by Lisa Jackson
She closed her eyes, hearing the reluctance in his voice, trying and failing to regain her equilibrium. “Why do I feel like you’re leading up to something?”
With a sigh, he said, “I don’t want to make another mistake.”
“You mean like you did the first time?” she asked, her heart shattering into a thousand pieces.
“I mean, we’re older now. We should be more responsible. More in control.” Slowly he released her, putting distance between his body and hers. “We’re not kids anymore.”
“You don’t have to explain,” she said, blushing as she covered her breasts and reached for her sweater. “If you don’t want to—”
His hand snaked out and clamped over her wrist so quickly that she gasped. “I want. I want very much. I just said so. But I’m trying to be smarter than I was before.”
“And more noble.”
“Believe me, nobility doesn’t enter into it,” he said, and the blaze of desire in his eyes convinced her. “Before we make a mistake we’ll both regret for the rest of our lives, and hurt each other all over again, I think we should use our heads. I’m not sure that’s possible, because I seem to lose my common sense when I’m around you, but I’m going to try. I’d appreciate it if you did the same.”
Jerking her hand away, she rubbed her wrist. “No problem, Brett. You keep your distance, and I’ll keep mine.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He stared at her for a long moment, as if he didn’t believe her, then strode to a closet. He took out a bedroll and tossed it on the couch. “I’ll sleep out here. You take the bedroom.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“You damn well better, lady. And maybe you should lock the door. Just in case I change my mind.” He tossed her an old key, and she caught it and promptly threw it back at him.
“You keep it. Just in case I change my mind.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Brett snapped a pair of sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose. Sunlight glinted off the new-fallen snow, and the Bronco’s wheels spun in some of the drifts. He hazarded a glance at Libby, who was staring through the windshield. They hadn’t said much this morning, and he felt as if he hadn’t slept in a week. Two nights of tossing and turning with Libby only a few feet away had kept his eyes open and his mind straying into dangerous territory. She’d changed, all right. If anything, she was stronger than she had been five years ago, more sure of what she wanted. And even more desirable. If that was possible.
He wondered about the men she’d dated in the past five years. How close had she become to any of them? Why hadn’t she married?
Disgusted with the turn his thoughts had taken, he switched on the radio and listened to the weather reports. His jaw was clamped tight, his muscles ached with tension, and he wondered how he’d gotten involved with Libby again. Because, damn it, like it or not, he had to face the fact that he was involved.
He shifted down and muttered under his breath at his bad luck. He’d sworn never to let a woman under his skin again—especially the one woman who had the power to turn him inside out. Just one glance into her June-blue eyes had him thinking twice about all the convictions that he’d held for five years. Until now, he’d been able to convince himself that he was a loner by nature, that he didn’t need a woman to nag at him, that he’d go through life by himself.
Now he wasn’t so sure. From the corner of his eye, he sneaked a glance at her, and his diaphragm clenched. God, she was beautiful—but that wasn’t the worst of it. He’d met a lot of beautiful women in his life, some more gorgeous than Libby. But none of those women had even come close to her in genuine intelligence or wit or spark. When he was with Libby, he felt more alive than usual; he saw a different, brighter side to a world he’d long ago decided was dark.
Hell, his thoughts sounded like they came from some lovesick fool. Grinding the gears, he turned onto the main highway. The road was plowed and sanded. Traffic was moving cautiously but steadily past the sawmill, where men and women were already working the early shift. Pickups and cars, still covered in snow, were parked in the lot, and machinery was moving logs into the cluster of sheds on the other side of the tall chain-link fence that separated the work area from the office.
Libby eyed the sawmill, but didn’t see the men in hard hats, or the cranes, or the trucks. Long-ago memories filtered through her mind. Memories of happier times, when she’d been in love with Brett.
