by Joanna Wayne
His woman. He sure liked the sound of that, although Ashley was not the type of obedient, docile wife he used to think he wanted. He’d thought he’d lost her for sure the other night when everything that had passed between them finally exploded like a bull gone mad. But she was made of sterner stuff than that.
They’d both made mistakes. They both had a lot to learn. But neither of them doubted that the love was still there, binding them together even while tearing them apart.
Dillon walked the stairs instead of taking them at his usual half run. Still, the coffee jostled over the edges, spilling onto the tray. Stopping on the seventh step, he gave it an extra heavy shift, then walked on in silence, satisfied that he had finally eliminated the squawk. Too bad the rest of his problems couldn’t be solved with some good wood glue and a couple of nails.
Ashley was already stretching awake when he pushed through the door. Her hair was tousled and full, flying around her face and falling over her forehead in curly wisps. His heart took a plunge.
When her hair was neatly combed and touches of makeup tinted her features, she was beautiful. Groggy with sleep, her face all natural and glowing, her mouth the palest of pinks, she was absolutely ravishing.
“I wondered where you were.” Her words were softly slurred, the morning’s first.
“Did you miss me?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.”
“Good.” He set the tray on the table. “I brought you breakfast.”
“And coffee.” She sniffed appreciatively and reached for a cup.
He inched it out of her reach. “Not until the cook gets a thank-you kiss.”
“I never fraternize with the help.”
“We’ll see about that.” He pinned her to the bed playfully. The lace top of her gown slid off her shoulders, and her breasts thrust forward, soft mounds of ivory flesh, aroused circles of berry pink taunting him to release them from the silky fabric. He let go of her shoulders with his right hand and traced the chain of her necklace down her neck to the heart that fit just inside the seducing line of cleavage.
Even in Florida, she’d worn the locket. When she’d had every reason to hate him, she’d continued to keep the wedding gift he’d given her close to her heart. He’d been such a fool. He never would be again. No matter what her past had been, Ashley knew more about loving than most women would ever learn.
“Do you know how much I love you?” he asked, nibbling her ear.
Ashley trembled beneath Dillon’s touch, the husky desire in his voice washing away the last muddled dregs of sleep. “No,” she whispered, running a finger over his lips. “Why don’t you show me?”
He brought his lips to hers, quick and sure, and the burning power inside him sucked her breath away. For long seconds, they drowned in the kiss, her mind losing touch with all the heartaches of reality, her body remembering past ecstasy and bursting to life.
Dillon drew his lips from hers. “You want to be shown, do you? You just lie back and see if I can convince you.”
His voice was velvety smooth, his hands already working their magic, sliding up and down her upper body while his mouth covered her face with kisses. She writhed beneath him, her nipples taut and aching beneath the gentle massage of his thumbs.
Slowly, passionately, his lips and tongue worked their way down her body, along her rib cage then focused on her breasts. He nibbled and sucked each nipple until she moaned in pleasure. With gentle thrusts, she pressed her body against his, the soft flesh of her belly molding around his hardness.
Only then did he move lower, his lips pushing away the fabric of the gown and searing a path down her stomach, his fingers touching, circling, dipping until she dripped with hot desire. Her breath came in jagged gasps, the need inside her so strong that her thighs ached to wrap around him. She slid her hand between them, reaching until it wrapped around the heated length of Dillon’s erection.
A groan tore from his lips and his body shuddered against her. “I have to be inside you,” he whispered. “Now, before I lose my mind.”
She stroked and guided, opening her thighs for him and cradling him between her legs. And then she was lost in the feelings. Her heart pounded. Blood raced to her head. And always the thrusting inside her, driving her over the edge.
One last time, deep inside her, exploding in a finale of fireworks that rocketed her to the top and then gently left her shuddering on the edge of heaven.
They lay in silence, too spent to talk, too satisfied to move. Finally Dillon buried his mouth in her hair and whispered in her ear. “I think breakfast may be cold.”
