by Lori Wilde
He took off.
Never one to resist a challenge, Jillian’s competitive streak kicked in, and she shot after him.
He hopped over moguls like his ankle had never been compromised. Jillian’s heart momentarily vaulted into her throat, but when she realized he could handle himself, she deftly maneuvered the mogul. Aha! She still had it.
Tuck had insisted she rent parabolic skis, and they were amazing. The hourglass shape gave her more speed and control, and they responded immediately to the slightest pressure. Technology had made great strides since the last time she’d been skiing in college during spring break with Delaney, Tish, and Rachael.
They raced, flying around trees, zipping down the hill, zigzagging over the granular surface soaring toward Thunder Lodge, the Chalet condos, the bank of metal lockers where skiers stashed their possessions. It felt decadent, this hedonistic, holiday, cold-weather dash, as if they’d shoplifted something money couldn’t replace—time, a precious memory, happiness. They were still young, they were free, and Jillian basked in their very aliveness.
The snow was sugar, tempting and white. On their skis, Jillian and Tuck raced, breathless and hungry, muscles charged and blood pumped with adrenaline. It was a glorious game, and Jillian realized that she did not play nearly often enough.
On the skis, on the mountain, pulling in the cold, crisp morning air, Jillian felt like someone else. It was as if she’d stepped into the body of another Jillian, this one lighter, giddier, silly even. Gone was Queenie and in her place was …
Who?
She didn’t know, but she liked this new woman, this new sensation wrapping around her, crowding out the cloak of loneliness she’d worn for twenty-nine years. Something happened to her on the top of that mountain as she played snow tag with Tuck. Something she could not explain. Something that filled her with hope and expectancy. Something that made her soul sing.
Jillian spurred her body onward, eager to win, determined to beat him. She dug her poles into the snow, pushing faster, aiming for a shortcut, even though it was steeper than the path Tuck had taken. Jillian had never been afraid to assume risk in order to claim her prize.
But even so, they arrived at the base at exactly the same moment. No winner, no loser.
Equals.
It was, Jillian decided, the perfect ending to the perfect ski run. Grinning, she took off her ski cap and shook her head.
Tuck sucked in his breath. Jillian’s face was turned in profile to him as she looked back at where they’d come from, her gaze drinking in the pine trees, the snow, the mountain vista.
She ran her fingers through her hair, and the wind tossed the ebony strands over her shoulder. She looked mind-shatteringly beautiful in her powder-blue snow-bunny suit that snugged her athletic body like a leather glove, hugging her breasts and womanly hips, nipping in at her sculpted waist.
He pushed his goggles up on his forehead. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hidden behind the darkly tinted lenses of her sunshades. The bright morning light warmed their skin. She tilted her head back to catch the sun full on, briefly shut her eyes, inhaled deeply, and then looked at him.
“I love the smell of snow,” she breathed.
Hypnotized by the sight of her, Tuck could only nod. White snow, black hair, ripe body in blue clothes.
She pointed at the ski lodge. “Break for lunch?”
“Guess it’s Dutch treat,” he said.
“I’ll pay.”
“It’s not a date and I didn’t win the bet. We’re friends. It’s Dutch treat.”
“Unless,” she said, “I pick up lunch and you can pick up the tab for the hot toddies after the last run of the day.”
“I can go for that.”
They skied to the lodge, shrugged out of their gear, locked up their skis, and went inside. They were a little early for lunch, and the place was fairly empty, so the waitress showed them to a table in the lounge area. The television at the bar was tuned to The Price Is Right, but the sound was muted.
The smell of hearty, winter food scented the air—chili, pot roast, hunter’s stew, chicken pot pie. Tuck ordered the chili, and Jillian went for the chicken pot pie.
“How’s the ankle?” she asked.
“Good as new.”
“I’m having a good time.” She smiled at him over the rim of her coffee cup while they waited for their food order. “Thanks for inviting me.”
