by Diana Bold
“Yes, you did.” He held her tightly, burying his face in her damp hair, unable to let her go. “But I don’t mind. It’s been a long time since anyone cared enough about me to meddle.”
She’d breathed life back into a part of him he’d thought long dead, the part that had once laughed and loved and confided his secrets and dreams. He felt naked now, but he wasn’t sorry. He needed her warmth and sweetness too badly to resist any longer.
The full swell of her breasts teased his chest, and he shifted, bringing her more fully against him. Her breath caught, and then started up again with a ragged edge that made him yearn to cover her mouth with his.
There was such passion in her. He knew, because she’d once given him the full measure of it. He closed his eyes and traced the slim column of her spine with his fingertips, wondering what she’d do if he were to cup her breast with his palm, then unbutton her blouse and bring her nipple to rigid attention with his lips. Would she moan and whisper his name?
The blood rushed to his groin at the thought. Christ, he couldn’t bear it. He’d loved her for so long. All the desires and wishes he’d pushed to the side during the last few years now demanded his undivided attention.
He wanted her. He needed her.
Somewhere inside the house a door slammed shut. She pulled away, glancing over her shoulder. Tristan smothered a curse and fought the urge to pull her back against him, to kiss and touch her until the whole world fell away.
“Everyone will be wondering where we went.” She leaned forward and pressed a brief, platonic kiss to his forehead. “We should go in and visit with Mary a little more before Ian has to take her home.”
“Go ahead. I’m going to stay out here for a while.”
She stared at him, the concern in her eyes nearly shattering his resolve. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
What a question. She turned him inside out and upside down. He ached for her so badly he thought he’d die if he didn’t find relief soon.
“Just go,” he muttered. “I’ll be fine.”
She nodded and squeezed his hand. “If you need me for anything, anything at all, just let me know.”
She smiled and hurried back into the house. Tristan groaned and buried his face in his hands. Did he need her? Of course he did. He needed her like he needed air to breathe.
Chapter Ten
Savannah shut the front door and then leaned against it, a small smile curving her lips. Slowly but surely, Tristan was forgiving her. The wall he’d built around his heart had started to crack. If she kept chipping away at it with her love, soon it would crumble altogether.
Being in his arms tonight had felt like coming home. She’d wanted to stay there forever, listening to the beat of his heart and his ragged breathing, knowing that despite everything, he still wanted her as much as she wanted him.
Luckily, the slamming door had brought her back to her senses.
Perhaps, in time, he’d forgive her for the choices she’d made ten years ago, but he’d never understand why she was keeping the truth about Billy from him now.
She had to tell him. There was no excuse not to. And until she did, she couldn’t give in to the siren pull of desire.
“Savannah? Are you all right?”
She glanced up and saw Ian staring at her from the parlor doorway.
Concern darkened his blue eyes, and he hurried forward, taking her arm and bending his mouth close to her ear. “Did you tell Tristan about Billy?”
She shook her head and pulled away from him. “Not yet,” she admitted. “We just talked about Michael.”
Ian sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “You have to tell him soon.”
“I know.” Guilt made her voice sharp. “I will tell him. I just need to find the right words. The right time.”
“Billy is your son,” Ian whispered harshly. “That’s only four words. How many more do you need?”
Savannah glared at her brother, stung. Ian had never spoken to her this way. Did he really think she meant to keep Tristan in the dark any longer than necessary?
“Tell Mary I’m not feeling well,” she told him with all the quiet dignity she could muster. “I’m going to my room.”
* * * * *
The moist hot smells of manure and hay reminded Tristan of his childhood. He stood just inside the McKenzies’ barn, breathing deeply, thinking longingly of the huge, stone building that had housed the horses at River’s End.
Within those stone walls, his father had taught him everything there was to know about horses. Tristan and Michael had played a thousand games of war in the loft, battling each other with wooden swords, never dreaming that one day they’d face each other on a far different battlefield.
Older by ten minutes, Tristan had been his father’s heir. He’d always been safe in the knowledge that his place in the world was guaranteed. For the first time, he wondered if Michael had resented him for that, despite his brother’s easy assurances that he was glad to escape the responsibility.
How quickly Michael had moved into his place once he was gone.
First into his father’s heart, and then into Savannah’s.
He shook the images away and grabbed a thick, woolen horse blanket from a peg on the wall. The house held far too much appeal for him tonight.
Tomorrow, he planned to move to the cabin Ian had offered him down by the creek, but for now he’d rather sleep in the barn than across the hall from Savannah. He didn’t trust himself not to cross that small distance and beg her to take him into her bed... into her body...
Groaning aloud at the very thought, he spread out the blanket in an empty stall and lay down, staring up into the darkness. It was no use, he realized. Savannah’s words were bound to haunt him no matter where he slept.
She’d told him Michael wouldn’t have wanted to be his ghost, and he knew she was right. For the first time, he had an inkling of what all these years of guilt and self‐destruction had done, both to himself and to Michael’s memory. In death, he’d turned Michael into something he’d never been in life.
