by Cait London
If Savanna found him lacking as a potential husband and father, he’d change her mind. Savanna was a sticking, long-term kind of woman, a novelty to him— and no other man was putting his ring on her finger.
Aaron had found what he wanted—all he had to do was make himself appealing to her. “Carley,” he called, “where are Jemma’s men and women’s relationship books?”
The old house stood quietly, windows drenched full of Montana sunlight, a contrast to the blazing battles and life in the past month. Aaron let the house’s memories seep into him— how it might have been if Dinah hadn’t left....
After a minute, Ben’s bedroom door opened slowly and he leaned against the door. Aaron recognized the look of a man who had just left a woman’s arms. With his shirt hastily thrown on, and the right leg of his jeans dangling empty, Ben looked dazed and woozy. His voice had that deep lazy tone of a man who’d been thoroughly satisfied. “Carley and Mitch aren’t here. He took her to visit old Mrs. Coleman.”
“Who’s that, Ben?” Dinah asked from inside the bedroom, her voice soft and sultry, a feminine match to Ben’s.
“It’s our son,” Ben answered, meeting Aaron’s dark look evenly. “I started wearing my wedding ring again, son. I never stopped loving your mother.”
Aaron swallowed back the fear that once again everything would be torn apart. Dinah would tear Ben apart, and the yelling would start, hurting everyone.
Resisting the bitter accusations tearing through his mind and the painful memories, Aaron turned and walked out the door.
*** ***
In the roofless cabin, smoke and ashes drifted up to the starlit sky. Hogan sat with his back against the log wall, legs extended, studying the small fire. He listened to the stream running in the distance, the night breeze whispering through the branches of the tree over his mother’s grave.
“Willow was her name,” he mouthed, taking care not to wake Jemma, who was sleeping at his side. He glanced at the makeshift door Jemma had insisted upon. The door was silly and weak, easily pushed aside, yet he’d fashioned it for her— to make her feel safe. He hadn’t told her that it wouldn’t stop a jackrabbit, much less a bear.
But the enclosure silenced the eerie howling, the wind blowing down from the rugged, jutting stone peaks of the Crazy Mountains. Jemma couldn’t bear to think of the women—suffering, lost souls who could never rest until their bones were returned to China.
Jemma slept restlessly. She flopped her arm across his jeans-clad thighs, and he circled her slender wrist with his fingers, amazed at how such a strong woman could be so delicately made. She mumbled, and Hogan reached his other hand to smooth her hair; with a sigh, Jemma slid back into sleep.
Hogan’s shadows had eased, but he knew that they would return. For the moment, he let the sound of Jemma’s breathing, her slender wrist claimed by his hand, the warmth of her hair flowing between his fingers, calm him. He eased aside the hair shielding her face, ran his thumb down her cheekbone and jaw and studied the shadowy spikes created by her lashes upon her cheeks. His hand tightened on her wrist.
He knew what drove her to push and shove, her desperate need for money. He knew why, when he would reach for her too suddenly, fear would flicker in those smoky gray eyes.
She’d torn away his shadows, refusing to let go, challenging him when he would have turned away. When they made love, each time was more giving and taking, the pleasure sweeter.
Jackson Reeves would have had her that day, a little girl lost against his brutality. Jackson was a definite possibility for Carley’s attacker.
Hogan forced thoughts of Jackson away. He stroked Jemma’s wrist, and found her slow, sleeping pulse and pulled peace into him. Willow. Her name was Willow.
Images and shapes moved softly within him, and he knew that Jemma had torn at his shadows. He listened to his heart, to the life within it, all the pieces filled with life. Colors came moving into shapes, concepts blending with the flow of horses and the land, with rocks, hidden and yet so clear, an insight into nature and man, given to him from his mother.
*** ***
Jemma awoke to the scent of wildflowers scattered across her sleeping bag and Hogan stripping away his jeans. He stood in the shaft of moonlight piercing the open roof, a tall shadowy man with broad shoulders, lean body, and long, powerful legs. His gleaming eyes found hers and instinctively, she knew of his desperation, that need to lock his body to hers as he had during the day. The excitement of Hogan’s primitive need tore away sleep and fatigue, tore away her own drained emotions.
