This is here, she reminded herself silently, joyously. This is now.
Still, things were shifting—constantly shifting—within her. How long had she and Boone been standing here, really? A few moments? An hour? A year?
A soft, country-scented breeze played over Tara’s skin, and that was when she realized she was naked—somehow, without her noticing, her clothes had simply melted away.
And so, she soon discovered, had Boone’s.
She found herself on her back, just midway across the width of her bed, with her legs dangling over the longer side. Boone murmured to her as he kissed and caressed her, sweet, senseless words that made her feel cherished, almost worshipped.
It was all so new to her, his governed strength, his slow hand, his warm mouth, tracing her neck, her breasts, her belly, that Tara felt virginal and, at the same time, powerful, very much in control of her own destiny.
Kneeling beside the bed, Boone kissed the insides of her knees, then her thighs.
She shivered with an anticipation so primitive, so undeniable, that she might have been a she-wolf, offering herself to her mate under a magical moon.
Boone parted her, found her most tender place and took her into his mouth, nibbled at her.
She gave a cry, part moan, part exulted gasp, and tangled her fingers in Boone’s hair, holding him to her even as she began to whimper feverishly and toss her head back and forth in a frenzy of surrender.
He worked her skillfully, taking his time, bringing her to the very brink of release and then slowing down, easing up, making her knot her fingers in his hair and plead.
Again, the breeze flowed over them, pouring through an open window, perfumed by trees and wild flowers and the nearby river.
She begged.
He feasted on her in earnest then, brought her to a climax so fierce that her hips flew upward, seeking more of the incomprehensible pleasure and then still more. Her body buckled wildly, like a cable in a high wind, and still it went on, the rising from one pinnacle to another and then another.
When it finally ended, Tara sank, exhausted, settling deep into the mattress, deep into herself and the sweet, soft glory of simply being a woman. There couldn’t be more, there just couldn’t.
Except that there was.
Boone sent her soaring, again and again, untying all the hidden knots within her, opening floodgates of passion in her heart and even her soul.
After a long time, he turned her lengthwise on the bed, speaking soothingly to her as she slowly descended from impossible heights, airless places beyond the clouds, beyond the big sky itself.
She felt his body weight shift, knew he was opening the packet, putting on the condom. Now, she would conquer him, pleasuring him until he gave himself up to her, spilled himself inside her, reveling in his satisfaction, already saturated by her own.
“One more chance to say no,” Boone rumbled, resting on top of her, settling between her parted legs. His eyes searched hers.
In answer, Tara drew his head down, kissed him softly, tantalizing him with her tongue, then nipping lightly at his lower lip.
Boone groaned and then, in one long, powerful stroke, he was inside her, sheathed to the hilt.
Tara’s eyes widened in surprise—she’d thought she was spent, that he’d already wrung every possible response from her—but a new and undeniable need swept over her, through her, instant and fiery and utterly ferocious.
She gasped his name.
Boone locked his gaze onto hers and seemed to be gazing into the very depths of her being, seeing a whole hidden landscape there, a place no other man had ever ventured into before, a place she herself had never charted.
And he began to move, his pace maddeningly slow.
She clawed at his bare back with her fingernails—until that moment she’d never known that really happened, even in the throes of passion—urging him to go faster, to increase the delicious friction until the world, indeed, the universe, exploded around them.
But Boone wouldn’t be hurried, even though the set of his jaw and the corded muscles in his neck proved he was battling his own need to give in, to let go, to fall into her fire and allow it to consume him. All the while, though, he maintained eye contact, fierce as a warrior, but at the same time, so unbelievably gentle.
Tara wouldn’t ask herself how such a contradiction could be until much later; at the moment, she was beyond rational thought. All she knew for sure was that she was a woman and Boone was a man and, together, they were being swept upward, into some kind of cataclysmic collision that would bond them in ways far more profound than the mere joining of their two straining bodies.
They climaxed at the same moment, Tara with a long, guttural, soblike cry, Boone with a raw, husky shout. They seemed to hang suspended in the aftermath, as though they’d been fused into one being, and finally they collapsed, exhausted, onto sweat-moistened, tangled sheets.
Tara had neither the strength nor the breath to speak, and Boone, too, remained silent, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, his arms tightly around her.
The old-fashioned clock on the bedroom mantel ticked, a disquieting reminder that time was passing.
The girls would be coming home soon. The chickens would need to be fed. And she would have to come to terms with what she’d just done.
Presently, Boone rolled away from her, scooped his clothes up from the floor, retreated into Tara’s bathroom without a word. By the time he returned, he was fully dressed, though his hair was still mussed and his shirt looked rumpled.
“Do we have to talk about this?” Tara whispered, as the first waves of misery washed over her. She’d expected this reaction, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.
Boone bent, kissed her forehead, briefly. “Not right away,” he replied.
And then he was gone. Tara lay very still, listened to his footsteps on the stairs, heard the distant creak of the front door opening, the snap of its shutting, the faint roar of Boone’s car engine.
Lucy wandered into the room moments later, rested her muzzle on the bedding, and gazed soulfully at Tara, devoted and probably concerned.