The church and the parsonage were on the outskirts of town. Libby’s heart constricted at the sight of the Nativity scene nestled between two pine trees, located in the same spot it had been each Christmas season for as long as she could remember. Cedar boughs and red ribbons adorned the rail of the steps leading into the church, and, as always, lights had been strung along the gables of the roof.
She could almost imagine her father on a ladder, a string of lights in one of his hands as he balanced near the top rung and barked down orders to her and her mother. Tears burned the backs of her eyes, and she looked away from the church and concentrated on the road leading into the town.
They passed the post office, grange and general store before Brett found a parking space in front of the Derringer Café. “I’ll buy you breakfast,” he offered, pocketing his keys.
“I owe you one.”
“Don’t worry about it. I run a tab.”
He held the door to the café open for her and she walked inside. Nothing had changed much. The orange-colored plastic covering on the booths was just a little shabbier, and the menu had been expanded slightly, but the faces behind the counter didn’t seem to have changed in all these years.
Velma, the big, red-haired waitress, was wearing a Santa cap today. She sauntered over to the table to take their orders and flirt outrageously with Brett. Libby found a way to stay calm, though she felt an unlikely spurt of jealousy tear through her blood when Velma placed a familiar hand on Brett’s shoulder.
Velma joked with Brett for a few minutes before she disappeared into the kitchen, and Libby silently prayed that her clenched jaw wasn’t visible.
Service was fast at the Derringer. Libby and Brett ate heartily from platters of ham, hash browns, eggs and toast, and washed the works down with hot coffee. Velma made a point of stopping by the table and refilling Brett’s cup more often than necessary. Libby felt like a fool, with a smile as plastic as the Naugahyde she was seated upon pasted on her face.
They were nearly finished when a woman’s voice commanded Libby’s attention.
“Libby? Libby Bevans?” Everyone seated in the surrounding tables turned to stare. “It is you!” Sandy Brennan, obviously pregnant, hurried over to the table and plopped down on the seat next to Libby. “How are you?”
Libby relaxed, and as Brett paid the bill, she caught up with Sandy, who had been married to her hometown sweetheart, Leo Van Pelt, for just over a year, and was expecting her first child in March. “Can you believe it? Me—a mother?”
Libby smiled as she remembered Sandy as a girl—one who could outrun most of the boys on the track team and chew tobacco with the best of them. “You’ll be a great mom,” she said, experiencing a pang of envy.
“I hope so. But even if I’m not, my mom will make a terrific grandmother! She can’t wait, you know. Been sewing layette clothes for nearly four months now.” Sandy wound her long blond hair into a bun and tucked it under a stocking cap as they walked out of the restaurant together. Sandy cast a knowing look at Brett. “So what are you two doing together?”
Brett’s lips twitched, and Libby felt embarrassment wash up her neck. “I came back for a Christmas vacation, and Brett saved me from drowning in White Elk Creek.”
“No!”
Libby explained about the collapsing bridge while they stood in the cool air. Sandy’s eyes were round. She had always been a gossip, and it wouldn’t be long before the entire county had heard Libby’s story. They talked a little while longer, with Sandy complaining about t
he trip into Bend to see her doctor and suggesting that Cascade could use Libby’s medical expertise. “I just hope this baby doesn’t come in the middle of an ice storm,” she said, rubbing her stomach. “I don’t know how we’ll get to the hospital in Bend in this old rattletrap of a pickup.” She rapped her gloved knuckles on the dented fender of a beige Ford.
“I’m sure Leo will find a way,” Libby said.
“Well, I’m counting on him. I guess I’ll see you around. Probably at the Christmas pageant?”
“Maybe,” Libby said, not sure she could face Christmas services in the little church where her father had led the congregation for years. Some wounds hadn’t yet healed.
“I’ll be lookin’ for you, and you, too,” she said, waving to Brett before climbing into the truck.
As the pickup slid down Main Street, Brett and Libby walked the two blocks to Yeltson’s Towing and Auto Body, where Brett and the owner talked about finding a way to winch Libby’s Jeep out of the creek.
