Another Dawn

by Sandra Brown

  Jake had been only sixteen, but he would go to his grave remembering that blank stare on Clancey Russell's face the instant Luke's knife was plunged into his belly and he knew he was going to die.

  Jake realized his hand was squeezing the life out of Banner's and he released it immediately. When he raised his eyes to hers, she was looking at him strangely. He didn't want her to know that he harbored his own secrets. He forced himself to take a nonchalant sip of coffee.

  "Nothing I remember of that summer bears repeating," he said sharply. Luke. Luke. He would love to talk to her about Luke, but he could never bring himself to empty his soul about that. Even after all these years, the pain was still too raw.

  "I've tried to get Mama and Papa to tell me stories about the wagon train, but they never do. Or if they do, they stop talking when I start asking questions."

  ' 'It was a long time ago. Maybe they don't remember that far back." She shot him a scathing look and he chuckled. "I mean it. Maybe when you were born they were so dazzled to have such a daughter, they forgot everything that had happened to them before then." He leaned across the table and whispered,"You know, I think you were started on that wagon train."

  She clamped her upper teeth over her bottom lip and hunched her shoulders as she smiled mischievously. "I think so too," she whispered back. "My birthday comes barely nine months after they reached Texas."

  Jake laughed and sat back. "A proper young lady shouldn't be discussing such things with a man. You shouldn't even know about them."

  Her eyes became hazy. They wandered slowly over his face, down his chest, and back up to meet his. "I know about them, Jake."

  That struck too close to home. Whatever she knew about what men and women do together she had learned on a horse blanket spread on a pile of hay in a barn and had been taught by a man who had had no right to teach her.

  Jake reached in his pocket and took out a cigar. Then he crammed it back in and mumbled, "Sorry."

  "About what?"

  "The cigar. Most ladies don't want their houses stinking of cigar smoke."

  "I like the way your cigar smells. Smoke if you want to."

  Knowing he should leave now before their conversation veered toward the personal again, he nonetheless took the cheroot out of his pocket and bit off the end. He carefully placed the tip on the saucer beneath his coffee cup. Holding the cigar between his teeth, his hands went on a fruitless search through his pockets for a match.

  "Here, I'll get one for you." Before he could object, Banner had flown from her chair toward the stove where she picked up a box of matches. When she came back, he held out his hand for the box, but she shook her head and opened it herself. Striking the match, she held it at the tip of the cheroot until it glowed red. Jake puffed and a cloud of smoke rose between them.

  Through that blue-gray vapor, Jake looked up at her. Banner, her eyes never leaving his, puckered her lips delicately and blew on the match until it was extinguished.

  Jake's reaction was profound. He almost choked on the smoke he sucked in. An arrow of desire shot through him and found its target. His loins ached with the accuracy of its striking force. He lowered his eyes away from her, afraid mat if he looked one second longer into that provocative face he would toss the cigar to the floor and, disobeying every vow he had made to himself as he drove into town that afternoon, drag her onto his throbbing lap.

  Banner retreated to her chair. She propped her chin on her hands again as she unabashedly watched him smoke. "Does it taste as good as it smells?"

  "Sometimes, like now, it does."

  "Let me try." Filled with inspiration, she sat bolt upright and sent the lace that dangled over her breasts to quivering.

  "No!"

  "Please."

  "What are you thinking of, girl?"

  "I want to try it."

  "No. Your parents would kill me."

  "Please, Jake. They won't find out."

  "They might."

  "Would you tell them?"

  "No."

  "Neither would I. Please. What's wrong with it?"

  "Ladies don't smoke."

  "Some ladies do."

  "Then they aren't ladies."

  "You know some women who smoke?" she asked, her eyes rounding. It had only been a wild guess on her part that such a thing was possible.

  "A few."

  "Who?"

  "Nobody you'd know."

  "Whores?"

  Jake coughed and his eyes teared. "Where'd you hear that word?"

