by Cait London
But Aaron had stayed and they’d cut trees the old way, taking turns, chopping a big wedge from the trunk. After hacking away the branches, they’d each taken an end, hefting the log to their shoulders and carried it to the cabin.
“You and Aaron, I suppose,” Jemma said. “I’ll have to talk to him. He can’t just—Swaggering... concrete heads.... Come on. I brought a first-aid kit, and you’re going to let me take care of those hands. Hogan, you’re a talented artist and you’ve abused your hands. This family really needs me.”
Careless of her expensive equipment, Jemma tossed it to a grassy bank and grabbed Hogan’s jeans waistband, tugging him toward the small camp.
He looked down at the slender, efficient hand, the knuckles brushing his bare stomach. He didn’t like comparison of himself to a fish being reeled in as the catch.
His instincts told him that he should be in control, but with Jemma, the balance of female-male roles never seemed safe. “Let go. Jemma, let go. Don’t you have better things to do? Run down some potential backer and put a few more thousand in your piggy bank?”
She turned to him, hands on hips, eyes flashing. “I always do what has to be done, the same as you. Why would you expect less from me? I’m here for the duration, chum.”
Hogan caught the glitter of tears on her lashes before she turned from him. He turned her gently to him, lifting her chin with his fingertip. “What’s wrong?”
She shoved his hand away, then caught it, turning the abused palm upward. “That’s what’s wrong. You hold everything in—”
She sucked in her breath when he bent to brush his lips across hers. “Oh, no. Not that. You want to distract me, and you’re not doing it. You just let me put some salve on those hands—”
“You’re relentless.” But Hogan wanted her touch, he needed that warmth and vibrant life wrapped around him.
“The cabin doesn’t have a door or a roof,” she noted, cleansing his hands carefully, her hair gleaming in the shadows. “You came up here to brood and it seems my lot to take care of you, because no one else will bother to tell me anything about fishing. They just look scared and pale and hurry away to hide.”
“Now I wonder why they would do that.... The hardware for the door and shutters is still there.” Hogan watched Jemma squeeze ointment onto his torn hands, carefully working it in with her fingertips. “Why are you doing this?”
When they lifted to his, her eyes were bright. “Because I know your hands aren’t the only shredded places in you now. You’ve always stood beside everyone else, Hogan. Don’t you think it’s time you let us stand by you?”
He swallowed the emotion clogging his throat, and looked away to his mother’s grave, the weeds torn away.
Her hands gentle upon his face, Jemma turned him back to her. She traced his eyebrows with her thumbs and her touch reached inside him, soothing that black churning torment. “Let me help, Hogan. I want to.”
“You’re not going to stop anyway,” he said, feeling condemned and not quite so alone. A painful emotional fist slammed into his midsection as he looked at the cabin Ben and Willow had shared.
She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “You just sit down here.”
Jemma eased him down beside a tree and settled behind him. She wrapped her arms around his back and her legs around his thighs, placing her cheek on his bare back. She turned to kiss his back occasionally, then replaced her cheek against him.
Hogan sucked in his breath as she began to rock him gently, and unused to being held, asked cautiously, “Are you trying to cuddle me? Is this something you got in a therapy class?”
“Yep. I always wanted to, but you were always so big and tough and cold-looking. I knew you were hurting, Hogan, but you never failed Aaron or Carley. If Carley hadn’t had you back then, proving that men could be gentle and honest and safe, I don’t know what would have happened to her. Ben didn’t show that softness, the way you did. He wouldn’t have a cat in the house, and you smuggled in a kitten for her every night, and put it out in the morning before Ben knew. You’ve been there through the years for everyone, seeing after them, worrying about their lives, when you need now to look after whatever troubles you—”
“I’m a little bit big to cuddle.” Hogan closed his eyes and gave himself to Jemma’s gentle rocking, her body enfolding his. He caressed her ankles, and, for once, the orange shoes in his lap didn’t jar his esthetic sense. “You’re going to want something major for this, aren’t you?”
She lightly circled his temples with her fingertips. “Yes, I am. I want you to sit still and enjoy the birds chirping and the stream gurgling—”
“And then what? An examination of my relationship to Ben?” he asked, wary of her.
