by Jennie Marts
“Okay, I just hope that I have a shovel or a bucket of grain handy if Earl or Junior come after me.”
He took her by the shoulders, looking down into her eyes. “Emma, you are stronger than you think. You’ve got this. You don’t have to be afraid of them. You are a survivor, which makes you a fighter. You don’t have to be big to be scrappy.”
She wanted to believe him. She felt stronger. He made her feel confident in herself. Made her feel like she mattered.
Like she mattered to him.
He grabbed her wrists again, holding them loosely in his. “Try again. Show me how you’d break free.”
She rotated her wrists, jerked her elbows back, and broke free. Then she playfully poked him in the chest. “Take that.”
The corners of his lips turned up in a naughty grin. “Oh, so now you want to play.” He made a grab for her, and she shrieked and turned to run. He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around.
Laughing, she squirmed against him, wiggling free and turning to face him. She held up her hands, palms flat, in a mock karate stance. “Don’t make me karate chop you.”
He gave her a wicked grin, and her heart raced inside of her chest. “I’m shaking in my boots.”
“You’re not wearing any boots.” Her thoughts went to him not wearing anything, remembering a few days ago when she’d caught sight of him working in the corral with a new colt. The day had been hot, and he’d been shirtless, wearing only jeans and a pair of boots, his muscles tense and flexing as he went through the paces with the horse.
He ducked his head, bending forward and grabbed her around the waist, as she pummeled his back with karate chops.
“Hi-ya,” she cried with each playful blow.
Laughing, she took a step backward and stumbled on her own feet, falling onto the mat, and Cash fell on top of her. The weight of him felt so good, but it only lasted a second as he flipped over, rolling her on top of him.
She lay on his chest, her arms braced on either side of his head, her laughter ending as she looked down into his face. His gorgeous face. With his ice-blue eyes and chiseled jaw, he was beyond handsome.
And she wanted him. Wanted to kiss him, to touch him.
He’d spent the last hour convincing her she was worthy, a fighter, brave.
Was she brave enough to take what she wanted right now? To lean down and press her lips to his? To finally taste him?
Pretend you are brave.
Everything in her fought to run, to hide, her body flooding with fear as her heart pounded against her chest. She inhaled a sharp breath, fighting back a tinge of nausea as butterflies swooped and churned in her stomach.
But she also felt the heat of desire and passion filling her, spreading to parts of her that she’d thought were dead and lifeless. Parts of her that were straddled against his waist, and currently informing her that parts of him were certainly not lifeless or dead.
Screw it. This is what being brave was all about. Throwing caution to the wind and going for what you want. Putting your fears aside and living.
Without giving herself another second for her resolve to weaken, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
No subtle whisper of touch, instead she kissed him full-on, crushing his lips in an onslaught of passion.
Chapter Ten
Emma’s heart raced. What the hell was she doing?
She’d just leaned in to kiss the man who had filled her dreams for the past several nights. The man who was so handsome that it sometimes hurt just to look at him. The man whose grin could send butterflies storming through her chest.
And he was kissing her back.
His lips were soft, and his mouth tasted like spearmint gum. His strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him, his hands sliding along her back.
A moan of hunger escaped her lips as she felt his hand slide under her T-shirt and grip her waist. The touch of his callused fingers against her bare skin sent shivers of heat down her spine.
His other hand slid across her shoulders and into her hair, pulling out the elastic band and freeing her hair to fall in a cascade around them. Every place that he touched felt like fire burning her skin with the heat of passion.
Then he pulled back, gasping for breath, as he put the slightest pressure against her shoulder.
Oh my gosh. What have I done?
That slight pressure, the tiniest bit of pulling away was like a mammoth sign of rejection, and her insecurities came slamming back with the force of a giant blow.
What a fool she was. He was Cash Walker. He could have any woman he wanted. And he was probably used to women throwing themselves at him.
She scrambled off him, the scratchy hay digging into her palms. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she mumbled.
He’d made it clear that he only wanted to be her friend.
She must have misread the signals—the flirting, the playful teasing.
Cash was known to be a huge flirt. That didn’t mean he actually liked her.
She’d just thrown herself at him—practically jumped him.
He must think I’m an idiot. And a fool.
Pulling her shirt down as she stood, she pivoted and ran from the barn.
“Emma, wait.”
She heard him call her name, but she was already out the door, running for the house, a sob building in her throat.
…
The first drops of rain fell on his shoulders as Cash climbed the front porch steps to Charlie’s house the next night. He paused, turning to search the night sky, analyzing the clouds and hoping for a big storm. A heavy soaking tonight would sure help the fall crops.
Thunder rumbled a few miles away, dark clouds filling the sky and echoing in his chest. Last night still weighed heavily on him.
He’d found her forgotten sweater in the barn, and he now laid it across the back of one of the rockers.
It was probably the coward’s way to do it, but he wasn’t quite ready to face her yet.
He’d tried to talk to her the night before, knocking on the door and calling her name. But she hadn’t answered. Hadn’t answered his knock, or his call, or even his text. So he figured he would just give her some space.
But he wished she would at least let him explain.