He had taken her gently, soothing her and giving her pleasure without the wild storms, but now they rode him. He’d called her from sleep to ride with him there in his shadows, matching him. She had to meet Hogan, a fierce and gentle lover, on equal terms, not letting him take her easily.
The flowers were symbolic, a man giving a present to a woman he wanted, picked by moonlight as a lover would do.... Jemma gripped a mountain daisy in her hand as she pushed away the sleeping bag and stood, wearing only his T-shirt and her briefs.
Earlier, they’d been tender lovers, soothing the dark rivers within them, but now came the fierce cleansing they both needed. She faced Hogan, unafraid of walking into his storms and shadows. Bracing herself, Jemma knew that words weren’t needed. Hogan had come to her, and she’d take him on her terms.
Taking care, she wove the long daisy stalk into Hogan’s hair, fashioning a small braid along his face.
Hogan studied her face, swept her hair back from it. Then his other hand found the elastic in her briefs, traced it around her leg and stroked her gently, that deep dark moist feminine softness. Jemma thought her legs would give way; she gripped the small ring resting on his chest binding him to her, her fist upon the hard proud beat of his heart.
To keep herself from melting into the wonderful stroking of his hand, Jemma gripped his arm, took strength from the rippling hard muscles; she locked her gaze with Hogan’s dark, heated one. His features were harsh in that shaft of moonlight, his eyes glowing in the deep-set shadows. She inhaled sharply as his fist wrapped in the fine cloth and tore it slowly, as he watched her reaction. He was testing her to see if she could meet his challenge and his need— the testing of a woman by the man who had sought her.
The silky wad of her briefs sailed into the smoldering fire, sparks igniting and ashes floating upward with the smoke. Through the elemental pounding of her desire, Jemma understood the ceremony. Hogan would do more than make love with her, he wanted her to know that she was a part of him, deep down where no one else had reached.
Jemma gloried in that, lifted her head, and sucked in her breath when he edged the hem of the T-shirt slowly upward, then lifted it away.
Hogan wanted nothing between them, no shadows, no memories, just the night and each other. She wanted the same, proud of the desire in his expression as he looked down her body, that honed, taut masculine look she loved— or did she love the man?
In her heart, she knew whatever happened now would be binding to them both, forging them together in a way not easily broken....
His large hands smoothed her body, following the curves and indentations, the softness of her belly, the soft fragrant nest of reddish curls between her legs. Hogan inhaled shakily, nostrils flaring as his hands flowed to her breasts, covering them. His heavy arousal jutted against her, demanding to fill her. Heat poured from Hogan, flowing into her body, as he smoothed her back, caressed her bottom, his body gently nudging the entrance to hers.
She eagerly met his demanding, seeking mouth, shivered as he lifted her easily, suckling one breast and then the other. The laving of his tongue and the gentle bites jolted her lower body, tightening it, and then Hogan eased her down to their bedroll.
His hands were trembling now, flowing over her as hers were smoothing his body. Muscles surged in his thighs, his breath harsh and unsteady as it swept across her breasts, his lips open and hot upon her. She found him with her thighs parted, and allowed him entranc
e.
He filled her instantly, withdrawing only to return, his hands going under her hips, lifting her. Jemma’s arms tightened around him. Pleasure tempered with hunger and primitive needs drove them deeper, skin against damp skin, kisses so hot they branded, heartbeats racing against the ultimate pleasure, fingers digging deep, locking them together in the flow toward fire—
She cried out and Hogan’s rough shout echoed in the small moonlit cabin. Pleasure riveted them on that edge, bodies becoming one, burning away all else.
When Jemma surfaced, there amid the flowers he’d given her, she gathered Hogan closer. She knew they’d love again and from his taut, still-throbbing body, she knew it would be soon. They’d found not only heat within each other, but another part of the whole.
