by Cait London
From the doorway, Jemma was too quiet. “I bought a cow. Aaron taught me how to milk. I wanted to learn how to make butter. There’re wonderful things you can do with buttermilk, you know, and she was so sweet— a little brown cow with beautiful big brown eyes, and small dainty horns. Orchid is supposed to be a good cream cow.... I thought the kitten needed cream, don’t you?”
“You bought a Brown Swiss.” Reeling with the knowledge that Jemma had settled into his house without a royal fight, Hogan slowly opened the double-wide refrigerator door to find three glass gallons of carrot juice. “You’ve been busy.”
Because his world had shifted suddenly, he took one of the gallons and poured two glasses, quickly downing his.
“I couldn’t sleep. Making juice is therapeutic, but it didn’t help. I’d just lost my best friend, and more than likely, you.”
Jemma held her glass like a lifeline, her expression wary as if waiting for him to lash out at her. He could no more do that to Jemma for loving Carley, than he could hurt the kitten.
Looking away from him, she rushed on nervously. “Butter isn’t difficult to make, if you let it come to room temperature. Ben told me how. You just have to let the cream settle and then skim it off—”
“I know. You’re not losing me, Jemma. I’m here for the long run, no matter what.” Hogan looked steadily at her and saw that only time would make her believe him.
She eased back from his outstretched hand, and that hurt him. Hogan wanted her to trust him, to know that he’d always be with her.
“I’ve made a few changes,” she began hesitantly, as Hogan began to slice bread. He placed a skillet on the stove and with the ease of a man who had tended himself, opened the refrigerator to scan its contents. He withdrew a big bowl of brown eggs and looked at Jemma.
Her expression was both wary and pleading. “Fresh. From my— our chickens. Aaron made a makeshift coop. He said you’d have to make something better. He was getting a little disgusted with me at that point. He kept talking about how he liked fried chicken— Hogan, he’s not frying my chickens.”
Hogan smiled, a bit woozy with the idea of Jemma settling so comfortably into his home. No wonder Aaron had hurried to meet him earlier; Jemma probably had him running full steam day and night.
“I like canisters. I found some of your pots.... You do such lovely work. I would never have that patience. I tried it once, and the clay shot all over the wheel,” Jemma said, as he scrambled the eggs, and she toasted the bread, slathering butter on it. She stood awkwardly as Hogan filled their plates and sat.
Hogan couldn’t bear the uncertainly on her face and reached to pull her down onto his lap. “We’ll get through this, sweetheart. All of us, together. Stop worrying.”
She looked down at her folded hands, and shook her head. “I wouldn’t blame Carley for never wanting to see me again.”
“Take it easy, Jemma. Healing takes time.” Hogan began to feed her, and then licked the butter from her lips. “Okay?”
He wanted to ask her about her marriage— why she didn’t trust him, and decided to wait for another time. After eating, Hogan sat back and toyed with her hair. “You do whatever you want with the house. Just stay.... Stay with me.”
“I’ve already made a few changes.” Then Jemma was on her feet hurrying into the living room, and with the resigned sigh of a man trying to find reality, Hogan followed.
After one good look at the living room, he reached for his hat and slapped it on his head. He needed the reassurance that this was his home, and that was his woman, standing in front of the big windows, her curved body outlined in the setting sun. One hand rested on a new sewing machine, heavily studded with gadgets.
“I didn’t know you sewed,” Hogan murmured, reeling at just what Jemma could do....
“Savanna and Richard brought it out. She says she didn’t like sewing after trying it, and the machine is way too fancy and expensive to waste. So I got a bargain. I used to make my clothes and sometimes remake them from thrift shops.”
Hogan tested the light chambray material, noted the too-large sleeves and hoped— “What are you making?”
“A shirt—for you. To go with the horn buttons. You’ll have to come up with an earring that matches.”
“Did you miss me, then?” The question tore out of him; he had to know.
“You know I did. It was all I could do, not to come up there. For once, I knew I’d better not push. You and Carley aren’t the pushing kind. What did she say about me, Hogan?”