  "It's in the Bible." When his eyes narrowed skeptically she confessed. "From Lee and Micah."

  "They talk to you about whores?" Jake asked, flabbergasted.

  "Not exactly," she said defensively. "But I can't keep from overhearing them sometimes."

  Jake roared with laughter then. "Why, you little eavesdropper. You'd better be careful of that," he said, pointing the cheroot at her. "You might hear something you'd rather not."

  "I'm not a baby. I don't just know the word, I know what it means. Now, tell me about just one woman who smokes. She's a whore, I'll bet. Priscilla Watkins?"

  For the second time in sixty seconds she had shocked him. "Where did you hear that name?"

  "Lee and—"

  "Micah," he finished. "My God, they're wellsprings ot information, aren't they?"

  Banner's eyelids fanned downward. "They say you know her, this Watkins woman who's so famous."

  He could see her watching him from beneath that seductive screen of lashes. For the life of him at that moment, he couldn't recall Priscilla's face. Or the face of any othei woman for that matter. He saw only Banner, but he was careful to keep his expression impassive. "Yeah, I know her."

  "They say she's a friend of yours."

  He shrugged. "Maybe you could call her that."

  "But she is a whore."

  He chuckled and twirled the tip of the cheroot on the rim of the saucer until part of the ash fell off. "Definitely a whore."

  "Do you visit her?"

  "Sometimes."

  "In her bawdy house?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you..." Her voice lowered to a husky whisper "Do you share her bed?" She met his gaze steadily, with bold, burning eyes that defied him to lie to her.

  "No." He spoke so quietly, yet so precisely and honestly, that Banner knew he was telling the truth.

  "Oh," she said in a small voice.

  Jake watched her closely. He could have swom she was jealous. His male vanity wondered what she would have done had he confessed to being Priscilla's lover. He had behaved like a man possessed this afternoon when he saw Randy's hands on Banner. She was obviously jealous of Priscilla. Jealousy between them was dangerous. And he knew it. And the sooner he called an end to this cozy evening, the better. He shoved his chair back and stood. "I need to be getting—"

  "No, wait." She came out of her chair like a coiled spring and took two rapid steps forward. When he looked at her as though she had taken leave of her senses, she fell back a step. Catching her hands at her waist, she said quickly, "I have a favor to ask. If you... if you have the time."

  "What is it?"

  "In the living room. I have a picture to hang and I wondered if you could help me with it."

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the center room. One small lamp was burning in the corner. The room was cast in shadows, as intimate as those in the barn had been. The parlor was also the scene of the kiss that afternoon. Jake was better off not being reminded of mat at all.

  "I'm not much good at picture hanging," he hedged.

  "Oh, well." She made a dismissive little wave with her hand. "You've put in a full day already and it isn't the foreman's job to hang pictures, I suppose."

  Hell. Now she thought he didn't want to help her. She looked crestfallen, disappointed that she wouldn't get her picture hung and embarrassed for having asked his help and being turned down.

  "I guess it wouldn't take too long, would it?"

  "No, no," she said,
lifting her head eagerly. "I have everything ready." She brushed past him on her way into the parlor. "I got the hammer and a nail from the barn this afternoon while you were gone. I tried to hang it myself, but couldn't tell if I was getting it in the right spot or not."

  She was chattering breathlessly. Jake thought she might be as nervous as he about returning to this room. But she made no effort to turn up the lamp or light another one. Instead she made a beeline for the far wall.

  Was this her way of telling him that she had forgiven his behavior that afternoon, that she wasn't afraid to be in an empty house with him long after the sun had gone down? Had everything she had done tonight been a peacemaking gesture? If so, he was grateful to her. They couldn't have gone on much longer without killing each other or...

  The "or" he would do well not to think about. Especially since she was facing him again.

  "I thought I'd hang it on this wall, about here," she said, pointing her finger and cocking her head to one side.