Lying beneath Hogan’s pleasant weight, stroked lazily by his hands, his uneven breath upon her damp skin, Jemma knew she’d never be the same. She knew that her life centered on this man, and, whatever else happened, he would be true to this moment.
The second time, he loved her tenderly and slowly, and when finally he drew her to his side, to rest upon his shoulder, bodies entwined, Jemma drifted pleasantly. She’d come home—
“What’s that sound?” she whispered drowsily, aware that Hogan’s body had tensed around hers, his hand had stopped sifting through her hair.
Then his fingers found her scalp, soothing her. “Only an owl. Just an owl in the night. Go to sleep.”
“What was that Old Joe Blue Sky used to say about the owl hooting like that?”
“Just an old superstition. Shh.... Sleep.”
As he gathered her closer, she wondered about the incredible sadness in his voice. “Hogan, tell me what Old Joe said about the owl.”
Hogan inhaled slowly. “He said someone would die— that the owl was coming for an earth spirit.”
*** ***
Chapter Fourteen
June lay softly upon the Montana morning, the Crazy Mountains rising over the pastures and the foothills.
Old Joe Blue Sky had been found along the road, his heart given out, and Hogan would miss him. Hogan knew now why Joe’s stares at him seemed so familiar. His uncle— Willow’s half brother— would never tell him about her.
Hogan had found ease with Jemma, and though he’d miss Joe and always wonder about his mother, life with Jemma didn’t allow much time for grieving. The peaceful scene matched Hogan’s emotions as he sat outside on his front porch, overlooking Ben Kodiak’s ranch.
Jared Morgan, Hogan’s second-in-command, was on the speaker phone in New York.
“Get those very expensive Italian loafers off my desk, Jared,” Hogan said, smiling as he heard the rustle of papers.
“Your sixth sense is uncanny,” Jared grumbled as a chair creaked. “These sketches aren’t your usual. The Fire Feathers pieces will require the right woman to wear them— a special woman. That vibrant style will overpower a good percentage of our regular buyers. It’s very— primitive, like...”
“Like fire and wind riffling a passionate woman with red hair?” Hogan asked, and grinned when Jared let out a low whistle.
“A pagan goddess. I’ve been looking for a woman like that all my life. You find one, and you let me know.”
Hogan chuckled and realized that the happy sound ran clear through him. He rolled his shoulders and stretched, contented for the first time in years.
“Fat chance. She’s mine and she’s certified, one-hundred-percent pagan goddess. Go ahead with the marketing—”
“Can’t tear yourself away from Montana? You usually like to be in the middle of things.”
“I am.” Hogan knew at any moment the Kodiaks could explode, and it would be hell pulling them back together— but they would, to defend Carley.
The attacker was taking his time, and Carley was certain to find that Ben was in perfect health. For her plan to keep Carley safe, Jemma might lose a friend she loved.
“Just fax me the discussion from marketing. I’ll input from here. I’m considering a citrine pendant for Fire Feathers, but it’s only a thought now.”
“Wow. That will be a necklace for a goddess-type with enough color and personality to carry it. Do you want Simone sent a copy of this? You usually do. She’s been asking about you.”
“No. I’ll tend to Simone myself. On second thought, send her a copy.”
Hogan wanted his former lover and long-term friend to be prepared for his call; she’d know by his new work that his life had changed. They would remain friends, but he didn’t want Jemma upset by Simone’s careless endearments. He wanted no doubt in Jemma’s mind that he was taking his vow to be true to her seriously.
He clicked off the line, took a satisfying sip of his morning peppermint tea, and placed the mug beside Jemma’s. He liked the look of the two pottery cups sitting together, as if they were meant to be and would be every morning of their lives.
However, if his brothers discovered he was having morning peppermint tea—preparing and serving it to Jemma—he’d never recover from their teasing.
With a sigh, Hogan picked up his old tackle box; Jemma had destroyed its neat order. Lures, leaders, sinkers, and line were one colorful tangle. He began to work free the mess and thought about how she looked, casting her line and grumbling—and how she’d thrown down her pole and how he’d thrown down his.