He shook his head. He wouldn’t betray his sister’s trust, though he thought Carley would one day accept Jemma on different and more equal terms. Jemma turned suddenly, and asked too brightly, “What do you think about old Jubal’s horns? Right there, I mean? Ben sent them over because he was afraid that Carley might decide to shoot at the roof again— they were in the attic. Dinah called and begged me to take them. They’ll be great at Christmastime, all decorated with red balls and mistletoe. Do you mind?”
“Nope.” Hogan looked at the sprawling horns over a rambling display of tropical plants. He couldn’t resist taking off his hat and sailing it across the room. The hat caught and swung from the tip of one horn. “I always wondered if I could do that.”
Jemma smiled tentatively at him, and he sensed her tension easing a bit. Because he was feeling good, Hogan swept her into his arms and tangoed her into his office. “Show me what else you’ve done? You were busy for just over two days.”
“Aaron helped. But he wasn’t happy, Hogan. You may have to help him with his Savanna-problem.”
“Oh, no. He’s in that by himself.”
He glanced at the African violets sitting on his north windowsill and at Jemma’s notes by the telephone. He saw Simone’s name and stilled; he hadn’t had time to talk with Simone, to cut the light flirtation link between them. “Any messages?”
“I handled a few business things while you were gone. I hope you don’t mind. Jared said he needed a decision on a franchise offer, and Hogan, he really seemed to want to meet me. He offered to come here—”
Hogan made a mental note to call Jared and declare Jemma off-limits. “What’s this?” he asked, noting figures on the pad.
“You’re going to be mad. I thought the offer was good, and I gave him the go-ahead. The deal was on the table and hot, and at a good price. You’re going to get really mad, aren’t you? Boy, if there is one thing I know how to do, it’s to step on Kodiak toes—”
Her instincts about the deal were solid and she was right: He would have lost money by waiting. Hogan turned to her.
“I can take it, if you can. Can you?” he challenged, needing that bit of comfort from Jemma.
She came to rest against him so softly that she frightened him. Hogan held her in his arms, letting her rest against him. Jemma was not a woman to openly show her needs, dismissing her independence. “I’m so sorry, Hogan. I’ve made so many mistakes.”
“We’ve made mistakes together.” He was just settling in to tell her of his love, when Jemma stiffened, tore herself away, and ran into the living room.
“Oh, Hogan. That’s Ben’s pickup. He’s coming here—”
She turned to him, her body outlined by Ben’s headlights. “Go get dressed. Oh, Hogan, you’ve got to hurry—”
So much for a pushy woman promising not to shove, Hogan thought happily as Jemma pushed him into the bedroom and started sorting through the clothes closet. He reached out and tugged her squirming body against his. “Take your time. Get dressed. I’ll treat Ben to some carrot juice.”
“But he’s never been here, Aaron said so. And now here he comes, and I’m not ready—Hogan, do you know what this looks like? I’m in my nightie and you’re standing there in your shorts, and you’re—”
“True. I’m wanting to be in that bed with you. But I can wait.” Then to hold him until later, he filled his hands with her soft bottom and took her mouth.
The feel of her bottom clad in silk-ruffled panties
lasted Hogan while he tugged on jeans, drew on a T-shirt, and walked to open the front door.
For once, he didn’t dress to prod Ben that he was an artist and not a rancher. Hogan didn’t bother to hide his good mood from Ben, who definitely looked uncomfortable.
In the doorway, Ben held his hat in one hand and with the other, shoved a plastic-covered pie at Hogan. “Dinah wanted to know if Jemma’s okay.”
Hogan took the pie and smiled. He knew that it was Ben’s concern for Jemma that had brought him here. “Come in.”
Ben looked out to the fields, clearly uncertain. “That’s a nice little milk cow there. Aaron said you’ve got chickens now. Dinah always wanted chickens. Wonder how milk and eggs are going to mix with tofu?”
He looked past Hogan to Jemma. She hurried toward them, dressed in an oriental-styled, long cotton dress, splashed with jade bamboo and slit up to her thighs. Her feet were bare, and she’d applied light cosmetics; large gold combs lifted her hair up and away from her face, and allowed the back to cascade in rich, dark red curls.
