A Stranger in the Family (Book 1, Bardville, Wyoming Trilogy)

by Patricia McLinn

  Boone moved away from Jessa. Cambria gave Kent a brief goodbye before working her way to that side of the room and taking the spot Boone had vacated.

  “You and Boone looked as if you were getting along fine,” she said with a bright smile. “Glad to see you taking an interest in the opposite sex.”

  Jessa turned her head and gave her a long, openly probing look that made Cambria’s smile lock and her shoulders fidget. Sometimes Jessa’s observations were too true for comfort.

  “Have you told Boone your reasons for coming back here?”

  Astonishment unlocked Cambria’s muscles. “Why should I? You don’t tell people everything about why you left D.C.”

  “We’re not talking about me, we’re talking about you. And we’re not talking about people, we’re talking about one particular man. A man you’re trying to keep at a distance because he scares you.”

  “That’s—”

  “Have you told him about your life in Washington, or about Tony, or about growing up, or about your family, or about your mother? No, I know you haven’t. You’re attracted to him, drawn to him, and you’re fighting that like hell, so you’re not giving him any piece of yourself.”

  “I—”

  “I saw you do it with Greg Brasson in D.C., after Tony broke your engagement. I could understand it then, the wounds were too raw. But just like you’ve been telling me, you’ve got to heal sometime or you’ll stay the rest of your life in a cage you’ve built yourself.”

  Cambria should have known quoting Irene to Jessa would boomerang eventually.

  “He hasn’t been exactly open with me, you know. I wouldn’t even know his real name if it weren’t for June.” Even to her own ears, Cambria sounded a shade petulant.

  Jessa gave her a level look. “Somebody’s got to take the first step, Cambria. And I’ll tell you something else you keep telling me—fear can’t rule your life or it’s not living.”

  * * * *

  “Good night, Boone.”

  “Good night.”

  Cambria took another two steps down the path to her cabin. It wasn’t her imagination, he was following her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Walking you to your door.”

  “That’s not necessary.” She didn’t move. “I know the way to my door.”

  “I figured that. But I feel responsible, since I finally convinced you it was safe to drive with me. Besides, I thought with all the dancing you did you might be so worn out, you’d need a hand.”

  She grimaced, but didn’t object again. She had rather ignored him after inviting him to the party. Though she’d seen him dancing with Rita Campbell, Maureen Elliston, June Reamer and several ladies from the church. Still, maybe she felt a sort of debt.

  Fully aware of his presence, she walked quickly down the path, then turned at the door and faced Boone.

  “Okay, we’re here. Good night.” A high brass fixture dropped a cone of light by the door.

  He tipped his head slightly and considered her. “Have you had a lot of experience with convicted felons, Cambria?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ax murderers most likely, or at the very least, someone who beat up old ladies for their last dollar. Been around that type of guy a lot, have you?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the way you look at me. I figure it must be the company you’ve kept that has you giving me that look—there! That’s the look. The narrow-eyed stare that says nobody’s going to slip one over on you. Certainly not some country boy from North Carolina.”

  The cone of light enclosed them, only them, blocking out the rest of the world. She shifted her weight, and her knee brushed the denim of his jeans.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point.”

  “Have I?” His voice came low, hypnotic. But which of them was being hypnotized? His eyes traveled over her face as if unlocking secrets, then finding more behind them. With a look, he made her feel mysterious and exotic. Then he touched her, two fingertips drawn so lightly along her jaw. And she felt the reality of desire.

  “What makes you look at me like that?” he asked. “What makes you do things that make Irene worry that you’re a sad, cynical woman?”

  “I don’t—”

  “What makes you so prickly, when your skin’s so smooth? So incredibly smooth...”

  She could have moved away, she simply didn’t. “I thought— You and Jessa...”

  “Not Jessa.” He reached across the space between them and slid his hand to the back of her neck. “You.”

  His lips brushed against hers.

  His hand tangled in her hair.

  He raised his head, breathing in deeply. His dark brows shadowed his eyes from the overhead light, but across the space that separated them she caught a gleam, a heat that echoed the sensation that seemed to burn her lips.

  “Damn.”

  Wonder. Annoyance. Chagrin. Pleasure. They were all in his single word. They were all in her.

  The slightest pressure of his fist at her nape brought her mouth back to his. That’s all it took, because she didn’t resist.

  His lips moved over hers, and she sought a deeper contact. Without thought, only with need.

  The space between them was gone. His hand, still tangled in her hair, cupped her skull. His other kneaded across her back.

  Open-mouthed, he kissed her, seeking entrance. She gave it. Tongue met tongue. And she tumbled into a spinning tunnel of misty gray. But his hunger was sharp and clear. Her head fell back to allow their kisses greater depth. His hand held her steady.

  She felt the lurch of his heart under the palm she pressed to his chest. Felt the hard, vital beat of it.

  And knew the danger, even as she felt the lure.

  His kiss was a rumble of thunder in a darkening sky. It reverberated through her, echoing in her bones and blood. It warned of a greater storm coming. It hinted at lightning that could crackle and flare. That could singe her, make her shudder. And start a fire that would not be put out.

