He heard the gentle fall of Maggie's footsteps behind him, the labored sound of her breathing as she struggled to catch up. When she stopped beside him, her arm brushed his sleeve and sent fractured shocks of awareness skittering beneath his skin. Gulping, he watched as she closed her hands over the finials that topped the iron posts and leaned to peer inside, the curl of her fingers around the delicately carved tops graceful. But he saw the red, work-roughened knuckles, remembered the hard life she'd led.
"Your family?" she asked.
Her voice, pitched low in reverence to the hallowed ground where they stood, whispered over him as gently as the evening breeze that stirred the leaves in the branches overhead.
"Yes." Fearing she would ask him why he'd brought her there and knowing that, if she did, he couldn't explain, he opened the gate and stepped inside.
Tombstones jutted from the ground at odd heights and uneven distances, their haphazard placement and mismatched appearance making them look like a hastily formed troop of untrained soldiers. Some stood straight and tall, while others tilted drunkenly, time and weather having taken their toll. A gray-green moss grew on the faces of the older stones, making the names and dates etched beneath indecipherable.
But Ace knew every name, date and epitaph by heart, having heard the family's history repeated to him over and over again through the years.
"General Nathaniel Johnson Tanner," he said, pointing, as Maggie moved to stand behind him. "'A brave and loyal soldier, mortally wounded leading his Confederate troop into battle.'" He wove his way past several tombstones, careful not to step on any of the all but indiscernible graves, then pointed again. "Elizabeth Eddison Tanner and Infant Son Tanner. Left this earth July 20, 1872 and passed into heaven together, with my dearly beloved Lizzy carrying our babe to lay at the feet of our precious Lord and Master."
He walked on, pointing out the final resting places of his Tanner ancestors, his dispassionate tone that of a tour guide who had given this same spiel a thousand times or more.
Puzzled by his odd behavior, Maggie followed, wondering what he wanted to talk to her about and why he'd chosen a cemetery of all places to hold the conversation.
As they reached the newer section, he slowed, then stopped altogether before a mound of freshly turned earth. Assuming it was his father's grave that held his attention, Maggie maintained a respectful distance to give him whatever privacy he needed. But when he turned away to drop down on a stone bench positioned opposite the grave, she realized it was a stone to the right of the mound that had held his attention. Curiosity drew her close enough to read the words etched on the pink granite.
Emma Louise Tanner
Wife of "Buck" Tanner
She glanced over her shoulder at Ace. "Your mother?"
His gaze fixed on the tombstone, he slowly nodded.
When he offered nothing more, with a shrug, she joined him on the bench, assuming that sooner or later he'd get around to telling her what he wanted to talk to her about.
While she waited, sitting quietly at his side, dusk descended around them, lengthening the shadows of the trees that bordered the fenced area. In the distance, a coyote howled, and the eerie sound sent a chill down Maggie's spine.
Anxious to return to the safety of the house, she thought a gentle reminder might speed things up a bit. "You said we needed to talk."
He roused, as if coming from a trance, to look at her. Frowning, he leaned over to pluck a wildflower from the ground at his feet. With his forearms braced on his thighs, he slowly rolled the stem between his fingers.
"About the other day," he began hesitantly.
Maggie knew, without asking, which day he meant. The afternoon at Star's and the beginning of what she'd come to think of as "the silent war." "Yes?" she prodded helpfully.
"I—" He stopped, frowned, then tried again. "I'm sorry for the things I said about Star. I shouldn't have said what I did."
"No," she agreed. "You shouldn't have. You didn't know Star."
"Whether I knew her or not, is irrelevant. I was mad and took it out on you. I'm sorry for that."
Surprised by his apology, for a moment, Maggie couldn't think of a thing to say. "Who were you mad at? Me?"
Scowling, Ace tossed the flower away. "No. My father." He jerked his chin toward his mother's tombstone. "You'll notice there aren't any pretty words or touching epitaphs carved on my mother's stone. 'Wife of Buck Tanner,' he quoted with a sneer. "As far as the old man was concerned, that was her one crowning achievement."
