by Alicia Scott
"No one says shall anymore," she muttered, but she accepted his outstretched hand. Big mistake. His palm was callused and hard, his fingers warm. She was suffused with the image of that hand tracing her breast, and the pang of desire was so potent, she missed a step and almost fell on her butt.
Brandon caught her around the waist, steadying her. "I wasn't expecting to be able to do that until we got on the dance floor," he muttered in her ear. "But this works."
She yanked away. "I can walk by myself."
"If you insist."
By the time they got out to the sea of gaily dressed people on the wooden plank floor, her cheeks were bright red and her eyes were crackling. She was angry. No, she was hungry and frustrated, and anger was the easiest way of releasing the pressure.
Brandon Ferringer planted his hand on the small of her back, gripped her right hand and started whirling her in what should have been a Western two-step. It came out more as a tango, however, with her eyes burning into his gaze and the air growing so hot between them it sizzled.
"Why is Mom mad at Brandon?" Randy asked at the table.
His grandma patted his hand. "In a few years, dear. Everything will become clear in a few years."
Randy shrugged and went in search of tapioca pudding. On the other side of the table, Sarah sighed and dug in her purse for a chocolate bar. Wordlessly, her husband held out his hand for a piece.
"Four months, tops," she assured him.
"We'll buy more chocolate on the way home," he agreed, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Victoria came up hard against Brandon's chest, released her breath in an outraged hiss and retaliated with a sharp rap of her heel on his toes. He promptly twisted her to the side, caught her arm behind her and moseyed forward four steps before twirling her against him.
"I thought you couldn't dance," she growled.
"I learn fast," he said mildly, but his blue eyes were much too dark and a light sheen of perspiration stained his cheeks.
"So now that you're officially a wildland firefighter, you think you can handle the heat?"
"Victoria, with you, I never make any assumptions."
He twirled her around, and she let him. And she knew as the sea of people whirled around them and the floor shook with the beat that she was losing the war. He brought her against his chest, his lips parted, his eyes raw. The guitar sang and the banjo twanged. She felt her defenses crumble. The music picked up. They moved faster. She told him with her gyrating steps where the music led, and he fiercely agreed.
* * *
"Thank you for dinner." She kissed her mother on the cheek, her voice low so she wouldn't wake Randy, sprawled out in the front seat. "Thanks, Dad." She embraced her father, who smelled comfortably of beer and spiced ribs, then gave Charlie a last congratulatory squeeze.
It was two in the morning and the Meese clan was finally pouring out of Moses's Honky Tonk—a late night for them all, which was setting Victoria's teeth on edge. She loved her family. She really did. She'd been ready to leave two hours ago, dammit. Her gaze went straight to Brandon.
He was still untangling himself from her sister-in-law. Then he climbed behind the wheel. They didn't say a word. She adjusted Randy's sleeping head on her lap. Brandon put the truck into gear.
It was a forty-five minute drive to the Lady Luck Ranch, a hop, skip and a jump for central Oregon. Still, she felt each mile keenly, as impatient as a two-year-old. Two weeks of foreplay was enough for anyone. She was ready to get down to business.
Is this the right thing?
She didn't want to have that thought. Brandon wasn't Ronald. He wasn't a thief or an addict or a liar. She'd chosen better this time around.
He still won't stay. Tonight will be sweet, tomorrow sweeter. But six months from now, when his term is up? How will you feel? How will Randy feel?
She looked out the window at the inky darkness racing by. Randy was old enough to understand about girlfriends and boyfriends. He'd met enough of Charlie's dates over the years. She didn't think he'd mind Victoria and Brandon dating. But could he understand the limitations? Would he understand Brandon's need to move on come fall?
Or would he take that personally? The way Victoria inevitably would?
She pushed the thought away again. She didn't want reality. She wasn't ready for reality. This was her Cinderella moment, and hell, she hadn't even gone to her own prom because Ronald had preferred to go off drinking. Surely every woman was entitled to one night from a fairy tale.
Brandon's fingers touched her cheek. She looked at him. His face was somber in the darkness, his jaw strong.
