The Woman for Dusty Conrad

by Tori Carrington

  A brief touch. That’s all. He’d brush his mouth against hers, then pull away.

  The instant his lips made contact with hers, her tear-damp ones softened under his. Dusty groaned. Okay, maybe he should broaden the kiss parameters a tad. Say full contact for no more than ten seconds. As if on its own hungry accord, his tongue dipped out and gently lapped her salty tears. Whoa, that wasn’t supposed to happen. But, oh, she tasted so good. Jolie swayed against him, her arms curving around his waist, her fingers digging into the small of his back near his spine. In that one lucid moment, he knew he was a goner.

  A brief touch melted into a needful seeking as he slid his tongue into the hot, honeyed depths of her mouth. Everything might have been all right if she hadn’t responded. But she had—in a breathless, thirsty way that sent his blood surging hotly through his veins like the fires they’d spent so much of their lives fighting. It was all Dusty could do not to back her against the edge of the unfinished Jacuzzi, push her sweater up over her ribs and pop open the button to her snug jeans….

  Just like old times.

  The thought caught and held. Just like old times. Only it wasn’t old times, was it? No matter how right she felt in his arms right now, the emotions she had momentarily bared to him, how much he wanted to take their kiss to the next level, nothing was the same.

  He purposefully set her away from him, his hands a little rough on her arms. “Jolie, this…isn’t a good idea.”

  She drew a shaky hand across her parted, well-kissed lips, looking as shocked as he felt. “No. No, it isn’t.” She stepped a little farther back away from him. “I’m sorry…I don’t know what came over me. I guess I’m tired. And—”

  “Don’t blame yourself, Jolie. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.” He gave her a halfhearted smile. “Though your cooperation didn’t help matters much.”

  She dropped her hand to her side and returned his smile. “Good thing one of us is thinking clearly, huh?”

  He looked away. He may have stopped himself before things spiraled out of control, but Dusty was far from describing his thoughts as clear. If he didn’t get out of this room, put some major distance between himself and Jolie now, it wouldn’t take a whole lot for him to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to the bed in the other room.

  Jolie picked up her coffee cup. “I’d better go get some sleep. Maybe after…” Her gaze locked onto his. “Will you be around for a couple more hours?”

  He wanted to tell her no, he needed to leave now. But his simple mission had swelled into a complicated one. He needed to stay and work those complications out. As much for Jolie’s sake as for his own.

  He finally nodded. “Yeah. I will.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of her hair behind a tiny ear. “You go on. I’ll be here.”

  For now.

  The words couldn’t have been louder if he had shouted them, though he was pretty sure he hadn’t even said them aloud.

  Chapter 3

  Dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. Dusty paced restlessly across the length of the living room, then back again, his every instinct wanting to lead him to the stairs and up to where Jolie lay in the bed they had once shared together.

  Knowing he’d either end up in that bed with her—if she’d have him—or go crazy keeping himself away from her, he snatched up his jacket and headed for the front door. It was only when his booted feet pounded against the pavement, the crisp autumn air whisking by his ears, that his thoughts were no longer dictated by the longings of his body.

  What had he done, kissing her like that? He had no right to touch her, much less take liberties with her mouth, no matter how tempted he’d been. He’d given up that right months ago.

  So why was it he wanted for all the world to reclaim that right?

  None of this made sense. The instant he rolled back into town, he’d felt as if he’d been gone five minutes. His old friends warmly welcomed him back, no questions asked. Every memory he’d ever formed in the small, quirky town had come flooding back. And his feelings for Jolie seemed to have grown more acute rather than diminishing, as he would have guessed.

  He reminded himself that his reasons for leaving Jolie had nothing to do with not loving her anymore. Rather, they had more to do with her loving something more than him that he could no longer compete with.

  He groaned, still practically able to taste Jolie on his tongue. Aching with need for her.

  Hormones run amok, he told himself. It was as simple as that.

