by Julia London
“You’re a smart guy, Wyatt.” She poured the last of the wine into their glasses as Wyatt went down on one knee before the fireplace and built the fire. Flames instantly shot up; the fire grew and began to crackle. Holly handed him his wineglass and they stood a moment, watching the fire. “Nice job. I don’t think I could have achieved that effect without a gallon of lighter fluid.”
“I know,” Wyatt said, and smiled at her, and it suddenly felt as if the air between them was crackling as sharply as the fire. He was looking at her so intently that Holly felt compelled to step back to catch her breath. She took a seat on the couch, and Wyatt joined her there, sitting so close that she could feel the heat from his body against her arm.
“I like building fires in the chiminea,” he said. “You can see a whole word in the flames, and I could stare at it for hours. In fact, I think I have.”
“Sounds kind of lonely,” Holly said, and imagined him sitting in the old metal chair, one booted foot propped on the other chair, a beer dangling from his fingers.
“It’s a game for one.”
“How long have you been one?” she asked curiously, and felt his body stiffen.
“Two years.”
He offered no more than that, so Holly said, “She seems nice.”
Wyatt glanced curiously at Holly. “You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?”
“About the poor schmuck who lost his wife.”
“What do you mean?” She put aside her wineglass. “The only thing I have heard about you is that you are a developer. Your ex-mother-in-law is helping me probate my mom’s will, and she told me that. Why? And why would anyone think you were a poor schmuck?”
His expression darkened. “Because I was the loser.” Holly stared at him, and he shrugged self-consciously. “I’ve never really talked to anyone about this. Well, that’s not true,” he amended. “I told a woman once …” He studied the arm of the couch. “But she didn’t speak much English.”
“You are confusing me,” Holly said. “What have you not talked about?”
“How my marriage ended.”
Holly twisted around on the couch to face him. “Are you going to tell me?”
Wyatt’s smile was sad. He pushed her hair off her shoulder, touched her chin. “Yes,” he said. “I met Macy a little more than four years ago. She was a war widow,” he said, and told Holly how hard he’d fallen for her. He’d seen a sad and vulnerable woman, but love had developed between them.
“I loved her very much,” he said quietly. He told Holly that he’d built her a big house in Arbolago Hills, a tony suburb of Cedar Springs. “Do you know that community?”
Holly nodded. Everyone knew Arbolago Hills, where million-dollar homes perched on the side of the hills overlooking Lake Del Lago.
“She really loved that house,” he said, looking at his wineglass. “It was perfect for us both. We wanted to have kids …” He gave her a lopsided smile. “I’ve always wanted a whole houseful of kids, I’ll be honest. I don’t know if Macy wanted as many as me, but she wanted kids, and we were working hard on that when Finn came home.”
“Who?” Holly asked.
Wyatt sighed and glanced away. “Finn Lockhart. Her dead soldier husband,” he said. “He was serving in Afghanistan. He’d been reported dead by the U.S. Army, but in reality he was being held captive by the Taliban. The Army had made a huge mistake with some dog tags, and then Finn escaped and came home. I guess he thought he was coming back to the world he’d left behind, but Macy … she’d mourned him, and she’d moved on. Or so I thought.”
“Oh my God,” Holly said, shocked. “I heard about that guy.”
“I’m sure you did. He was a big news story at the time.” He shook his head. “Macy, bless her, she tried. But she was twisted up inside, especially when she found out she was pregnant with Grace. She loved me, I guess. But she loved Finn more. And she chose him in the end.” He picked up Holly’s hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “And that is how yours truly became the poor schmuck of Cedar Springs.”
“Who would think that? It’s an extraordinary story, Wyatt.”
“Well, I kind of wigged out,” he said. “I went off on a binge. Hooked up with some hippies, drank myself silly. Stole some land from Finn—”
“What?”
