by Carol Devine
Caitlyn shook her head, focused on the two college-aged women in their camp uniforms. "Let me meet the counselors first."
Roger started unloading, muttering about bossy females. Meanwhile, as the counselors approached, Caitlyn tentatively waved her cast-covered arm in greeting.
Shane had chosen a vivid fluorescent yellow for the final outside wrapping. Caitlyn had declared it the perfect color. Everyone would know her as the girl with the cast on her arm, not the girl with a withered and disfigured hand that could, especially among sensitive teens, cause revulsion and pitying stares.
"You must be Caitlyn," one counselor said. "I'm Bridget. This is Stacy. Welcome to Camp Bristlecone. We call it C.C., short for Camp Cone. Your group is the one that's learning about wild life photography. We'll take you over once you get settled into our cabin."
"I need to say bye to my dad."
Caitlyn surprised Roger with a grateful hug. Mariah was next. "Thank you." Using her good hand, she saluted her dad. "I'll see you and Mom in three weeks," she said confidently.
Mariah knocked her knuckles on the cast. "Call if you need me, Caitlyn."
"I will. But I think it's going to be good." She snagged her backpack with the two fingers extending from her cast.
"How'd you hurt your arm?" asked Stacy as she and Bridget scooped Caitlyn's sleeping bag and duffel bag off the ground.
"Car accident," Caitlyn said. "I have to wear the cast the whole time I'm here."
"Did you break your arm or your wrist? It doesn't look that bad."
Caitlyn nodded. "You're right, it's not a bad break. I got lucky. Two fingers sticking out to do stuff with. The other ones had to be covered up to heal."
One of the counselors peered at the cast. "I don't see this keeping you from doing much. We can wrap plastic around it for water sports. In fact some of the girls might be jealous. That cast looks like it glows in the dark. When we tell ghost stories, you can scare people with it. Like the story The Man with the Golden Arm."
Caitlyn skipped sideways, brightening. "I know that one! I've heard it at sleepovers. I almost crapped my pants."
Laughing, Stacy juggled Caitlyn's belongings and tucked the sleeping bag under her arm. She put her other arm around Caitlyn. "I think you're going to like it here."
That was Mariah's last view of Caitlyn, coltish with her long legs and swinging braids, ambling away arm-and-arm with her counselor. The fluorescent yellow cast created a bright stripe against the back of Stacy's uniform.
For Mariah, the most satisfying part was that Caitlyn never looked back.
CHAPTER TWO
Mariah waited for Shane in the fenced backyard of his home. It was one of her favorite places to relax now that they were living together again. The half acre of space felt very private to her despite the fact that his main horse barns, corrals and indoor arena were but a stone's throw away, beyond the fence but convenient to the back door of his house. He prized the freedom of being able to walk between his home and business, coming and going as he pleased.
When he built the house, he hired a landscape designer who'd created a series of grassy outdoor rooms, perfect for socializing and the big parties he was known for. A open-air gazebo centered the space and surrounding it were groups of redwood chairs and tables, which also were used in conjunction to a state-of-the-art outdoor kitchen and a gas-fueled fireplace. Benches curved around a circular fire pit. To enhance the feeling of privacy, 15 foot junipers lined the inside of the fence, creating a windbreak and pockets of shade reliable enough that she was actually able to do computer work there in summer.
Today it was plenty warm enough. After Caitlyn's successful launch at camp, Mariah had other clients and more work to finish, and she was the type of disciplined person who stayed at the office until the job was done. But lately she'd built more flexibility into her schedule in order to make Shane the priority in her life, rather than the career that had provided her with financial security, but had also been hellish at times and betrayed her in many ways.
The gate that led from the backyard to the parking lot opened and Shane poke his head inside. He grinned when he saw her. "Is it interlude time?"
"You betcha." Mariah met him at the gate, bussed his cheek, and once he crossed the threshold, made sure the gate was locked.
Noticing, Shane was glad he'd spent the bulk of the day either inside a pleasant-smelling truck or a leather-smelling tack room where he'd created a human arm cast with horse wraps and fluorescent gauze.
