by Cait London
“You meant it then, the way you love her, the way she holds your heart.” Moments and lifetimes hung in Anna’s kitchen where so many important moments had been decided. “My sister can’t bear to open her hope chest, and my Gwyneth says it’s important for Kylie to meet what was and what can be.”
“Kylie will do what she needs, in her own time,” Michael murmured. Kylie’s strength was true and bold when needed. “Your wife will be hunting for you…and me for making you late.”
Tanner thought of his wife; he’d kiss Gwyneth’s pouty lips, let the warming come gently upon them, and then the fire— “Have to go,” he said abruptly, suddenly eager to be home and hold Gwyneth tight against him.
“Tanner?” Michael asked quietly. “I’ll take good care of her.”
After Tanner had gone, hurrying home to his wife, Michael leaned back against the kitchen counter, sipping his wine and watching the night settle outside. It hadn’t been easy to arrange the black Porsche for Leon’s use, to talk to the man who would let Kylie provide for him. Michael didn’t want Leon driving Kylie’s pickup or utilizing any part of her. Leon was maneuverable, though, Michael discovered, if his vanity was played on. Michael had slid the “found a great car—but I don’t need another one” deal to Leon as he lounged in the back of the shop, watching television. The Porsche had been a gift from a wealthy woman—Michael had returned her kidnapped daughter. Locked in a shed and covered with canvas, the metal beauty represented another life to Michael, when possessions and money ruled him. Leon merely accepted the overly low monthly payments, no questions asked; he was certain that soon he’d have the check he needed to leave “this hick town.”
Unused to waiting for others, Michael checked the salad wilting on the counter, the chicken breasts overdone and the pasta overcooked. He glanced at the wall phone and damned it for not ringing, for not bearing Kylie’s voice. She was in a fine mile-high temper this morning, and later on when he tried to talk with her. The flash of her blue eyes had scalded him at first and then the frost set in. Taking care to lift Anna’s big white apron to wipe away the greasy smudge marks, Michael began to tap the numbers for Soft Touches. He replaced the phone with a bang. It was her place to be home on time, his to do the cooking, and cleaning. If she gave Leon an after-hours massage—
Michael stared at his fist, which had just banged down on the counter. He wasn’t used to sweet words. Giving was in his heart, not on his tongue. She’d have to accept that of him, bend a bit, just as he was doing.
He glanced at the clock, ticking too slowly through the hour. He ran his hands through his hair, uncertain of himself now. Kylie had looked too clean and new, her hair swirling around her this morning, the sunlight sparkling in it, her eyes as clear and blue as the Montana sky. What was he doing now? Trying to present himself as something he wasn’t? Michael cursed and knew he should have asked Kylie if he could speak for her— His throat went dry because he didn’t fear losing his pride if she refused him; he feared driving her away.
He released the breath he’d just realized he’d been holding and scrubbed his hands roughly over his face. He’d made a mistake by stating his claim, telling Fidelity and the Council of his intentions without consulting Kylie. She’d kill him for certain, if the way she treated him when they were younger was any gauge.
At this point, he was doomed, and nothing would do but to follow the path he’d set and try to correct his error. He turned off the lights, lit the candles over which he had planned to tell her of his heart, and sat at the kitchen table. The meal was ruined and cold and so was the romantic evening he had planned when Kylie’s pickup parked in the driveway.
“Where have you been?” Michael demanded as Kylie opened the back door at eight o’clock that night and pushed her tired body through it. With the kitchen candlelight behind him, his legs braced apart and his hands on his hips, Anna’s big white apron didn’t seem like a peace flag. Kylie had started her day running after him when he should have been close and warm and kissable.
“Your things. I don’t want you turning up at Tanner’s and borrowing clothes. If you live here, you live here, not asking Gwyneth to wash and dry for you.” Kylie hurled a black leather bag at him as she passed into the house. Her shoulders and back ached from work, Leon had been difficult, and she could have used one of Michael’s sweet kisses, his hands soothing her. Clearly, with his scowl drawing his brows together, the jut of his chin as appealing as cold granite, and his mouth set in a hard line, their moods matched. She scanned the lovely dinner that he had cooked, the candles dripping and flickering in their glass holders. “What are you up to, Michael Cusack?”
