by Norah Wilson
“This old place is so cool. I can just picture it as your grandmother and her sisters would have arranged it. Let’s see...where would they have put their still?” She crossed the floor. “I’m guessing they wouldn’t have wanted to carry the water any farther than they had to. And in case of fire, they probably wanted the operation close to the door, yet not so close that a fire would block the exit. They’d need to access the rain barrels quickly so they could toss buckets of water at the flames.” She paced a little more, then stopped and pointed down. “I’m guessing the still was right here.”
She was right. “Lucky guess.”
“Luck, my ass. It’s called deduction. It’s a gift I have. A woman thing.” She gave him a pitying wave of the hand. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, like how you deduced I was a single-malt scotch man?”
“Exactly. Now pay attention and you might learn something.”
He snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay, what else can I tell you? There would have always been a stool at that window, I’m thinking. For whoever was keeping look out.”
Right again. Titus inclined his head. “Two for two.”
Ocean turned to the cot in the corner. “I’m guessing there would be a trap door right under here.” Bending quickly, she reached for the throw rug on the floor by the bed, obviously intending to whip it back and reveal the trap door that Titus knew lurked underneath.
But her hand jerked back and she gasped. She straightened, but her face was constricted with pain.
Titus jumped up so quickly, his chair crashed to the floor behind him. He was at her side in a heartbeat. He touched her shoulders, her face. “Are you okay?”
She shrugged off his worry and sat down on the low bed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re injured. That fall—”
“It’s nothing. Really. It’s just the way I twisted my torso just now. I’m good.”
“Let me help you lie down.”
“I think I can do that myself,” she protested.
“And I think I can make it easier on those ribs.”
She shot him a surprised look.
“I’ve had my own share of bruises,” he said. “Now try to rotate as I lift your legs onto the bed. Once we get them up, I’ll help you lie down.”
For once, she didn’t argue. She expelled a hard breath as he lifted her legs up, but she managed to get herself straight on the bed. “Good girl. Now let’s lie you down.” He put an arm around her, supporting her and helped her ease down onto her back.
“How’s that?” he asked, scanning her earnest eyes to gauge her level of pain. Or her level of lying about it.
“I could have done that myself.”
“I know, but it would have hurt more, and it looks like it hurt plenty enough.”
“It’s just the way I twisted,” she insisted.
He had to take charge here. Take care of this situation. “You’re hurt. I’ll get my stethoscope. I’ll need to listen to your lungs in case—”
She grabbed his hand. “Hey, I’m fine. You can probably chalk most of it up to being stiff and sore from being so out of shape. I’m not used to climbing anything more challenging than the subway stairs. It’s been years since I’ve been this far up the mountain.”
He studied her face, which no longer showed any evidence of pain. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Only then did he allow the tightness out of his own shoulders.
She released his hand. “Hey, since you’re playing nursemaid, maybe you could fluff this pillow. It feels pretty lumpy.” She lifted her head and pulled the pillow out.
He grinned. That was so Ocean.
“Sure.” He took the feather pillow from her, punched and fluffed it, then slid it back in place.
“Thanks.” She sank back onto the pillow, rolling her head one way and then the other to test it. “Much better.”
“You’re welcome.” He grabbed the wool blanket from the bottom of the bed and handed it to her. “It’s warm enough in here right now, but you’ll need that before the night is done.”
“Thank you,” she said again. “For everything. But mostly for not calling for a chopper to bring my mother up here with a bullhorn.”
He laughed. “I don’t think I could command those resources for anything but a medevac, but that’s an interesting picture you paint.”
“Good. Because she’s already enough of a helicopter mom without being literally helicoptered out here.”
He laughed again, a short bark of pure amusement, and she smiled back.
Then her face sobered, and Titus just had to ask. “So your mom must be pretty glad you’re home.”
“Yeah. She’s been cooking up a storm since I walked in the door—probably since the moment she convinced me to come back home. Chicken pot pie. Homemade bread. Mincemeat pie. Cream of fiddlehead soup. Shepherd’s pie. All the comfort foods of home. She’s convinced I’m malnourished or something.”
“Well,” Titus said, “if she’s cooking like that, you can tell her I’ve been feeling malnourished myself.”
Ocean grinned. “She’ll send you a bag of grapefruit.”
“Yeah, just what I was angling for.”
They both chuckled easily.
“Seriously, Titus,” Ocean said. “Thanks for…well, all of it.”
He said nothing. Just stared into her eyes.
“You’re a good man, Titus the Titan. Your family…the whole of Harkness is lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you here with me.”
A good man? Her words hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.
How much would the town love him when he up and left them? When they learned he orchestrated the sale of Standish Farms and sent his father to live in some dinky retirement complex? How much would the town love him when that huge chunk of land went to a developer? He hadn’t even asked what kind of a development they had in mind, for God’s sake. He’d just seen the open road before him. He’d flinched when he’d finally seen the papers—actually set eyes on the name behind the company that was buying the farm—but he’d stood silently over Arden anyway while the old man signed the agreement.