She’d taken him by surprise, leaning down and kissing him like that. He hadn’t had time to think about his actions, he just reacted.
He’d been thinking about her for so long, imagining what it would be like to kiss her, to feel her body, to touch her. When she’d kissed him, he couldn’t help himself. God help him, he kissed her back, drew her to him, steeped himself in the scent of her skin.
Trying to regain his wits, and his breath, he’d pulled back.
Unfortunately, he thought Emma must have taken that as a sign of rejection. That was the only thing he could figure that would make her take off and refuse to talk to him.
He wasn’t rejecting her. He was just taking a second to breathe.
But she evidently didn’t see it that way.
Damn it. He never should have let it get this far. Should have never let them get in the position where this could happen. It was his own damn fault.
She’d been doing so well, too. He could see her confidence building as she learned the simple self-defense techniques.
Then in one moment, he destroyed it all. The hurt in her eyes was unmistakable. He knew it would happen. Knew it all along. Knew that he would end up hurting her. One way or another.
But now what the hell should he do? Keep trying? Trying to talk to her—to explain? Or should he just leave her alone? Let her lick her wounds then just forget about him.
He wished he knew the answer. But men had been battling the mysteries of women for thousands of years, and he wasn’t going to solve anything tonight.
He turned to leave, then heard a loud crash and a woman’s voice cry out.
Emma.
He grabbed the screen door, yanking it ope
n, and stormed into the house.
Emma stood in the kitchen, a mess of dough on the counter, and a shattered mixing bowl at her feet. Her face and shirt were covered in flour, and tears welled in her eyes.
He stopped short of the mess. “You okay? Are you hurt?”
She didn’t say anything, just shook her head, her face filled with despair.
“It’s all right, darlin’. No use crying over spilled dough, or whatever it is that you were makin’ here.” He tried to tease her into smiling, but it didn’t work.
“I broke Charlie’s mixing bowl,” she said quietly as she sunk to the floor. “She told me her grandmother gave it to her.”
“Don’t worry about it. Her grandmother gave her everything in this kitchen. And Gigi broke plenty of dishes during her years in this kitchen. Let me get this bowl so you don’t cut yourself.” He picked up the broken pieces, carried them to the trash bin, then brought back the small brush and dustpan set that hung under the sink.
“What are you working on here?” he asked.
She looked up at him, one lone tear slipping from her eye and rolling down her cheek. “I was trying to bake a pie.”
Oh, dang. He couldn’t have felt worse for her if someone had actually ripped his heart from his chest and tore it in two. “Well, shoot. I thought you were gonna ask Cherry or Sophie to teach you.”
“Sophie had a fall break at school, so she went to New York with Charlie, and I didn’t want to bother Cherry. I wanted to figure it out by myself. To actually do it on my own.”
“Okay, I get that.” He knew that feeling all too well. He’d tried, and failed at, many things because he was too stubborn or pigheaded to ask for help. Bending down, he reached out and wiped the tear from her cheek. It had left a heartbreaking trail through her flour-covered cheek. “Would you let me teach you?”
She looked up at him, a questioning look in her eyes. “You? You know how to make a pie?”
He offered her a devilish grin. “Heck yeah, I do. I used to help my mom in the kitchen all the time, and she taught me how to cook a lot of things. I can bake the hell out of a pie.”
She laughed, then her face fell, and the tears welled again. “That almost makes me feel worse. Even you can make a pie, and all I can make is—” She looked around at the mess on the floor. “A big ball of glop.”
He chuckled and held out a hand to her to help her up. “Everybody starts with glop. You don’t climb onto a bike and just start riding it. You take it easy, you make mistakes, then all of a sudden, you get it.”
She swiped at her face with the back of her hand, straightening her spine in resolve. “Okay, you’re right. Yes, I would like it if you could teach me how to bake a pie.”
A stupid grin covered his face as he waved her away. “Go change clothes while I clean up your glop, and we’ll start over.”
Five minutes later, she emerged from the guest room. She had on her black yoga pants, and a short sleeved button-up top. Lifting her arms, she pulled her hair up into a ponytail as she walked toward him. He swallowed at the slim band of her bare stomach that showed under the hem of her shirt.
She smiled at him, her face freshly washed, and he knew he would do anything for her—hang the moon, pluck the stars from the sky, teach her how to make a hundred pies. Anything to earn him that smile.
“I’m ready,” she said.
He looked down at her and knew he wasn’t. He wasn’t ready at all.
“Let’s do it.” He tamped down his feelings, instead choosing to concentrate on the task. Grabbing one of Gigi’s aprons, he dropped it over her head and turned her away from him to tie the strings around her waist. “First things first. You can’t make a pie without starting with the essentials.”
She pulled her hair out from under the top strap, displaying her slender neck, and his hands fumbled as he worked to tie a simple bow. So much for concentrating on the task.
How was he supposed to think straight when his hands were around her waist, and he had a great view of her perfect round butt?
Turning around, she smoothed the simple white apron down her front and gave him a teasing grin. “What about you? Aren’t you going to wear one?”