  Simple. There was that damn word again. Simple didn’t come near describing a single event of this trip. He’d expected to waltz into town, get the divorce papers signed, then waltz right back out again, ready to restart his life from scratch. Allow Jolie to do the same.

  Instead he’d hung out at the fire station, stayed the night in Jolie’s sweet-smelling bed, resumed work on the master bath, and nearly molested her the first time they were left alone.

  Smooth move, Conrad.

  There was nothing like further confusing the issue than…further confusing the issue.

  And if he’d really only planned to stay a couple hours, why had he taken a week off work?

  He was so occupied by his thoughts he had no idea where he was heading. Until his feet stopped and he found himself staring at the ironwork archway leading into the town’s only cemetery.

  He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. It was as though his subconscious had sensed his need for reinforcement, and the death of his brother was definitely that.

  Dusty stood there for long moments, absently watching colorful leaves flutter from the tall oaks flanking the gate, then swirl lazily along the path. To say that losing Erick had been the beginning of the end of his marriage might be overstating things, but his brother’s death was the one event that had set everything that came after into motion.

  With slow, measured steps, he walked into the plainly laid-out cemetery, sticking to the cobblestone pathway barely wide enough to hold a car. For two hundred years this is where the townsfolk were laid to rest. It had only seemed natural that Erick should be buried here, as well.

  The quiet hum of an engine sounded behind him, forcing him up onto the grass as a funeral procession drove slowly by. He watched the flagged cars, clearly remembering the cool spring day he’d buried Erick. Twenty-eight years old. Far too young for a life to be snuffed out.

  Finally, he stood before the chest-high marble stone that reflected his brother’s name. It was difficult to reconcile the cold etching with the zealous man Erick had been. Beloved Husband, Father, Son and Brother, it read.

  His gaze caught on something at the base. He leaned over and picked up a shiny red toy fire truck.

  His fingers tightened around the tiny metal frame. He’d been in phone contact with his brother’s widow about once a month since he’d left. When he’d decided to come back, an important item on his agenda was to stop by to see Darby at her sprawling ranch on the outskirts of town. See how she was truly doing with his own two eyes and if she really didn’t need the help he tried to extend to her. To say hi and breathe in the little-girl smell of his twin six-year-old nieces who resembled Erick so much it hurt just looking at them.

  He was sure that one of the girls, or maybe even Darby herself, had left the toy fire engine. He rubbed his thumb along the painted side, the toy reminding him of one he and Erick used to fight over when they were younger. When their father headed off for one of his twenty-four-hour shifts and he and his brother would sit on the front step watching him go, rooster-proud that their father was a firefighter. Wanting nothing more than to grow up so they could become firefighters themselves.

  Firefighting was a Conrad tradition. Their father, his father before him, and his grandfather before then, the tradition reached back to the time the town was settled. It was only natural that Dusty, himself, would apply at the firehouse the instant he graduated community college and was old enough to enroll. Dusty smiled grimly, remembering how soundly jealous Erick had been that h
e’d gotten to go first. Erick had probably hated their age difference in that one moment more than he had at any other time in their lives.

  Not that Erick’s age had kept him away from the station. Or even from following the truck out on runs.

  Scott Wahl’s face flashed in Dusty’s mind and he shook his head, wondering if firefighting was some sort of disease. And if it was, if there was a foolproof cure.

  A hundred feet away, the funeral attendants were getting out of their cars. The sun glinted off the maple coffin where six pallbearers lifted it from the back of the hearse. He instantly recognized John Sparks as one of those men, though he was wearing civilian clothes rather than his sheriff’s uniform. He squinted at the others gathered, recognizing most of them, although the pastor was unfamiliar. Definitely not Pastor Adams. He wondered who had passed away. Then he remembered John saying something about Violet Jenkins being found elbow deep in dirt, planting tulip bulbs in her garden a couple of days ago. He rubbed his closed eyelids. God, Mrs. Jenkins had seemed ancient when he was a kid. He wondered how old she’d ended up living to.

