Mrs. Mac met them at the screen door and held it open for them to enter. “Have they caught that bunch that caused your trouble?”
“No such luck,” Cat said with a shake of her head.
“And how’s your father?”
“I spoke with the doctor this morning,” Cat said. “He had a broken arm and mild concussion. She wants to keep him a while, but just for observation. His blood pressure’s acting up.”
Trace spotted a telephone on the hall table. “That reminds me, I have a call to make. May I use your phone?”
“Of course,” the older woman said with a warm smile. “Come on back to the kitchen when you’ve finished. I’ve made fresh coffee, and the sticky buns are just out of the oven.”
The women moved down the hall. Trace picked up the phone and punched in Wentworth’s number.
“I think we have a problem,” Trace said as soon as the colonel answered. He quickly described the break-in at the ranch and his missing mirror. “I may be way off base, but I don’t want to take any chances. Can you have my prints pulled from the national database, or at least have the FBI change them to Gallagher’s name?”
“I’ll see what I can do and let you know.”
“Don’t call the ranch.” Trace rattled off the MacIntoshes’ number. “The neighbors can bring me a message if you need to get in touch with me.”
“No memories yet?”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Now would be a good time.”
“No one wants to remember as much as I do. I have a daughter I didn’t know about. If the terrorists discover me, her life’s at stake, as well as Cat and Gabe Erickson’s.”
“Understood. I’ll be in touch.”
Frustrated that he could do no more, Trace returned the receiver to its cradle and joined Mrs. Mac and Cat in the sunny kitchen where the mouthwatering smell of fresh baked goods mingled with the smell of coffee.
Cat gave him a curious glance. “Did you make your call?”
“Yes, to an old Marine buddy in San Francisco,” Trace lied. “He’s expecting me for a visit, and I told him I’ll be staying here a while. I reversed the charges, Mrs. Mac.”
“That was thoughtful, dear, but unnecessary.” She placed a plate with a sticky bun the size of a saucer in front of him. “I have one of those pennies-a-minute rates. Have to, to keep in touch with the family, because my daughters are flung out over four states.”
Trace accepted a cup of coffee with thanks and attacked the sticky bun. If he was lucky, Wentworth would call back before he and Cat left. The sooner Trace learned whether his identity was safe the better. For all of them.
AT THE RANCH much later that afternoon while replacing books on the living room shelves, Cat studied Trace from the corner of her eye. He was using wood glue and C-clamps to repair the leg of an end table broken by the intruders, and she found herself fascinated by the deft, graceful movements of his long, slender hands.
Earlier, those same hands had handled the reins skillfully when he’d helped her exercise the horses after their return from the MacIntosh farm. His powerful thighs had gripped his mount with experienced ease, and even Rogue, the most unruly horse in the stable, had continued to respond with surprising cooperation to Trace’s firm but gentle touch.
The man was a contradiction of strength and tenderness. At the dairy, he had sat cross-legged in the hay with Megan and Jessica and played with the five-week-old kittens. The little balls of fur had been dwarfed by his big hands, and he hadn’t protested when they dug their sharp claws into his shirt and jeans and crawled all over him. If anything, he’d appeared to be having the time of his life. For almost an hour, he and the girls had laughed at the kittens’ antics and discussed with fitting seriousness appropriate names for the petite felines.
Observing his gentleness with the animals and his playfulness with the children had been enough to melt any woman’s heart. As a result, Cat found herself more vulnerable than ever to the considerable charm of their houseguest.
“You’re good with children,” she told him on the drive home.
“Prince Asim had eight youngsters, all under twelve. My duties often included guarding them, so I’ve had a lot of experience.”
“It’s more than experience. I’ve known teachers who’ve spent their whole lives around kids, but they’re still stiff and uncomfortable with them. You’re a natural.”
“From what I observed at graduation, you have a knack with young people yourself.”
“Relating to my students comes easier to me since Megan was born.”
“You’re a terrific mother.”
The unmistakably warm approval in his eyes had pleased her. “Megan’s a terrific kid. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my little girl.”
“She doesn’t seem spoiled.”
“I don’t mean I pamper her. I see too many of my students whose parents feel they can substitute material things and excessive freedom for what they fail to give their kids.”
“Like love?”
“Love, self-confidence, goals, discipline. Parenting done right, Dad always tells me, is the hardest—and most rewarding—job on earth. What makes me sad is knowing what a fantastic father Ryan would have been. He and Megan both are missing out on a lot.”
“I’m sure Ryan knows what a great job you’re doing with his daughter.” Trace’s voice had caressed her, softening the pain in her heart at Ryan’s absence.
The man was amazing, always choosing the right words or actions in any situation. Only one matter in the entire idyllic afternoon had seemed off-key. In the dairy barn, Trace had glanced constantly toward the house, as if expecting someone. And once they’d returned to High Valley, he often cocked his head to listen or gazed out the window as if hoping to see a vehicle approach.
While she watched surreptitiously from the bookcase, he turned his head again, as if anticipating an arrival.