Hours later, after stops at the hardware store, the post office and the grocery, Brett drove her back to the ranger station over her loud and furious protests. She’d expected him to take her back to the camp, where she would ford the creek and get on with her plans, but he hadn’t turned off at the church camp. He’d kept the nose of the Bronco heading up the winding road leading to the Pine Mountain Ranger Station.
So he expected her to stay with him again. That would be dangerous, no doubt about it. How could she maintain her distance, physically and emotionally? Besides, she’d told herself—promised herself—that she’d spend Christmas at the camp where her father had put all his love and most of his dreams.
She had no other options, as the Blue Ridge Motel had no vacancies, and the old parsonage where she’d grown up was occupied by the new minister and his small family. The choice was either spend the night alone with Brett or go back to the camp.
Despite the cold, despite the dilapidated state of the buildings, despite the need to ford the creek, the camp was definitely safer for her heart.
“I can’t stay here,” she ground out once he’d parked near the barn. It was late afternoon, and shadows stretched across the snowy landscape.
“Then I should have left you in town, at the motel.” Brett stuffed his keys in his pocket and slid out of the Bronco. The Blue Ridge, with its flickering blue neon sign, was the only motel in town. Cheap and clean, with color TV, it provided rooms for out-of-town relatives and secret midnight trysts. The owners, Pat and Sid Kramer, were as tight-lipped now as they had been years ago.
Libby had no choice but to follow him onto the porch, where they both stomped snow from their boots. “I have a place of my own,” she reminded him. “Down there.” She pointed in the general direction of the camp.
“And no way to get there.” He opened the door, and they stepped into the warmth of the cabin.
“I figured I’d go back the way I got out.”
“That’s crazy!”
She stopped at the door, the toes of her boots touching his. “I’m going home, Brett.”
“How?”
“I’ll walk. Or, God forbid, you could be a gentleman and drive me there.”
“The Bronco didn’t come with sails and a rudder. It wouldn’t make it across the creek.”
“I’ll wade.”
“Like hell!” He strode into the house.
Her temper, which she had tried religiously to keep under control, snapped, and she followed him inside. “You can’t tell me what to do!”
He turned to her. “I can damn well keep you from making a mistake that could cost you your life.” He moved closer and caught her wrist.
“So what are you going to do? Lock me up and throw away the key?”
His amber eyes darkened. His fingers tightened.
“Let me go!”
“That’s where I made my mistake the first time.” From his pocket he withdrew a single sprig of mistletoe, a piece he must have picked up while they were in town. “Merry Christmas, Libby,” he whispered gruffly.
“Brett, please—” Her words were cut off as his mouth covered her own and the tension that had been building between them exploded. He kicked the door closed as anger turned to passion and Libby, knowing she was a fool, kissed him back, her eager tongue mating with his, her willing body fitting perfectly against the hard contours of his. “Don’t—” she whispered as he drew back his head.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t…stop.” She closed her mind to the doubts and let the weight of his body pull her to the floor. His kisses were hungry and hot, his tongue and lips touching her eyes, her cheeks, her throat. His hands worked quickly to remove her clothes, stripping her bare as she, too, fumbled with the buttons and zippers that held his clothes to his body. Still kissing him, she felt muscles, hard and sinewy, beneath her fingers, and soon, when they were naked, he was lying beside her, his body hard with want, hers warm and anxious.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” he admitted, and in the half-light his eyes were dark with sincerity. “I tried. God knows I tried. But it was impossible.”
“For me, too,” she said, her throat closing, as he gathered her into his arms and carried her to his bedroom. She clung to him, her arms around his neck and her head resting against the hard wall of his chest. She listened to his heartbeat—it was as strong and wild as her own—as he laid her gently on the sturdy bed, parting her knees.
“I’ve waited for this for five years,” he vowed.
“Me too.”