“Nope. Just this.” She smoothed his hair back from his face, toyed with it, and Hogan fought a sigh of pleasure. Just as he was settling into the softness of her breasts, easing his back against her, she asked, “Better?”
When he nodded, wondering how this woman could charge into his shadows and ease his pain, Jemma squirmed free and hurried to her bedroll. She brought it back and placed it carefully in front of him, unrolling it. When Hogan could tear his gaze away from the shifting feminine flesh surging over the yellow tube top, he hooked a finger into the crevice between her breasts and tugged lightly. “Is this an invitation?”
He wanted her desperately, to soothe his tangled emotions, to bury himself so deep in her that—
“Hardly. Stop that now, Hogan... you’re leering. Wait until you see what Ben sent. I wanted you in the right mood before—”
With her expression alight, Jemma handed Hogan battered, old sketchbooks. “They were hers. He wanted you to have them. They were up in the attic all the time. I picked that camelback trunk’s lock when I was fifteen and asked Ben who drew the pictures. He said his ‘first sweetheart,’ and I asked for them now. I thought you’d want to—”
Jemma studied Hogan and eased to sit by him, her arm looped around his shoulders, leaning close to him.
The pages were yellowed with age, but Ben’s face was there: younger, softer, and definitely a boy in love. Willow had sketched him as a leggy, happy youth, showing off for his girl with his lariat, jumping in and out of the loop. Another sketch was that of a girl, dressed in a fringed shift, standing beside Ben in a shaft of moonlight, their hands linked.
Hogan forced air into his lungs, his chest filling with pain. His mother.
He studied the sketches of mountains and flowers, and the camas meadow, filled with flowers— and the small gold ring that lay in Jemma’s open palm. “This was hers, a gift from Ben. For their wedding, she made him a doeskin shirt, and he wants you to have that, too. It’s beaded and— Oh, Hogan, you look so—”
Overcome, he rubbed his face, memories of Ben carrying him on his shoulders, rocking him in the night, slashing at him.
Jemma took his hand and placed the small ring on the tip of his little finger and stroked his hair. “In their hearts, they were married. He knew how he treated you was wrong, but he didn’t know how to— He was just a boy, Hogan, and faced with survival and a newborn son. I think for a time, he blamed you for taking her life....”
She caught Hogan’s arm as he started to rise. “Oh, no you’re not. You’re not running away now, not after you’ve come so far. He said you were named after your great-grandfather on Ben’s mother’s side, an Irishman named Hogan. When Ben was only a boy, his mother died of overwork and Aaron’s harshness. He wanted you to have a part of her and the sunlight old Aaron couldn’t spare. That old camelback trunk has more of your mother’s things. Ben said that he always wanted to go to Ireland to seek her relatives, but he never did. He said you’d probably ‘get the job done.’”
She leaned her head against Hogan’s shoulder, and he shot an arm around her, keeping her close, an anchor when his life was spinning around him.
He circled the stunning new emotions of who he was, and the explanation of the link between himself and Joe Blue Sky, his
uncle. Now that Ben had relented, Joe would tell him about Willow, what she was like, how she felt about Ben. All the pieces came spinning together, winding around Hogan’s heart and tightening his throat.
Filled with emotion, Hogan grabbed Jemma’s wrist and tugged her into his lap. He held her tight, his face pressed against her throat, her arms wrapped around him, her fingers soothing his hair. He gripped the small ring in his fist, held Jemma and wondered when the world had ever been right. “You just don’t give up, do you?”
“Not when the merchandise is worth fighting for— Mmm!” Jemma pushed at Hogan’s shoulders as he took her face in his hands, taking her mouth without tenderness. Her widened eyes, that flash of fear, told him that he’d surprised and hurt her.
Unable to tell her of his need, damning himself for hurting her, Hogan looked away to a raven, gleaming blue black in the sun.