"I had a wonderful time tonight," he said, and she swore to herself that it would be all right.
* * *
He took Randy out of her arms when they finally pulled up at the ranch. She opened the front door and they crept through the blackened house like thieves, trying not to make any noise that would wake her son. His bedroom was next-door to hers. She pulled back the cowboy covers and Brandon laid him down.
"Tired," Randy groaned, smacked his lips sleepily, and rolled over. She pulled off his boots and jeans and left him in his shirt with the covers tucked around his neck.
Her hands were shaking. She hadn't planned on feeling so nervous. She was a twenty-seven-year-old woman, for God's sake. She'd given birth to a child. No blushing virgin here. But there had never been anyone but Ronald. Suddenly, that made her feel foolish.
She smoothed a hand over her shirt, inhaled a steadying breath and found Brandon waiting on the front porch. He turned as she approached. He studied her.
"Why don't we go to your cabin?" she said. "My room—" she licked her lips "—my room is next to Randy's."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I am. And you?"
"Yes," he said quietly. "Definitely, yes."
He held out his hand, and she took it. For one moment, they stood apart, joined only by the grip of their fingers. Then he tugged and she succumbed, coming into his embrace, opening her arms, arching her neck.
His lips met hers fiercely, his tongue already dueling with hers, and the latent tension exploded, ripping through her veins and leaving her dizzy. Yes, yes, yes.
"My cabin," he whispered urgently, nibbling the corner of her mouth, tracing a path along her jaw, suckling her earlobe. "Cabin."
"Argh, yeah, oh my," she said.
His lips returned. She clutched his cheeks, her body pressed against his, his hardness stabbing her belly. God, she was so damp and achy and hot.
"Cabin," he muttered thickly. "Cabin."
They sprang down the porch like teenagers and ran for it. His porch loomed. She was tingling and tight with anticipation. In her mind, he was already naked and above her.
Suddenly he yanked to a stop, jerking her hand.
"Oh, my God," Brandon said. "The stables!"
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Plumes of smoke rolled out of the stable's center aisle, thick and black. A nervous whinny erupted, then hoofbeats thundered as Doc plunged around the arena, enraged by the fumes and crackling blaze.
"The horses," Brandon shouted and raced into the heart of it. He had a last glimpse of Victoria running toward the closest stall, then he was struggling with his shirt, ripping off the cotton and holding it in front of his face as the acrid smoke seared his nostrils.
Up ahead, orange tongues of flames danced across the hay bales and licked the wooden stalls, heading for the rafters, seeking the rafters. If they caught…
The hose, the hose. He felt along the ground frantically, his eyes tearing, his throat closing up. Alfalfa burned densely. In his mind he could see the charts for fuel moisture to time of burning while his fingers scratched along the dirt floor trying to find the damn coiled hose.
He tripped over it, followed it to the end and flicked on the knob. Water streamed out, sweet and clear.
He turned and let the fire have it.
In the distance, Doc neighed wildly a
nd careened toward the gate.
* * *
"Doc, no!" Victoria screamed. She bolted over the fence, waving her arms. Doc rolled his eyes in panic and just kept coming. The gate was too high. He'd break a leg.
"Down!" Brandon yelled.
She dove to the side. Suddenly water arched through the air, nailing the foaming horse between the eyes. Doc reared up, stopped cold. He screamed, a raw primal yell that hurt Victoria to hear. Then the horse twisted to the left, as desperate to escape the water as the flames, and took off running once more.
"I got him, I got him!" Victoria scrambled to her feet.
"Open the gate, let him out!"
"He's too panicked, he'll break a leg."
She raced for the lunge rope. With a curse, Brandon hosed down the exposed rafters, then grabbed the hay hooks and ripped open the bales, exposing golden, burning embers and dousing them with water.
He could hear Doc whinnying again, long and furious. Then he heard Victoria's sharp yell.
"Dammit!" He dropped the hose and ran for the arena.
* * *
"Shhh," Victoria murmured. "Shhh."