His lips found hers again, and he came to her, as man to woman, lover to lover, fusing their bodies with long, sure strokes that caused her to whimper and beg, pant and cry out. “Brett… Oh, Brett… Please…”
His own release came suddenly. With the power of an avalanche, he fell against her, flattening her breasts and throwing back his head in ecstasy. “Libby…” he whispered, once he could speak again. His fingers twined in the sweat-soaked strands of her hair. “Sweet, sweet Libby…” His breathing was loud and rapid, as was her own. He twined his fingers in her hair and sighed loudly. “So, what’re we going to do now?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
For five long years Brett had all but convinced himself that he was over Libby, that he was lucky they hadn’t married, that though the loss of their child caused a pain that seared him to his very soul, things had worked out for the best.
Now he knew he’d been lying to himself.
The past three days he’d spent nearly every waking hour with Libby, and he felt a new electricity in the air, an awakening of his soul. He’d never been a romantic man and he’d always prided himself on his lone-wolf tendencies, but Libby had turned his thinking inside out, and for the first time in a long time he was second-guessing himself.
He liked having her around. He’d never felt lonely, but he knew that when she left there would be a vast emptiness that he’d never be able to fill. And it was coming soon.
Her Jeep had been winched out of the creek and towed to the auto body shop so that the damage it had sustained during the collapse of the old bridge could be repaired. Fixing the bridge would be more difficult, however. The weather was against the crew he’d rounded up—men who would work on the weekends, lumberjacks and sawmill employees and a lot of people in town who knew Libby and remembered her folks.
In the meantime, Libby insisted on moving back to the camp. “I just can’t stay here indefinitely,” she’d pointed out one night as they finished the dishes in his cabin.
“Why not?”
Her eyes had been shadowed with a deep sadness. “You have your work to do, Brett. I interfere.”
“Have I complained?”
“And I did come here with a purpose, you know. I want to stay at the camp.”
They’d argued, but he’d given in. The last thing he wanted was a woman who didn’t want him. The trouble was, she sent him mixed signals. True, she acted independent and determined and able to take care of herself, a
nd yet, whenever he kissed her, or held her in his arms, he knew that she’d come to care for him again. No matter what she said.
They carried supplies back to the camp, on horseback fording the creek, as the bridge was only partially rebuilt. Christmas was only a few days away, and Libby seemed bound and determined to spend the holidays in the rustic cluster of cabins her father had owned for so many years.
“You’re sure you want to stay here?” Brett said, eyeing the old buildings.
“Absolutely,” she replied, though a part of her longed to go with him, to stay in the cozy little ranger cabin for as long as he wanted her to. But what then? Could she live here and be content with an affair, without the prospect of marriage and children? She’d learned five years before, after losing the baby, that Brett wasn’t interested in settling down. Yes, he would have done his duty, married her and given his child a name, but without the baby, their relationship had quickly unraveled. Her father’s fury and humiliation that his daughter had been pregnant and unwed hadn’t helped an already rocky situation. Some of the blame had been hers, as well. She’d been inconsolable.
Now she stood firm. “I need to stay here and sort things out,” she told him. “That’s why I came back.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and stared at the craggy peak of Pine Mountain. “Whatever you want, Libby, but I’d feel better if you were with me. It wouldn’t have to be forever.”
Her heart cracked. That’s the problem, she thought, realizing that she’d never stopped loving him. “I think we need some time to think things through.”
His lips tightened. “It is hard to think when you’re around.” To add emphasis to his point, he picked her up, carried her over the threshold of the dining hall and deposited her on the old couch, where he made love to her as if he’d never stop. Libby’s soul seemed to shake in the earth-shattering climax, and the thought that she loved him echoed over and over in her mind. They slept together wrapped in old blankets in front of the fire. He came to her again in the night, and she eagerly responded, kissing and holding him with a desperation borne of the knowledge that with the morning sun he’d be gone and their affair would surely cool.