Perfect.
He’d canonized his brother, remembering only the good parts of their relationship, forcing himself to forget their occasional squabbles and the very real rift the war had put between them.
If he’d come home, riddled with defeat, to find Michael married to Savannah, any relationship he’d had with either of them would have been destroyed. Surely Michael had known that.
Which only deepened his confusion. If Michael had hated him enough to rip apart that fragile bond, why had he bothered to come looking for him in the Wilderness?
He sighed and knifed to a sitting position. There was no way he was going to get any sleep tonight.
He stood and made his way to the stall where the mare and her new colt were resting. His presence made the colt shy nervously, and he hushed him with a soft sound. He took several deep, calming breaths, battling to keep his emotions under control and focus his restless energy on soothing the little horse.
Several minutes passed, but at last the colt brushed his velvety nose across Tristan’s knuckles. “Easy, boy,” he murmured, glad to see he hadn’t lost his touch. “I won’t hurt you.”
Horses were easy. He wished he had half as much success with people.
Frustrated desire still thrummed rhythmically through his blood.
Holding Savannah in his arms had resurrected long‐dead dreams and magnified his mistakes with dreadful clarity. He’d wasted so much time feeling sorry for himself. He’d let his humanity slip away until he wasn’t quite sure he could reclaim it.
The mare crossed the stall to investigate him, sniffing his shirt to make sure he wasn’t a threat to her baby. Tristan sighed and buried his face against her silky neck.
“You’re still alive, whether you like it or not.”
Savannah was right, as usual. The time had come to make peace with Michael’s death. He needed to find out if he had it in him to forget about the past an
d start living again.
* * * * *
Savannah flung open the cabin door, and then stood choking and gasping as a cloud of dust and the stench of mold and disuse filled her nostrils.
“Dear God,” she whispered when she regained her breath. “This place is a mess.”
More than three years had passed since her family had abandoned the tiny dark cabin for the large lovely home over the hill. Savannah hadn’t given it a thought since. She had very few fond memories of the place. She’d wished a thousand times during those early days that Ian had never talked her into leaving Maryland.
But when Tristan had announced his intention to move down here at breakfast, she’d known it would need some freshening up. Freshening up, she thought with a frown, looking around. Perhaps it would be easier to just tear the whole thing down and build another one.
Animals had been making themselves at home in the McKenzies’ absence. Signs of them were everywhere—nests in the corners, droppings on the wood floor and immense, draping spider webs. A heavy coat of dust covered everything, and the curtains hung in faded shreds over the two grimy windows.
“Yuck.” Billy came up behind her, a big bucket of cleaning materials in his hands. “Is he really going to live here?”
Savannah nodded and leaned the broom and mop against the doorframe. “This is going to take a lot more work than I thought.”
Billy frowned and crossed the room gingerly, depositing his load on the filthy table. “I don’t see why he just can’t stay up at the house with the rest of us.”
Savannah glanced at her son, wondering if this was just another attempt to get out of helping her clean, or if he really did want to keep Tristan close. She hoped it was the latter. So far, Tristan hadn’t made much progress in winning his son over.
“I imagine he just wants a little privacy.”
In truth, she knew exactly why Tristan wanted out of the house. It had nothing to do with privacy and everything to do with avoiding the attraction between them.
They’d moved into dangerous territory last night. He’d come close to forgiving her, and it probably scared the hell out of him.
“He just doesn’t want to be around me,” Billy said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. He picked up the broom, marched over to the corner, and started to sweep with unnecessary vigor. “He doesn’t like me.”
“Oh, Billy,” Savannah whispered in dismay. “Of course he likes you. He likes you very much.”
Billy shook his head and continued sweeping. “No, he doesn’t. He thinks I’m stupid for wanting him to teach me how to shoot.”
Savannah went to her son and hugged him, stilling the motion of the broom. “He doesn’t think you’re stupid,” she told him, her heart breaking. “He just doesn’t want you to end up dead on the street somewhere.”
“I’m going to be good. Better than him even. No one will ever be able to kill me.” Billy broke free of her embrace and glared at her. “He’s afraid I’ll be better than he is.”
Savannah’s eyes stung with tears. She wanted to tell him the truth about Tristan, but was afraid to do so until she knew how Tristan felt about the whole situation. If Tristan walked away from Billy now, when he needed a father so badly, it would destroy him.
It would destroy her, too.
“Tristan cares for you,” she said, instead. “More than you know. I think you should give him another chance.”
Billy shook his head, backing away. “I don’t want to give him a second chance. I don’t want to talk to him at all.” Then he whirled and raced from the cabin, sprinting over the hill and out of sight before Savannah could make it any further than the cabin’s front porch.
She stared after him, a hollow ache in the pit of her stomach, debating whether or not to follow him. In the end, she let him go because there was nothing she could do to make things easier for him until she was free to tell him that Tristan was his father.