Jemma was just inserting Hogan’s earrings into her lobes as she smiled at Ben. Shifting comfortably into a hostess mode, Jemma did not appear insecure or wary as she had just moments ago.
She nudged Hogan aside with her shoulder, and drew Ben inside, closing the door behind him. She looped her arm through his and drew him to the couch, sitting with him. “We’re glad you came, aren’t we, Hogan?”
“I brought an apple pie. Dinah said it was your favorite. I’d better be going...”
Ben did a double-take at the sewing machine and the clutter of tropical plants with Jubal’s horns over them. “Poor old Jubal,” he said, holding his hat against his chest as if mourning a best friend. He squinted at the horns. “What’s that yellow ribbon on them?”
“A sewing tape measure.” Hogan couldn’t resist. “She’s going to decorate them with Christmas balls and mistletoe.”
Jemma studied the horns. “Mmm, maybe a eucalyptus arrangement with ribbons—”
Ben stared at her and shivered in horror.
“Poor old Jubal,” he said again. When he recovered, he scanned the colorful material draped across the couch. “Hogan, I always thought you’d have one of those barren, no-nonsense homes.”
“She works fast, Ben,” Hogan said, amused at himself. He’d never liked clutter or too many colorful distractions, but now the clutter seemed perfect— even the tape measure hanging from Jubal’s homs.
Jemma had dragged out his cherished buffalo blankets, and Hogan couldn’t wait to see how she used them in his home. “You should see the rest of the house.”
Jemma stared at him, clearly horrified. She leaped up from sitting by Ben and grabbed the pie from Hogan. “I... uh... wait just a minute. I’ll just take this into the kitchen and... I forgot something. Wait here until I get back.”
With a dark, threatening glare at Hogan, she hurried into the bedroom with the pie. He wondered what he’d done wrong, when Ben cleared his throat and studied Hogan’s hat on the horns. “I used to do that when I was feeling good. Are you feeling good, boy?”
“Pretty good. How’s Carley?” When Hogan had last seen Carley this morning, she’d been glaring at him from Jemma’s van.
“Pretty mad at everyone and letting them know it. There’s another hole in the roof. I needed a hideout for a few hours and stole that pie. Shall we try it out?”
Hogan wondered what he’d done to upset Jemma. “Jemma told us to stay put. I think we’d better do that.”
“She took the pie into the bedroom and not the kitchen,” Ben noted, looking around the living room, cluttered with decorating magazines, sewing, and plants.
He eyed the plastic sack of white fluffy stuff and labeled it, “Pillow makings. Dinah’s been making them while Carley was gone. She sure came back in a mood, ready to take everyone apart. Mitch is sulking around like a whipped dog.”
Hogan had faith in Carley seeing reason; she was set to make her mark, making the rest of them see her as an independent woman. “She’ll even out. She’s just getting it out of her system.”
“I know, but I’d sooner do anything than live with a wrought-up female,” Ben muttered. “Dinah cried the whole time. They’ve started to argue, mother and daughter, and that war would scare even you. Dinah told Carley that she needed to rest and that set Carley off. She’s not wanting anyone to tell her what to do.... I like that eagle. Now that’s a man’s thing, even if it is wearing a beret.”
Jemma hurried back from the kitchen; she had circled the house from the bedroom and Hogan wondered why.
“Ben,” she said. “Hogan created that eagle. It’s so fierce and dark like he used to be. See the pottery by the plants— that big bowl with the pinecones in it? It’s got that Kodiak bear on the bottom. Hogan made it. Isn’t he talented?”
She tugged Ben up from the couch. “Come on. You’ve got to see his studio.”
As Ben moved uneasily into the studio, stepping into it as if it were a strange new world, Hogan noted the new plants and more of his work splashed around the large, airy studio. Willow’s sketchbooks were on a worktable, his mat cutter beside them, and an array of new, empty frames stacked in a basket he wove long ago.
Jemma looked at him. “I thought you might mat these and write ‘Willow’ on the mat and—”
Ben ran his callused fingers across the sketchbooks and when he looked at Hogan, his face was haunted. “I was dead wrong. I should have told you. I guess I didn’t know how to share what was in my heart.”
Old, fierce resentment instantly simmered in Hogan. He pushed it away and turned abruptly to view the night beyond his house.