“Oh, no, you don’t! You’re not going inside yourself again. Not when those beautiful eyes are so sad and lonely.” Jemma pushed him away and rose lithely to her feet. She stood with her back turned to him, her arms hugging her body. The sunlight shooting through the fir and spruce trees framed her slender body, and Hogan knew her emotions tore at her.
He rose slowly, his thumb smoothing the little ring on his finger and walked to stand behind her.
She edged away from him, as though she couldn’t bear to have anyone near her. “You haven’t anything to do with what I’m feeling now. I’m not frigid with you, am I? Oh, no, you’ve got great hands, though you’ve tried to butcher them.”
“If I touch you too suddenly, you get that panicked look. I want to know why. That day I hauled you out of the ranch house over my shoulder, there was just that moment of fear before you started calling me names— not pretty names, by the way.”
“You don’t give up either, do you?” Jemma demanded bitterly. She spun to him, eyes bright with tears, body rigid and shaking.
“Come here.” Hogan tugged her into his arms and held her tight, pushing her damp face into the shelter of his throat and shoulder. He smoothed her hair, found her scalp and gently rubbed as she locked her arms around him.
Jemma’s body shook as she fought the sobs tearing out of her. “It was a real mess, my brothers and sisters— immature, selfish parents. There are parents with large families, who love and care for them. Mine just didn’t care.”
Hogan held her close and safe against him, wishing he could do more than give her soft words and after a time, she quieted. “When I was visiting here years ago, that mechanic in town caught me at the garage.... He’s still working there, leering as always. Carley was with Ben at the feedstore, and you’d come back to check on me. Rather you were disgusted that you had to check on me— The Pest, the bane of the Sasquatches’ lives. I had to have that new brand of candy bar. You don’t remember that, do you?”
Hogan fought through the years, seeing a frightened little leggy girl backed up against the dirty walls, Jackson Reeves sneering down at her.
“That was when I knew what men were supposed to be. You said, ‘Go find Ben, little girl, and tell him I’ll be a little late.’ You spoke so softly, ice ran up my spine. I told Ben that Jackson had frightened me and you’d be late, and I saw terrifying anger in his expression. ‘Come here, little girl,’ he said just as softly as you had. ‘It’s about time we bought you a pretty blue ribbon for that red hair. And Hogan will be along in a little bit.’ I was shocked. Ben had always complained about spending money foolishly. But then, he held my hand, put his arm around me, and wiped away my tears. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong, honey,’ he said.”
She lifted her cheek to Hogan’s, and shuddered in the aftermath of long repressed emotion. “I didn’t do anything wrong. All those years, all those dirty situations when I was growing up, I thought I had. And I see Carley trapped in the same nightmare. I love her. She’s really my sister. A sister I can protect. I watched you and your brothers and Ben more closely after that, and I saw this really beautiful thing— I thought of you as the Knights of the Round Table. Despite all the furious wars between you, all of the Kodiaks really cared about each other. They care now.”
“Maybe.” Hogan wasn’t certain of his emotions, scrubbed raw by Ben’s too-late revelation of Willow.
Jemma shoved free and Hogan admired the way she pushed herself back into one Jemma-piece. He wondered how many times she’d had to do that, pulling herself together and putting up her shields. She turned to him, pale and clearly battling for control. “There. You know your mother now— in your heart. I’ve had a nice little cry. What’s next?”
She straightened her shoulders and pushed back her hair, looking at the small cabin. This was Jemma, in flight mode, ready to take on anything to push away her past. “What’s next? A roof? How are we going to do that without a lumberyard nearby? Hogan, I think that—”
He traced her still-damp cheek with his fingertip. Jemma’s emotional energy throbbed between them, and he wondered at her strength to go on as she had. She’d battled to survive and collected her buttons, keeping those she loved close. “Ease up, sweetheart. Take it easy.... Stop running. There is just you and me and nothing to do, but rest and heal.”
She threw out her hands, shaking with emotion, her eyes swollen from tears.
“I don’t know how, Hogan,” she cried helplessly.
“Well, that’s what I’m for,” Hogan murmured, and drew her into his arms. He was just settling in for a deep, exotic taste of Jemma when she tensed and exploded out of his arms. “Jemma, come back here.”
