“Only if you didn’t mean it.”
He drew back slightly. “What?”
“Is it true?”
“Mercy—”
“Very simple, a yes-or-no question. Is it true?”
“You were there,” he said dryly. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have…a lot of experience in this. At least, not recently.”
“Oh, God,” Grant muttered.
“Did you…not want to stop?”
“Damn it, Mercy—”
“Did you?”
“I was as hot as that damn oven,” he snapped. “Does that answer your question?”
Her color deepened. “I…suppose so.”
She turned her eyes back to the fire. She stared into the flames. He wondered what had possessed him to kindle the blaze in the first place. Either blaze, the one on the hearth or the one between them.
She said nothing. She simply sat, watching the shifting golden light, not even jumping as an occasional pocket of resin in the pinewood he’d added heated up and snapped like a gunshot. But then, he supposed that sound was probably as distinctly unlike a shot to her as Gambler’s howl was from a coyote’s to him.
She still said nothing. What the hell was she thinking? How could she prod him into an admission like that and just…sit there?
“That’s it?” The words finally burst from him, despite his efforts to match her apparent calm. “You ask a question like that and just leave it there?”
She turned her head. Her cheeks looked faintly pink, but no more than they might be from the heat of the fire just a couple of feet away.
“I just needed to know if…”
“If what?”
She lowered her eyes then, and he knew the blush was coming from the inside. “If I was the only one who was…feeling that way.”
Grant sucked in a deep, harsh breath. “I… You…didn’t want to stop, either?”
As if she’d just realized she was avoiding looking at him, her head came up again. And again Grant silently saluted her; she might be a city girl, but she wasn’t short on pure nerve. No wonder she was good at her job, difficult though it was.
“As scary as it is…no. I didn’t want to stop.”
“Mercy,” he began, but broke off when he heard the tight, urgent sound of his own voice. His body had reacted to her simple admission with a violent swiftness, and he needed all his concentration for a moment to rein in the heat that was threatening to break loose.
She didn’t give him that moment. She simply looked at him, her eyes wide and soft and shimmering green, and he was lost. And when he reached for her, despite his best efforts not to, she came to him willingly.
He’d half convinced himself he’d imagined it, the fierce, hot sweetness of her mouth, her kiss. He’d told himself it was the long months of celibacy that had done him in, blowing his memory of it out of all proportion with reality; nothing could really feel the way his silly imagination thought that kiss had felt.
He’d been wrong.
Her lips were as soft, her mouth was as honey-sweet, as he remembered. And the flames that leaped to life in him made the fire on the hearth seem like a mere flicker.
He tasted her, long and deep, and she welcomed it, her hands slipping up behind his neck, the slender fingers of one hand threading through his hair. He felt the brush of her touch against his skin, and as if all his nerve endings had awakened at once, he felt the ripple of sensation chase down his back. She made a tiny sound deep in her throat, a low, husky sound that sent a shiver down his spine and hardened him achingly in one pulsing beat of his heart.
He groaned, and tried to pull back, knowing he was careening out of control already. Mercy protested with a tightening of her hands at the back of his neck, and a pressing of her body to his. She moved her mouth coaxingly on his, and then traced his lips with the tip of her tongue. The groan that escaped him then was a long, heartfelt one of pure pleasure.
She seemed to take it as encouragement, and Grant nearly gasped aloud as she probed past his lips to trace the even ridge of his teeth. He froze, lips still parted, worried beyond reason that she would go no further if he scared her off with his eagerness. Then, gently, he flicked her tongue with his own and drew back in silent invitation. And groaned again when she accepted and tasted him deeply, as if she’d only been waiting for that.
Her eagerness unleashed his own, and his hands slid up to cup her head and hold her steady for his plunging kiss. The shift of his weight overbalanced them, and they slipped down to the cushions of the couch. The feel of her stretched out half beside, half beneath him nearly drove Grant wild, and he couldn’t stop himself sliding one hand down her straight, slender back to press her tighter against him.