"But she was more than that to you. To your brothers."
Puffing his cheeks, he slurped back against the trunk of the tree. "Yeah," he said, releasing the breath on a shuddery sigh. "A helluva lot more."
In the field below them, a quail sang out its familiar call of, "bob-white, bob-white." For Ace, the sound brought back a wealth of memories that he suddenly found he wanted to share with Maggie.
"When we were kids," he said thoughtfully, "after dinner, Mother would let us play outside for awhile before shooing us all off to bed. She'd usually watch us from the front porch swing, while she rocked Rory to sleep. Sometimes, if she was lucky enough to get him down at a decent hour, she'd come out and play with us. Ring-around-the-rosy. Drop-the-handkerchief. Sissy, childhood games that my brothers and I wouldn't have been caught dead playing any other time. But we'd have played dolls with her, if she'd suggested it, just for the chance to be with her.
"She had a way about her that made even the simplest things fun. In the summer, when the garden was producing, she would ice down a watermelon. That evening we'd sit out on the porch steps and eat it, the meat of that melon so cold, it made our teeth ache. When we were done, she'd challenge us to a contest to see who could spit their seeds the farthest." He shook his head, chuckling, remembering. "Woodrow, Ry and I would just about kill ourselves, trying to outspit each other."
Maggie stared at Ace's profile, astounded by the wistful smile that curved his lips … and envious of his memories. "You must have loved your mother a great deal."
His smile slowly faded. "Yeah. I did."
"How old were you when she died?"
"Twelve. Cancer was what killed her. By the time the doctors found it, there was nothing they could do." He angled his head to look over at her. "Remember when you told me you thought the hospital staff treated your mother differently because she couldn't pay for her care?"
Maggie tensed, unsure why he was bringing the subject up again. "Yes. Why?"
"My mother got five-star treatment. A private room, her own nurse, gourmet meals cooked especially for her. The way I figure it, the wing the Tanners funded for the hospital earned her that kind of care." He looked away, turning his gaze to a darkening sky the setting sun had stained a red, burnished gold. "But there was one thing money couldn't buy her."
"What was that?"
"Time."
Maggie heard the regret in his voice, saw the longing in the face he tipped heavenward, and understood because she'd felt the same emotions when she allowed herself to think of her mother. "Was she in the hospital long?"
"A couple of weeks. Maybe three, if you stacked all the different stays into one. But she didn't die there," he added, glancing her way. "She wanted to die at home and in her own bed."
"That must have been difficult for your father."
"Buck?" Ace snorted. "It might've if he'd been around."
Maggie looked at him in puzzlement. "Your father's business required him to travel?"
"Rarely. He was usually shacked up with his current flavor of the month in an apartment he kept in Tanner's Crossing."
Maggie had heard Star mention the apartment, but she was surprised that Ace knew about it, as well. That he did perhaps explained some of the bitterness he felt toward his father.
It also raised another question in her mind. "If your father wasn't home to take care of your mother, who did?"
"From six in the morning to ten at night, a private nurse the old man hired
. The graveyard shift was mine."
"Yours?" she repeated in surprise. "But you were so young."
He lifted his shoulder in a shrug. "Age wasn't a requirement. In the beginning, I thought the chemo was the worst. After she'd have a treatment, she'd be so sick she could barely lift her head." He shook his head, as if at his own foolishness. "But I soon learned that the worst was the waiting."
"Waiting? For what?"
"Death."
A shiver shook Maggie, as she remembered waiting for her own mother's death, praying for it even, and how endless the nights had seemed, how lonely. When she looked at Ace again, he was staring off into space, as if at a distant memory.
When he spoke, his voice was so low she had to strain to hear his words.
