I buy is definitely not light. Have a seat on the couch and I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Brice went and sat down, heat and anticipation thrumming in his blood. Would this be the night he’d get to kiss her?

  He only hoped she’d give him a definite, unmistakable sign if she was ready. He didn’t want to forge ahead on a misunderstanding and ruin all the progress toward closeness he’d made today.

  The sofa was broad and comfortable. His mind went immediately to kissing her, pressing her back against the overstuffed cushions, tasting her, feeling her heartbeat against his while he explored her mouth . . .

  Slow down, cowboy, he told himself. He’d be too heated to drink his coffee.

  A minute later, she brought in the tray, wafting the savory aroma of coffee and a hint of sweetness from the biscuits. He drank it and ate the biscotti without really tasting either, all his senses attuned to whether she’d issue that invitation—or not.

  Finally, coffee finished and biscuits gone, he had no excuse to delay any longer.

  “Guess I’d better hit the road. Thanks again for sharing a perfect day with me.”

  Only one thing would make it truly perfect, he thought longingly as he set his cup back on the tray.

  When he shifted to get up, she stayed him with a touch to his hand. “It was perfect. Thank you,” she said. And leaned up and kissed him.

  He tried to hold himself absolutely still and let her control the kiss, resist the urgent desire to tease the seal of her lips and slip inside, afire with the need to touch and taste and explore her mouth and tongue. But when she put her hands on either side of his head, a little moan issuing from deep in her throat, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

  He slid his tongue gently along her lips, probing at the corners of her mouth. When she opened, letting him inside, the jolt of sensation made him dizzy. Then, her hands clutching his head, she was kissing him back with an increasing fervor he was more than happy to match.

  He wrapped his arms around her and leaned her back into the nest of cushions, just as he’d dreamed of doing. She continued
kissing him ardently, as if starved for sensation. He slid his hands down her sides, massaging her arms, his fingers creeping toward the swell of her breasts when suddenly, she broke off the kiss and pushed at his chest.

  Despite his passion-befuddled state, he released her immediately. “What’s wrong?”

  She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes anguished. “I think you’d better leave. I’m sorry, Brice, but I can’t be your good-time girl.”

  He shook his head, not sure he could be hearing her right. After all his patience and his care, after the cooking and the laughter and the friendship, how could she think that?

  “My ‘good-time girl’? How can you possibly accuse me of that? Have I ever pressured you for anything? Even hinted that I felt I should get something physical as ‘repayment’?”

  “Maybe not. But after a certain time in a relationship, most men expect . . . something.”

  “Well, I’m not ‘most men.’ And I never, ever take anything a lady isn’t more than ready and willing to freely give.” Going from frustrated, hurt, and confused to angry, he stood up and collected his hat. “I never wanted or imagined you to be my ‘good-time girl.’ I thought we had more than that. I guess I thought wrong. Good night, Mary.”

  He pivoted and stalked out the door.

  He was halfway to his truck when Mary came running after him. “Brice—please don’t go yet. I owe you an apology—a big apology. And probably, finally, an explanation.”

  He halted, not turning to look at her, realizing by the depth of the hurt he felt, the anguish and anger about being dismissed so insultingly, he was already much more emotionally involved than was safe with this woman about whom he still knew so little.

  But the pleading tone of her voice, and his strong desire to repair the breach that had just been ripped between them, overrode the voice of caution that said it would be smarter to jump in his truck and not look back.

  She’d just shown she had the power to inflict some serious damage to his emotions. If he went back, and she walked away again later . . .

  Ignoring his misgivings and the voice of self-preservation that was yammering at him to ignore her and leave, he turned to face her.

  “Alright. I’ll at least listen.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Her breath tight in her chest, Mary walked back into the house, conscious of the hurt and angry man following her.

  He had a right to be hurt and angry. She’d given him every indication she was ready for the kiss she’d craved ever since admitting to herself that he attracted her as no man had since she’d lost Ian. And for a few wonderful, glorious minutes, she’d let herself go, reveling in the thrill of passion she’d missed for so long she’d hardly been able, before he kissed her, to remember how it felt.

  Until his hands began to move, setting off danger warnings in all her senses . . . for she knew if she’d not stopped him then, she might not have been able to resist the overwhelming tide of passion, leading them to do something that would have spelled disaster.

  He deserved to know why. She could tell him that much, at least.

  As they walked into the kitchen, she said, “I think I need another cup of espresso. Join me?”

  His face expressionless, he shook his head, took a seat at the kitchen island, put his hat on the counter, and waited.

  She took as long as possible making the espresso, her hands shaking. Now that she’d resolved to tell him, how did she begin?

  Too nervous to sit, she sipped the sharp, strong brew and then took a deep breath. “You already guessed that I’d . . . lost someone. My fiancé, Ian. We were a month from our wedding when we went back to visit a relative in a not-so-great part of the city, just outside downtown L.A. Ian had pulled my brother’s car into a parking spot when another car stopped beside ours. Two men with handguns jumped out, fired shots into the car, then sped off. Ian, I found out later, died immediately. I almost did.”

