Ah, confession time. The effort he made to be honest touched her. She had lived her childhood in the household of a man who drank too much. Then for more than half the seventeen years she and Billy had been together, he drank too much. She couldn't imagine the John Bradshaw she had come to know with a drinking problem. "Are you an alcoholic?"
"I don't think so. But liquor was a damn tempting direction, so I cut it out."
"Someone told me your wife cheated."
He gave her a hard look and she wished she hadn't made the remark. She opened her palms, making peace. "I'm not judging. Callister grapevine. You know how it is."
"That's the first time I ever heard Callister gossip that made me look good." He combed his fingers through his hair and stared down at his knees. "I'm not sure Julie cheated any more than I did. While we were married, I didn't have other women, but I had another life she wanted no part of."
"Rodeoing."
He nodded.
"But you've been performing in rodeos since you were a little boy. She must have known it was in your blood."
"I think she believed, or hoped, I'd grow out of it, but I couldn't. I thought I had a shot at hitting the big time. As many years as I'd worked for it, I wasn't ready to give up. Every year I got a little closer, climbed in the standings, won a little more money, but—" He stopped on a sigh. "My dad thinks it would've solved all the problems if I'd got a regular job like she wanted."
Isabelle didn't buy it. She would have stuck by Billy forever, no matter what harebrained dream might have driven him, including following rodeos all over the country if that was what he had wanted. "You're sorry you didn't quit sooner?"
"Nah, not really. Far as the marriage went, even if I'd quit roping, all I would've been doing was postponing the inevitable. Julie and I never should've got married in the first place. If she hadn't been pregnant, we wouldn't have."
"If she'd loved you, she would've supported you. She would've been your partner."
His gaze swung to her face. "Is that what you'd do? Be my partner?"
"That's what I did do. For seventeen years." She looked into his solemn eyes, their faces only inches apart. "I've got a good dry shoulder. You can tell me about it. If you want to."
"No." He leaned toward her. "This is what I want." His hand came up to her jaw and tilted her face up to his and his lips settled on hers.
It was a safe kiss—sweet and earnest, with no pressure. She sat there without moving, letting him caress her lips with his and listening to every sound. She could make herself crazy attempting to analyze what was happening between them, so she threw caution to the wind, turned in to him, slid her hand around his nape and opened her mouth.
He came in, taking what he wanted in a slow dance of tongues. A feeling of the rightness of his mouth on hers stole through her. The barn spun around her as rational thought left her head. The hand that had cradled her face slid down, then closed over her breast. So much time had passed since she had felt a man's hand on her breast and she gave no thought to moving it. Her nipple beneath his palm tightened, pushing against the soft lace of her bra, and the next thing she knew, his hand was under her sweater and his fingers were stroking. A long-missed urgency rose from deep in her belly.
He lifted his mouth from hers. "Oh, shit," he whispered.
She had lain awake nights imagining his touch. She didn't hesitate reaching back under her sweater and releasing her bra hooks. Her bare breast filled his hand. She put space between them to give him access and at the same time, undid his shirt buttons. She collided with a T-shirt, which she pulled free of his belt. She pushed it up, exposing his hairy, rippled middle and his brown nipples. She ducked her head and licked, heard and felt a little grunt escape his chest, felt his hands burrow into her hair. She returned her mouth to his and pressed her bare breasts against his chest, loving the soft keening sound that came from deep in his throat.
"Goddamn," he said gruffly. "You know how long it's been?"
It wasn't a question that required an answer. They kissed more, hands clinging and chests rubbing. He eased her back onto the hay bale, pillowing her neck on his arm, and pushed up her sweater until it and her bra were gathered under her chin. Her nipples stood like stiff little peaks in the cool air and she could feel his eyes, his breath, on her breasts. He bent his head then and made a circle of one nipple with his tongue, setting off a tingling between her legs, making her feel hot and liquid and anxious. His hand slid down to the affected place. As she cocked one leg and dug her boot heel into the hay, she wondered if he could tell she was wet.