Her hands shifted, and he felt her fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders with that strength that had always amazed him. But she wasn’t pushing him away, she was urging him on, and when she nipped ever so gently at his lower lip, his hips jerked involuntarily, nudging her thigh with flesh he couldn’t ever remember being this hard before.
He didn’t know if the room was starting to spin because of the kiss, or because he’d forgotten to breathe. It came down to the same thing in the end, he supposed. Reluctantly he wrenched his mouth away, and for a long moment simply looked down into her wide eyes. They were full of a wonder unlike anything he’d ever seen before, and the thought that he’d put that look there made him feel things he’d never felt before.
He’d never seen her look so thoroughly beguiled, so completely unshadowed by anything except the fierce need that had so surprisingly captured them both. This was how she should look all the time, he thought. Rid of that hovering sadness, rid of the pain, the dark memories…
God, what was he doing? She’d come here to heal, to mend, before going back to relive the horror of what had happened when the killer was caught and she had to testify about the death of the man she’d loved and respected.
He forced himself to sit up. His body shuddered in protest; it cared nothing about reasons or right or wrong, it cared only that it was being denied when it wanted to seek the haven of her sweet heat more than it wanted to keep breathing. His jaw clenched as he fought himself, as he fought this consuming tide of need he’d never expected to feel in his life, and certainly never expected to feel for this woman.
“Grant?”
Her voice was tentative, quiet, and hovering too close to the edge of hurt for him to miss the undertone.
“Mercy, listen—” he had to stop for a ragged breath “—we have to…stop. I know you’re still…off balance a bit here, after Nick—”
She sat up slowly, her breathing as ragged as his own. She looked at him, her lips parted, and still looking slightly swollen from the intensity of their kiss. When she spoke at last, it was with great care. “I know I am.”
“So we’d better stop this while…we can.”
“But that has nothing to do with this.”
“But it does.” He was beginning to sound a little desperate, as his body heard only the acquiescence in her voice, and not the ramifications of what it so badly wanted to do. “They say that, don’t they, that when someone close to you…dies, the instinct is to…”
“Sex as affirmation of life, is that what you’re saying?”
Grant winced. “It sounds…cold like that, but…sort of, yes.”
She stood up, drawing her five-foot-two-inch frame up to its full length, and managing in the process to exude a dignity far beyond her diminutive stature.
“I think you’re underestimating yourself and your appeal, Grant. That’s rather refreshing, actually. And I even appreciate your effort at…nobility, I suppose. I was a little fragile when I got here, but…not anymore. I’ve found peace here. And for a moment, I thought I’d found something else, as well.”
“I’m not noble,” he growled, wondering why, of all she had said, that was what grated on him. Perhaps because he wasn’t feeling noble at all r
ight now. He was feeling frustrated, and it was his own stupid fault, for letting his scruples about taking advantage of her vulnerability interfere.
“I understand, Grant. Really. It’s common enough, I suppose. But do you really think that I only wanted this because Nick died? To prove to myself that I’m still alive? If you did, you’re also underestimating me. This isn’t about reaffirming life, or survivor’s guilt, or any of the other catchphrases they throw around.”
“Mercy—”
“I’m not the child I once was, who thought the sun rose and set in you. It’s not about that, either. It’s about the simple fact that you make me feel like no man ever has before. And that you admitted…it went both ways. That’s all.”
She walked away from him then, her back ramrod-straight, her head high. And he wondered if he’d done more damage than good with all his self-sacrifice here tonight. There were times, he thought with a ruefulness that was almost painful in its strength, when he wished his mother hadn’t raised him to be quite so…straight-arrow. When he wished he could do as so many others seemed to, just take the gifts that were handed to them and never question whether the taking would be right or wrong, never taking into account anyone else’s feelings in the matter.