He dropped the bag onto a chair as if he would have nothing between them but the truth. “Where were you?”
She’d spent the day wondering about how he had looked, all arrogant and dressed in his jacket and borrowed dress shirt and tie and his jeans. He’d taken care with his hair, though the wind swept through it. Michael usually wore casual clothes, sweaters and sweatshirts and flannel shirts and eventually—while massaging Lorene’s secretarial-stiff shoulders—Kylie came upon the logical reason for Michael and Tanner and the rest riding into town. Tanner’s new marriage and his treatment of Gwyneth was probably being reviewed by the Committee for the Welfare of Brides. The Committee kept a close watch on new marriages to set the righteous paths for the rest of marital life. An old-fashioned and courtly man, Tanner would do such a thing, inviting Michael—a Cull—to the interview. “I know what you were up to this morning. It’s like my brother to be kind. Don’t count on it from me.”
“Kylie, I—” he began, but the day had been too much, weighing down on her.
“Starting out my day running after you didn’t make me happy,” she stated, just so he would have no doubt as to how she felt. “I’m out of shape. I’ve decided to exercise more and maybe take up jogging. Exercise takes away a lot of frustration. You frustrate me, Michael. But I’m over that now and if you’re wanting to make peace by cooking, this is the perfect way to do it.”
“Kylie, there’s something we need to—”
She slid into a chair and Michael grunted darkly as she couldn’t find the strength to take off her jacket. He eased it from her and filled a plate, heating it before placing the food in front of her. “Yum,” Kylie murmured, distracted by the golden braised chicken and the lemon scent. She dug into the pasta, and with a mouthful of it, dug into the wooden bowl of salad. “Yum.”
“So here we are, you and me,” Michael said after sitting down. He watched her hurry to eat, the delicious scents reminding her of an empty stomach. He cut the chicken breast on her place, placing a bite in her mouth. “You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
“I was busy.” Kylie dived for the toasted garlic bread. She didn’t want to meet Michael’s dark, brooding expression. She wasn’t certain of herself or of him. After his morning meeting, he’d come to see her, waited for her to finish with Mrs. Morton’s leg massage to drain the fluids gathering there. Just the sight of Michael set her off, and when he smiled coldly at Leon, she wasn’t certain of anything. “I’m not used to explaining.”
She could feel him drawing away, protecting himself, placing all those walls between them. She hurried to explain, “I went to your house to collect your things. There was a bit of cleaning to be done.”
Michael stiffened and across the flickering candlelight, his narrowed green eyes seared her. “You didn’t. You didn’t go there after working all day and take care of them.”
“I don’t want trouble, Michael, and you look like a thundercloud. They needed help. Neither one of them has taken care of themselves before. Sharon needs to eat properly. They needed clean clothes and Leon has never mastered laundry. I’m trying to help them learn before the baby comes.” That neither was interested in learning infuriated her.
Though he was silent, Michael’s anger hit her in waves. He stood abruptly, jarring the dishes on the table. Without a word, he walked to the back door and took h
is jacket off the hook. Anna’s big apron draped around his wide braced legs, a contrast to Tanner’s dress shirt and tie. “I’m going out.”
After the display of machismo with Leon this morning, Kylie feared the worst. She had to distract Michael; she wasn’t too tired to keep Michael from a cold lonely night and the shadows that never seemed to be far away. “I thought we’d go down to the Silver Dollar tonight. There’s not much on television.”
“You don’t have to entertain me, Kylie.” Michael tore off the apron as if it, and the dinner he’d prepared, offended him.
She’d hurt him, she realized as his hand gripped the doorknob and he prepared to escape her. Then Michael’s fist tightened, the knuckles whitening as he held very still, his body taut. Then he turned back to her, his eyes gleaming. “You’re not asking me for a date, are you, Kylie Bennett?”