“No problem. I’m enjoying the view.” Tuck looked at her instead of out the window at the majestic mountain, letting her know he wasn’t speaking about the scenery. He was confused by his own statement. They were forging a friendship. Why was he mucking things up with the insinuation that there could be more?
She briefly met his eyes, then quickly turned her gaze out the big picture window. She looked unsure of herself. He couldn’t blame her. He was feeling as unsteady as a toddler taking his first steps. “Yes, it is beautiful.”
“Gorgeous.” He never took his eyes off her face.
She fingered the bracelet at her wrist as if it were a talisman she used to comfort herself when she was feeling off balance. He’d watched her perform the gesture before. She rubbed her fingers over it like a rosary. Whether she knew it or not, the woman had faith in something. A power beyond her.
A crackling fire in the fireplace near their table suddenly made a loud snapping noise and spilled a shower of sparks into the grate. She jumped, slightly startled. Then her gaze met Tuck’s.
“Dry wood,” he explained.
“Ah, we’re back to the subject of wood again.” Her eyes twinkled, teasing him. “It’s a favorite of yours. A regular theme.”
“What can I say? I’m a carpenter at heart.” He chuckled. “Wood is my medium.”
“Medium is fine with me. I’ve found that large is often not all it’s cracked up to be.”
Desire churned Tuck’s stomach as he caught her sexual innuendo. He felt at once both concern and excitement. He wanted her, yes, but he wanted her friendship even more. The morning they’d just spent together convinced him of that. He wasn’t going to jeopardize the good thing they had going.
Sex was sure to mess things up.
But the look in her eyes—the look that told him she wanted him as much as he wanted her—cut like razor wire and made him think, What if, what if, what if?
He was sitting next to her so they could both view the mountain through the picture window. He could see the pulse at the hollow of her throat fluttering. His own heart was fluttering too. His gaze dropped to her wrist again, watching as she twirled the silver and turquoise filigree bracelet.
“Where’d you get the bracelet?” he asked.
“Blake. He gave it to me for my law school graduation.”
Tuck snorted, shook his head.
Jillian’s chocolate brown eyes narrowed. “What does that snort mean?”
“He was far more of a father to you than he ever was to Aimee,” Tuck said.
“And you resent that.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“From what Blake told me, Aimee was the one who’d cut him out of her life,” she said.
Anger sparked inside him. “Blake was a shitty father.”
“Maybe. I wasn’t there. But he was the closest thing to a father I ever had. I’m saying that whatever went on between him and Aimee, it was a two-way street. Aimee wasn’t all sweetness and light.”
“Excuse me, are you disrespecting my dead wife?”
“That’s not what I meant, but you do idolize her memory. No living woman could live up to Saint Aimee.”
Tuck couldn’t believe she was going there. “Don’t,” he said through clenched teeth. “Don’t you say a word against her.”
Her jaw tightened and she turned her head to look out the window. Tuck was startled to see unshed tears glistening at the corner of her eyes. Immediately, he felt contrite. Reaching out, he put his hand on her forearm.
She stiffened.
“Jillian,” he murmured. “I do
n’t want to fight with you. We’ve had such a great day. I just wanted …”
He looked down at her wrist, at the bracelet that represented the wall between them. His love for Aimee, her loyalty to Blake. Ghosts sat in the two vacant chairs at the table. Ghosts of the past, mucking up the promise of a hopeful future.
“Don’t try to figure me out, Tucker Manning,” she said. “Save your efforts.”
“I can’t.” Tuck lifted a hand and slowly traced the back of one finger down the side of her cheek and along her tensed jaw.
He was encouraged when she didn’t pull away. In fact, she swiveled her head around to meet his gaze full on.
“You fascinate me, Jillian Samuels,” he said.
The breath left her lungs in a small sigh.
He knew he shouldn’t do it, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. She looked so hurt, and he felt so compelled to smooth things over between them. He brushed his lips against hers. A breezy, hardly there kiss.
The touch of their mouths sent a shudder clean through him.