That was exactly what he was going to tell Ember and Scott this Thanksgiving weekend.
No one was going to like it, least of all his siblings, but that couldn’t be helped. Because it was finally his turn. His chance to not be the responsible one. For so long he’d wanted—God, yearned more than anything—to get away, to follow his own path. And now it was happening. But not without a price.
A good man?
Maybe not so much.
Ocean stared up at him with those liquid blue eyes.
At that precise moment, there was one thing Titus wanted more than anything else in the world. He wanted to kiss Ocean Siliker.
Chapter 13
OCEAN’S HEART leapt at the look on Titus’s face as he bent over her. His gaze was fixed on her mouth. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he was going to—
Kiss her.
Omigod, he was kissing her!
For a split second, surprise kept her from responding. Then instinct kicked in. She opened her mouth against the invading pressure of his. The brush of his tongue was electrifying, setting up a tingling hum of desire in her belly. He must have felt it too, because he did it again, sweeping his tongue across her lips and into her mouth. She met his advance, took him in, reveling in the taste of him.
Titus. She wanted to sigh his name, pull him down onto the cot with her. She wanted to hear him say her name in a voice turned hoarse with passion. But the truth was, she was too scared to break the spell. She didn’t know what had seized him to make him kiss her like this and she didn’t care. She just didn’t want him to stop.
One big hand came up to splay at her throat, and the other tangled in her hair, gently tugging it. She almost came right there. She loved it when a man did that. Well, when she didn’t have to tell him to do it.
He s
oftened his lips and brushed them over hers in a feather-light caress. Afraid that was a prelude to pulling away, she arched up. With a groan, he deepened the kiss again.
Titus.
She managed to keep his name inside, but her right hand snaked up, finding the back of his head. As their tongues danced, her fingers luxuriated in the springy feel of his close-cut hair. But she couldn’t stop there. As though it had a mind of its own, her hand slid down his neck and across to the point of his shoulder.
Oh, Lord, the feel of him. All muscle and heat. She could feel the leashed power vibrating beneath her hand. Without thought, she dug her nails into that solidity. He responded with a tightening of his hand in her hair.
For long, breathless moments, they kissed until finally he lifted his head. His eyes were glazed with a passion that seemed to match hers.
“Lie down with me, Titus. I want to feel you beside me.”
For a moment, she thought her whispered entreaty had torn the fabric of the spell.
No, she refused to accept that.
She put a hand on his face, delighting in the slight rasp of stubble. “Please, Titus. I need to feel your strength.”
He blinked and she held her breath.
“Move over,” he finally said.
She scooted aside, suppressing a gasp at the pain in her ribs. Thankfully, he didn’t notice. He came down beside her, and the old cot’s springs squeaked a protest. The dip in the mattress pretty much mashed them together, which was fine with Ocean. Her body absolutely sang at the contact.
She didn’t want to analyze this, wanted only to revel in it. But a stubborn part of her couldn’t let it be that simple. She’d had lovers, at university in Fredericton, then later, in New York. But no one had ever stirred her like this. Why Titus Standish?
He cradled her head in his hands and fit his mouth to hers again, kissing her as though he never wanted to stop. That little analytical piece of her brain sighed and threw in the towel. She slipped her arms around him, pulling him closer until she could feel the thick length of his arousal against her. Instinctively, she arched against him.
He groaned and broke the kiss, but she couldn’t complain because his lips had moved on to nuzzle her ear, her neck. Then he was sliding down her body. The buttons on her flannel shirt separated like magic under his practiced fingers until he’d exposed the shiny black thermal undershirt that hugged her like a second skin. His fingers slid under the snug hem and started pushing it up, up… Suddenly she was glad she hadn’t been able to find a sports bra at home that still fit. The lacy, black racer-back with the front closure she currently wore did a lot more for her assets than the sports bra uniboob look, and in just a few seconds, he was going to see it.
He eased back further still so that the light from the candle played on her bared skin. And froze.
“Jesus, Ocean.” He sat up and pushed to his feet.
What the heck? “What’s the matter?”
“Look at you. You’re black and blue. What was I thinking?”
“That I wanted this as much as you did?” Who was she kidding? She’d wanted it more. Wasn’t that always the problem when it came to this guy? She pulled her undershirt down to conceal the bruises he’d taken issue with and sat up. For good measure, she pulled her flannel shirt closed too.
“But your ribs—that’s got to hurt.”
“When I twist a certain way, yeah. But not for what we were doing.”
He blushed. Blushed, for God’s sake.
“I had no business starting anything. You fell off a cliff today. How could I have forgotten that? I just helped you lie down what—ten seconds ago?”
“Because I had a twinge when I twisted the wrong way.” She raked her hair back, her finger catching in a tangle. A tangle he’d made. “Titus, I’m not an invalid. How many times do I have to tell you that? I’m fine.”
“Those bruises say otherwise.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, Ocean. I’m a bastard. Just forget it happened. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” Her eyes widened with hurt, then narrowed. “The bruises aren’t the issue, are they?” She advanced on him. “They’re just your excuse to call a halt.” She stopped about a foot away from his chest, glaring up at him angrily. “You’re not a bastard, Titus Standish. You’re a coward!”