He thoroughly made love to her one breast, then moved to the other, all the while rubbing between her thighs. She ran her hands over his silky hair, drank in the smell of him up close. His gorgeous agile mouth trailed down her middle until it reached her navel. "You've got an inny," he murmured and blew softly.
A little shiver passed over her. His tongue dipped and as she arched her back, she thought of the school bus. "John," she managed, "what time is it?"
"Hmm?"
His fingers curled into the waistband of her jeans and tugged them down. He licked her belly and muscles up inside her flexed. "John, what time is it?"
He unhooked her belt buckle and unbuttoned her jeans. "I dunno. Does it matter?"
"Look at your watch. Please. Ava—"
He stopped. "Shit." He raised his wrist and frowned at his watch. "Three-forty-five."
She swallowed, feeling her swollen tongue and lips, and sat up. "The school bus gets here at four."
He closed his eyes and covered the bulge below his belt buckle with his hand. "Aw, Jesus—"
"I'm sorry. I didn't think—"
"It's okay," he said, shaky-voiced. "I didn't either." He slid off the hay bale and pulled down his T-shirt, then turned and tugged her to her feet.
She struggled to untangle her bra and her sweater, finally succeeded.
"Here, let me help you." He hooked her bra with trembling fingers. While she molded her breasts into the cups, he pulled down her sweater and squeezed her shoulders. "I'm gonna go."
A panic darted through her. "John, I—"
"It's best that I go." He picked up his hat and plopped it on. He looked rumpled and sexy with the tails of his white T-shirt and his outer shirt hanging loose. "I'll see you."
He walked out of the barn and left her.
* * *
John was in trouble. His brain had ceased to reside under his hat and dropped down to his shorts. He had violated Cardinal Rule #1: Don't get involved in Callister. Though he liked sex and he liked it hot and primitive, holding women, especially local women, at arm's length was a self-imposed discipline after too many misunderstood motives. If a guy didn't keep his libido under control, the next thing he knew, some cute little number with whom he'd had a helluva good time in bed would be talking about commitment and crashing into his horse trailer.
Commitment and Izzy. The combination in one sentence wasn't as jarring as he might have thought a few days or even a few hours ago.
He crept back to town, letting his blood cool. His cock felt like a rail spike. He had to force himself to stop remembering the softness of female flesh in his hands, nipples that grew firm at his touch and tasted like honey in his mouth.
It wasn't just the kiss in the barn that had sent him over the moon. The whole day had been perfect. Horseback in the mountains and the sunshine in the company of someone with whom he couldn't list all that he had in common. Then, sitting there on that haystack staring at lips that would tempt a preacher and feeling the chemistry boiling between them, he had gone crazy for a few minutes.
To his astonishment, she had been willing. God, had she been willing. She had nearly swallowed him alive. And she had been ready, too. Everything he had dreamed of as a fifteen-year-old had been his for the taking. When he felt the dampness between her legs all he could think of was tearing off their clothes. They would have gone at it right there on the hay bales if it hadn't been for that cussed
school bus.
Now he didn't know what to do, didn't know if he could, or should, ever go back to Izzy's house again. After he made such a quick exit, she had to be pissed off, but at the time all he could think of was getting out of there and gathering himself.
At his apartment, he checked his messages. Rooster had called and said they had a prisoner in jail, a speeder on whom he had discovered a hot warrant out of eastern Idaho. Two deputies from Idaho Falls would show up tomorrow to make the pickup.
The sheriff's office business yanked him back on track. If he got through tomorrow without making a total fool of himself in the presence of experienced lawmen, all he had to worry about was what he would do Thursday when he was expected to show up out at Izzy's house again and behave as if they had not practically knocked off a piece in the barn.