“I doubt it,” she answered, warmth curling around her like a silken cocoon. “I think I see steam on the windows.”
ASHLEY STOOD in front of the mirror, dabbing on a touch of blush and lipstick. Dillon had done it again, persuaded her to do something she had vowed against. He’d called Ralph Riggins and had him set up an appointment for Ashley to meet her mother. Not next week or next month, when she would have had time to sort everything out in her mind. The meeting was for this afternoon at three o’clock.
The drive into San Antonio would take a good hour and a half, so they had eaten lunch early and Petey was already down for an afternoon nap. Dillon was at the big house now, picking up Mary and one of the off-duty policemen he had hired as guards to come and sit with Petey.
Policemen, guards at the gate, locks on the door. Lester Grant had left his mark on Burning Pear. Dillon was sure he’d given up, or so he claimed. But the guards would be in place for a while longer.
Ashley refused to take chances where Petey was concerned. An eyewitness account of Lester in New Orleans was good, but it would take bars to convince her he wouldn’t keep his promise to return.
The doorbell rang, and she gave her hair a final fluff. Dillon must have forgotten his key. She scooted to the door in double time, but Trick was the one smiling at her through the peephole. Without a second thought, she flung the door open.
“I hate to bother you,” he said, tipping his hat and rocking back on his boots, “but I was looking for the senator. Is he around?”
“Not at this minute. He should be back soon, though. Do you want to come in and wait for him?”
“If you’re sure it’s not a bother. I know he’s going to San Antonio this afternoon, and I need him to check on a new saddle I ordered, if he will. It’s supposed to be ready any day, and, well, I’m kind of anxious to get it.”
“I’d be delighted to have your company.” She ushered him through the door and pointed him toward the family room, following a few steps behind. She enjoyed Trick’s company. Maybe it was the grin and fiery red hair, which gave him the appearance of a mischievous boy. More likely it was the nervous way he had of rocking back and forth like a kid stuck in a long Sunday morning sermon.
“It’s been right tough on the boss man lately, I guess.”
Ashley nodded, but that didn’t stop Trick from giving his opinion.
“Pretty hard to believe those television guys would be kicking up such a stink about Potter Bingley. The man wasn’t worth two cents alive. Dead, he’s some kind of hero, the little guy bucking the big boys.”
“I find it hard to believe anyone could think Dillon could do such a thing.”
“A man does what he has to when he’s pressed, ma’am.”
The shock of Trick’s comment registered slowly. “You sound like you think Dillon might be guilty.”
“I don’t reckon it matters much what I think.”
“Would you work for a man you thought was a murderer?”
“Potter Bingley had it coming. I wouldn’t have done nothing like that myself, but Mr. Dillon’s different from me, different from all of us. That’s why he’s the boss.”
“He’s the boss because he owns the ranch. He and his brothers.” Her voice betrayed her irritation.
“I don’t mean to upset you, Miss Ashley, or to say you’re mistaken, but he’s the boss because he knows about power. Same
reason he’s the senator. People do what he says.”
Power, persuasion, getting everybody to come around to his way of thinking. She knew exactly what Trick was talking about. The power to walk into a room and command everyone’s attention had been the first thing that had drawn her to Dillon. With ranchers, the ladies’ guild or the governor, he displayed a charisma that set him apart. Even now, with all the commotion surrounding his wife, his campaign funds and the body of Potter Bingley, he was still leading in the polls.
The man of the people. Tall, tough and Texan. It defied all odds.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Trick said, “I’m not saying I think Mr. Dillon killed Bingley. I’m just saying I wouldn’t blame him none if he did. You got to look out after what’s rightfully yours. If you don’t, you’re not much of a man.”
Ashley shook her head, tiny shivers of doubt creeping up her spine. Another of the codes men lived by. A whole man, half a man, not much of a man. Was Dillon so driven by these unprinted codes that he did whatever he had to, as Trick had said? Or was Trick making excuses for a man he thought was guilty?
