He pulled her to her feet with one hand, snatched the towel from her with the other, slipped it around her hips, and hauled her against him. She leaned back slightly, and he increased the delicious pressure.
“Best not to start something,” he rumbled, “if you don’t plan on finishing.”
Heat surged through her. Her nipples tightened, and she thought the ache between her legs would never go away. But she didn’t try to move out of his embrace.
Chance bent his head, tasted the peak of her right breast, through her shirt, then her left, and she moaned. When he loosened his hold on the dish towel, she nearly fell on her backside.
“Maybe you’d better go upstairs and tuck the kids in for the night,” he said, his eyes laughing. “I’ll look in on the horses.”
Because she didn’t know what she’d do if she stayed, Hallie turned, without a word, and fled up the stairs. She heard Chance’s deep, wholly masculine chuckle behind her, and smiled in spite of herself.
He was playing with fire, Chance admitted to himself, as he pulled on his jacket and headed for the barn. The cold wind, buffeting his face, restored some, but not all, of his good sense. He had no business getting involved with Hallie O’Rourke. She was just passing through, she’d said so herself, and one of these days she was going to be gone for good. He tilted his head back, looked up at a sky full of stars. The sight made him feel reverent, gave him a deep sense of the sacred, even as he lusted after Hallie O’Rourke. He’d have given just about anything, right then, to be alone with her, to take her down in some private place and feed the fire that was consuming both of them until it raged out of control and slowly, slowly burned itself out.
He was just letting himself into the kitchen again, twenty minutes later, when Hallie came down the stairs, looking frazzled and moist and utterly delectable.
“They’re in bed,” she said, with relief. “Any sign of Jessie?”
“Are they sleeping?” he asked, and wriggled his eyebrows.
She tilted her head to one side. “Don’t get any ideas,” she told him, but there was a sparkle in her eyes, and a little smile lingered at the corner of her sweet, soft mouth.
“Too late,” he ground out. Truer words had never been spoken, God help him.
She laughed. “I’ll make another pot of coffee,” she said. “This might be a long night.”
He nodded, sighed again. He was going to suffer the tortures of the damned before it was over, unless he 1) made love to Hallie, or 2) threw himself into the creek to cool off. Since the second scenario seemed much more likely to happen than the first, for the time being at least, and likely to give him pneumonia into the bargain, he elected to endure. Hell, he’d never known a hard-on to last more than, say, six weeks.
There was nothing to do, once the place was tidy and the kids were asleep, but wait for Jessie to arrive. Chance got out some of the family memorabilia Jessie kept, and they looked at photographs. Bridget and Trace Qualtrough, and their children, posed in front of the house Chance lived in now. These were Chance’s people, his ancestors. How amazing and wonderful that he could link himself, generation by generation, to these pioneers.
A dark-haired woman, imperiously beautiful, with her handsome blond lawman-husband. That was Christy and Zachary Shaw. Jessie was descended from them, and they’d lived right here, in these very rooms.
A third likeness showed a lovely, slender vixen, probably a redhead, with a handsome man who resembled Jase. The back of the picture was inscribed, “Megan and Webb Stratton. Our honeymoon.”
Yet another photograph revealed another lovely woman, with brown hair and wide-set, expressive eyes, standing beside a tall, powerfully built man with a square jaw and an attitude. “Skye and Jake Vigil,” Hallie read aloud.
“Quite a crew,” Chance observed. He was in a chair near the fire, reading old letters.
Hallie nodded, set the pictures carefully aside, and reached for a slender volume resting on the coffee table. The diary had a cloth cover, partially eaten away, but the handwriting inside was still bold and strong, even after the passing of well over a century. Hallie handled the volume with careful awe.
On the first page of yellowed vellum, she read, “The Remembrance Book of Bridget McQuarry, State of Virginia, Christmastide, Year of Our Lord, 1859.” A shiver of anticipation and something else, something almost mystical, went through Hallie. She glanced up at Chance, who was still bent over his letters.