“Are you expecting someone?” she asked.
He glanced up from the table he was repairing. An unreadable expression skipped across his face before his features settled into a smile. “It would be just like Gabe to check himself out of the hospital, commandeer a ride home and surprise us.”
“He’d have to sneak past the doctor. I called her while you were rubbing down Rogue. She wants to keep him until tomorrow morning.”
Trace frowned in concern. “His blood pressure still up?”
“It’s normal. She just wants to make sure it stays that way.” A sudden thought filled Cat with dread. “You don’t think the men who did this will come back?”
He shook his head. “Why should they? If they’re thieves, they would have taken what they wanted last night.”
“And if they’re not?”
“Then they’re vandals who’ll get their kicks from trashing someone else’s place next time.”
“Then why did they take your mirror?”
“We don’t know that they did. I might have lost it earlier.”
Again, Trace’s voice and words consoled her. His presence reassured her. With his finely tuned muscles and well-trained strength, he stood like a bulwark between her and danger.
But, a small inner voice said, why do you get the feeling he’s not telling you something?
She shook away the disturbing thought. The invasion and wreckage of her home had made her paranoid.
Noting a drapery yanked from its hooks, she replaced the last book on the shelf and headed for the utility closet in the kitchen to retrieve the stepladder. She found it jammed in the back of the space behind the vacuum cleaner and attempted to tug it free.
“Let me get that,” Trace said behind her.
She turned in the close confines of the closet to find her nose pressed almost to his chest. Mixed with the lemony aroma of furniture polish, the warm, musky scent of him shot pangs of longing through her. With difficulty, she resisted the temptation to twine her arms around his waist and rest her head against his heart. Her own was beating a tattoo as fi
erce as a Blackfoot war drum’s.
She managed to catch her breath enough to mumble thanks, then wiggled past him out the door.
What was wrong with her?
True, she hadn’t made love to a man since Ryan, because she’d never believed in sex simply for sex’s sake. But she didn’t want sex. She wanted to make love to Trace. But how could she allow herself to fall in love with someone when she knew he’d leave soon? She didn’t want to mourn the loss of another man.
Shaken by the intensity of her longing, she retreated to the living room on wobbly legs. By the time Trace appeared with the ladder, her breathing had slowed almost to normal, and only her telltale blush betrayed her lack of composure.
“Where do you want this?” He hefted the ladder easily in one hand.
She pointed to the tall window beside the fireplace, and Trace unfolded the ladder and secured the braces.
“Want me to fix that?” He pointed to the drapery that had been pulled loose from the traverse rod.
“I’ll get it.” Cat scrambled to the top of the ladder, glad for an excuse to focus on anything except the hypnotic appeal of the man behind her.
“Be care—”
Before he could complete his warning, Cat felt her boot slip on the rung. She leaned sideways to grab the stones of the fireplace for balance, but her jerky movement only hastened her fall. As if in slow motion, she pitched off the ladder into space.
And landed in Trace’s arms.
Instinctively, she threw her arms around his neck. He tightened his grip, drawing her along the rock-solid length of him as she slid to her feet. But she didn’t let go. Overpowered by an all-consuming feeling of coming home, she remained in his arms, her head tilted, her gaze locked with his.
Desire glistened in his eyes and pulsed in the vein at his neck, and his words surprised her, contradicting the hunger in his expression. “We can’t do this.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she agreed, unable to tear her eyes from his or her arms from around his neck.
“We barely know one another.” He continued to hold her close without the slightest loosening of his embrace.
“It’s been only a few days,” she acknowledged.
“And I’ll be leaving soon.”
“That’s true.”
The idea of his walking out of her life as quickly as he’d entered jolted her anew.
With stunning clarity, she recognized why she loved this man. She admired his compassion, his gentleness, his care for her family, his strength in a crisis. She loved his companionship, his conversation, his sense of humor. What she felt for Trace wasn’t mere lust, but genuine caring. And, like Ryan, he soon would walk out of her life and be gone forever.
The prospect made her crazy.
Standing on tiptoe, she lifted her face closer to his. His breath brushed her cheek, sending delicious shivers down her spine.
“We have no future together,” he argued, his deep voice huskier than usual.
“You’re right.” She was having trouble breathing and could hardly speak. Her mouth was saying one thing, but her heart was denying every word.
“We can’t afford to get involved.” The look in his eyes made a liar of him.
“Right again. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us,” she agreed.
She placed her hands on his chest to push away but found herself instead twining her fingers in his shirt, reveling in the heat of him and drawing him closer. His lips claimed hers, and an irrepressible moan escaped her throat. He crushed her to him, and along the length of contact her body burned like a white-hot flame.
Breaking off their kiss, he lifted her in his arms, carried her to the sofa and settled her on his lap. His hands kneaded the muscles of her back, and he trailed kisses down the length of her throat to the sensitive skin at the opening of her blouse. Arching against him, she yielded to the exquisite torture of his touch.
With a hoarse cry, he broke away. “We can’t do this,” he repeated.