Jemma stood on tiptoe to kiss Ben’s cheek and then Hogan’s. “Everything is just going to be fine.”
“Why did you go into the bedroom and come out of the kitchen?” he whispered.
Jemma scowled up at him and stood on tiptoe to whisper back, “Would you want him to see my lacy underwear hanging out from your chest of drawers? Or the bed, the way we left it?”
Clearly Hogan had much to learn about living with a woman, but he wasn’t backing up. “They’d better stay that way, too.”
Then Ben moved to Hogan’s drawing table, studying the Fire Feathers necklace design. His fingers hesitated a moment, then reverently traced the sketch. “That would be her, all right.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Jemma asked, her arm around Ben’s shoulders. Hogan noted how easily she moved into taut situations, how her touch visibly settled Ben.
For just an instant, Hogan felt that old isolation, and then Jemma’s hand slipped into his and she looked up at him and the darkness slid away.
“It’s you, honey. All fiery and touched by the wind,” Ben murmured.
“Me?” Jemma turned to Hogan, then peered closely at the sketch. “It’s so different from your other work. Is that really how you see me?”
“It’s you. How I see you.” He’d never felt so exposed; his heart and soul was hers, and in Fire Feathers, his emotions showed.
Her fingertip prowled over the sketch. “It’s so exotic and almost pagan, yet very feminine. The feathers seem almost alive.”
When Jemma’s tears shimmered in her eyes, Hogan picked her up and held her close. With a nod to Ben, he carried her into the living room and sat with her upon his lap. Jemma’s quick soft kisses all over his face left him a little light-headed and he knew he was grinning.
“I can’t go home yet,” Ben said moments later as he carried in the pie plates. “I thought I’d sneak in after bedtime. Carley and Dinah have got to wear down sometime. Maxi ran out to see her sister. The boys and I had to cook and do dishes tonight.”
“What about a game of chess?” Hogan asked. It seemed natural with Jemma beside him to offer Ben solace, a hideout. “The set is in that wall closet.”
Jemma yawned sleepily, her head nodding, and Hogan eased her to lie down, placing her feet in his lap. He massaged her feet— a comfort to him as well�
�� and with a sigh, Jemma began to sleep.
Ben placed the set on the coffee table. He traced the inset stone and the black-and-white onyx pieces. “Nice. I suppose you made it.”
Hogan nodded and drew a light woven fabric over Jemma’s legs. “Your move.”
“That felt good,” Ben said later, after another piece of pie and a slow, satisfying game which Hogan won.
Ben looked at the sleeping Jemma, her hand curled beside her face. “Poor thing. She’s all worn out— and Aaron, too. She shopped the hell out of him and then ran him all night. He’d just get started on one thing and she’d shove another at him. He didn’t have the heart to put a stop to it, but said she was all wound up and worrying about Carley. But now, he’s too tired to see Savanna, and that’s going a bit. He said he’s had all the hot-tempered women he can handle for a while. Savanna is balking at the corral gate. She’s smart, too. Aaron would run all over her, if she let him.”
The black kitten climbed up Hogan’s jeans and teetered up the length of Jemma’s body, to snuggle against her stomach. Hogan petted the kitten and looked solemnly at Ben. “That bastard has time on his side. We need to draw him out.”
Ben cursed softly. “I knew something was wrong— couldn’t pin it down, though. One minute she was like any other tomboy, and the next, like a shadow.”
Flashes of that night hit Hogan and right then, he was glad that Ben hadn’t known what Carley had looked like— it would haunt him, too.
Ben looked at the single headlight searing Hogan’s windows. “Late for visitors, isn’t it? Stay put— don’t disturb Jemma.”
He rose and looked out into the night. “It’s Mitch, riding that motorcycle like he was bound out of hell.”
Ben opened the door and signed for Mitch to be quiet, pointing to Jemma sleeping on the couch, her feet in Hogan’s lap. Mitch nodded and followed Hogan’s pointed finger to a closed wine cabinet. He lifted an expensive bottle, studied it, and, with a silent okay from Hogan, poured three glasses. Mitch served the wine, set the bottle on the table, and sprawled into a chair.