  "That would be nice." He felt about as qualified to give advice on hanging a picture as he would be to choose a chapeau in a milliner's shop.

  "About eye level?"

  "Whose eye level? Yours or mine?"

  She laughed. "I see what you mean." She scraped the top of her head with her palm and slid it horizontally until it bumped against his breastbone. "I only come to here on you, don't I?"

  When she glanced up at him, his breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. How could he have ever considered this creature with the bewitching eyes and teasing smile a child? He had been with whores who prided, themselves on knowing all there was to know about getting: a man's blood to the boiling point. But no woman had ever had an impact on him the way this one did. Except perhaps Lydia those months they were together on the wagon train.

  His love for her had mellowed since then. He no longer experienced rushes of passionate desire every time he saw her. That summer traveling between Tennessee and Texas, he had been perpetually randy. Desire for Lydia, desire for Priscilla, desire for women, period.

  He had been sixteen, the sap of youth flowing sweetly, but painfully, through his body. But that's what he felt like every time he looked at Banner. He felt sixteen again and with no more control over his body than he had then.

  Her skirt was rustling against his pants. Her breasts were achingly close to his chest. She sraelled too good for it to be legal. He could practically taste her breath as it softly struck his chin. Before he drowned in the swirling depths of her eyes, he said, "Maybe we'd better—"

  "Oh, yes," she said briskly. Taking a three-legged stool from in front of an easy chair, she placed it near the wall and, raising her skirt above her ankles, stepped up on it. "The picture is there on the table. Hand it to me, please, then step back and tell me when it looks right."

  He picked up the framed picture. "This is pretty."

  It was a pastoral scene of horses grazing in a verdant pasture. "I thought it looked like Plum Creek." She glared at him, daring him to say anything derogatory about the name she had selected.

  "I didn't say anything."

  "No, but I know what you're thinking," she said accusingly. He only smiled benignly and passed her the picture.

  She turned her back, raised her arms and positioned the picture. "How does that look?"

  "A little lower maybe."

  "There?"

  "That's about right."

  Keeping the picture flat against the wall, she craned her head around. "Are you really judging or are you just trying to get this over with?"

  "I'm doing the best I can," he said, acting offended. "If you don't appreciate my help, you can always ask somebody else."

  "Like Randy?"

  Her taunt was intended as a joke, but Jake took it seriously. His brows gathered into a V above his nose as he took in the picture she made perched on that stool, leaning toward the wall with her arms raised. There was a good two inches of lacy petticoat showing above her trim ankles. Her rear end was sticking out. The apron's bow, topping that cute rounded bottom, was a tease no man could resist. The way her breasts poked out in front clearly defined their shape. No, not Randy. Not anybody if Jake could help it.

  He considered the placement of the picture with more care this time. "A little to the left if you want it centered." She moved it accordingly. "There. That's perfect."

  "All right. The nail will have to go in about six inches higher because of the cord it hangs by. Bring it and the hammer. You can drive it in while I hold the frame."

  He did as he was told, straddling the stool and leaning around her. He tried to avoid touching her, adjusting his arms in several positions, none of them satisfactory.

  "Just reach up between my arms with one hand and go over the top with the other."

  He swallowed and held his breath, trying not to notice her breasts as his hand snaked up between them. He held the nail in place with the other, though that was no small task because he was shaking on the inside.

  This was ridiculous! How many women had he tumbled? Stop acting like a goddamn kid and just get the job done so you can get the hell out of here! he shouted inwardly.

  Carefully he drew the hand holding the hammer back. But not carefully enough. His elbow pressed against her side. One of his knees bumped the back of hers. The backs of his knuckles sank into the plumpness of her breasts.

  "Excuse me," he muttered.

  "That's all right."

  He struck the nail, praying it would go into the wall with only one blow. It didn't. He moved his hand back and struck it again, and again, until he could see progress. Then, in rapid succession, he hit it viciously several times.

  "That's good enough," he said gruffly, and withdrew his arms.