She sighed a second time.
He lowered his head, slid his arm around her back, pulled her closer, and kissed her more firmly.
Jillian parted her lips, but she didn’t lean into him, and she kept her arms stiffly in her lap. Tuck touched the tip of his tongue to hers, but she closed her mouth and drew back.
“No,” she whispered.
Tuck pulled his head away. “I … I …” He didn’t know what he wanted to say. Words seemed empty, useless tools with which to try and scale this … this … thing between them. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes never left his. Her body radiated a bizarre combination of self-discipline, anger, desire, and fierce melancholia.
The waitress interrupted, depositing their food on the table. The earthy aroma of cumin-rich chili scented the air between them.
He looked at Jillian, at the regal set to her shoulders and the hooded expression in her dark eyes, and he felt so inadequate. His heart hammered and his gut twisted and his mind spun. What in the hell am I going to do about this feeling?
Just as he was pondering that question, he got a glimpse of the weather report on the television. At the same time he noticed the ominous weather pattern outline on screen, the bartender took it off mute. From the looks of the Doppler radar, the blizzard would be slamming into them within the next three to four hours. Luckily, Salvation was only an hour’s drive away, but they needed to get a move on in order to get down the mountain safely.
“Hunker down, folks,” the weather forecaster announced. “Because within the next three hours, the blizzard of the decade is headed for Thunder Mountain all the way down to Boulder.”
ALL DAY LONG, the talk at the Bluebird had been of the coming blizzard. By the time Evie closed the café early, the snow swirled like heavy lace throughout the town. She got home to find Ridley had stocked them up on firewood and supplies in case they lost electricity.
“I got a bastard of a headache,” he told her. “I’m going to bed early. You coming?”
Evie went with him, but her mind was so keyed up she couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the blizzard, about Thanksgiving dinner, about the babies she wanted so desperately, about the vision quest Ridley refused her. The more she thought about that last part, the more irritated she got.
By midnight, she was still wide awake, and the blizzard hadn’t yet hit. Evie made the decision she’d been on the verge of making for weeks. She tiptoed out of bed and slipped into the sweat lodge.
She’d only been inside it once, right after he built it. She had to admit the symbol of her husband’s spirituality bothered her on a gut level. Intellectually, she didn’t care. She told herself she liked that he practiced what he believed. But emotionally? It made her feel left out. She didn’t have faith in things unseen the way he did, and his adherence to this custom she didn’t know or understand was a wedge between them.
You have to get over this. You’re hoping to have a baby with him. Ridley’s going to want to share his beliefs with his child, and you can’t deprive him of that. It’s time you understood your husband’s faith.
She started a fire in the fire pit with the piñon wood, turned on the gas-powered sauna and battery-powered MP3 player. The sound of low, steady drumbeats spilled from the speakers. In the dark of midnight, with only the flickering firelight for a guide, Evie took off her coat and her flannel pajamas in the sweat lodge. It exuded the musky, masculine smell of her husband. Stripped naked, she sat on the bearskin rug.
After peppering Tuck with questions about his vision quest, Evie tried to emulate the conditions. She crossed her legs in lotus position. She inhaled deeply of the piñon wood smoke. She hummed a mantra—baby, baby, baby.
The temperature in the lodge grew hotter. Sweat beaded Evie’s brow, her upper lip, the flat space between her breasts.
Baby, baby, baby.
The bearskin rug felt luxuriously sensual against her bare butt. Smoke swirled upward, funneling through the flue and out the hole in the roof.
Baby, baby, baby.
She waited. Prayed. Minutes passed. Finally an hour.
Nothing happened.
Her butt was growing numb, her entire body was now bathed in sweat, and the incessant drumbeating was getting on her nerves. What was she doing wrong?
You don’t believe.
The thought came to her from the air, but it sounded exactly as if Ridley had said it. Startled, Evie looked toward the door. But it remained closed.