He also noticed that Mariah had set up a small ice chest full of soft drinks and beer, and there was a bowl of pretzels nearby. He helped himself to a fistful. "Caitlyn's drop off go okay?"
"Very well. I'll be surprised if we hear from her. She was a little nervous at first but she played it cool, told the staff that she was lucky to sustain a break that left her with two good fingers to use. Everybody there thinks it's the real deal. I heard them say they'd prevent it from getting exposed to the elements."
"I layered a lot more hardeners in her wraps than I do with my horses. It should last."
Mariah slipped her arms around his waist, tilted her head back and rested her chin on his chest. "Shane, you did good today. Caitlyn could have been seriously hurt walking that highway. A truck or car could have side-swiped her. It's the beginning of bear season and mountain lion are on the hunt. Not to mention the worst predators of all. Sexual offenders are everywhere, even Grizzly Springs."
"I had that in mind when I pulled over. Took off my hat, buttoned my shirt. Didn't want to get her thinking I might be a pervert or kidnapper."
"Nope, you're definitely more the serial killer type."
He frowned, half offended, half believing she had to be pulling his leg. With Mariah's detective poker face, it was hard to tell sometimes. "Hey, I resent that. Take that back."
She hung her head, acting super sorry. "My apologies. I should have said serial charmer. You're a smart, charming, rather roguish cowboy who is ripped as an Olympian, of superior emotional intelligence and beautiful beyond belief."
That mollified him. He flexed his biceps in a show of strength. "I could have been an Olympian if they'd had rodeo events. But beautiful? I'm good-looking as all git out, but beautiful I ain't."
Her smile teased. "Your male ego cannot be contained."
He played the this-ole-country-boy routine to the max. "Aw, shucks, Mariah. Tell me my head's not too big. You're a doctor. I'll believe you. You're the holder of my heart."
"Holder of your heart? Where do you find this corny stuff?"
"Cowboys are poets, too. There's Slim Kite, Waddie Mitchell, Apache Adams, Chuck Milner and Hallie, Bob Campbell, Three Hands High, Audrey Hankins…"
Mariah covered her ears with her hands until his square jaw stopped moving. "Okay, okay. I'll concede the truth. You're the Jedi knight of poetry. A nonsensical John Wayne master."
"Yep, my grandma used to say so, too. Incorrigible was another one. Now there's a word you don't hear anymore. And fring-frong. And nincompoop. I was that when I was a little kid, definitely. Couldn't sit still. Knocked over her collection of Hummels."
"What are Hummels?"
"Heck if I know. Collectibles. Little statues. Kids mostly. Cute ones. The tables in her house were covered with them. I broke one and was banished outside, laughing my head off."
"Laughing?"
"She scolded me, called me nincompoop. Do you know what that sounds like to a five year-old boy? Poop jokes. What's funnier to a five year-old than poop?"
Since it was a rhetorical question, Mariah busied herself elsewhere, focusing on more important matters. She boldly removed his hat, tossed it on a table and played with his hair like she had earlier in the day. Except now she did it as freely and wantonly as possible, ready to get to the interlude she'd planned. "Sometimes I want to pop inside your mind and experience what it's like to be you," she said.
He played with her hair in return, clearly distracted, guiding her long blonde ponytail ov
er her shoulder, sifting the ends through his fingers. "Experiment on me?"
"No, experience you in your purest form."
He wrapped the length of her hair around his fist, tugging firmly, drawing her close, murmuring in her ear. "You're talking dirty, Mariah. My purest form is making love to you. It's what I think about. All. The. Time."
"You are incorrigible."
He let her hair go, cascading from his fingers like a waterfall. "No doubt about it. Whatever the subject. Hell, I tell poop jokes in some of my riding classes, the young ones, especially. Kids love poop jokes. It's an ice-breaker."
"It won't break ice with me. Getting a former FBI Agent like me to laugh is a real challenge. It takes action, not jokes."
"Like tickling?" He fluttered his fingers in front of her face.
She leapt away, giggling like a schoolgirl. That was her signal, the invitation he needed. He chased her around the yard like the nincompoop he was.
