Having lost the desire for her coffee, she tossed the rest of it over the balcony and went inside. She had other things, she reminded herself firmly, to think about than Sloan Ballinger.
Shelly kept busy for several days, continuing to unpack some personal things from the boxes in the shed, handling the details as they came up in connection with Josh's will and generally settling into a new routine. The following week, she considered hosting a small, quiet party on Saturday night, but had hesitated about entertaining so soon after Josh's death. When she'd voiced her concerns to Cleo, Cleo had said, “Hell-all-Friday, girl! You know Josh. He'd have been the first one to tell you to throw a blowout. And it isn't as if he died just last week. Besides, I've got me a brand-new pair of black leather pants I want that Blarney-Stone-kissing Hank O'Hara to see me in. You have that party—and make certain you invite Hank and his sister.”
With Cleo's approval and the support of her skinny-dipping friends from childhood, the ones she'd kept in touch with from New Orleans, Melissa-Jane McGuire, Bobba Neale, and Danny Haskell, the party had been scheduled. They'd been delighted to help organize the party and helped her with the phone invitations. In the end, the small party grew to be a rather large gathering, but the results had been gratifying: her first foray into valley society had been a resounding success. Moving among her guests, old-time residents and some newcomers, Shelly had found it amazing how easily she slipped back into the rhythms of the valley. It was, as she said later to Nick and Acey, both attendees at the party, almost as if she had never been away.
But if she had had a success on one front, she'd had no such luck with resolving her ambivalence about the right-of-way. Even involved in other things, it was there, lurking at the back of her mind. She brooded over it and finally, as April tumbled into May, decided to do something about it.
Mike Sawyer had been adamantly against the plan she came up with to resolve the issue, and Bill Weeks, the family banker, hadn't been thrilled. They'd both been quite clear that her financial status was not the best—which she already knew—the Granger wealth had always been in cattle and land rather than actual hard cash—unlike the Ballingers. But their warnings had fallen on deaf ears and in the end, she'd gotten what she wanted.
She'd considered simply phoning Sloan and telling him what she planned to do, or writing him, that way avoiding a face-to-face confrontation, but neither idea felt right. For reasons she didn't want to examine too closely, she felt compelled to do this particular chore in person.
Dressing that Wednesday morning in the first week of May, it occurred to her that she had only leaped the first hur-dle—the easy one. Nervous, her stomach fluttering, she picked through her closet and wasted a lot more time than the decision deserved on deciding what to wear. Finally wearing white Nike running shoes, a pair of close-fitting blue jeans, and a blue-and-white striped long-sleeve shirt, she looked at herself in the mirror and made a face. She looked so ordinary. But that was the point, wasn't it? This wasn't supposed to be a big deal. She stared some more. Well, maybe some lipstick and eyebrow pencil would help. And some blusher. Oh, and she had that new brown eyeliner….
Fifteen minutes later, hating herself for having taken so much trouble with her appearance, she slammed shut the door to the Bronco and roared out of the driveway. When she hit the valley floor, she took a deep breath. She was really going to do this. She took another deep breath. Really.
The drive seemed all too short, and before she was aware of it, she had turned off the Tilda Road and was bumping along a rough gravel road that snaked into the forest. Not long after that, she was braking and turning off the ignition.
She sat there for several seconds in the large clearing, staring at the cabin, noticing the woodshed, corrals, and other outbuildings behind the cabin.
Her heart thumping, all the reasons why she shouldn't be here churning through her head, she finally grabbed her purse and stepped out of the vehicle. Maybe, she thought wildly, he won't be at home.
Her knock was met with a spate of hysterical barking, and a moment later Sloan opened the door, using his bare foot to hold at bay a small, yapping dog.
He had been braced for a confrontation with Shelly since the moment Jeb had told him she'd found out about the right-of-way. Every time he'd been in town lately, he'd discovered himself glancing warily around for sight of her, ready, he admitted cravenly, to duck and run. Knowing the Grangers, he didn't doubt that she was going to tackle him about the right-of-way and being a Granger, hold it against him for having bought it—even at an exorbitant sum. His mouth tightened. It still rankled that Josh had held the family up that way, but they'd wanted the Grangers out of their hair badly enough to bite the bullet and pay the money.
He'd been certain of two things, though: one, that Josh hadn't told Shelly about selling the right-of-way—there were lots of things that Josh hadn't told Shelly, he thought grimly—and two, that she would be infuriated about it when she found out. He didn't want to fight with her and had avoided town as much as he could. Town had been bad enough, but even in the cabin he'd been on edge—every time the phone rang, he'd approached it like he would a coiled rattlesnake. He'd known that there would be a reaction from her, that sooner or later, they'd lock horns; but what he had never expected was that she would show up on his front porch. OK, technically a deck. He also hadn't expected that the mere sight of her would leave him feeling as if he'd been sucker-punched. Hard. Right in the gut. Or that she'd look so damned tasty, he could have feasted on her for a week—and that would just be an appetizer.