Callister County had no jailer other than the sheriff and his deputy. Prisoners were no longer boarded for more than a short stay. The commissioners had realized that the cost and risk in the outdated jail were too great. Consequently, a prisoner slated for a stay overnight meant that either John or Rooster would have to spend the night at the courthouse in the tiny bedroom set up down the hall from the sheriff's office. Since Rooster had been in the office all day, it was only fair that John spend the night. He called the deputy back and made an arrangement to relieve him at eight o'clock.
At least tomorrow would be a busy day. Thank God. Maybe he wouldn't have time to think about crawling between Isabelle Rondeau's thighs.
* * *
Isabelle fumbled her way through supper—a new flavor of Hamburger Helper. Ava read her the directions for preparation. She would have never found the concentration to read them herself. It wasn't that she couldn't read, but to do it was tedious and slow. The dish turned out a little salty but edible. After supper she and Ava read the latest Performance Horse and discussed an ad for a new type of boot to protect a horse's feet and ankles. What a blessing to have a child who could read better than most adults. Or to have a child like Ava, period.
In the bathroom she filled the claw-footed tub nearly to the top with hot water and bubble bath. She hadn't ridden for a whole day in months and her sore muscles reminded her she was no longer a kid. As she stripped, she thought about the age of her body compared to the age of John Bradshaw's. Three years wasn't a huge age difference. He didn't seem to care, but she had seen the buckle bunnies who hung out around the cowboys at rodeos. She suspected John had never seen or touched a female body as old as hers.
She sank into the warm bubbles and closed her eyes, letting her mind wander where it would. It settled on John and how, at intervals through the day, she hadn't been able to keep from watching him—his incredible expressive eyes, his quick-to-grin mouth and white teeth, his narrow waist and firm butt in tight jeans. She admired the agility and athleticism in his big body, which made her think of all that masculinity pressed around her, against her.
In her.
She lounged in the bubble bath until the water turned cool, then climbed out and dried herself with a thick towel. In front of the mirror over the sink, she studied her thirty-five-year-old self. No discernible wrinkles, no sagging skin, breasts not quite as perky as they had once been but probably still enjoyable to a man's hands. Or mouth.
A cape of freckles draped over her shoulders, upper arms and chest. For some reason, her breasts weren't freckled. They were white and porcelainlike, with vivid rosy nipples. John had stared at her breasts, touched and kissed them all over.
Her belly, the same white color as her breasts, appeared to be as flat as it always had been, except that now there was something different. John's tongue had traced a trail across it just above her pubic hair and sent erotic sensations all through her. As if the line were highlighted in neon, she could still feel it. Damn.
What would he think or say the next time they met?
What would she say?
She opened the medicine cabinet, took out a jar of sweet-smelling cream and began to rub it over her arms, her elbows and shoulders. What now? If they couldn't move past the temporary insanity in the barn, she would have to find someone else to help her with the horses.
She sat down on a small stool beside the tub and smoothed the soft cream over her feet and ankles, paid particular attention to her heels and the cuticles around her toenails. She moved up to her legs and rubbed her calves and shins and finally, rubbing the silky cream onto her thighs, she thought of John again and his hand between her legs.
She wanted him, more than she dared admit outside this room, more than she had wanted any man since Billy. Would his erection be as his body indicated, long and thick? The old saying came to her about the size of a man's feet. John's boot size must be a twelve or thirteen and a vague visual formed of him standing naked in front of her. In a telephone gossip session, her cousin Nan had told her John had been with a lot of women. Did he have fingers that were good for more than tying a calf in less than ten seconds? Did he have an agile tongue that could make her shudder and cry out as Billy had done?
A profound need gripped her. Her sex began to tingle. She closed her eyes, let her thighs fall wide and gently massaged herself with her fingers. Her belly muscles clenched. Her breath became a pant and she clenched her teeth as intense pleasure took her. When the moment passed, a shiver passed over her.
"Damn, Isabelle," she whispered. "What's wrong with you?"
Chapter 13
As she made coffee and prepared Ava's breakfast, Isabelle's mind volleyed between the conversation with John about the horses and the memory of their encounter in the barn. She had been so brazen, unhooking her bra herself, then letting him touch her everywhere. When had she become so desperate she couldn't control her urges? Would he think her a slut, as she had been called in high school?