After a toe-to-toe argument about nymphs, wet and dry flies and women who were too pushy and impatient, Jemma had stalked off. Hogan had tackled her in a bed of wildflowers and—
They had a date for Saturday night. Asking a woman for a date had been a novelty for Hogan, leaving him excited. Jemma had flushed, looking away, because she knew that he was taking their relationship to another level. Just an old-fashioned date— taking his best girl to dinner and a dance— and he was looking forward to courting her.
In the two weeks since he’d learned about his mother and Jemma had met him in that cabin, Hogan knew another woman would never touch him inside like that— never fit his body so perfectly. He ran his hand over the small ring on his chest. For the first time in Hogan’s life, he had a sense of place and home, as if he belonged.
Across the small valley, beyond the pastures of grazing cattle and horses, Ben was helping Dinah carry groceries; from the stance of their bodies, they were arguing. Their arguments had a different tempo now, not the hard, biting slashing, but more the sorting out of a couple who had just found each other. Hogan suspected that Ben liked to balk, just to get Dinah’s full attention.
Aaron had been working a yearling in the corral, and when Savanna left the house after a visit with Maxi, he stopped.
With one hand, he vaulted over the gate. A twirl of his lasso caught Savanna, and Aaron slowly pulled her to him. He kissed her, and she stepped back, freeing herself of the lasso. She shoved her hands against his chest and stalked toward her compact car.
When it shot away from the ranch yard, Aaron threw down his Western hat and swung up on the bare back of a good, fast quarter horse mare. The mare sailed over the fence and by taking the pasture route, Aaron would catch Savanna before she hit the main highway.
“Aaron, you’d better step back and give the lady time to think.” Hogan knew that with Jemma, he wouldn’t follow his own advice; he intended to build a stable relationship with a fast-moving, fast-talking, volatile woman.
He placed all the mangled lures in a neat row, shaking his head at the bent hackles. Jemma didn’t take time to replace them in the small protective sections of his tackle box. His office looked like a tornado had hit it, and somewhere in the house was a pair of lost shorts, rolled into a ball in his haste to bed her.
Jemma was using his office this morning, bargaining with a florist chain over specialty rocks cut with the names of herbs. The great modesty-panel blouse war still raged. The manufacturer had upped the price tag, and as a middleman—woman, Hogan corrected, still a little off-balance from lovemaking on the kitchen table— Jemma didn’t want her cut lowered.
Hog
an planned to take her riding that afternoon, just to watch her backside bounce in the saddle, that shimmering flow to her breasts and the high color on her cheeks. He grinned and wondered if he remembered how to trick ride and show off a bit—
Jemma crashed out the front door and stalked the length of the porch, tangling her bare feet in the line Hogan had let drop beside his chair. She hopped free on one foot and glared at him. “Don’t just sit there grinning. I’m having a bad day.”
“You felt pretty good an hour ago.” He reached out to smooth her bare thigh and slide his fingers beneath the fringes of her jean cutoffs. She still wore that hot, wild, flushed look that could set him off in a heartbeat.
“Oh, yes, well, that little kitchen-table incident. You really shouldn’t walk around naked, Hogan. I just came over here this morning to use your office... and there you were, strolling around buck-naked and fresh from your shower. You had water beads on your shoulders and that hoop in your ear and that raw, untamed sultry look that just makes me want to take you down. There’s so much of you that no woman could—”
Hogan studied Jemma stalking across the front porch, sunlight creating a fiery halo around her hair, her body taut and her sassy mouth burning the morning air.
She moved him in a way he could not yet fathom to the fullest, but he knew what he wanted: a home and a family of his own. Perhaps the natural urge to make his mark, to carry on his blood had drawn him home, but Jemma had given him an understanding that was far beyond the hard, fast lock of their bodies. She’d given him tenderness.
He cherished that silly little daisy she’d woven in his hair that night he’d come to her. Flat and dried, the daisy was tucked safe in his wallet, where he could pull it out in the quiet moments and think back to what he considered his wedding night.