She darted among the patio furniture, chair to table to chair. She was fast but he was faster. He caught her waist and tickled her underarms but good. She squealed, leaped and attacked him, tickling between his shoulder blades, the most vulnerable spot he had.
He guffawed like a jackass. She jumped on his back. He caught her wrists and spun in a circle, making her laugh deep in her belly. He loved that sound.
Her hair swung free, flying from the broken rubber band. Blinded by blonde, he took no chances and dropped to the grass on his knees, tackled by the tickling monster named Mariah.
He soon gave up and she straddled him, triumphant. He adored her like this, wildly mussed and proudly female, lording over him. Talk about a turn-on. His cock was like an iron bar. She wiggled her butt and sat on his hard-on. It hurt, hurt good. He'd take her right here if she let him, outside in front of God and country.
He hooked her blouse at the hem, pulling it free from her waistband. Before she drew another breath, he'd unbuttoned and unzipped her jeans.
She pinned his wrists on either side of his head and used her weight to keep him still, like that was possible. "Not so fast, cowboy."
Her hair fell straight down, surrounded them like a curtain. It was long and tickled his ears. She rocked her hips and his breath caught in agony. Ecstasy, too.
He relaxed his biceps, pretended he couldn't break her hold. She leaned in, brushed her breasts across his chest. She kissed him with plump lips, soft like their very first kiss but, this time, unhesitating.
He copied her sweetness, gentle-like, exploring minutely. She mewled, kittenish, high at the back of her throat. His noises were low and growly. She released his wrists and groped behind her back, under her blouse, frantically trying to unhook her bra, but she was in too much of a hurry. Giving up, she ripped off her blouse, instead. Buttons flew.
He rolled her then, flat on her back, and straddled her. He kept his weight on his knees to prevent crushing her. It was his turn to leash her wrists, one hand pinning them over her head. Her low-cut bra barely contained her heaving breasts. She panted, quick and shallow, the glitter of challenge in her eyes.
He used his free hand to pleasure her, stroking from neck to navel. She bucked her body, writhing and wicked. He unleashed her hands but hovered over her, unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock.
Underneath him, her panties were being discarded along with her jeans. She shoved them down, freeing one leg, kicking and shaking the bunched fabric off. In her frenzy, he unhooked her bra, tossing it aside, intent on thrusting his way inside her.
He widened her thighs, holding them open, gauging her readiness. Her skin was velvet smooth, sunlit from above, centered by peeks of pink amid glinting gold hair. Restless, she twisted at the waist, made mute by her hurried need, seeking intimate contact.
His palmed her bared flesh and pressed the heel of his hand into her heat. She moaned erotically, wanting more. He delivered the pressure she craved. Her upper teeth cut into her bottom lip, worrying it, sexy, inciting him to attack. He nibbled her there, tasting her corners, slipped his tongue inside, inviting a rhythm of what was to come. She answered, trading breaths. Hot, hot breaths.
His kisses traveled down her body to her breasts. They tasted perfect, nipples like tiny candies, the texture pebbled and salty sweet. She groaned this time, vibrating sound along nerves endings, thrumming against his skin, entering his chest, spearing his heart. A spear that opened chambers and filled them with light.
He reached between her legs, parted her folds with purpose, his fingers skimming, dipping, singling out tender places that needed special care.
"Now," she said.
He tested her with his thumb, found her slick and swollen, ready for him. He primed himself, milking his length, poised at her entrance.
She locked gazes with him.
Muscles taut, he plunged deep, pure power, seeking her depths. Wetness slickened his most sensitive skin. She was tight, taking his breath, squeezing his length. He strained to feel where he ended and she began but it was hopeless. She surrounded him with fire that burned from within. Sex was in the air they breathed, the scent created in the sweat between them.
He plunged again and again. Her hips cradled him, rising to meet him. Their bodies were one and the same, retreating and plunging in rhythm, building momentum. Anticipation rose, hurried his lungs, his pounding heart, every throbbing inch he possessed.