* * * * *
Tristan spent the day with Ian, discussing the McKenzies’ breeding program. He was pleased to be able to offer his old friend some suggestions, even happier when Ian asked him if he’d like to exchange the stud fees of his stallion for a few of the colts he sired.
Tristan decided to take the whole thing a little further. He pledged some of the thousands of dollars he’d saved during the years he’d spent as a hired gun to add more mares to Ian’s herd. If he was going to stay here, he wanted to be more than a hired hand.
Ian had admitted ready cash was something he was in short supply of and had offered Tristan a full partnership in the ranch in return for his investment. He had tons of ideas; he just hadn’t had the capital to implement them. They’d shaken hands on the deal and, as Tristan made his way down to the small cabin that was now his, he was filled with excitement.
For the first time since the war, he had a place to call home and prospects for the future. It was a heady feeling. He wanted to share his enthusiasm with Savannah.
So when he saw her in the doorway of the cabin, throwing a bucket of dirty water over the porch rail, he somehow wasn’t surprised. For a moment, he just watched her, an ache blossoming in the pit of his stomach as he realized how much he wanted her here, in his home, in his life.
“Hello,” he said, making her jump in surprise and turn to face him. She smiled, and her hand went self‐consciously to her messy auburn ponytail, smoothing it in a futile attempt to tame her fiery curls. Her face and clothes were streaked with dirt, but she glowed in the afternoon light.
“I’ve been trying all day to make this place livable,” she told him with a nervous laugh. “It was filthy.”
He shook his head and mounted the steps, peering in the door at the shadowy interior of the cabin. His breath left him in a rush as he took in the gleaming wood floor, sparkling glass windows, and the arrangement of fresh flowers on the small round table in the corner.
“You didn’t have to do all this.” His voice was hoarse as he surveyed all the little things she’d taken the time to do for him. “I wasn’t expecting it.”
“I wanted to.” Taking his hand, she led him farther into the room. “I wanted you to feel at home here.”
He laughed, a low, lost sound. “The only reason I wanted to leave your brother’s house was because everywhere I looked I saw traces of you. Now you’ve gone and made this place into a home, too.”
She looked up at him, frowning. “I would have done the same for anyone who came to work for Ian.”
That made him feel even worse because, deep down, he wanted her to admit she’d spent the whole day cleaning and polishing and collecting flowers because she still loved him.
He cleared his throat. “Well... thank you. It looks real nice.”
A flicker of movement in the corner caught his attention, and a reluctant grin curved his mouth when he saw the kitten. It seemed she’d thought of everything.
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “Come on. You haven’t seen it all yet.” Pulling him along behind her, she led him through the large living area, with its stone fireplace and simple, hand-carved furniture, to one of two closed doors at the far end of the room.
“There are two bedrooms. But I only had time to get this one in order today.”
The room was small, and a large bed took up most of it. Savannah dropped his hand to smooth her fingers over the crisp, clean sheets. “Billy and I used to sleep here,” she murmured, taking a heavy, cream‐colored quilt from a nearby chair. “It might not look like much, but it’s very comfortable.”
She spread the quilt over the sheets and, without thinking, he stepped forward to help her. They made the bed in silence, but when she turned down the covers and began plumping the lone pillow, he couldn’t take it anymore.
He’d never wanted anything the way he wanted to make love to her on this bed.
He skirted the footboard with the pretense of tucking in the quilt, until he was so close he could feel the heat of her body. She straightened slowly and looked up at him, con
fusion and desire warring for predominance in her eyes.
“Tristan?” Her voice asked a question he wasn’t sure he was ready to answer.
Lifting his left hand, he tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, and then he traced the delicate curve of her cheek. Sighing, she closed her eyes, pressing her face more fully into his palm.
Heart thundering in his chest, he leaned in, brushing his lips across hers. He kissed her once, twice, three times, with almost reverent tenderness, but then the hunger overwhelmed him. He needed far more than this chaste press of lips.
Moaning softly against her mouth, he twisted his hand in her hair, drinking of her endless heat and sweetness. She clung to him like moss on a stone, rising on tiptoe as the kiss went on and on.
The press of her breasts against his chest tempted him beyond control, and he sank to the bed, drawing her forward so she stood between his knees. Holding her wide‐eyed gaze, he awkwardly unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons that ran down the front of her blouse, parting the material until nothing lay between him and his goal but her chemise.
When she did nothing to stop him, he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to her throat. He trailed kisses across her collarbone and brushed her straining nipples with the back of his hand. She gasped and swayed against him, gripping his shoulders as though she’d fall if he weren’t there to anchor her.
“Savannah,” he whispered and then suckled her greedily through the fabric of her chemise, drowning in her taste and the sweet, soft sound of her surrender.
“Mama, are you still here?” Billy’s voice cut through the fog of Tristan’s desire, wrenching him back to reality. He released Savannah reluctantly and looked up to see the utter panic on her lovely face.
“Mama?” The impatience in Billy’s voice spurred Tristan to action.
Under no circumstances did he want the boy to come in here and catch them in such a compromising situation.