Brandon burst through the smoke like a specter and Doc reared again, but she had him on the lunge line and brought him down. Brandon froze, almost as panicked as Doc. His torso was bare, the rippling lines of his chest clearly illuminated by sweat. Soot dusted the broad sweep of his collarbone, smearing through the small smattering of golden chest hair and drawing her gaze to a washboard stomach.
He was toned. Lord, he was toned, and sweat and water stained the waistband of his jeans, while his forearms tensed, sending ripples of tendons snaking beneath his skin. He was on edge, she was on edge. At the other end of the lunge line, the horse was on edge. The silence drew out, lengthened, then Doc's foreleg quivered and he rolled his eyes, ready for flight once more.
She jerked her attention to her horse and murmured soothing sounds she hoped would quiet them both. Adrenaline still buzzed in her ears.
"Do you want me to take him?" Brandon gestured toward Doc, his voice tight.
"I got him." Doc's nostrils flared, his coat dusty. "It's okay, boy," she whispered. "It's okay now. We're all okay."
The trick was to be calm. Horses responded to that more than anything. Of course, it was difficult to be calm when she was standing next to a half-naked man who only moments before had been prepared to sweep her into his cabin and strip her bare. She closed her eyes but still tasted his kiss on her lips.
"Are you all right?" Brandon asked. "I thought I heard a yell."
"Oh, we had a rough moment or two, but we're fine now." Doc's ears finally pivoted toward her at the sound of her voice, a good sign. She continued stroking his neck.
"The other horses?"
"Riches was the only one still in a stall—I turn Daisy and Specter out to pasture at night. Riches is fine. And Doc is calming down. The fear gets them in more trouble than the fire." She pointed at his foreleg, which was bleeding. "Probably hit it against a railing when he panicked."
"Anything permanent?"
"No, I just need to dress it. The fire's out, I assume."
"Yes, it hadn't spread from the hay bales."
She sighed and gritted her teeth. "Of all the lousy luck. The alfalfa must have spontaneously combusted. It happens around here. We get so much damn rain, everything's damp all the time, or maybe the alfalfa didn't dry out all the way before it was baled. Then it starts mildewing, generates heat and bam." She shook her head. "I thought we'd salted that batch, though. I do try to be careful."
She looked outside the arena gate. The feed area was blackened and charred. Two weeks of alfalfa were ruined, and alfalfa was expensive these days. The Oregon floods of 1996 had wiped out valuable pastureland, rocketing up prices across the board. Damn, damn, damn, damn. The joy of being a rancher was that if it wasn't one thing, it was always another.
Victoria wrapped her arms around Doc's neck. He stood quietly, big, enduring, reassuring. She hugged him closer. "It could've been worse," she murmured. "Much worse."
"I should check the rafters," Brandon said at last. His face was grim. He didn't meet her eye. "You can't be too careful about embers."
"Yeah. I need to treat Doc's leg."
He turned away and Victoria smiled wanly. The passion, so rampant earlier, was gone, and they both knew it. Moments came, moments went. Wordlessly, they got to work.
* * *
Brandon inspected the rafters thoroughly, determined every last spark was out, and finally turned the hose on himself to rinse off. The water was ice cold against his sweating chest. He barely noticed it. His shoulders were bunched. He could feel a tension headache rolling in and didn't bother to fight it. He was angry. So incredibly angry.
The chain saw, the falling tree, the burning hay. Accidents or not accidents? Related or coincidental? Chains did come loose, dead trees did fall, damp hay could combust.
And old ghosts could come back to haunt you when skeletons were rattled in the closet.
Dammit, he didn't know. Analytic whiz kid Brandon Ferringer just didn't know, and he hated that sensation most of all. He was frustrated. He was furious. And as he pictured the flames licking up the stable walls and heard the horses' frightened cries, he felt secretly guilty. What if it was all his fault? What if once more he was dragging an innocent woman into his problems? Max's problems!
Bloody hell.