  "Yes, I think so." Her voice sounded as unsteady as his.

  She draped the silken cord around the head of the nail and leaned as far back as she could while still maintaining her balance on the stool.

  "How's that?"

  "Fine, fine." He laid the hammer on the nearest table and ran his sleeve over his perspiring forehead.

  "Is it straight?"

  "A little lower on the left."

  "There?"

  "Not quite."

  "There?"

  Damn, he cursed silently. He had to get out of here or he was going to explode. He strode forward, wanting to straighten the picture quickly so he could leave and get some much needed air to clear his head. But in his haste, the toe of his boot caught on one of the stool's three legs and it rocked perilously.

  Banner squeaked in alarm and flailed her arms.

  Life on the trail for so many years had given Jake reflexes as quick as summer lightning. His arms went around her faster than the blink of an eye and anchored her against him. When the stool clattered onto its side, Banner was being held several inches off the floor.

  One of Jake's arms was around her waist, the other hand was flattened against her chest. Rather than letting her slide down, he lowered her. His back rounded slightly as he followed her down, bending over her.

  But once her feet were safely on the floor, he didn't release her. Jake had spread his legs wide to break her fall. Now Banner's hips were tucked snugly in the notch between his thighs.

  His cheek was lying along hers and when her nearness and her warmth and her scent got to be too much for him to resist, he turned his head and nuzzled her ear with his nose. His arms automatically tightened around her. He groaned her name.

  How could anything that felt so right be so wrong? Lord, he wanted her. Knowing in his deepest self that what had happened that other time was an abomination against decency, he wanted her again. There was no use lying to himself that he didn't. He had hurt her once. He had sworn never to again. He had betrayed a friendship that meant more to him than anything in the world.

  Yet such arguments were burned away like fog in a noonday sun as his lips moved in her hair and his nose breathed in the fragrance of the cologne that had been dabbed on that sof
test of spots behind her ear.

  "Banner, tell me to leave you alone."

  "I can't."

  She moved her head to one side, giving him access. His lips touched her neck.

  "Don't let this happen again."

  "I want you to hold me."

  "I want to, I want to."

  He moved his hand from her chest up to her neck, then her chin, until his hand lightly covered her face. Through parted lips her breath was hot and quick on his palm.

  Like a blind man, he charted each feature of her face with callused fingertips suddenly sensitized to capture each nuance. He smoothed her brows, which he knew to be raven black and beautifully arched. His fingers coasted over her cheekbones. They were freckled. He had come to adore every single freckle. Her nose was perfect, if a bit impudent.

  Her mouth.

  His fingers brushed back and forth over her lips. They were incredibly soft. The warm breaths filtering through them left his fingers moist.

  He pressed his mouth to her cheek, her ear, into her hair.

  The hand at her waist opened wide over her midriff. He curled his fingers against the taut flesh. She whimpered. He argued with himself, but there was no stopping his hand from gliding up the corrugated perfection of her ribs and covering her breast. Their moans complemented each other.

  Her ripe fullness filled his hand, and against his revolving thumb, the center of her breast tightened into a bead of arousal.

  "Jake—"

  "Sweet, so sweet."

  "This happens sometimes."

  "What?"

  "That," she answered on a puff of air as his fingers closed around her nipple. "They get that way sometimes ... when I look at you."

  "Good God, Banner, don't tell me that."

  "What does it mean?"

  "It means I never should have stayed."

  "And they won't go down. Not for the longest time. They stay like that, kind of itchy and tingling—"

  "Oh, hush."

  "—and that's when I wish—"

  "What?"

  "—that we were in the barn again and you were—"

  "Don't say it."

  "—inside me."

  "Jesus, Banner, stop."

  He made a cradle of his palm and laid it along her cheek, gradually turning her head to face him. And as her head turned, so did her body. The fabric of her clothes dragged against his like the tide on the seashore, separate, yet bound.