She dug into her jeans. “I forgot. Here—”
She took the small ring from his finger and slipped a gold chain through it. She eased it over his head, and when it lay gleaming on his chest, she patted it. “There. Courtesy of Ben. He’s started wearing his wedding ring again. He doesn’t need the chain.”
When Hogan inhaled, shaken by emotion, and looked up at the spruce limbs filtering the sunlight, Jemma held his face and brought it down to hers.
The tiny, gentle kisses she trailed all over his face left Hogan a little woozy and uncertain. He wanted to push her away, to shield himself, and yet he couldn’t move, his hands locked to her waist.
“You big lug,” Jemma whispered softly, sliding into his arms and resting her head upon his shoulder.
Hogan stood for a long time, wrapped in a shaft of sunlight, the knowledge of who his mother was, who he was, and the soft, soft woman in his arms. He filled his hands with her hair, absorbing the silky warmth as he gathered her closer.
“What’s that sound?” Jemma asked, tilting her head.
“The wind sweeping down from Crazy Mountains. One of the old legends says it’s the sound of the Celestial Virgins crying.”
She nestled against him. “That’s so sad, Hogan. Do you really think that old legend is true, that they took the Chinese women into the mountains? When they were of no more use?”
“Most of the mines are up north and there were Chinese in Fort Benton, but there were only a few prospectors here. But it is possible.”
Jemma’s smile curled against his throat. “But you young studs liked to believe in that legend, in rescuing those Celestial Virgins. I heard you talking about it too many times.”
“Jemma, dear heart. If the most beautiful Celestial Virgin strolled out of the woods right now, buck-naked and begging for me, I wouldn’t look at her. I’m too busy looking at you.”
Jemma’s eyes widened, then she grinned and leaped up on him, circling his hips with her legs. “Liar.”
With his hands supporting Jemma’s soft bottom, her heat burning his stomach, and her tiny butterfly kisses cruising over his face, Hogan let himself float.
*** ***
Aaron levered himself away from Savanna’s welcoming, moist body, his heart still pounding after a fierce coupling.
“What do you mean, I’m not suitable husband material?” he asked roughly.
Savanna smiled that pleasured feminine way, her voice lazy in
the afternoon shadows of her bedroom. “You’re not going to settle down, Aaron. I want children and a home and a husband who isn’t drooling over other women.”
Aaron shoved himself to his feet. “A husband like Richard Coleman?”
“You idiot.” Her words had an unexpected edge, surprising him. Savanna came to her feet, her long sleek black hair swaying around her slender body. “You absolute idiot. I’ve got to get back to the clinic. I think it’s best if you don’t come around anymore.”
“I’ll be around,” Aaron said, meaning it. He didn’t like Savanna’s ability to set him aside, to move on with her plans for that husband and kids. After she’d closed the bathroom door behind her, he muttered, “I like kids.”
Aaron pushed open the door and stepped into the steamy shower with Savanna. “Exactly what is wrong with me? I haven’t looked at another woman since I’ve come back.”
“Do my back, will you?” Savanna turned and lifted her hair. “It’s called a bit more than sex, lover. I want a man with staying power. I’m going to be an old hag one day, and I want to know that he won’t move on then, or when I’m pregnant with his baby—”
Aaron turned her roughly and when Savanna frowned at him, he dropped his hands. “You think that’s what I’d do?” he demanded.
“Maybe. I have to be sure, and when I meet him, I’ll know. Just like that. Click. Something in me will go click, and that’s what I want.”
“So I don’t make you go ‘click’?” Aaron caressed her wet full breasts. Without her clothing, Savanna was even more delicious....
“Not like that, lover. But in other ways, you know you do. It’s the relationship, Aaron. We don’t really have one. Sex is just the frosting. I want the cake.”
An hour later, Aaron stormed into the Kodiak house and slammed the door. He’d never had a relationship with a woman, beyond the sex. But Savanna was worth any effort. He was revved, the way he felt with a new account that he did not intend to lose. She not only challenged him, she excited him in a way no other woman had. Just watching her pleased him, the simplest movement of her hands fascinated him.