Lost in thought, she didn’t hear the front door open. At the sound of Dillon’s and Mary’s footsteps, she nearly jumped from her skin.
“You two look awful serious. Dare I ask what’s happened now?” Dillon asked, crossing the room.
“Just talking, boss, and waiting on you.”
“Good. I’m glad there’s no new problems, because for once I have good news to share.”
“You’ve been cleared of murder charges.” The words rushed from Ashley’s heart to her mouth. She’d been a fool to let Trick make her doubt.
“Not that I know of.”
“Then what?”
“The money supposedly missing from my campaign funds has been located. A simple clerical error, just like I suspected all along. Gifts that were to include the company name and the names of the individuals authorizing the gifts were supposed to be listed together, with both names printed. Instead, one of the clerks listed them separately, and they were counted double.”
“When did you find that out?”
“A few minutes ago. I stopped at headquarters on the way to pick up Mom. The news was waiting for me, hot off the fax.” The old fire was in his voice. He kissed her on the mouth and then twirled her around, not putting her down until her head was spinning like a top.
“Be careful with her, Dillon. You’ll break her ribs,” Mary warned, always the mother.
“You don’t have to worry about Ashley. She’s tough.”
“And dizzy,” Ashley offered, holding the back of a chair for support. But not too dizzy to want all the facts. “So now will the media people have to retract their claims about you being a crook?”
“The honest ones will. Now I’m just a murderer.”
“Don’t even joke about that.”
“Don’t worry. That’s the media talking. It’s the people who do the electing, and they’re not nearly as gullible as the newspeople would like to think.”
“It’s not the publicity I’m worrying about. It’s the cops.”
“You and Mother can both quit worrying about that. I’m innocent as a newborn calf. Now grab your handbag while I talk to Trick, and we’ll go into town and solve another long-standing issue.”
“Is that a meaningless campaign promise?”
“None of my promises are meaningless.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
THE HOUSE SAT BACK from the road, pinkish stucco with white periwinkles and bright yellow marigolds blooming in a bed by the mailbox. Two rockers, painted to match the dark green of the shutters, sat empty on the narrow porch beside a clay pot filled with geraniums.
Ashley sat without moving, one hand clasping the handle of her purse, the other with a vise grip on the door handle. She’d almost expected to drive up and see the woman from her nightmares standing in the door, laughing at her, waiting for her to get close enough to hear the slamming of wood on wood. But the doorway was empty and the window blinds were closed.
“Are you sure she’s expecting us?”
Dillon reached across the seat and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him. “I’m sure. We don’t have to stay long. We don’t even have to go in, if you don’t want to.”
“But you think I should?”
“I think you need some closure on the pain of the past. You’re a beautiful person, inside and out, in spite of the unhappiness you experienced growing up. Letting go of the resentment will give you a little more peace.”
“How did you get to be so smart?”
He cuddled her closer. “I’m just damn lucky. Finding you again is proof of that.”
“Okay.” She sat up straight and took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”
He tilted her head toward him and kissed her lips, quick but powerful, stealing away the breath she’d just grabbed. “Remember, I’m right beside you.” He squeezed her hand again and then climbed out of the car and bounded to her side.
It was thirty-two steps from Dillon’s car door to the front door of Sylvia Jackson’s house. Ashley counted every one, but it didn’t take her mind off the hammering her heart was doing against the walls of her chest.
Dillon pressed the doorbell, and Ashley stood beside him, praying they were at the wrong house, that he had the wrong day, that Sylvia had changed her mind about wanting to meet her and wasn’t coming to the door. Just when it looked as though her prayers might be answered, the door swung open.
The woman stood in the shadows, a little taller than Ashley, slightly heavier, her brown hair cut stylishly short, barely covering her ears. Ashley didn’t need introductions. The woman was a far cry from the willowy blonde of her nightmares, but she had Ashley’s coloring, the same full lips, the same wide brown eyes, just with a few more wrinkles.