Hallie turned to the opening entry in the journal of Bridget McQuarry, one of the first settlers at Primrose Creek.
Granddaddy left this book beside my plate this morning, at the breakfast table, with a snow white ribbon tied around it. I shall keep all my secrets in these pages, all my joys and sorrows. . . .
She closed the book with a small sigh. A diary was a private thing, even if the woman who’d written in it was long dead. Perhaps it was a violation for her, a stranger, to read young Bridget’s most private thoughts.
Chance looked up—perhaps he’d heard her sigh—and gave her a questioning smile. “What?” he asked.
She took a few moments to sort through her thoughts and emotions. “Do you have any idea how blessed you are?”
He didn’t speak, but his expression was a questioning one.
“You’re part of a—well, a lineage —you have a history. A connection.” And, she added to herself, he obviously appreciated that connection, valued it, sought to sustain it, if he was at all interested in old pictures, diaries and letters. Which, of course, he was.
As far as Hallie was concerned, that said a great deal about his character and his capacity for commitment, all of it good.
“So do you,” he pointed out. “Everybody has ancestors, Hallie.”
“But with me, with most people, it’s simply biological. My mother was a single parent when she met my stepfather. I never knew anything about her family, or my father’s. It didn’t seem important for a long time, but now that I have children of my own, I wish—”
He left his chair, came to perch on the arm of hers. “You didn’t know your real father?”
“Lou was my real father,” she said. “He raised me. He loved my mom, and he loved me. He supported us both, in every way.” She bit her lower lip. “The sperm donor, as Mom always called him, was some guy named Michael O’Rourke. She didn’t like talking about him, and if she had so much as a photograph of the man, she never showed it to me. There must have been some kind of scandal attached—maybe they weren’t married when she got pregnant. In those days, that was a big deal. Maybe her mother and father, my grandparents, just cut her out of their lives.”
“And maybe it was the reverse. Maybe they’re out there somewhere, your mother’s folks, wondering about you. Have you ever tried to find out?”
How could she tell him that she’d been in survival mode for most of her life, dealing with the early loss of her mother, meeting and marrying Joel, having babies, building a successful business, coping with a divorce? Now, on the run as she was, she could hardly go poking around in her past, leaving a paper trail and perhaps drawing unwanted attention to herself. “It wouldn’t do any good,” she said, at some length.
He watched her in silence for a long moment, then answered, “It’s your decision. But maybe you’re going to go on feeling as if there’s a piece missing until you figure out who you are, where you came from.”
She studied him, trying to imagine what it would be like to be a Qualtrough, with pictures of your forebears, journals and correspondence written in their own handwriting. She couldn’t even imagine it, and she felt set adrift, like a boat with its mooring line cut. Finding no words to say, she shrugged again.
Chance leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Jessie’s taking her sweet time,” he said, after a few moments. “Maybe I’d better just go home, and try to get some sleep.” His tone indicated that he didn’t hold out much hope for that, and Hallie could empathize. They’d been doing innocent things all evening, but the air
between them was charged, practically striking sparks.
Then they heard the engine outside, in the crisp, cold darkness.
Hallie set the diary aside, as tenderly as if it were a living thing, with nerves and senses, and walked with Chance to the kitchen door. He took his hat and coat down from the pegs and put them on. She hugged herself and stepped out after him.
Jessie, a tall woman with a long, silver-black braid, got out of a pickup truck, assisted by a handsome gray-haired man. The legend on the truck door clued Hallie in to his identity—Hal Whitman, DVM. He went around, after opening Jessie’s door, and hoisted two suitcases out from under a tarp in the back of the rig.
Chance hugged Jessie, then took the bags from Dr. Whitman. When he turned back toward the house, Hallie could see that Chance was smiling to himself, and she wondered why.
“I’m Hallie O’Rourke,” she said, putting her hand out to Jessie.
Jessie beamed. She was wearing slacks, a beautifully woven poncho in shades of turquoise, sand and rose, and boots. “And I’m Jessie Shaw.”