She thought of the baby she wanted. Wrapped her empty arms around her chest. She thought of her husband asleep in their king-sized bed. Tears pricked at the back of her eyelids.
You gotta have faith.
Evie took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out slowly. The languid, heated smoke snaked throughout her body. Her muscles relaxed; her head went comfortably numb.
Buzzy. She felt all warm and buzzy.
Smoke grew thicker inside the room. The smell of piñon wood was overpowering. And the drums, they just kept beating. Pound, pound, pound.
Baby, baby, baby.
Her eyelids drooped heavily. She coughed, blinked.
Then, in the haze of smoke, she saw something.
A baby.
Evie smiled immediately and joy contracted her stomach, but as she watched, a woman came and picked up the baby and disappeared into the cloud of smoke.
Then suddenly she was surrounded by children. Babies, toddlers, little boys and girls in Easter attire. They were standing on the lawn of the White House. It was the annual Easter Egg hunt. All the children had mothers who were carrying baskets heaped high with eggs.
And there was Evie, standing alone, watching the event take place all by herself. No child at her side, no baby in a stroller, no round pregnant belly like many of the young mothers. She realized suddenly that at thirty-five, she was the oldest woman on the White House lawn.
Tears spilled down her face, and a wrenching sob squeezed her throat. She looked down at the basket that she realized was looped over her right arm. Inside, atop the bright green artificial grass, were three tiny white eggs.
Evie threw back her head and howled with grief. The vision was clear enough. She did not have a lush full basket of eggs. There were no babies in her future, no children of her own flesh and blood to love. She was a failure as a woman.
The pain was horrible.
Evie drew her knees to her chest and let the tears flow. Ridley was right. She shouldn’t have come in here. Shouldn’t have seen what she’d just seen. Shouldn’t have learned the truth this way. Alone. Without him to comfort her.
“Evie!”
She jerked her head toward the door. Saw her big man standing there with a deep frown cutting into his brow, anger tightening his jaw. With his wild, dark hair falling loose to his shoulders, he looked all the world like a surly black bear. Her heart galloped.
“What in the hell do you think you’re doing in here?” Ridley
growled.
In that moment, Evie knew she’d crossed the line and there was no way she could step back across.
Chapter Eighteen
For three days, Jillian and Tuck were trapped inside the lake house together while the blizzard of the decade raged outside.
On the second day, the electricity went out. Tuck kept the fire in the fireplace roaring. They played chess by candlelight. Jillian beat him seventeen games in a row before he vowed never to play her again. They roasted marshmallows over the blaze and brewed up hot chocolate over the gas stove. They listened to the weather report on the radio. They made stew and cornbread. They drank pots of coffee and sat huddled under a blanket, watching When Harry Met Sally on Tuck’s DVD player until the batteries gave out.
“Do you think men and women can simply be friends?” Jillian asked him when the movie was over. They were sitting side by side on the couch, Mutt sleeping at their feet.
Tuck shrugged. “Sure.”
“You don’t buy into Harry’s philosophy, then?”
“Nope.”
She turned to look at him in the firelight. “Are we friends?”
“I like to think we are.”
“I don’t know. I think Harry made a valid point.”
“Women and men can’t really be friends?”
“Exactly. The issue of sex is always there.”
Tuck looked into her eyes.
Tension permeated the room. Sexual tension. Taut and hot. Jillian glanced away and stared into the fireplace, focused on the flames flicking the wood, the smell of mesquite.
But no matter how hard she tried to direct her attention elsewhere, every cell in her body was acutely aware of the man sitting next to her. The sexy man she was stranded with in a snowbound cabin.
She fisted her hands against the tops of her thighs. Her throat felt tight, the set of her shoulders even tighter. Restlessly, she wriggled her toes inside her thick woolen socks. Even way across the couch, Jillian could feel the heat emanating off Tuck’s body. The room smelled of him—musky, manly, magnificent.
“Fear and stubborn pride kept Harry and Sally apart when they could have, should have, been together much sooner,” she said.