  Until it had consumed her.

  She broke the kiss with a gasp, for air and for balance, not drawing in enough with the first, nor the second, nor even the third long breath.

  She tried to back away, but the door was behind her, Boone in front of her.

  “I...I...”

  He reached for her. “Dammit, Cambria, you think I don’t know?” Gray eyes burned through the shadows.

  “No.” She pushed at him with the hand on his chest, the palm directly over his heart. He stilled, and in the next pulse under her touch, he stiffened. “No.”

  Without retreating a step, he gave her space. His arm dropped from her back, opening an escape route. But his eyes stayed on her, not allowing the temptation of immediate flight to take hold.

  “I told you, I don’t...You’re a guest.”

  “So?”

  She became aware of her hands still on him, and snatched them away, one from his chest, the other from the back of his neck. Then she wasn’t sure what to do with them, finally tucking them away as she crossed her arms in front of her.

  “You’ll be leaving. I won’t do this. I won’t.”

  What felt like a cramp in her throat nearly swallowed the last word.

  “Cambria...”

  He leaned toward her.

  “No.”

  And now she did take that escape route. Flight or not, it was the only sane thing to do.

  He hadn’t taken his hand from her hair, and for an instant the strands caught in his fingers, not hurting, but tugging in a way that reminded that he had a hold on her.

  Then her hair slipped through.

  She didn’t look at him as she went in the unlocked door and out of the cone of light.

  Chapter Five

  “So, how’s it going, Boone?”

  “Fine.”

  “Then why do you sound restless as a caged tiger at feeding time? The sist
er still dogging all your steps?”

  “No.”

  “Ah...That so?”

  Not for the first time in their nearly thirty years of friendship, Boone wished Cully Grainger were half as sleepy as he sounded.

  “Yeah, that’s so.”

  It was Wednesday. His second day of seeing Cambria for no more than snippets, mostly at a distance. His second day torn between wondering what in hell had gotten into him to kiss her, and wondering if he’d ever get another chance.

  She’d started scrubbing out the bunkhouse, but steadfastly refused his offers of help. Ted was planting a late alfalfa field, with room for only one on the tractor. Irene was visiting a friend and running errands. Pete was in school and busy with practice and friends afterward.

  Boone was going nuts.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent a day and a half with nothing to do. If this was relaxing, it was hugely overrated.

  “Well, you should be getting to know the boy.”

  “He’s in school all day. Has baseball practice most days after. Has his chores and friends.”

  Boone had called the office three times yesterday, twice already today. That librarian, Wanda, was growing less and less happy to see him. And he’d started wondering how he could get cellular phone service in Bardville, Wyoming, and how fast he could get a fax hooked up in the cabin—probably after updating the antiquated electrical system. He’d told the office to send the new drafting software he hadn’t bothered to load into his laptop until now.

  Hell, he was so bored, he’d delayed opening the developed photos he’d picked up in his morning trip to town, just to have something to look forward to.

  “Even so,” Cully pressed, “you should know by now if he’s happy, healthy, well-adjusted. Those were the things you said you were worried about. The things you said you wanted to see before you stepped into his life or stepped out of it.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  In the silence that followed Boone heard a kind of acceptance from his friend. “No. I suppose it’s not. So, what are you going to do now?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  A muffled chuckle-snort reached Boone’s ear.

  “What’s the matter with you, Grainger?”

  “Just trying to adjust to Porky taking to the air.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “About pigs flying and Boone Dorsey Smith admitting he doesn’t know what to do.”

  Boone gave a suggestion of what Cully could do, but it was halfhearted.

  * * * *

  Through the open cabin window, Boone heard the radio from the bunkhouse where Cambria worked. Pete had joined her about an hour ago. Eleven songs ago she’d turned down another of Boone’s offers to help.

  Lord, the woman was stubborn.

  What did she think he’d do? Ravish her in front of her brother?

  Come to think of it, maybe she was smart to keep her distance. Because he had to admit, ravishing her sounded real tempting.

  He should be grateful, in fact. He didn’t need to let himself get distracted by her when he’d come here to get to know his son. Except, of course, his son was in there with Cambria, where Boone was definitely not welcome.

  With a sigh from the gut, he pushed off from the wall beside the window where he’d leaned his shoulder and went to the square pine table. Photos scattered by restless hands cluttered its surface.

  He straightened the edges, then started through them again.

  There were pictures of Pete at that first game Boone had gone to.

  His son.

  The image of a boy striding toward manhood. Tall and straight, with an easy grin and clear eyes. He looked happy and confident, standing there in his baseball uniform, talking before the game with Irene and Ted.

  His parents.

  Boone flipped to the next photograph, a wide shot of the playing field. He’d loved the game as a kid. Especially playing catcher. Plotting strategy, directing fielders, calling pitches that would fool the batter. He’d had some talent, too. The coaches had said so. Even talked about scouts and a future in the pros. But he’d had Gran and Kenzie to watch out for, including working after-school and summer construction jobs. That hadn’t left much time for games.