He yanked on a fresh shirt and headed for the front porch. Victoria sat on the steps, her arms wrapped around her knees and her face exhausted. Her pretty lavender blouse was ruined, her good jeans ripped. He still remembered how she'd looked coming out of the house this evening—so beautiful it had hurt.
He sat. He plucked at imaginary lint on his jeans. "How's Doc?" he asked at last.
"A scratch. He'll be fine."
"Good. And you?"
"Just tired and frustrated."
"No kidding," he growled, and earned her startled glance.
They lapsed into silence. Victoria's features were tight, the worry corrugating her brow. He wanted to hold her and tell her it would be all right. He had no business making such promises. He wanted to comfort her. He might be the one to blame.
"I'll have to go into town tomorrow," Victoria murmured. She dragged a hand through her hair. The golden strands were dulled by the smoke. "Need to buy alfalfa. Maybe find some raw lumber and patch up. That should do."
"I'll buy it," he said abruptly.
"What?"
"The lumber, grain, alfalfa, whatever you need. I'll take care of it." She'd gone rigid beside him. He didn't take the hint. "You'll need new hay hooks and probably a hose. A fire extinguisher would be a good idea, as well. Wait—we'll get several. Stick one in each stall. Rebuild the feed area. I'll measure it in the morning."
"What the hell are you doing?" She was on her feet so fast she startled him. "How dare you, Ferringer? How dare you try to take over my life like that? I was just talking out loud, that's all. I was not asking for a handout! You oughtta know me better than that!"
"That's not what I meant—"
"You just said you would pay for everything. Hell, you just blurted out a shopping list for my ranch without so much as a by your leave!"
"I didn't mean—"
"Let's get this straight, Ferringer, because it's four in the damn morning and I don't plan on having this conversation again. I do not want your money. I am not looking for a Prince Charming for myself or Randy. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and my ranch. My alfalfa spontaneously combusted. Welcome to ranch life. In the morning, I'll go into town and take care of it. You get back to your hotshots and leave me and my ranch alone. And don't ever insult me like that again."
She was nearly shouting. Her temper sparked his own, and suddenly reserved, stoic Brandon Ferringer was on his feet.
"Bloody hell!" he said. "What do you want from me, woman? I offer to help and you bite off my head—"
"You didn't offer to help,
you tried to buy my life!"
"And what is so damn wrong with that? I have money. I can buy you a new stables, I can buy you a truck and I can buy a damn horse. I can throw in a computer for Randy and a roof for the house. What is so bloody wrong with that?"
"Brandon Ferringer…" Her voice dropped to a low growl.
"What?" he demanded recklessly. "What, what, what?"
Her chest heaved. She looked one inch away from belting him and two inches away from making sure they never found his body. Abruptly, she thinned her lips. "I'm going to bed," she announced. "It's late, we're exhausted, and we're obviously not ourselves or you would know better than to suffocate me with dollars and I would know better than to want to kiss you anyway. Good night!"
She pivoted sharply, her eyes still ablaze, and stormed into her house. The screen door snapped shut. The front door slammed.
Brandon remained standing, his fists clenched at his sides, his blood on fire. She wanted to kiss him anyway?
He gave up, and in a storm of emotion, he kicked the ground, then pulverized a small sagebrush. Bloody hell.
He would never understand women! He would just never understand women! He bought his mother her damn estate back and still she called him just to tell him he was cold, unfeeling and remote. Julia said they never went out anymore. He took her to the best restaurant in New York. She said he no longer seemed to care, and he brought her a dozen roses. And even then, he could read her sadness from across the room when he came home at midnight. He was staying late for his job, for God's sake. It wasn't as if he went barhopping with the boys or flirted with other women.
He tried, dammit! He didn't want to be like his father, he knew he didn't. And he was a success—he'd made real money through good investments, not draining it from wealthy women. He'd taken care of his mother. He'd taken care of his wife. When his sister, Maggie, was kidnapped, he'd been the first to put up the six-digit reward. When C.J.'s fiancée had been arrested, he'd been the first to post the six-digit bail.
He was trying to be a team player. He was trying not to be cold.
He was trying to be a real man.
And ending up as Santa Claus.