“Not stole, exactly,” he said, waving a hand at her. “But yeah, it was a dirty deal.” He chuckled as he looked at their hands. “I felt so bad about it that I sold another piece of land and donated the proceeds to their large animal rescue. That’s what they do now, they run a big large animal rescue farm. Horses, llamas, I don’t know what all.” He shrugged and looked down again.
“That … is an amazing story,” Holly said.
He smiled. “It was amazing all right. An amazing kick in the ass.”
“It sounds to me like a remarkable chain of events with no easy answers,” Holly said carefully. “I think you must be the most …” She tried to think of the right word. “… chivalrous man I have ever met.”
That remark brought him up off the couch. “This is not something I like talking about, but I won’t let you turn it into something romantic. It was way out of my hands. I didn’t have much of a choice. And I did some things I am not proud of.”
“You had a choice,” Holly said. “You could have fought it. You could have kept your money instead of making the donation to their wildlife ranch.”
“You don’t understand,” he argued. “I tried to fight for Macy, but what was the point? She was in love with someone else. That’s all there is to this little tale. My wife loved someone else more than she loved me.” He looked down at his hands, spreading his fingers wide, and clenched his jaw.
How painful it must have been for him; how painful it seemed yet. Holly rose to her feet. “Oh, Wyatt. I am so sorry. But I do know how it feels to think you have no choice when your life—your good, happy life—is completely uprooted and you can do nothing but be dragged along with the wreckage.”
Wyatt looked up from his hand to her. “I know you do.”
“It’s so frustrating, and the sense of injustice can be so overwhelming,” she said, and took his hand, pulling him back to the couch. “I’m glad you told me. We’re a pair, you know? Both of us hit by that goddamn freight train.” She smiled. “Don’t you think it’s interesting that of all the people in the world we should meet, we each met someone whose life had been shaped by events so far beyond their control?”
“I guess it is,” he agreed, and pushed his hand through his hair. “I guess I ought to count my blessings. I didn’t have to take care of anyone but myself. And I always knew where Macy was.”
Holly’s belly did a queer little dip. “Yeah … Guess what? Hannah is in Palm Beach, Florida. She called me this morning.”
The news obviously surprised Wyatt. “She did?”
“Yep. She’s in rehab for drugs. Pills. OxyContin. Xanax …” She shook her head. “I don’t even remember them all.”
Wyatt didn’t even know Hannah but he looked stunned. He was probably running through all the images that had played in Holly’s mind, images of people strung out on drugs in alleys, shooting dope. Dirty, toothless, used-up drug fiends. Holly would have helped Hannah if she’d known. She was almost certain she would have … but then again, she’d let Hannah do all the heavy lifting with their mother, had abdicated all responsibility with the excuse of too much work and costly transportation. The truth was that she would have done just about anything to avoid dealing with their mother. Was that when Hannah became an addict? When Peggy was dying and Holly was avoiding it?
“How long is she there?” he asked.
“She said she had another sixty days. And then … sixty days of transitional housing or something.”
Wyatt’s expression was full of sympathy.
“I don’t know what to do about Mason,” she muttered. She suddenly pictured Hannah strung out and Mason forgotten, crying for her attention. It mad
e her gasp softly.
“What do you mean?”
“His mother is an addict,” Holly said. “I know she’s in rehab and she’s trying to get well … but isn’t this very serious? Can she really just quit taking pills or drinking? I found a closet full of her empty wine bottles. How can I know she won’t fall off the wagon? She could hurt him, you know, or put him in danger.”
“Holly?” Wyatt said, his eyebrows dipping into a puzzled frown. “What exactly are you saying?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. “I really don’t know what I am saying, but I don’t know how I can put him back in that situation.”
Wyatt studied her a long moment. “I don’t know what the alternative is here, baby,” he said gently, and Holly flushed at the soft endearment. “Mason is her son.”
“I know, but I thought maybe …” Holly felt herself stepping out on a limb. “I thought maybe I could convince Hannah that he should stay with me until she’s better. A whole lot better. You know, after some time has passed and we all know she’s okay.”