But Barbara Jackson McClure Fortune had been a powerful influence on his life—never mind that she’d only been in it part of the time since he’d turned four. Perhaps that was even why her influence had been so powerful; as a child, he’d had so little time with her he was eager to show her he could be the son she wanted him to be. And by the time he realized all his efforts weren’t going to put his family back together, he’d already been in the habit.
He let his head loll back on the couch and released a disgusted sigh as he tried to will his still-aroused body into submission.
He heard a short, sharp sound that seemed to echo his own disgust, and looked up to see Gambler on his feet, looking at him with every evidence of wry pity. Once the dog saw that he had Grant’s attention, he trotted over to the door.
“That bad, huh?” he muttered as he got up to let the animal out. “Can’t even stand to be in here with me?”
The feisty little shepherd looked back over his shoulder at him, but politely refrained from any further observations as he trotted outside.
Grant closed the door after him, knowing the dog would sleep in the barn as usual; Gambler wasn’t a house dog, and had only taken to visiting indoors at all since Mercy had arrived. His dog, his horse, his hands, she’d charmed them all. He couldn’t say effortlessly—she’d worked far too hard around here to say that—but she’d certainly done it swiftly enough.
As for what she’d done to him, he wasn’t sure he knew the word for that. He wasn’t sure there was a word for it.
It was a very long time before he made the lonely trek upstairs.
“Fine way to spend Christmas Eve,” he muttered as he strode past her door, jaw clenched, thinking that if he wasn’t still so damned horny it was putting his teeth on edge, he’d probably be feeling pretty damn sorry for himself.
She hadn’t expected to sleep at all, not after that kiss, so Mercy was startled when the trumpeting bark brought her fully awake in an instant. She’d heard Gambler bark before, when chivying along recalcitrant cattle, when answering a whistle, when alerting them that some unfamiliar and perhaps unfriendly creature was too close to the Aussie dog’s turf, when greeting a guest arriving through the front gate. The tough little animal conveyed an amazing amount simply by his tone and the rapidity of the sounds. She’d heard them all, and none of them had ever sounded like this. There was a note to the dog’s quick barks that was urgent and worried at the same time, and it made the skin between her shoulder blades prickle.
Without hesitation, she scrambled out of bed and dressed hastily, tugging on her sheepskin boots as she hopped to her door. She heard heavier steps on the stairs just as she pulled the door open, and knew Grant was up and answering Gambler’s unmistakable summons.
By the time she got downstairs, he was already outside. She pulled the door open in time to see him running across the yard, the dog, silent now that his call had been answered, leading the way toward the barn.
She carefully closed the door behind her and hurried after them. Her heart jammed upward in her chest when she saw dog and man bypass the main barn and continue on to the smaller barn where the mares were housed.
She knew before she got there, with an instinct she didn’t question, that it was Lady, the leopard Appy mare. The moment she stepped into the barn, she heard a harsh, rasping sound, and saw Gambler sitting anxiously before the horse’s stall. Grant was just now opening the stall door, having obviously stopped to grab the battery-powered lamp he now held. She ran across the aisle of the barn, wincing at the labored sound of the mare’s breathing.
The beautiful mare was down, her distended belly looking even more swollen as she lay on her side. She was sweating, wet with it at neck and flanks. She thrashed briefly, her legs and head flailing. Then she fell back, as if exhausted, her eyes looking dull and flat with weariness. Mercy felt something twist inside her painfully. She watched as Grant checked the horse, laying a gentle hand on her lower belly as he spoke softly to the distressed animal.
“Easy, girl. It’s going to be okay. That little one of yours just decided to be a little early. It’ll be a Christmas baby, that’s all. Easy, now.”
It was a tender, almost crooning litany, and the horse seemed to respond, not fighting his touch, but watching him with liquid brown eyes that seemed to understand. Mercy knew this was early. Walt had explained to her that they tried to time breedings on the ranch so that the birth came as soon after the New Year as possible, to give the horse a head start, since for registration and competitive purposes, all horses’ birthdays were calculated as January 1.