Tara pulled up the covers to the bridge of her nose, reached out one arm to stroke Lucy’s golden head. “You’re such a sweetheart,” she sniffled.
Why was she crying?
Tara couldn’t have given a precise reason, not at that moment, anyway.
She’d never even imagined that lovemaking could be the way it had been between her and Boone—this was the stuff of storybooks, of romantic movies and very private fantasies.
But real life? Even now, it seemed impossible.
Tara’s emotions rioted even as her body settled back into an ordinary rhythm, and they were epic in proportion, those feelings, as well as completely contradictory to each other.
She was scared. She was elated. She’d just made the mistake of a lifetime. She’d just been touched by something that was meant to be, written in the stars.
Only two things were certain, and they were both alarming. One, her life would never, ever be the same after this. And two, she was in love with Boone Taylor. It wasn’t the polite, nearly platonic love she’d had with James, but the big, scary kind that seared an imprint into her soul.
The question was, did Boone feel the same way?
Or was he whistling under his breath, grinning a little, and thinking, Slam-bam, thank you, ma’am? That would be typical of a guy. Maybe he was even feeling a little cocky, thinking he’d scored one against the chicken farmer from the big city, gotten her back for all those snide remarks about his run-down double-wide and overgrown property.
The prospect was so awful that Tara wanted to hide in that bed until she got old and died, or at least until she could drum up some defiance, but neither one of those things was an option. She had the twins to think about, and sweet Lucy, and the chickens.
With a sigh, she threw back the covers, got out of bed, trailed into her bathroom and started the shower running. She st
epped into the stall and let the hot water pummel her until it turned lukewarm, then got out, dried off and put on clean clothes, jeans and a worn T-shirt. Work clothes.
Downstairs, she took a store-bought lasagna from the freezer and turned on the oven. One thing at a time, she told herself. She fed Lucy her kibble, and then went outside to take care of the chickens, shutting them up in their cozy coop for the night.
By the time Shea brought Elle and Erin home from their expedition to Three Trees, the sun was going down and Tara figured she probably looked pretty normal, at least on the outside. On the inside, she knew she’d sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind. She was a one-woman weather system, category-five.
She wasn’t the type to get carried away, never had been, but this time she’d gone and opened her heart, not to mention her body, to a man she barely knew. She’d zipped right on past beginning to like Boone to loving him, but there was certainly no guarantee of happily-ever-after.
She and Boone had little in common, really. And he’d loved his late wife deeply—probably loved her still. After all, he and Corrie had gotten together as teenagers, planned a life, made two beautiful babies.
They’d shared big dreams and worked hard to make them come true, and Tara knew—everyone in Parable did—just how deeply Boone had grieved for his bride. According to Joslyn and Kendra, he’d shut down completely, just doing his job and existing, letting his sister and her husband raise his children.
The twins were bursting with excitement, their words tumbling over each other as they recounted the high points of the movie. They’d had Mexican food for lunch, but that was hours ago, and they were both starved. And Shea was awesome.
Looking at Tara, though, their prattle trickled off into silence. She hadn’t fooled them, then—they knew something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” Elle asked, straight out.
“Have you been crying?” Erin wanted to know.
“I’m fine,” Tara said. “Maybe just a little tired, that’s all.”
Tired, yes. But she didn’t expect to get much sleep, with her insides churning the way they were. One moment, she felt ecstatic, the next, she was terrified that she was another notch in Boone’s bedpost.
Both girls looked skeptical. And fretful.
Tara went to them, gave them each a one-armed hug. “Look,” she said quietly, “I’m going through some stuff, but it’ll pass, and there’s absolutely no reason for either of you to worry, okay?”
“You’d tell us if you were sick or something, wouldn’t you?” Elle asked, still troubled. “I mean if you had some terrible disease and—”
Tara chuckled, hugged the child close again. “Babe,” she said softly, “this isn’t a movie. I’m definitely not sick.”
“Did Dad do something?” Erin pressed, idly stroking Lucy’s gleaming golden back. “Say something mean, maybe?”
“No,” Tara said. “Let’s make a nice salad while the lasagna is heating up.”
“I get to tear the lettuce,” Elle said, making a dive for the refrigerator. She and Erin were used to racing each other for the best chair or the front passenger seat and any number of other desirables, and getting out the salad makings was no exception.
Tara interceded, reminding them to wash their hands first, and soon they were busy at the center island, chopping and slicing and tearing.
Supper was blessedly quiet, but just as they were clearing the table, the landline rang, unusually jarring and shrill, it seemed to Tara. Even before she picked up the receiver and said hello, she knew something had happened.
“Thank God I got you instead of one of the girls,” James blurted. He sounded wound up, tight as an old-fashioned watch-spring. “Can you talk?”
Obviously the point of the call was for James to do the talking, not Tara. She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, gestured to the twins to take Lucy outside.
“I can listen,” Tara answered when the back door closed behind one eager dog and two reluctant young girls.
“I’m coming out there to get the twins,” James announced briskly.
The words struck Tara like a punch in the stomach. Or the heart. “But I thought—what about the wedding—the honeymoon?”