She bit his shoulder and licked the wound. His cock reacted like she was licking it, too. He thrust deeper, fiery sun baking his back. She melted underneath him, grasping his arms, panting in need, inciting him to move fast, hard, and free.
He put his hands on her breasts, tanned skin against pale, hers tipped by nipples that tightened in the sun and air. It stunned him, how gorgeous she was, how gorgeous she felt, her breasts ripe and firm and full. She stretched her entire body, showing off, her grin like the Cheshire cat out of Alice in Wonderland.
She was his Wonderland, the reason he was on this earth. He needed her so badly, terribly badly. How he'd convinced her to come back to him was still a mystery.
She had finally confessed that she loved him. Straight out confessed. But for a long time before, she held back, and he needed to hear it again, needed to know she was here in this place with him. He paused the rhythm, zeroing in on the expressive ocean depths in her eyes.
"Mariah?"
"Yes, my love?"
It was enough, more than enough. He kissed her, thrust again. Enough was in her glazing gaze, in the pliant body she offered, centering him in her core. He lost himself there, overcome by a rush of glorious sensation. Groin to brain and back again, coming in wave after orgasmic wave. He buried his grunts and groans in the curve of her neck but her fragrance heightened his senses. He swore he passed out for a second, she smelled so fine.
He crashed at the end, became dead weight, and she let him, cradling both his hips and his head, wrapping her legs and arms around him. He recovered slow, back to earth. When he finally levered himself off her and rolled on his back, he inwardly chided himself for weighing her down, crushing her.
She snuggled against his side and dug her fingers in the swirls of hair on his chest. "Know this, Shane," she whispered. "You are loved."
Overwhelmed, he couldn't speak. He couldn't get past the huge clutching inside his gut. He opened his mouth, closed it. He wondered if she even knew what she'd done to him. The smooth-talking horse whisperer made speechless.
He snuggled her close, letting his actions speak for him, wishing he could burrow under her skin, grasp her heart in his hands. He stroked her hair, damp near her forehead. He fingered her cheeks, jaw, chin, the bone structure he had come to love. He skimmed her neck and her chest, found her breasts, palmed and played, listening to her breath become bated.
"Now," she said.
He traced circles around her navel, then traveled to her clit. He watched her face as he made her come, saw her diffused with color, reddened by the great outdoors. He memorized her details, feminine details, the way
she finally relaxed in pleasure and opened her sleepy eyes.
"Fuck, you're good."
Chuckling, he gathered her in. She was a cuddler and he spooned around her, keeping her warm on the grass. He nosed her nape, letting his breath get lost in her hair.
"I love you," he said. When she didn't answer he checked her face. She'd fallen asleep.
After all they'd been through together, his best hope was her love was just as big and overwhelming as his.
* * * * *
Four weeks later
Mariah dragged herself out of bed. The alarm had gone off a half hour before, sending Shane into the bathroom at the speed of light. By the time she rolled around their bed for awhile, forced her eyelids open and sat up, he'd taken his shower, shaved and dressed, and pelted downstairs to make breakfast. She vaguely recalled him saying the farrier was due at the barn at 7 a.m. to start shoeing horses.
She put on her robe and shuffled into the bathroom. She sat on the toilet, felt awful, and vomited in the toilet rather than pee. She brushed her teeth, was able to use the bathroom in normal fashion, then padded down the stairs, still in her robe, the braid over her shoulder frizzed and her hand pressed to her stomach.
Shane was seated at the table, polishing off his usual four eggs and four slices of whole wheat toast.
"You don't look too good," he said.
Mariah shuffled to a kitchen cabinet and withdrew a water glass. "Gee, how about a 'good morning' before you start laying it on thick." She filled the glass with water.
"Sorry. Good morning. How are you today?"
"Thanks for asking. I feel like crap. Must be something I ate because I threw up. How do you feel? You're not coming down with something, are you?"
"I feel fine."
"We both ate the same thing for dinner last night, which is why I'm asking."
"I have some stomach medicine in the bathroom. Feel free to use it if you think it will help. Would you like some eggs and toast?"