With her history in Callister as a teenager, no one except for Billy would believe that she had no experience with sex. She had never wanted to be with anyone but Billy. When things had been good between them, the sex had been intense and erotic. After he left—well, to be honest, before he left, too—a few men had made passes at her, but she rejected all of them.
Now, after all this time, becoming intimate with any man in Callister reflected something more unsettling than the horse-ownership dilemma. Perhaps she hadn't succeeded in moving past Billy's desertion after all. Maybe it had deeply affected her as a woman. Did the barn incident prove it?
Shoving the scene to the back of her mind, she addressed the easier, more practical need. She called her cousin, Nan Gilbert, and made an arrangement to visit her after Ava left for school.
Since her return from Texas, Isabelle had been to the Gilbert home only once. The house was old, but its barn-red color and white trim gave it a clean, new look. A tall white fence and a locked gate closed off the front yard, tacitly directing traffic to the back of the frame house.
As soon as Isabelle knocked once, the back door sprang open and her chubby cousin greeted her with a hug and a dimpled smile on a wide, round face. "I'm so glad you came to see me," Nan said.
Compared to Isabelle, in tight jeans and turtleneck shirt, her cousin looked comfortable wearing oversized sweatpants and a huge green ski sweater peppered with a white snowflake design.
Isabelle stepped into an added-on room that was almost the size of the rest of the house. It obviously served a multitude of purposes. A sewing machine, an ironing board and a stack of clothing to be mended or ironed sat in front of a TV. A long table against the wall was covered with Roger's tools and supplies where he reloaded his own ammunition. He was an avid big-game hunter, like most of Callister's males.
In a wood heater, a fire burned and the room felt toasty. Isabelle removed her jacket and Nan held it up, inspecting the rust-colored tapestry fabric decorated with black and brown galloping horses. "Wow," she said. "Great jacket. Expensive, huh?"
Expensive being a relative description, Isabelle laughed off the remark. "Not really."
"I knew you'd have great clothe
s. Fancy horse people just do."
Isabelle had never classified herself as "fancy horse people," though she knew a few individuals who fit that category.
Nan hung the jacket on a coatrack in the corner. "Want some coffee? There's some left from breakfast."
"Sure." As Isabelle followed her cousin to the kitchen, which smelled of coffee and something baking, she glanced into the dining room and saw a child sleeping under a blanket in a playpen. That would be Amy, the youngest.
Amid an assortment of bowls and pans, Nan poured coffee into a thick ceramic mug and passed it to Isabelle. "Want sugar? Cream?" Nan didn't pour a cup for herself.
"No, thanks. You aren't having any?"
"Coffee's been giving me indigestion." Nan smiled, her brown eyes warm and happy. "I think I'm pregnant. I'm two weeks late."
"Oh," Isabelle said, unsure how to respond. Nan and Roger already had four children and Roger's income from his job as a heavy-equipment operator at the sawmill had to be small. "Congratulations, huh?" She leaned her rear end against the counter and sipped the hot, strong coffee.
Nan gave a jolly laugh. "We weren't expecting it, but when you've got a houseful, what's one more?"
Isabelle glanced at the sleeping child. "You don't use birth control?"
"Oh, sometimes. But when Roger wakes up all hard and ready to go, we aren't always careful." Her lips curled into another smile. "I can tell you the minute it happened this time."
Sex. Well, Isabelle thought, that was a topic of which she need not be reminded. "Can't you say no?"
"I can, but I don't." The oven timer went off with a buzz. "Wait. Let me take this cake out of the oven. With six of us, we eat a cake a day around here." She grabbed hot pads and slid two chocolate layers from the oven and set them on trivets on the countertop. "Roger's real good. Know what I mean?" She reached across the stovetop and switched off the oven, then turned to Isabelle, wiggling her dark brows.
The Love of a Lawman, The Callister Trilogy, Book 3 Page 14