  The thought immediately led to the young age of Erick when Dusty had lost the battle with the fire that took his brother’s life.

  He stood numbly, staring at the headstone.

  “Dusty.”

  He looked up to find John Sparks standing a few feet away, his suit jacket swung over his shoulder, his other hand in his pants pocket. He couldn’t be sure how long he’d stood there, but a glance around told him it must have been a while, for the place was nearly deserted.

  “Sparky.”

  John took that as an okay to come closer. He stepped up next to Dusty and both of them stood looking at Erick’s grave.

  “You know, he’s probably up there now getting a big kick out of us both standing together like this mourning over him.”

  Dusty shifted a glance toward the too bright autumn sky. He grinned. “Yeah, he probably is.”

  John folded his jacket over his forearm. “So what brings you here?”

  Dusty looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  The younger man shrugged. “Well, rumor has it you stayed at Jolie’s…er, your old place last night.” His grin was decidedly suggestive. “I would have thought you and she would, um, be catching up on old times.”

  Dust bent down and put the toy fire truck back where he’d found it. If only Sparks knew how close to the truth that statement came to describing what had happened between him and Jolie this morning.

  John held up his hands. “Trust me, I’m not looking for details. It’s hard enough being a single guy and working with a woman who looks like Jolie without knowing the details.” His chuckle was light.

  Dusty straightened. “Who’s the new pastor?”

  John stared at him, probably recognizing the change in subject for what it was. Dusty didn’t know what Jolie had told everyone, but he was guessing it wasn’t much given their co-workers’ response to his being back. For whatever reason, she hadn’t shared the truth with any of them. And it wasn’t up to him to tell them. Long after he had gone, Jolie would have to live here. Better she should handle things the way she saw fit.

  “He’s not new, really. Just temporary. You know, while Pastor Adams is on a pilgrimage to Lourdes. He said it was the first time the collections were enough for him to make the trip and he was damn well going to use every cent of it.”

  Dusty grinned. “Sounds like Adams.”

  “Jonas is the name of the fill-in. Jonas Noble. They say he’s from Montana, but nobody knows for sure. He doesn’t much like to talk about himself.”

  “Ah, he’s got the gossips’ tongues to wagging, has he?” Good. That left them with less time to try to pick apart his and Jolie’s crumbling marriage.

  “Wagging? If you could channel the energy the townsfolk generate, we’d never pay for another electric bill.”

  The two of them chuckled. Then they both fell silent and turned their attention back to the headstone.

  “I miss him, you know?” Sparks said quietly.

  Dusty nodded. He missed his brother, too. More than he could say.

  John cleared his throat. “I’ve, um, been out to Darby’s a couple times. You know, to see if she needs any work done around the house and stuff. Figured Erick would have wanted me to keep an eye out for her and all.”

  Dusty nodded. “How’s she’s doing?”

  “As well as can be expected, I guess. As independent as all get out. Wouldn’t even let me take out the garbage. And trust me, with all those damn animals she’s got out there, there’s a lot of it.” He frowned, then looked off into the distance. “I get the impression she blames Erick for what happened.”

  Dusty digested the information. What would Darby do if she knew the blame rested solely on him? “I think that’s only natural. She never much liked Erick’s passion for his job.” Just like he could no longer stomach Jolie’s obsession with hers.

  “What about the girls?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t tell you anything there. They don’t seem to like me much.” It slightly startled Dusty when John dropped an arm over his shoulders. “Everyone should be gathering at Eddie’s for a drink about now. What do you say we head over and tie one on? You know, for old times’ sake.”

  Dusty thought of Jolie back at the house, lying in the middle of that old bed. Visualized the tangle of her rich brown hair spilled across the pillow. Imagined her sleep-warm skin….

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Um, lead on.”

  It was only twelve o’clock, but he was willing to do something, anything, to keep from going back to the house, climbing those stairs and slipping into bed with Jolie.