He crossed the cabin, grabbed his coat off the peg and yanked it on before turning back to face her. From the force of his movements, she expected to see anger on his face, but it was carefully expressionless. So was his voice. “Do you have enough ibuprofen?”
She’d been expecting something else, so it took her a few beats to comprehend what he was asking. “Yes. I have Advil in my bag.”
“Good.” He picked up the lantern and deposited it on an old overturned orange crate that served as an end table near the cot. “I suggest you take an extra-strength dose before you go to bed. Because tomorrow, we’re heading back down this mountain.”
He snuffed out the candle she’d left burning on the table and left, closing the door quietly behind him.
Chapter 14
TITUS LAY in his sleeping bag listening to the wind. It had started rising well before dawn, its soft soughing through the pines building to a constant moaning as he’d tried to get back to sleep. Now, as it battered at his shelter, he was glad he’d tightened the tent’s lines and checked his pegs before crawling—no, make that slinking—into it last night.
He’d spent more than his share of nights on the mountain, camping alone, waking to the cawing of crows and cries of other birds. If he were on the western side of the mountain where the river ran closer to the base of it, he’d wake to a different kind of air. Different sounds. But this morning, the wind was all he heard.
And he felt like crap.
A night’s sleep outdoors, especially on a cool fall night, usually left him feeling rested and refreshed in a way that the most comfortable bed could not. But he’d tossed and turned for a good two hours, and when he finally did get off to sleep, he’d wrestled with nightmares, waking frequently.
The wind gusted hard, tearing at the tent. It was going to be rough traveling today. There was a storm coming on that wind.
And how fitting is that, you son of a bitch?
He ran a hand over his stubbled face.
Ocean despised him now, for pulling away. She’d called him an emotional coward. In those sleepless hours, he’d pretty much concluded she was right. Hadn’t every woman he’d pursued since high school been unavailable for one reason or another? The WWOOFer from Scotland who’d come for the summer to do a stint on an organic farm. That RCMP officer whose assignment to the region was bound to be as short-lived as she could make it. And on and off, Erin Jamieson, Al Jamieson’s widow. Having had her fill of the married state, Erin was no more interested in permanence than he was.
He’d told himself his dating strategy had been necessary. He couldn’t afford to get entangled with a local woman, further chaining him to Harkness as he’d fantasized about his escape. But if he was honest with himself, there were plenty of women in town who were just as anxious to leave as he was, or who didn’t want to get tied down. Women who did leave, year after year. If he’d hooked up with a like-minded woman, they could have shared each other’s burdens until they were free to go. Maybe he’d have made the decision to sell the farm sooner.
Yes, Ocean had been right about him. And that was a bigger punch in the gut than it should have been.
Coward.
Lord, but she’d felt good in his arms. All that heat and passion. And her glorious hair. It seemed like every year when she’d come home, it was longer, darker, glossier. He’d been itching to touch it more than he cared to admit. And touch it he had. He’d fisted his hands in it. Held it to his nostrils and breathed in the scent.
He’d actually dreamed about it. Sandwiched amongst the nightmares—the ones in which he was too late, too slow, too unprepared to prevent all manner of disasters—he’d had an erotic dream in w
hich Ocean brought him to the point of climax with nothing but the brush and slide and caress of her hair.
He fought his way out of the sleeping bag, suddenly unable to lie there a moment longer. He’d been trying to give Ocean a decent sleep in, but the sun had been up for half an hour and he had to wake her sometime.
He unzipped the tent’s door and crawled out. Zipping it closed, he stood and stretched in a way the confines of the tent just didn’t allow. He would kill for a strong pot of drip coffee. Instant would have to do, though. That’s all he’d packed.
With any luck—and God only knew he could use some of that—maybe Ocean would already be up. Maybe she’d have tossed a few sticks on the embers of last night’s fire to chase away the chill, in which case that pot of water he’d left on top of the stove might already have boiled. If so, maybe he could ingratiate himself by digging the Taster’s Choice out of his pack. The pack he’d left behind last night in his haste to get out of there. The one he sure as hell wasn’t going back in there for after his ignominious exit.
He glanced toward the cabin, specifically, the chimney. No smoke trail rose from it, but then again, with the wind as strong as it was, he wouldn’t have expected to see a lazy curl of smoke.
He walked the short distance to the cabin, the anticipation of caffeine—even the instant kind—hastening his steps. The wind roared in the pines, bouncing the boughs, and whipping the long grass until it undulated like a sea around his feet.
“Please be up,” he muttered as he approached the door. He absolutely did not want to walk in there to find her curled up under the covers, her incredible hair fanned out across the pillow. As it was, he’d never be able to look at that old cot in the same way again.
With a curse, he reached to open the door, and froze with his hand on the knob.
Should he knock?
This was crazy. He’d never thought about knocking on this door before. But he couldn’t very well just walk in on her, unannounced.
Titus rapped on the wood. “Ocean, are you decent?”