“There isn’t going to be any wedding,” James informed her tersely.
Tara stretched the phone cord as far as it would go, sank into a chair at the table. “Okay,” she said, at a loss for words. She was stunned, disoriented—first, Boone and about nine million second thoughts, and now this.
James launched into a long tirade about how he and what’s-her-name had had a serious row. He felt duped, taken, used.
Tara didn’t point out that she’d felt that way, too, when they had split up.
What it all boiled down to was, Bethany wanted children—lots of them. She’d thought James wanted the same things she did. Surprise. James was over raising kids. For Bethany, that was a deal-breaker, and the wedding was off.
When James finally lapsed into a charged silence, maybe catching his breath, Tara stepped out onto the proverbial limb.
“Why not let the girls stay here a little longer? After all, you’re pretty upset. Maybe you need some time.”
“I’ve found a good school for them—it’s in Connecticut,” James said. “Some of the kids spend the summers there, in addition to the regular term. They’ll love it.”
Tara closed her eyes. “James,” she said, “they love it here.”
“They’re not your responsibility,” James informed her. What he meant was, Stay out of this. You’re not their mother.
“Couldn’t we wait a few days?” Tara ventured carefully. “So you can calm down a little?”
James’s tone hardened. “What’s the use in that?” he countered. “My assistant will make plane reservations, and get back to you with the times and flight numbers.”
Tara’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, swallowed.
The door opened, and Elle and Erin came through it with Lucy.
This time, she wasn’t going to cover for James. “It’s your dad,” she said, holding out the receiver.
Elle got there first, but she turned the phone slightly so Erin could listen, too.
Tara sat still, too wobbly kneed to stand up, let alone flee the room, and watched the looks on the twins’ faces as they absorbed what their father was saying.
“No!” Elle yelled suddenly. “I don’t want to go away to some stupid school, and neither does Erin!”
Erin nodded rapidly in agreement, her cheeks flushed.
Had James told his daughters that he and Bethany had called off the wedding? Tara had expected that news to please them, if nothing else.
“We’ll run away,” Elle threatened, picking up steam. “We won’t even get on the plane!”
“And you’ll never see us again!” Erin elaborated.
Tara forced herself to her feet. “Girls,” she scolded, very gently, shaking her head. “Give me the phone.”
By this time, Lucy was beside herself with worry, poor thing. She and Tara normally lived quiet, uneventful lives, sans emotional drama.
Elle fairly shoved the receiver at her, crying hard now, her chin trembling. “We won’t go back,” she reiterated, “we won’t!”
“You’re scaring Lucy,” Tara pointed out. “Take her upstairs—I’ll join you in a few minutes, and we’ll talk.”
The girls obeyed, Lucy wagging her tail hopefully as she followed them out of the kitchen.
James was furious again, frustrated to the max; Tara knew that by the way he was breathing, even before he spoke to her.
“That was a dirty trick,” he bit out. “You really put me on the spot, Tara, and I don’t appreciate it.”
The nerve of the man. She’d put him on the spot?
No more Ms. Nicey-Nice. The gloves were off. “Would you like to know what I don’t appreciate, James?” she snapped out, not giving him a chance to answer before she rushed on, whispering in case the girls were eavesdropping
at the top of the stairs. “I don’t appreciate your arrogant disregard for other people’s feelings. Elle and Erin are your children, not puppets you can jerk around on strings, and all you can think about is what you want, what you need.” She paused, dragged in a quick breath, left him no room to interrupt. “Damn it, James, I’d understand if you had any intention of being an actual father to the twins, but you’re just eager to shuffle them off somewhere, out of sight, out of mind!”
“Are you through?” James asked coldly.
“No,” Tara replied, “I’m not through. I’m not sending Elle and Erin back to New York alone. If you want your daughters, bucko, you’ll have to come and get them.”
“‘Bucko’?” James taunted.
Tara said nothing. She just stood there, seething, knuckles white where she gripped the receiver.
“You just love to make things difficult, don’t you?” James said, after a long-suffering sigh. “The twins are perfectly capable of flying on their own—they’ve already proven that.”
“I don’t care,” Tara said stubbornly. She’d spent most of their marriage doing just the opposite of “making things difficult.” She’d been a fool.
“I could call the police,” James pointed out, but he didn’t sound quite so confident as before.
“Go ahead,” Tara challenged, imagining Boone coming to her door, in his capacity as sheriff, with some kind of interstate court order in his hand.
“You know I can’t afford a scandal,” James almost whined. “I’m a respected professional man, Tara. A top-flight surgeon, and in my business, reputation matters. Be reasonable.” He was definitely singing a different tune now, but Tara still wasn’t inclined to dance to it.
“Then I guess you’ll have to come out here to Montana and tell these children, face-to-face, that you don’t really want to raise them, and you aren’t about to let me do it, either, so you’re sending them to boarding school.”
Silence.
Tara heard the girls and Lucy moving around upstairs in their room.
She half expected James to hang up in her ear. Instead, he gave another sigh, this one ragged and genuinely weary. Tara didn’t feel one bit sorry for him.
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