Shaken and wanting him as badly as she’d ever wanted Ryan, she searched his face for a hint of rejection. All she found was stark need mixed with tenderness, his expression a mirror of her desire.
“Why not?”
He gasped for air like a drowning man going under for the third time. “For all the reasons we’ve already mentioned.”
He was right, but her heart had left reason behind in the dust. “None of them are insurmountable.”
Panic flickered through his hazel eyes before his expression calmed and cleared. “As much as I want to make love to you, I can’t, not without protection.”
If she hadn’t witnessed his need and felt his response to her, she would have believed that he didn’t want her, but she knew better. Decent and unselfish, Trace was trying to do the right thing.
The problem was, Cat didn’t want the right thing.
She wanted him.
With a defiant toss of her head, she fixed him with a seductive smile. “We can always use the condoms you slipped in your pocket this morning.”
He blinked in surprise. “You saw me?”
She shrugged and allowed herself a self-satisfied smirk. “Your back was to me, but you were standing in front of a mirror.”
His grin outclassed hers. “Why, you sneaky little—”
She stopped his accusation with her lips.
AN HOUR LATER, Trace sat on the sofa with Cat curled asleep against his bare chest. He tugged the Navajo blanket closer around her, covering her naked shoulders, and stroked her thick, fine hair.
He’d been a damned fool.
Not that he regretted making love to Cat. When she’d shed her clothes and they’d come together in a flurry of passion and need, he’d feared he would die of happiness. Ever since his memory had returned, he’d dreamed of being with her again. When their bodies had joined, what they’d shared had been even more magnificent than he’d remembered.
Like two pieces of the same being once broken apart, they had merged into one perfect whole. The first time, their lovemaking had been frantic with need born of years of loneliness and separation, a turbulent coupling that left them gasping for air, shaken by the intensity of the experience.
The second time, Trace had loved her with a slow, languorous reverence. When they both were sated, he had clamped his lips to hold back the words, “I love you.”
Not knowing what the future held, he couldn’t commit to her, couldn’t lead her to expect him to stay—or even to return once he’d gone away. Worst of all, he worried what she’d think if the time did come when he could reveal his identity. Would she hate him for misleading her, for making love to her under false pretenses? And had she come to care enough for Trace Gallagher that his leaving would break her heart?
Again.
A damned fool is right. His conscience denounced him.
Cat stirred in his arms, and the sensation of her bare skin against his would have aroused him to make love to her again if he hadn’t been so worried.
A glance at the antique clock on the mantel indicated almost five o’clock, hours since he’d contacted Wentworth about the fingerprints. The more time that passed without Wentworth’s reassurance that Ryan’s prints had been safeguarded, the more worried he grew.
What the hell was taking Wentworth so long?
As if in answer to his question, the hum of an approaching engine and the crunch of tires on gravel sounded on the road to the ranch.
With a gentle shake, he awakened Cat. “Someone’s coming. You’d better get dressed.”
“I’ll be right back.” With a slow smile and a quick kiss, she picked up her clothes and scooted upstairs.
Trace quickly pulled on his jeans, shirt and boots, and was standing at the front door when Mrs. Mac’s oldest son, George, stepped onto the porch.
“I have a message for you from somebody named Wentworth. I would have called you, but he insisted I deliver it in person.” He handed Trace a paper. “Wrote it down to make sure I got it right.”
/>
“Thanks—”
“Can’t stay. Have to get back for the evening milking.”
George trotted to his truck, and Trace watched him go. The paper burned in his hand, but he waited until the vehicle disappeared down the road before he unfolded and read it.
Wentworth’s message was as bad as it could get.
Chapter Ten
Trace scanned the message from Wentworth again, hoping he’d misread it the first time.
He hadn’t.
“Unknown hacker accessed files before prints pulled,” the colonel had reported. “Cover blown. Take family immediately to safe house at base in Great Falls and wait for further orders.”
“Something wrong?” Cat stood on the stairs, her cheeks still pink from lovemaking and sleep.
Trace experienced a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. In spite of his careful charade—or because of it—he’d landed the woman he loved, her father and his daughter in terrible jeopardy.
“About as wrong as it can get,” he admitted.
“What is it?”
“You’d better sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.”
Dammit, he’d wanted all along to reveal who he really was, to come clean with her, but not this way. Not with killers on their trail who gave him no time to explain properly. No time to lessen the shock or soften the blow.
Her knees seemed to give way, and she grabbed the banister for support. “Megan? Daddy?”
“They’re fine, but you’re all in danger.”
He took her by the arm, led her to the sofa and eased her onto the cushions. Her brow wrinkled, and she sat staring at him with puzzled eyes.
“I’ve just learned the men who broke in last night weren’t vandals,” he said. “They’re terrorists, part of a group called Righteous Sword.”
“The same ones who bombed the embassy?” Confusion darkened her irises to midnight blue. “What would terrorists want with us?”
“Not you or Gabe. They were looking for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
Montana Secrets Page 14