  Had he passed on to Pete his love for baseball? Had Ted and Irene? Or had Pete found it on his own?

  Boone shook his head. A damn useless line of wondering. How could anybody know? Would it matter if they could?

  What mattered was if he could give Pete anything now, or in the future.

  Boone turned over pictures from Cambria’s horseback tour. Shots of cattle, of prairie dogs, of distant mountains, of fences coming together. Shots of Cambria, sunlight gilding her hair, that enticing curve of her back settled so surely in the saddle, her hand trailing absently along Snakebit’s neck.

  No sense denying it, he was attracted to this woman. His mouth twisted at that understatement.

  But acting on that feeling wasn’t going to work, not from his end because of Pete and not from her end because of shadows he sensed dogging her.

  No, she didn’t need him trying to seduce her. What she needed was another set of hands helping in that bunkhouse. Only she was too stubborn to admit it.

  Or was she too scared?

  Why would she be scared? The question rose up, but he put it aside. What mattered was helping.

  The Westons’ generosity didn’t hide that the house could use repairs, the barn was shy a couple coats of paint, the four-wheel drive and truck were past due for retirement.

  Frowning, Boone flipped through the last pictures. Distant shots of the deserted cabin, then closer ones, followed by a trio of Cambria before she’d ducked away, and finally, close-ups of the cabin’s construction. His hand rested on the last shot for a full minute.

  When he moved again, he knew what he was going to do—to keep himself sane and hopefully to help the Weston family. And he didn’t think Cambria could stop him.

  * * * *

  “What on earth are you doing?”

  Boone looked around late Friday afternoon to find Cambria and Pete on horseback not four feet behind him. He’d been so focused he hadn’t heard them.

  “Trying to salvage this cabin.”

  “It looks like you’re tearing it apart.”

  “I am.” He ripped free a corner of the tar paper and tossed it onto a rubbish pile already waist high. Snakebit sidled away, but Cambria settled him with a murmur and a touch. Boone made himself look away. Even engrossed by what was being revealed in the cabin, he’d thought too much about Cambria’s murmurs and touches. “I’m peeling away the skin so I can see the bones.”

  “Why?”

  “You said you were going to tear it down. I figured if I can dismantle it, save what’s good—” he gestured to two other piles, a very small one with three carefully labeled pieces of wood and a slightly larger one that included a fireplace mantel and an interior door. “—then reassemble it on the other side of the creek, it could be modernized like the others without the problems you mentioned about plumbing and electricity and a bridge. You’d have another cabin to rent out for not much cost.”

  “It would still be ugly and cramped,” Cambria said. But she tilted her head and squinted at the cabin. She was intrigued. He stifled a victorious smirk. He hadn’t felt this good about being featured in the Wall Street Journal.

  “Not necessarily. The bones show the original design meant it to be half again as big as this. That would widen the front, add another window, change the roofline.” He sketched the plan with his hands in the air. “Now the lines are all off—that’s what bothers you visually. I can take what’s here and use that lumber you’ve got stored in the barn and make it the way it should be.”

  “We can’t pay you,” she said flatly.

  “Count it toward working off my board,” he offered.

  “You’re supposed to be here for rest and relaxation.”

  He shrugged. “
Call it therapy. Maybe I should pay you.”

  “How do we know you know what you’re doing?”

  “You don’t. But what have you got to lose? You were going to tear it down.”

  Cambria’s lips parted—whether to offer another objection or to demand what he needed therapy for, he wasn’t sure—but before she could say anything, Pete eased his horse forward and said, “I’ve seen ’em move houses on flatbeds, but never piece by piece. How will you get this back together if you take it apart?”

  “Very carefully.”

  His dry answer drew a chuckle from Pete, but the boy persisted. “Yeah, but how’ll you know where the pieces go?”

  Boone heard the interest in Pete’s voice, and an idea came to him. “You draw a plan of the building, as best you can tell from the outside, then add details as you take off the shell so you can see the structure. Each step, you number every piece you take off and write the number on the corresponding plan. I could use some help, if you’re interested.”

  “Yeah, that’d be—”

  “How about baseball practice?” Cambria interrupted. “And homework? Chores?”

  “I could work it out. Dad would let me take the time from chores to help Boone, don’t you think, Cam? Since it would give us another cabin to rent.”

  In a stiffly neutral tone Cambria said, “You’d have to check with your father, Pete.”

  Boone stifled a wince at her words—Pete would be working with his father.

  “He’ll say yes. I mean, Boone would be helping us out, so it’s only fair.”

  Yes, only fair that Boone have a chance to spend time with his son, even under the guise of a construction project.

  It was also only fair that Pete, his reason for being here, should provide a buffer between Boone and the woman he shouldn’t want.

  * * * *

  Cambria didn’t like it.

  Oh, she wasn’t foolish enough not to acknowledge that an extra cabin would help, especially if it didn’t require much investment. And she wasn’t ungracious enough not to recognize his generosity.

  But she didn’t like it.

  “I don’t see why not,” Irene said, matching socks from the dryer while Cambria leaned against the washing machine.