“Hal Whitman,” the man said, and shook Hallie’s hand. “Folks just call me Doc.”
“Come in,” Hallie said, and then felt foolish. Of course they’d come in—this was Jessie’s house. She was the visitor here, not them.
Inside, there was a hubbub as Jessie’s things were carried to her room, and when she came downstairs, they all sat down at the kitchen table to drink coffee, despite the late hour.
“What a day,” Jessie sighed, reaching for her coffee cup. “Please tell me this isn’t decaf.”
Chance laughed. “It’s high-octane,” he assured her, “just the way you like it.”
They talked for a while, all of them, but it was soon apparent that, caffeine or none, Jessie was exhausted. Chance and Doc said good night, and left together, and there were Jessie and Hallie, standing there in the kitchen, looking at each other.
“The place looks wonderful,” Jessie said. “Let’s get some rest. We can talk in the morning.”
Hallie only nodded. Tired as she was, she was a long time getting to sleep that night. Maybe she’d been rash, running away from Joel, hiding the cashbox full of evidence Lou had probably spent months, if not years, gathering. Maybe there was some sort of misunderstanding, something easily explained, and she and the girls could go home for good. Back to Scottsdale, where they had friends, a comfortable condominium, money.
Except that, for some strange reason, Arizona didn’t seem like home anymore, even though she’d lived there all her life.
Now, wasn’t that a strange thing?
Very early the next morning, before it was even light outside, Hallie awakened to a distant, rhythmic sound. After a few moments, she recognized it as the song of a loom. Jessie was weaving. Hastily, Hallie scrambled out of bed, pulled on an old robe of threadbare chenille, and went downstairs.
Jessie, looking magnificent in jeans and a simple, long-sleeved white blouse, her salt-and-pepper braid resting over one shoulder, smiled at her. “I hope I didn’t disturb you,” she said. “The coffee’s made.”
Staggering a little, Hallie made her way into the kitchen, poured a cup, came back. “You must miss this place when you’re away,” she said to Jessie. “I know I would.”
“Do you like it here?” Jessie asked, looking down at her weaving for a few moments. A pattern was already taking shape, though Hallie couldn’t recognize any images yet.
“Yes,” Hallie answered. “Very much. I appreciate your letting the girls and me stay here while you were away.”
Jessie frowned prettily. “You sound as though you’re planning to leave soon.”
Hallie shrugged one shoulder, took a steadying sip of her coffee, holding the mug in both hands. “I understood that it was a temporary arrangement.”
“Where would you go?”
The question filled Hallie with bleak contemplation. “I’m not sure,” she finally admitted.
“Just away?”
“Pretty much, yes.”
“I wish you could stay.”
“So do I,” Hallie answered, before she could catch herself.
Jessie raised one dark eyebrow. “Then why don’t you? I’m on the road a lot, and I could really use somebody to help out around here. Chance is good about it, but he’s got a lot to do on his own place.”
Hallie was at once pleased and chagrined. On the one hand, she wanted to stay, wanted to be a part of the Primrose Creek community. On the other, well, it would be wrong to make Jessie think she was going to be around for a long time, somebody she could depend upon, when she would probably be gone in a matter of weeks, if not days.
“You could keep your job at the Last Chance Café, of course,” Jessie said, when the silence grew long.
“For now,” Hallie said, very carefully, “I’d like to stay. As for the job in town . . .”
“You can go on using my Jeep to get there,” Jessie helped out when Hallie ran out of steam. “I usually walk or ride a horse when I want to go somewhere.”
Hallie couldn’t help being struck by the woman’s kindness, and by her trust. “You don’t know very much about me,” she reminded Jessie.
Jessie smiled. “I’m a good judge of character,” she said, and turned her full attention to her weaving.
Hallie lingered for a few moments, basking in Jessie’s easy acceptance, then went upstairs to get ready for a new day.