  Chapter 4

  Jolie fingered through the fresh greens in the produce corner of Old Jake’s General Store, passing her own favorite of collard and going for the dandelion that Dusty always liked so much. Curling her fingers into her palm, she pulled back her hand altogether, then pushed the cart toward the tomatoes.

  The past half hour had been spent doing exactly the same thing. She’d reach for an item, then something would catch her eye and she’d automatically reroute to finger a choice Dusty would favor. The items in her cart totaled four. Laundry detergent, flour, sugar and milk. Generic items that didn’t have any connection to Dusty.

  Well, okay, maybe she preferred that specific brand of detergent because she loved the way it smelled on Dusty’s clothes where they rested against his skin. But no one but her need know that.

  In the three hours since Dusty had left the house after kissing her, she’d tried to sleep, but failed. Scrubbed the kitchen floor to exhaust herself, and still was wide awake. Then she resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to get the rest she needed after twenty-four hours at the firehouse. It was a good thing she’d stolen a couple of hours’ rest between calls late last night or else she’d be dead on her feet right about now.

  Not that her current emotional state was any improvement. She picked through the tomatoes, then chose a bunch of green lettuce. Even now her nerve endings seemed to tingle, jolted awake by Dusty’s skillful kiss and refusing to lie still. Her muscles were tense, her lips still felt swollen…and her body cried out for more than the brief, fevered contact. Not even running errands had been successful in banishing the unwanted feelings. But it had added a decidedly sharper edge to them and her reaction.

  When she’d set off in her Jeep, she’d conveniently forgotten the smallness of the town and the open curiosity of the townsfolk. No matter how well-meaning they were, they were downright nosy now that word of Dusty’s return had gotten around. She’d kept busy enough at the station that she hadn’t heard much from her fellow firefighters. But Madge at the post office had been another matter. Then there’d been Gene at the combination dry cleaners-launderette. On top of that, Roger at the gas station had rested a hand against the rooftop of her Jeep and grinned down at her while the pump automatically filled the tank and asked why she didn’t look more che
erful, what with Dusty being back and all.

  “Jolie? Jolie Calbert Conrad, is that you?”

  Jolie tightened her hands on the cart handle, filled with the incredible urge to run. She wouldn’t have stopped at the general store at all except that she was out of the essentials and had to. She’d known before going in that the central town gossiping center, second only to Eddie’s pub, was a minefield of astronomic proportions. In fact, she was surprised she’d gotten through a half hour of shopping without someone approaching her.

  Carefully fastening a smile onto her tired features, she turned toward Elva Mollenkopf. “Hi, Elva. Doing some shopping?”

  Yes, the question was mundane, but sometimes when you stated the obvious, the other person dove into a monologue on what they were buying and why.

  Not Elva. Her almost predatory smile made Jolie want to set the cart wheels spinning, then jump on the foot rest and let it carry her away.

  “Is it true?” Elva asked.

  Jolie blinked. “Is what true?”

  “Is Dusty really back…and staying at the house?”

  Jolie swallowed hard against the cotton batting in her throat. She debated saying something along the lines of “It’s not what you think,” or even toyed with the idea of saying “It’s none of your business,” but she gauged that neither would go over real well with the woman who was twenty years her senior.

  “It’s true,” someone said, but Jolie was pretty sure it wasn’t her. She turned her head to see Angela Johansen approaching from behind. Of course, her last name had once been Paglio, back in grade and high school when Jolie had shared more than a few classes with her. They’d always been friends, though not the type of call-every-day, tell-all-your-secrets-to kind of friends.

  They had, however, always been there to back each other up.

  “Hi, Jolie,” Angie said with a warm, knowing smile. “How are you, Elva?” she said a little coolly. “It’s good to see you again. I don’t think our paths have crossed since…well, God, since the Fourth of July celebration when you had that mishap with Joe Johnson’s dogs. How is your leg, anyway?”