Wyatt put his hand on her knee and rubbed his thumb on her skin. “Do you want to raise Mason?”
“No, I … not exactly, but after talking to her …” What did she want? What, in her heart of hearts, did she want? She could see Mason’s round little face, his blue eyes smiling up at her. “Yes. Maybe,” she confessed. She could see the doubt in Wyatt’s blue eyes. “I feel so protective of him,” she added quickly. “He deserves stability.”
“He does,” Wyatt agreed. “But that’s a big step.”
“I know, I know … but I can’t imagine him in a bad situation. I would never live with myself if something happened to him after I gave him back.” Her vision suddenly blurred when she thought of that wonderful little boy. Shocked and embarrassed by the possibility of tears, Holly turned away from Wyatt.
“I understand. But he is your sister’s son.”
“I know,” she said, with a flick of her wrist. “I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m just talking out loud.”
“Hey,” Wyatt said, then leaned closer, put his arm around her, and pulled her close. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.
“How can it ever be okay for Mason?”
“Because it will. Kids survive much worse. They’re resilient.”
She hoped that was true, but she wished Mason didn’t have to “survive” anything. He should wake up every morning to sunshine and bluebirds and new discoveries, to love and laughter and parents who loved him and wanted only the best for him. Not to a mother who was stoned and an absent father.
“He’s lucky to have you,” Wyatt said. “He’s a lucky little boy.”
Holly was the lucky one. She turned toward him. Neither of them spoke; Wyatt’s fingers drifted across her cheek, brushed her hair back, and grazed her ear. Holly looked at his lips, recalling the kiss they’d shared yesterday. A man was the last thing she’d had on her mind when she’d moved back here, but then he’d appeared in her yard, and he was so understanding of the chaos in her life …
“And I’m a lucky guy,” he murmured, and kissed her. His hand slid to her neck, his fingers curling softly around it, his mouth moving against hers.
Holly swayed into him, pressed her body against his, wanting to feel his strength, the power of his arms around her. She slipped one arm around his waist, the other sliding up his chest. She felt light-headed with desire, felt herself starting to float with want, anchored only by her hold on him. She had an insatiable need to be with him, to feel him.
When his hand moved to her shirt and slipped under it, his palm against the bare skin of her back, Holly had a nudge of conscience and leaned back. “What are we doing?”
His gaze drifted to her mouth. “I’m doing what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw you,” he said. “What are you doing?”
There was something sinfully sexy about the way he had said it, and Holly melted. “What about the kids?” she whispered as his lips touched her cheek.
“They’re asleep.”
“But I—”
“Don’t overthink it,” he murmured, and teased her earlobe with the tip of his tongue.
She was not going to overthink it. It felt too good and too perfect on an overcast, blustery day with two babies sleeping upstairs and a very nice fire crackling in the living room. And she needed him. She was caught off guard by the strength of her need. He was the one person in a very long time who had accepted her as she was, and Holly had an insane desire to cling to that just now.
He pulled her down onto the living room rug and kicked off his boots at the same time that he moved over her to kiss her, his hand on her waist, sliding up under her shirt to her breasts. A lusty warmth spread through Holly; her arms went around his back, her hands splayed on his shoulder blades. He was hard and muscular, and she was aroused in a way she had not been in a very long time. When he filled his hands with her breasts, he made a sound of pleasure that fired her blood; she sat up, pulled her shirt over her head, tossed it aside, and watched Wyatt’s gaze rake over her body. His dark and shining eyes were full of desire, of reverence, of gratification, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that could arouse Holly more. She felt herself so damp and eager for just a touch from him. Her arousal was powerful; she’d not been moved this way by a man in so very long. If ever.
He stroked the inside of her thigh, lowered his head to her bra, mouthing her breast through it. Holly dug her fingers into his arms and pressed against him. She hadn’t realized how starved she was for intimacy, but nothing seemed more urgent. He slid down her body with his mouth and hands in one excruciatingly pleasurable move.
With his thumb, he popped the buttons of her jeans, one by one.
