He fell back on the bed, trying to laugh, but he could barely breathe. Every ounce of him was focused on her—on her body, her heart, her sweet soul. He wanted to know her, see her, love her. Especially love her. And he wanted to do it right.
She looked up at him, open, trusting, and more than ready. She was finally his.
And he was hers. All hers.
"Luke," she said. "I have to tell you something."
He swallowed a hot bolt of panic. There was some thing wrong. She was already married. She'd discov ered she was a lesbian. She was in love with David. Or maybe Ivan.
Whatever it was, he'd have to hear it. And then they'd talk about it, and together they'd work it out. They could do anything together.
He took a deep breath. "What?" he asked.
A slow smile spread across her face and a wicked glint lit her eyes.
"Moo," she said.
***
Luke held Libby close, his eyes sleepy and satisfied. "Every night," he said. "Imagine this every night."
It was a tempting notion, but Libby knew she wasn't like this every night. The day had charged her up, pumping her full of adrenaline and endorphins and whatever other chemicals make every light brighter, every sound sharper, every taste sweeter, and every nerve more sensitive.
What would it really be like, having Luke with her every day? Would they get used to each other? Would they take each other for granted?
"I don't know about this marriage thing," she said. "I mean, I'd come in from a hard day with the chickens, and you'd be all worn out from chasing cows around, or whatever it is you do all day…"
"Cattle," he said. "I work cattle. And train horses."
"Oh, yeah. Cattle. But anyway, you'd be all worn out from that, and maybe we'd just kind of grunt at each other like old people and turn over and go to sleep."
"Oh, there'd be grunting, all right. But for all the right reasons. I mean, look at us now. You're tired from solving a two-year-old murder and fighting off a killer, and I'm tired from worrying about you. And in spite of all that, we both managed to work up a little Wild West rodeo action. And I'll bet you're ready for another go-round."
He shouldn't have reminded her of what her day had been like. All those energizing chemicals blew out of her system like air from a punctured balloon. Suddenly, she felt exhausted.
"I don't know, Luke," she said. "I'm pretty tired. Maybe I should just go to bed."
"Okay," he said.
She sat up. "Okay?"
He was giving up way too easily. Didn't he realize she wanted to be coaxed? He was so good at everything else, she'd figured his coaxing would be world-class.
"Yeah. We should just go to bed," he said.
"We? You're staying?"
He nodded. "Every time I leave you alone, you get attacked by somebody—Crazy Mike, the sheriff, those bikers from the bar… I figure you could use a break."
She sighed. "You got that right."
She hadn't thought about the other side of marriage. If you were married, sleeping together wasn't just sex. It was lying side by side, cuddling, snuggling. It wouldn't just be exciting and alluring and knock-your-socks-off sexy—it would be nice. It would be like washing the dishes together. Like cooking dinner. Like stacking hay together in the barn.
It would be a good life, shared.
She crawled under the covers and curled up on her side. Luke spooned his body around hers, and she was so tired she didn't even think about what the next day would bring, or the next month, or the next year. She just knew he was Luke, and he was hers, and having him there made her feel safe and warm and wanted.
She closed her eyes. It was over. She knew who the bad guy was. More important, she knew who the good guys were, and one of them—the best of them—was lying there beside her, keeping her safe.
She'd survived her broken heart. She'd moved halfway across the country, made a home in an empty landscape, forged friendships with total strangers. And somewhere in all that, she'd found the place where she belonged.
"You okay?" Luke asked.
Libby took a quick inventory. Her arm hurt, her ankle throbbed, and her head still ached a little. Cash was dead, her effort to live an independent life was an utter failure, and she was sure her hair was an unprecedented mess.
But Luke was there, and he was holding her close.
"I'm fine," she said, and for the first time in forever, she meant it. "I'm fine as long as you're here."
THE END
Acknowledgments
Writing acknowledgments is kind of like composing an Oscar speech: you may never need it, but you'd better be ready just in case you ever get lucky. So hold the music—I've been working on this since I was ten years old, and it's going to take a while.
Luke and Libby would still be locked in my laptop were it not for my supportive friends. Hugs and true gratitude to Vanessa and Troy Keiper, Laura Macomber, Gail Brown, and Mel Schwartz. And to Jeff Brown, my first and best writing buddy, special thanks for tolerat ing my self-obsessed monologues every day at work and always being so generous with your support. You know you're next! I'm forever grateful to the Cheyenne Area Writers' Group: Jeana Byrne, Mary Gilgannon, Heather Jensen, Liz Roadifer, and Mike Shay, for talk ing me through the tough times, and to Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers, whose conferences gave me my start. Ten truckloads of gourmet chocolate would not be enough to repay the dedication of the amazing Elaine English, my agent, friend, and hand-holder-in-chief, who took a chance on a new writer and never, never, never gave up.
And of course, I'd like to thank my Academy—the amazing women of Sourcebooks, including my talented and patient editor Deb Werksman, the inspirational Dominique Raccah, the hard-working Danielle Jackson, and the oh-so-cool sorority of Casablanca authors. Thanks for giving me a part in your show!
I'm eternally grateful to Scott McCauley for guiding me through the technological universe; to Alycia Fleury, for inspiring me with her beautiful family; and to Brian Davis, for adding what was missing in my life. They say you can choose your friends but not your family; I've been lucky enough to pick both.
But most of all, thanks to Scrape McCauley, all around champion boyfriend, who never stopped believ ing in me even when I doubted myself. No romance writer could invent a hero as generous and supportive as you, and no reader would ever believe a girl could be so lucky.
About the Author
Joanne Kennedy lives in Cheyenne, Wyoming, with two dogs and a retired fighter pilot. The dogs are relatively well-behaved.
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