“Ashley.”
The name seemed to have slipped from Sylvia’s tongue without her knowing it. She continued to stare, her gaze fixed glassily on every line in Ashley’s face. “Won’t you come in,” she said finally, her voice a shaky slur.
Anxiety flowed like wine, dulling Ashley’s senses. This was her mother. She should feel something. Passion. Hate. Something. But she was numb. In a near trance, she followed the woman into a darkened sitting room.
“Please sit down.”
Words for strangers. Polite. But then they were strangers. Ashley eased down to a love seat and motioned Dillon to sit beside her. The room was cozy, chintz-covered chairs, tables of red cherry, brass lamps and an assortment of mementos of a life Ashley had never been a part of. And she didn’t want to be a part of it now. Not twenty-three years too late.
Too late for her, and way too late for her brother. She ached for that, that Peter who’d needed his mother so desperately was not sitting here today beside them.
“Could I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“I guess you’re wondering why I waited so many years to track you down.”
“I’m wondering why you tracked me down at all.”
“Because I’m your mother. I wanted a chance to get to know the daughter I brought into this world before it was too late for us to have a relationship.”
“Then I’m afraid you’ve already waited too long.”
Sylvia tugged at a tissue she clasped in her hands, her thin fingers tearing the paper, then wadding it up in a frantic cycle. “I know I can never recapture what we lost. But I’d like for us to try to be friends.”
“I have friends. It was a mother I needed.” The words held no harshness. Seeing her mother like this, older and more unsure than she would have ever imagined, Ashley could only feel sorrow. Sorrow that was still too deep to move past honesty into a polite realm of superficialities.
“I wanted to be your mother when you and Peter were young. I guess I just didn’t know how. I’m not trying to make excuses for what I did. But I do want you to know how difficult it was for me to walk away.”
Sylvia’s voice was strained, understandably so. She’d never been there for Ashley or for Peter, yet here she was asking for something from Ashley. To be reinstated as mother?
Surely not. That kind of love had been lost in the tears of a thousand lonely nights. It had been lost when Ashley had stood all alone at her brother’s grave. No. She had no mother. Sylvia was only the woman who had given her birth.
“Your brother, Peter, was three years old when you were born,” Sylvia continued, even though Ashley had not asked for explanation. “I was seventeen. I had worked as a waitress to support Peter and myself, but I lost my job when you were born. I was too sick to work, too sick to care for my baby and my young son.”
“What about the man who got you pregnant?”
“Your father was married. He’d told me over and over that it was me he loved, and I was just young and foolish enough to believe him. While I was pregnant with you, he took a job out of town. I never heard from him again.”
Ashley fought the quaking inside her. She didn’t want to hear this. Her mother was the woman who opened the door and slammed it shut in her face. A woman never to be forgiven.
“I had no one to turn to, no way to care for you, so I took you somewhere I knew you would be fed and cared for.”
“And you never came back.”
“I was sick for over a year, in and out of doctors’ offices and hospitals that took charity patients, never seeing the same physician twice. It was a recurring viral infection I didn’t have the defenses to fight. But twenty-three years ago, diagnosis was not as sophisticated as it is today.”
“Even sick people can send a card or make a phone call.” Ashley held on tight to the pain that had kept her going for years.
“I wanted to, but what can you tell a baby and a young child? Besides, I thought it was better for Peter if he didn’t have me interfering in his adjustment. And you never even knew me.”
“At what point did you decide not to come for us ever again?”
“Please, Ashley. This is hard for me as well as you. Don’t judge so harshly.”
“It’s hard to judge lightly from my side of the situation. Peter and I were the ones who grew up never belonging anywhere, never knowing what love was like except the bond that held us together. And even that was physically broken by welfare workers who separated us when I was only eight.”