"She was so scared. Sometimes I would hear her crying at night, and I would go to her room to check on her." He huffed out a derisive breath. "As if I could do anything. Hell, I was so wet-behind-the-ears, so useless, I didn't know what the hell to do or say. The only thing I could think of was to climb up into bed with her and snuggle close."
Emotion crowded Maggie's throat at the image of Ace comforting his mother. "It was what she needed," she told him. "Knowing someone cared. Having someone with her."
"Whether it was or not, it was all I knew to do."
Maggie's heart broke a little at the regret in his voice. "You miss her, don't you?"
His Adam's apple bobbing convulsively, he slowly nodded his head.
Tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Ace. I'm so sorry."
Ace tensed at the offer of sympathy. I'm so sorry. They were only words. Strung together, they were a common sentiment offered to someone who'd suffered the loss of a loved one. He figured he'd heard them voiced a hundred or more times over the last few days alone. But no one had offered them with the wealth of empathy and sincerity that Maggie had … and never with the same results. With those three simple words, she'd managed to reach deep down inside him and dredge up emotion from the vault he'd locked it away in years ago. It filled his throat, a knot of choking pain he couldn't seem to push a word past.
Ducking his head, he swallowed hard, trying to force the emotion back. As he did, he caught a glimpse of Maggie's hands fisted against her thighs, her knuckles now gleaming as white as pearls. In her tightly curled fingers, he recognized the same level of restraint he'd used to govern his emotions for years, the same heart-wrenching pain that had forced him to bury his emotions. Knowing that she'd suffered similarly, perhaps still did, touched him at a depth that nothing had tapped in years.
Reaching out, he covered her hand with his, laced his fingers through hers. Squeezed.
He heard the choking sound she made, felt the desperate clamp of her fingers around his. Angling his head, he saw the tears that flooded her eyes, the quiver of her lips. Helpless to do anything less, he hauled her to him and wrapped his arms around her.
With his hand cupped at the back of her neck, holding her cheek to his, he felt each scalding tear that streaked down her face, absorbed each sob that racked her body.
But he didn't let her go. Couldn't. And when her tears stopped, he continued to hold her.
From the moment he'd dragged her into his arms, his only thought had been to give her what little comfort a jaded man like himself had to offer. But when her tears stopped, he found himself fisting his fingers in her long hair, drawing her head back, and sliding his mouth to cover hers. On her lips, he tasted the salt of her tears. Saddened by it, he swept his tongue over them to wipe them away. As he did, he felt the tremble that shook her, the unexpected surge of her breasts against his chest and, with a groan, he crushed his mouth over hers.
He kissed her deeply, greedily, taking each pleasure she offered up to him and claiming it for his own. He filled his hands with her hair, knotted his fingers in the dark, silky tresses, then let it slide through his fingers to skim his palms down her back.
With his hands gripped at her hips, he drew her hard up against him and slipped his tongue between her parted lips. He heard her whimper, felt the desperate dig of her fingers around his neck, and gave her more, took more of what she gave up to him.
Time became something indeterminable, the memories that had haunted him moments before nothing but hazy mists that slunk back into the dark recesses of his mind. His world shrank to the bench he sat on, inhabited only by the woman he held in his arms.
When he'd first reached for her, he'd sought only to ease her heart, absorb what he could of her pain. But he found that, somewhere along the way, she'd eased his and left him with a need so strong it thundered through his blood like a herd of wild buffalo, deafening him to all other sound and blinding him to all but her. Maggie.
His response to her stunned him. More, it scared the hell out of him. Holding her face between his hands, he forced their lips apart, until he met her gaze. Passion glazed her tobacco-brown eyes, stained her cheeks. He dropped his gaze to her mouth and to lips bruised from the pressure of his. Shamed by his rough treatment of her, he smoothed a thumb across them to soothe the swollen flesh … and had to wrestle with the temptation to kiss her again.
But Ace wasn't sure, if he did kiss her, he could leave it at that. Not when his body cried out for a much stronger release.