“Is this early enough to be a problem?”
Grant looked up at her. His eyes widened a fraction, and Mercy became suddenly aware that in her haste she’d left her hair down and not bothered with a bra. But he said nothing, only answered her question.
“Not like that. Doc said she should foal about mid-January, so this is only three weeks early. That’s not the problem. There’s something else wrong.”
“Something else?”
“Normally, a mare foals within a half an hour of her water bag breaking. She did it in fifteen minutes, last time. But it looks like she’s been down for a while. If the foal started before things went wrong, if it’s in the passage or the cord is twisted, it could die.”
Mercy stared, her stomach knotting. “Do you want me to call someone? A vet?”
Grant shook his head grimly. “It’d take Doc Watson two hours to get here, even if we could find him on Christmas Eve. I don’t think the foal has that kind of time. And she may not, either. She’s exhausted.”
Mercy’s eyes widened. She’d grown quite fond of the gentle, pretty mare, feeding her bits of carrots and apples while she sympathized with her ungainliness.
“She’s not going to die, is she?”
“Not if I can help it,” Grant said.
“What can I do to help?”
He glanced up at her. “Ever delivered a baby, Officer Brady?”
“Once,” she said.
“Get ready for your second, then.”
If he meant to intimidate her, he failed. “Will you need the traditional hot water?” she asked mildly.
A grin flickered across his face. “Absolutely.”
“I’ll get back to the house.”
The grin widened. “Just the tap over there will do. It comes out really hot. Almost boiling, in fact. I’ll wash up there. That’s why we put that little hot-water heater and sink out here.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t help smiling back. “Clever.”
“Walt’s idea. Nothing’s too good for his mares. He’s had that heater turned on for a couple of days now, and moved her into this foaling stall last week. He must have suspected she was going to pull this on
us.”
Mercy looked around at the stall, which was larger than the others, almost twelve foot square. The hayrack that was low on the wall of the other stalls was missing, she supposed for safety’s sake.
“I wish he was here to help you,” she said fervently.
“You’ll do fine, Mercy.” He began to give a string of orders, but Mercy didn’t quibble; he knew what to do, and she didn’t. “Get me that blue box out of the tack cabinet over there, and the clean towels that are there. I’ll need that heat lamp, too. Plug it into the light fixture outside the door. I’ll need it to warm the towels, and it’s cold enough the foal may need help drying off. And get that lantern like this one from the other barn, will you? Those overhead lights in the breezeway aren’t going to be enough. I don’t want to hurt her because I can’t see.”
“All right.”
She got the box, heat lamp and towels for him first, then hurried over to the other barn. Joker whinnied as she came in, but she spared him only a pat on the nose as she went by his stall. He protested as she grabbed the lantern and headed back at a run, but she hushed him rather vehemently.
“You be quiet,” she ordered. “It’s your baby she’s trying to deliver, and the least you can do is shut up while she’s doing it.”
She never stopped moving, and she was out the door on her last word. Surprisingly—or perhaps not—the big stallion made no further noise.
When she got back, Grant was kneeling beside the still-downed horse. He had discarded his heavy jacket and already washed up; she could see damp spots on the edges of the sleeves of his utilitarian gray T-shirt, indicating that he’d scrubbed his arms almost to his shoulders.
Well, it should have been utilitarian. On Grant it looked…amazing. Stretched across his broad chest, snug around his muscular arms and tucked into his jeans over his flat, fit belly, it reminded her rather forcefully that she rarely saw him like this, and inspired a wayward wish to come back to the ranch in warm weather, to see him regularly without heavy winter gear.
“Set that lantern over there and turn it on,” he instructed her. She did so, and the beam of light lit up the rest of the stall. “I’ve got to check on what’s wrong inside. Pray I don’t find feet bottoms up.”
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