“Of course.” He grabbed the frilliest apron, a bright pink one with ruffled trim and a herd of dancing cows holding mixing bowls on the front, and pulled it over his head. Who cared about his pride when wearing a funny apron could illicit a sudden burst of laughter from her?
She was still laughing as he led her over to the sink where they washed their hands then crossed to the freshly cleaned counter.
A cluster of the ingredients and measuring cups covered the back part of the counter, and he pointed to the bag of pecans and bottle of corn syrup. “I remember the other day that you said pecan was your favorite, so I assume from the fixings you’ve got set out here that we’re making a pecan pie.”
She nodded. “I found the bag of nuts in the pantry, and that’s what got me started on this idea. You don’t think Charlie will be upset that I’m using this stuff, do you?”
“Heck, no. She’d love it. She was a terrible cook when she first got here. About all she could make was scrambled eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches. Sophie taught her almost everything she knows. She’d be happy to have you use these things. Really.”
“Okay. I found a recipe on the back of the bag of pecans. That’s the one I was using.”
“That’s fine for the filling. We just might add a couple of tweaks to it. But we’ll do my mom’s recipe for the crust. It’s similar to the one Charlie’s grandma Gigi used.”
“Works for me. What do we do first?”
“So, the key to making a great crust is to make sure your ingredients are really cold. And to use real butter or shortening. Gigi always used oleo, but my mom liked real butter, so we’ll stick with that.” He pointed to the partially melted butter and the bottle of vegetable oil. “I’m sure these two things were the main culprits in creating your glop.”
She shrugged, a guilty look on her face. “My baking skills have always run to boxed cake mixes and chocolate chip cookies, and you always soften the butter for those. And I couldn’t find any solid shortening so I figured this would do in a pinch.”
“The only thing we’re going to pinch is the edges of the crust. You can’t skimp on the right ingredients. And the colder the better. I’m sure Charlie has a couple of sticks of real butter already in the freezer just for piecrusts.”
Opening the freezer, he grabbed two from the door. “I’ll show you a trick my mom taught me. You can use a cheese grater to grate the frozen butter. Then it mixes with your dry ingredients slick as can be.”
He quickly grated the butter, filling a mixing bowl with cheery yellow shreds. He pushed another empty bowl toward her. “You can measure the flour and salt, then I’ll dump in the butter. My mom always added a teaspoon of sugar.” He filled a measuring cup with ice water as she dumped in the ingredients.
“I always thought you were supposed to use lukewarm water.”
“Not for crust. You always want everything really cold. You want to use warm water when you’re baking bread.”
“You know how to bake bread, too?”
He offered her one of his most charming grins. “Darlin’, I know how to do a lot of things.”
Her cheeks tinged pink as she reached for the sugar. “So anyway, about this pie. How much sugar did you say I should use?”
Chuckling, he handed her the measuring spoons. “A good full teaspoon should do.” He held up his hands as she sprinkled the sugar over the flour. “Ready to get messy?”
Dumping the butter into the bowl, he used his hands to mix it together. “Get your hands in here. This dough isn’t gonna mix itself.”
She laughed and stuck her hands in next to his, making a face as she squeezed the dough between her fingers. “Oh, it is cold. And gooey.”
He chuckled and drizzled a teaspoon of the ice water onto the dough, earning a shriek from her as he sprinkled
the last cold drops onto her hand.
Sticking his hands back in the bowl, they formed the dough into a ball, the familiar butterflies building each time their fingers touched. “You don’t want to overwork the dough. And it’s okay to leave little chunks of butter in there; it just adds to the flakiness of the crust.”
Sprinkling flour across the counter, he instructed her to dump the ball out, then covered a rolling pin with flour as well before handing it to her. “Now gently roll it out into a circle.”
She pressed down on the dough, creating a gulley in the middle. “Like this?”
“Here, I’ll show you.” He stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her sides, trapping her in a loose embrace. He covered her hands with his and guided the rolling pin along the dough. Darts of heat shot up his spine as he leaned forward, pressing his body against hers.
The smell of her hair almost drove him insane, and he held back from dipping down and nuzzling her neck with his lips.
He felt her catch her breath as he spoke, the whisper of his breath tickling her skin. “You want to take your time with this part. Take it slow and easy. You don’t want to mess with it too much or the crust won’t be as good. Like you don’t want to do the old playdough back and forth movement—piecrust doesn’t like that. Roll from the center outward in one easy stroke.”
Oh Lord, did he really just say “one easy stroke”? His mind drifted from the crust into a sinful place with her naked and straddling him as she took several easy strokes, and he fought back a groan.
She leaned forward, pressing on the rolling pin, and her backside rubbed against his groin in a torturous shift of movement.
Shit. With the way things were starting to swell, his thoughts weren’t going to stay hidden for long.
“So, tell me about your mom.”
Huh? His mom? Okay. At least changing gears to a new subject would quell any other thoughts of her in his bed, and would certainly stop the bulge developing in his suddenly too-tight Wranglers. “What do you want to know?”
She shrugged. “Anything. Everything. What is she like? This woman who taught her son how to bake a pie.”