Drawing in a ragged breath, he lifted his gaze to hers. "We'd better head back. Morning's going to come early, and my brothers are due at daybreak to help me round up the cattle."
She gulped, nodded, slowly inching away from him.
As she stood, Ace stood, too, but reached out and caught her hand before she could move away.
"Maggie?"
She glanced back over her shoulder. "Yes?"
"I—" He stopped, searching for just the right words to convey how special he thought she was, how grateful he was to her for listening to him ramble on about a past he seldom allowed himself to even think about, much less share.
Unable to come up with anything that came even close to what he was feeling, he gave her hand a squeeze. "Thanks."
* * *
Eyes wide, Maggie lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling where moonlight and shadows played a mystical game of hide-and-seek. Sleep was the farthest thing from her mind.
Who is this man? she asked herself for probably the zillionth time since crawling into her bed. She wasn't sure she knew any longer—if she ever had, at all. That night Ace had revealed to her a side of himself that she'd never dreamed existed. He'd given her a glimpse of a tenderness that she would never in a thousand years have suspected he kept hidden behind that cold and wary guard he kept in place.
And, God help her, she'd discovered in him a passion she prayed she would have the opportunity to experience again.
Pressing her fingers to her lips, she closed her eyes and tried to remember every detail. His masculine scent. The possessive tug of his hands in her hair. The urgent thud of his heart against hers. The burning rasp of his beard against her skin. The satin-like texture of his lips on hers. The seductive power of his touch, his kiss. The restraint she sensed beneath it all.
She recalled in vivid detail each and every breath they'd shared, every touch, every look, the thrill of his kiss, then played it through her mind over and over again.
And when, at last, she slept, it was Ace she dreamed of.
* * *
It was still dark outside, when Maggie started breakfast the next morning. Through the kitchen window she could see a hint of pink on the horizon, signaling dawn was quickly approaching, and along with it, the arrival of Ace's brothers.
Unsure if she was expected to feed them all, Maggie pulled a long tray of biscuits from the oven and set them on the island to cool, then turned back to the stove to shovel sizzling patties of sausage onto a platter. As she worked, she found her mind drifting back to the evening before and wondering how she could possibly face Ace again.
"Maggie?"
Startled, she dropped the spatula and whirled to find Ace standing on the opposite side of the island. Bare-chested, h
e held a shirt in one hand and a roll of tape in the other.
She pressed a hand to her heart to still its pounding. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Sorry." He held up the roll of tape. "Since I'm going to be riding today, I thought I should wrap my ribs again. Would you mind doing it for me?"
Gulping, she wiped her hands down the skirt of her apron. "Just give me a minute to finish taking up the sausage."
She quickly turned back to the stove, praying Ace would think the flush on her cheeks was due to the heat from the stove.
Taking her time, she shoveled the remaining patties onto the platter. When she'd finished, she caught up a dish towel and wiped her hands, as she turned to face him again. "Now," she said, forcing a smile. "Let's see about those ribs."
He rounded the island and held out the roll of tape. "Something sure smells good."
To avoid looking directly at his chest, she peeled back a strip of tape from the roll. "I made sausage, biscuits and gravy. I wasn't sure if your brothers would have eaten yet, so I cooked enough for an army. You'll need to move your arms."
He lifted them out, holding them at shoulder level. "Probably wise. All the Tanners were blessed with healthy appetites."
As well as gorgeous bodies, she thought, trying not to stare as she pressed the end of the tape against the center of the most gorgeous chest in the world. Ducking under his arm, she began to wind the tape around his upper body.
When she'd circled him four times, she caught the tape between her teeth, starting a tear, then used her fingers to rip it from the roll. "There," she said, pressing the severed end into place. "All done."
He looked down at her and smiled. "Thanks. I couldn't have managed it alone."
Feeling the heat crawl up her neck, she mumbled a barely audible, "you're welcome," and started to turn away. He caught her arm, stopping her, and pulled her back around to face him.
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