They stared at each other for a tense second before Sloan finally found his voice. After admonishing Pandora to shut up, he said, “Uh, Shelly, hi. Didn't expect to see you out here.” Oh, brilliant, Sloan, he thought wryly. Bowl her over with your witty conversation.
Shelly cleared her throat, wishing that her heartbeat would slow down and that her stomach would return to its normal position and get out of her throat. Standing in front of her in a pair of tight black jeans and a form-fitting yellow-and-green-plaid Western shirt, he looked so, so masculine—despite the dish towel he held in one hand and the puffball of a dog he kept from dashing outside with his feet. His black hair was mussed, a lock brushing across his forehead, and she fought to control the impulse to brush it aside and maybe, just maybe, lightly stroke his hard cheek. Her hand fisted at her side to keep it from acting on its own, she forced a smile, and said brightly. “Hi, Sloan. Hope I didn't catch you at an inconvenient time.”
“No, no. I was just, uh, drying dishes,” he muttered. He smiled lopsidedly. “Bachelor household.”
Pandora, ignored long enough, managed to get out from behind Sloan's foot and shot out of the house to sniff excitedly at Shelly's Nikes.
“Pandy, get in here!”
Apparently, Pandora didn't find Shelly's Nikes interesting, because to Sloan's astonishment, she actually obeyed him and trotted back into the house, indifference in every movement.
“Cute dog,” Shelly said.
Sloan smiled, a smile that made Shelly's knees go weak. “She can be—she can also be hell-on-wheels when the mood strikes her.” The subject of Pandora had given him a chance to recover from the shock of Shelly's visit, and, stepping aside, he said, “Come on in. I just put on a pot of coffee—can I offer you a cup?”
“Sure.”
She stood uncertainly in the center of the room while he disappeared into what she assumed was the kitchen. She glanced around the large room, liking the contrast of the cream-colored painted ceiling with the knotty pine walls. A couple of green-and-beige geometric-patterned rugs were thrown across the plain tiled floor, and a river-rock-faced fireplace with a wide oak mantel took up one corner of the room; a long, comfortable looking ox-blood colored leather couch was angled in front of it. To the left of the couch, two dark green recliners were separated by an oak table that held a brass lamp: the remaining surface overflowed with magazines and books, some spilling onto the floor. There was a small oak-f
urnished dining area behind the couch and a big rolltop desk and a chair against the far wall.
It was an inviting room, and a comfortable one, almost cozy, Shelly thought, trying to focus on something other than the reason she was here. She and Sloan had actually exchanged more than a half dozen words, and they hadn't started arguing yet. That was good. Keeping her fingers in a death grip on her purse, she walked over to one of the many windows. There were no drapes, just blinds that she supposed he lowered at night for privacy. Although, living out here in the middle of nowhere—the nearest resident was probably ten miles away—she doubted that he had any concerns about what the neighbors might or might not see.
The cabin sat on a small rise, and the windows gave wonderful views of the forest and the ascending foothills in the distance. She'd bet in the winter, with the firs dusted with snow, it was breathtaking. From what she could see, it was obvious that Sloan or someone had cleared a huge area around the cabin, leaving the nearest tree more than fifty feet away from any building. Fire protection, she thought automatically. Living in the wilderness, fire protection was always a concern, and smart people took seriously the need to keep the brush and trees well away from the structures.
“Here you go,” Sloan said from behind her as he walked back into the room. He walked up to stand beside her, a mug of coffee in each hand. “As I remember, you take yours with a drop of cream. Sorry it's not the real stuff—I opened some condensed milk and used that.”
Surprised that he remembered something so trivial, she smiled. “Thanks, condensed milk is just fine.”
She looked around for a place to lay her purse, and Sloan said, “Just throw it on the couch.”
Her purse taken care of, she took the mug from him. They sipped in silence a moment, then, indicating the outside with her hand, she said, “You have a great view. I'd like to paint it in winter. Would you mind?”
“Be my guest.” He cocked a brow. “You planning on staying here that long? Until winter?”
Shelly nodded, taking another sip of her coffee. “Yes. I'm home for good.” There was one thing about repeating a phrase often enough, she decided—after a while you could say it without thinking about it or giving it too much emphasis.
Sloan showed no reaction, his features just as unreadable as they had always been to her…except when he'd been furious or sexually aroused—then she'd had no trouble reading what was on his mind.
“Different sort of life in Oak Valley than you'd find in New Orleans—are you sure you won't get bored?” he asked quietly, his eyes on the view outside the window.
Shelly shrugged. “I know it'll be different, but I doubt I'll have time to be bored. In fact, I worry that running the ranch is going to take away time from my painting, and painting is my bread and butter.”
He glanced at her, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “Run the ranch? The way I hear it, there isn't any ranch to run.”
“There will be,” she said stoutly. “Nick Rios and I are combining our operations. We're expecting a shipment of cattle in next week from Texas. There's a breeder out there who has many of the old Granger bloodlines. Most of Nick's stock is a couple of generations away from Granger stock, but we have Beau—the lone survivor of a long line of Granger bulls that we'll use—on his cows and these new ones. We figure if we can find one more bull with a different strain of Granger blood in it, we'll be on our way. Acey's offered to help me with the breeding program—and Acey knows his cattle. It'll take us a few years, but in time, we should have the operation up and running strong again.”