Pure instinct took hold of Holly; somehow her jeans came off. Somehow his shirt came off, and her hands were on his bare skin, feeling the muscles in his chest and abdomen move, then they slipped into the waist of his jeans, her fingers skating over his hips, his erection hot and thick in her hand.
“I’ve been wanting you something awful,” he said, his voice low, his breath hot on her skin. A moment later they were naked on that old worn rug before the fire, and his hands, his thick, callused hands, were stroking her everywhere, and Holly’s heart was thudding in her chest.
Delicious, consuming desire seared her as they explored each other’s bodies, fingers trailing over hot, damp skin, mouths warm and moist on each other’s flesh. This felt right to Holly; it felt as if she’d been waiting for this very moment. Wyatt locked his eyes on hers, watching her reaction and pleasure as he slowly slid into her.
Holly closed her eyes and allowed him to push her out into a deep pool of sensation. He was so hard, so hot, so thick inside her; his heart was beating as rapidly as hers; his breath was ragged. He was attentive to her, sensing her climax and riding along with her as she burst, falling like glitter into the ecstasy of it, falling still moments later when he withdrew with a strangled cry at the moment of his climax. He pressed his forehead to hers and stroked her hair, catching his breath, and then slowly moved to her side. “I’d forgotten how good it feels,” he said in a low voice, and took her hand in his.
Holly felt remarkably content. All the trauma and chaos that had swirled around her was distant noise. In his arms, she felt safe from that. It was a moment of utter peace. She stroked his bare hip and flank.
He opened his eyes, bent one arm behind his head to use as a pillow, and smiled at her. “You’re something else, Holly Fisher.”
She softly kissed his shoulder. “The feeling is entirely mutual, Wyatt Clark.” She was on the verge of telling him that that had been some of the best sex she’d ever had, but the sound of a baby crying reached her ears, and they both stilled.
“Sounds like Grace,” he said, and sat up.
“I’ll go,” Holly said, and grabbed the nearest item of clothing—Wyatt’s shirt—and pulled it on as she darted upstairs. She walked down the hall, pushing her tangled hair b
ack from her face, and then paused outside the door of the nursery, listening. She heard nothing. She slowly opened the door, wincing when it creaked, and poked her head around the edge of it.
Mason and Grace were lying side by side in the playpen. Grace was turned toward Mason, her arm draped over his neck. Mason was sleeping with his mouth open. How peaceful the two babies looked. Holly tiptoed over and removed Grace’s arm, but neither toddler stirred. She waited a moment to make sure neither of them were waking, then went out, quietly closing the door behind her.
Downstairs, Wyatt had donned his jeans and was sitting on the couch, one arm resting across the back of it, his bare feet propped on the coffee table. He grinned when she walked in. “Everything okay?” he asked, indicating she should sit next to him.
“They’re fast asleep.” She crawled onto her knees on the couch beside him.
Wyatt put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “You look like a kitten in a bowl of cream, you know that?”
“I feel like a kitten who has been swimming in cream,” she said, and put her hand on his abdomen. It was firm, the sign of a man who worked hard for a living. She liked that he used his hands and his body in addition to his head to run his ranch. She liked that he wasn’t sitting in some air-conditioned office somewhere.
“I didn’t intend this, Holly.”
She looked up. “Intend what? Sex?”
He gave her a sheepish look and playfully pulled her ear. “Is that all it was? Sex?”
“No. It was ridiculously good sex.”
Wyatt smiled. “I guess in my clumsy way I am trying to say that I didn’t want you to think that I came over here today with sex on my mind. I mean, it probably was,” he said apologetically. “I’ll be damned if I know how to get it off my mind. But not like that. I’m not a player. I’ve made mistakes in the past, but on the whole, I don’t generally make love to a woman for the sake of sex. There has to be something more for me.”
“So, what are you saying?” Holly asked curiously, and idly brushed the hair from his forehead. “Is there more here? Are we seeing each other?”