Granddaddy left this book beside my plate this morning, at the breakfast table, with a snow white ribbon tied around it. I shall keep all my secrets in these pages, all my joys and sorrows. . . .
11
A row of empty dog food cans lined the rickety sawhorse Chance had set up at the far end of Jessie’s pasture. Beyond the barbed wire fence rose a high, stony dirt bank, perfect for absorbing stray bullets. It was late afternoon, and Hallie had finished her shift at the café early, since business was slow. The animals at both Chance’s place and her own had been taken care of, and Kiley and Kiera were at Evie Callahan’s school. Jessie, home just three days, was already packing for a second gallery tour, this one aimed at the West Coast. Hallie stood stiffly as Chance handed her a .32 caliber hunting rifle. The thing weighed heavy in her damp hands, and she wanted to throw it down, turn on her heel, and simply run, with arm-pumping, heart-pounding speed. It was the memory of facing a mountain lion in Jessie’s backyard, with no way to protect herself and her children, that kept her standing still. She had a choice, here. She could go on being afraid, feeling helpless, and running away, or she could prepare to fight back. She could stand her ground.
“You’re making a big deal out of this shooting thing,” Chance told her. “There’s no need to do that. It can be easy, if you’ll let it.”
“Maybe it’s easy for you, ” Hallie said. “It just so happens that guns are dangerous.” Now there was a flash; trust her to offer a penetrating insight.
“That’s the whole idea,” Chance responded patiently. He stood behind her, set her hands in place on the rifle, covered them lightly with his own. His breath was warm on the side of her neck, his torso hard against her back and bottom. “What good would they be if they fired cotton balls?”
It would be a different, better world, that’s what—not that there was any use in saying so. Hallie moistened her lips. Her arms felt weak, and when she slipped a finger into the trigger guard, she shuddered. “I’m not sure I can do this,” she said. She was in serious danger of losing her lunch.
“You can,” Chance replied, “and you will.”
She sighed. She wasn’t going to mention it, of course, but she couldn’t help recalling, with him standing so close and all, the glorious night they’d passed together, in Jessie’s spare room bed. Nervous as she was, she felt a stab of heat and thought she smelled ozone.
He showed her how to site in, bracing the butt of the rifle in the hollow of her shoulder, and when she fired, the recoil threw her back against him with startling force. She knew she’d have a b
ruise where the gunstock struck her flesh; the impact rattled through her bones. Meanwhile, the hard contours of Chance’s body were practically fused to hers. It was as if every cell in her body had its own runaway heartbeat.
For all this, the cans on the sawhorse stood untouched, as if taunting her, but there was a hell of a chink in the trunk of the venerable ponderosa pine just on the other side of the fence.
I’m sorry, Hallie told the tree silently.
Chance steadied her, though belatedly, it seemed to her. “Try again,” he said.
“No,” she replied. It was part rebellion, part plea, that one small word.
“Yes,” he answered.
She’d made a choice: running away—or even walking away—was no longer an option. Her knees had turned to butter. Resigned, she cocked the rifle, guided by Chance’s hands like before, set the stock against her sore shoulder, and fired again. There was a pinging sound, and a sharp, metallic smell. Small stones rolled down the dirt bank in a mini-avalanche.
It was hopeless. She was hopeless. “This is hopeless!”
He took a playful nip at her earlobe, and she was uncomfortably reminded of wild horses she’d seen on TV, the stallion moving in on a mare in similar fashion, with mating in mind. The parallel all but took her breath away. New energy surged through her. “You’re a woman, Hallie, and that’s a magical thing. Show me your power.”
Fire roared through her, partly sexual, partly pride, all but scorching the earth at her feet. She fired, and missed, reloaded, and fired again. She’d made nine shots before she managed to nick one of the tin cans—it teetered on the sawhorse, and finally fell into the grass. The whole thing seemed to happen in slow motion.
The shooting lesson continued until twilight began to gather around them. Then they got into Chance’s truck, and headed back to Jessie’s house.
The Last Chance Cafe Page 17