It was the longest conversation they'd had in years, and while he was paying attention to what she was saying, his gaze was fixed on her soft mouth, and his thoughts strayed. He'd have liked it a whole lot more, if those sweet, tempting lips were saying something else, such as, “I've missed you. It was all a mistake. Let's start over again.” Or better yet, “Make love to me.”
Her scent, something light and flowery, drifted to him, and standing this close to her, he could feel the warmth of her slender body…a slender body he'd held in his arms and felt tremble and shake with passion. Passion that he evoked. And that mouth of hers, the things it had done to him….
What had been a pleasant ache in his groin became urgent, and he didn't need to look down to see that he was hard as a rock and straining against the front of his jeans. Ah hell.
She was talking about breeding cattle, and all he could think of was breeding her.
Shelly knew she was babbling. She couldn't help it. She was enthusiastic about the cattle operation, and it was also a safe topic. Talking about the cattle prevented those uneasy silences and put off the moment she had to explain her reason for being here. Except she was too aware of him to think clearly, too aware of his eyes locked on her mouth, too aware of the heat of his body and that they were all alone. Together. In his cabin. In the middle of nowhere.
She swallowed. “Listen to me,” she said nervously. “You should never have got me started on the cattle. I get carried away.”
“That's OK. Get me started on horses, and you're liable to be here until you're old and gray.” He took another sip of his coffee, cursing his inane tongue. But he'd rather have her think him inane than to realize how difficult it was for him not to give into the caveman urge to sling her over his shoulder and climb upstairs to the loft and make love to her for the rest of the day. And maybe the night. And the next day.
“Horses? Isn't Ballinger Inc. still raising cattle?”
Sloan shrugged. “My dad runs a few head, but we've pretty much gotten out of the cattle business.” He smiled faintly. “We're fast leaving our country roots behind us and becoming big business.”
“Oh. I thought….” She groped for words.
“That things never change?”
She flashed him an uncertain look. “Yes. I guess so. Josh never said much, and I just assumed that your family was still raising cattle.”
“We were already starting to get out of it when you left, remember? My degree, if you'll recall, was in architecture, and there sure as hell wasn't much of a future for me as an architect in Oak Valley.” He put down his mug on the win-dowsill and took hers from her and set it next to his.
Shelly's heart was hammering when his hands closed around her shoulders and he gently turned her to face him. “Don't you remember, we talked about it,” he said levelly. “We argued about it. Once we married you wanted to stay in the valley and I wanted to move away. Remember?”
Shelly nodded, not trusting her voice. She didn't want to remember, but she did. Especially that last terrible argument just before she'd found him in another woman's arms and heard him admit that he'd only been playing with her, that she meant nothing to him. Absolutely nothing at all.
She stirred in his grasp. “Look, I don't want to start arguing with you. The past is the past, and I'd just as soon forget the mistakes I made when I was eighteen. I was young and, I'll say it to you, an emotional little fool.” She met his gaze. “I've grown up, Sloan, and hopefully learned from my mistakes. I've moved on, put the past behind me. What happened between us seventeen years ago is old history…and I don't want to rehash it. That's not why I came here today.”
“Old history, huh?” he murmured, his eyes on her mouth. “Let's just see how old it really is, shall we?”
Before she could guess his intent, he pulled her against him and his mouth caught hers.
The instant his lips claimed hers, seventeen years vanished as if by magic, and she was eighteen years old again, her body clamoring for the touch, for the caress of this one man. She'd been mesmerized by him then, and she was terrified to discover that it wouldn't take much for her to fall into that same trap again. She tried to ignore the sensations flooding through her, tried to resist the lure of those knowing lips, but it was impossible. His mouth possessed hers, allowing her no escape, and the seductive sensation of his warm lips caressing and teasing hers made her brain go fuzzy, and every nerve in her body came singing to life.
Her breasts ached and passion, a primitive passion she'd sworn she'd put behind her, twined and twisted low in her belly. His body was pressed against hers, and she could feel the hard wall of his chest against her breasts, could feel the blunt pressure of his erection pushing against her. But it was his mouth, the soft slide of his lips against hers, the hungry nip of his teeth on her bottom lip and the stark demand she sensed behind his kiss that sent her emotions spiraling out of control. He bit gently again and, shuddering with desire, she surrendered her mouth to him and her lips parted, giving him what he wanted.
But it wasn't enough. He kissed her deeply, his hand cupping her chin, holding her just where he wanted as he drank deep of the wine-dark sweetness of her mouth. Again and again he kissed her, each kiss more demanding, more explicit than the last. She was drowning in sensation, unaware of anything but Sloan, and the pleasure that plundering mouth of his was giving her. It had always been this way between them, she thought hazily. Always. He'd only had to touch her and she'd go up in flames. It seemed some things never did change….
Suddenly conscious of where this would lead, she jerked out of his arms. Her eyes dark with passion, her swollen nipples peaking against her blouse, she stared at him.
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