  “How awful, Mary,” he said quietly, compassion replacing his formerly stony expression. “I’m so sorry. Were the shooters ever found?”

  She paused, choosing her words carefully before replying, “The police supposed it was a case of mistaken identity in some sort of turf war over drug dealing.” Which was the bare truth, if not all of it.

  “You recovered, thank heaven.”

  “After a long time in the hospital. The bullets struck me in the lower abdomen. I was three months pregnant with our child. There was massive hemorrhaging. They kept me sedated in ICU for over a week to control the bleeding, then did surgery to correct the damage. I woke up after surgery to find I’d lost both Ian and the baby. Besides that, the doctors said while it might be possible for me to get pregnant again, because of all the damage and scarring, there was almost no chance I could carry a child to term. Most likely, I would lose it before the child was viable outside the womb.”

  He shook his head in silent sympathy and reached out to take her trembling hand. Gratefully, she grasped his fingers, forcing herself to go on.

  “After I recovered, I couldn’t face living in the city anymore, where everywhere I went, there would be memories of what I’d lost. What I could never have. My cousins, with their growing families around them. I went to a school out of state to get my graduate library degree, determined to move as far away as possible. I was just finishing it when the posting came up of a vacancy in Whiskey River. I applied, and they hired me.”

  Holding tight to her hand, he continued to watch her, the compassion in his gaze making the tears that had already threatened begin slipping down her cheeks.

  “When I moved in, I tried to resist Bunny at first. But she’s pretty irresistible, as you know. Then I thought, I could enjoy doing things with her that I’ll n-never be able to do with a child of my own.”

  She’d tried to hold it back, but at that admission, the anguish she’d never mastered overwhelmed her. Turning her back on Brice, she put her hands over her eyes and wept.

  Desperate to control the flood, she had no awareness of his reaction until she felt strong arms surround her, pulling her gently against his chest. He held her close, murmuring into her hair, not threatening, not demanding, just a solid, steady, reassuring presence.

  It took her several minutes to bring herself back under control and step away. Swiping at the tears, she took an unsteady step toward the counter and gulped down more coffee, the sharp jolt of caffeine welcome.

  “Sorry,” she said, not looking at him. “I usually try not to think about it, since, rather obviously, I . . . haven’t stopped grieving. Which brings me to the disaster on the couch. As we’ve both known for a while, I’m very attracted to you. Kissing you . . . reawakened the passionate side of me I’ve ignored or stifled since Ian’s death. Until the voice of caution reminded me that no birth control method is fail proof, and though I might get pregnant, I could never carry a baby long enough for it to live. One of my cousins had several miscarriages before doctors told her she shouldn’t try to get pregnant again. The experience was devastating for her.”

  “You could do something permanent to prevent pregnancy, couldn’t you?”

  “You mean a tubal ligation? Yes, I could. Probably I should have, while I was still in the hospital, after the doctors told me what to expect. But as I was recovering, I couldn’t face ruling out for good any chance of having a child. Now, after several years, I should probably consider it again.”

  “I think you’ve earned the right to take your time about making such an irreversible decision.”

  She nodded. “Until you came along, it wasn’t a pressing issue. I hadn’t even been interested in men . . . before you. And after I met you, and was attracted enough to overcome my strong reservations, a part of me whispered that it was okay to move on with you, okay to taste passion again. But I can’t risk it. I can’t guarantee I could kiss you and stop short of lovemaking. And I can’t face the possibility of conceiving another child I’m destined to lose. Nor would I want to go into a serious relationship with an
y man, knowing I could never give him children.”

  She blew out a breath. “I’m sorry I gave you mixed signals. And I especially apologize for my . . . uncalled-for remark. You’ve been nothing but patient with me from the very beginning.” She smiled weakly. “Extremely patient. I really thought you would have given up on me by now.”

  “I don’t want to give up on you,” he said quietly. “Thank you for giving me some background. I could tell it wasn’t easy to revisit what happened, and I apologize for making you go through it. Time doesn’t lessen the grief very much.”

  “No, it doesn’t. So, if you’d rather not see me anymore, knowing now how—limited—I am, I’ll understand completely. Which will make this day even more special.” She smiled sadly. “A vignette of a memory of how life . . . might have been.”

  He took her hand again, kissing her fingers before cradling her hand in his big one. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily—unless you want me to go. If that’s the case, say so clearly, and I’ll respect your wishes. Respect them—but that’s not what I want. We’ve just started this Texas two-step of a relationship. Who knows where it might lead? I say we stick with it and find out. And if we both want it to become something more permanent . . . then we’ll deal with the issue of children later. No need to push you into any procedures you’re not ready to face. And who knows? Medicine advances all the time. There might now be some remedy for your injuries that would allow you to carry a child to term. And if there isn’t . . . there are a lot of kids out there who need love and a home.”