He’d dropped her married name as if it pained him. In Freedom Valley, when searching for a bridegroom, women did the asking. Michael was in her care; she couldn’t have him wandering the cold night alone—without her—or calling Leon out. In addition, she needed to find a way to tell him of the broken window at his house. Leon’s weights were meant for gyms, not bedrooms. She’d managed to tape sheet foam and plastic over the window, and to clean up the kitchen while she cooked Sharon’s favorite veggie and rice dish. The flickering candles, melted low upon the cut glass holders, deepened her guilt. “I’ll ask them to leave. You should have your own home.”
“Are you asking me for a date, Kylie?” Michael repeated very quietly and each knew the courting rules of Freedom Valley. The decisions were hers.
“Yes,” she whispered, giving in to her instincts instead of her pride.
After dinner, Michael frowned as he drew on Kylie’s coat. She’d been in a good mood, laughing about one of her customers as they washed and dried dishes. A man who shared little of his heart with others, Michael could not find the right moment to serve her what he had done.
It had seemed so right this morning, speaking for her in the traditional way—so wrong to have the moment dissected or shattered by too many questions. Strange how he could face a back alley brawl, outnumbered by men who intended to maim or kill him, and giving the woman he loved the truth of what he’d done was overpowering.
Kylie drove her pickup and Michael pondered the difficulty of romantic speeches to volatile women. Correct timing was chancy and fleeting. Just when he decided to make his move—to admit what he’d done—the moment passed as Kylie launched into another conversation. He should tell her of making his claim to the Women’s Council. He should have—
Then the danger of his error and logic slid away as Kylie’s breath slid along his cheek and her body trembled, warm and flowing beneath his hands, finding that incredible sweet heat upon her lips. They stopped beside a field, watching the frost gleam beneath the moon. In her pickup, beside him, Kylie was too close, too fragrant, too warm—He tugged her into his arms, to see if he’d dreamed last night, her soft sighs against his skin, those curves tucked close and yielding to him.
Tell her, his mind told him as his body held hers tight, his hands filling with her, hungry for her.
He dived into the summer lightning storm that was Kylie, his heart thundering with his needs, the final need to tear away her clothes, letting her skin burn his.
“Michael…” she sighed in the way that pushed away logic and served him dreams.
Tell her, his conscience whispered even as his mouth found her breast, tasting it and the riveting waves poured from her. Tell her. Then as she arched to his touch, Michael could only feel, hear her heartbeat, want— Her hands moving over his chest and back did little to bring him to reality, to what he must do.
Eight
When dark secrets are kept from those we love, it can do little but hurt when they come to light. It takes a generous heart to forgive and help heal that trespass, one such as my Kylie’s.
—Anna Bennett’s Journal
“This is heaven,” Kylie crooned, lying back on her mother’s couch, as Michael practiced reflexology on her feet. He shot her a warning glance when she wiggled her toes, just to see his reaction. Now, carefully following the colored chart of a foot, he looked little like the hungry man who had tugged her into the closet at the back of his shop, locking it. They had been alone, Leon showing off his new Porsche, and Kylie’s next appointment had canceled. Michael had eased off her sweatshirt and had taken her breasts in that hot, desperate way. Nothing sweet and tender about all that raw male power igniting within her arms, the jolt had sizzled right down to her lower belly. “Mmm,” he’d rumbled against her throat, shaking badly as she held him.
“Take me now,” she’d whispered as he tore away his shirt to fold her close against him.
He’d stilled within her arms, breathing quietly against her cheek. His heavy slow heartbeat, like a leashed creature waiting to spring, rocked the closet’s shadows. “Not this way, not for you.”
“How then?” she’d whispered back and Michael’s dark, knowing chuckle mystified her as his kisses grew more tender and enticing. In the dim light, he cupped her breasts, caressing them as he studied her.
Because she’d had him close and locked in, blocking his escape, Kylie had stripped away her sweatpants and briefs. She’d wanted him then, wanted to take him before he withdrew into reserves she didn’t understand. “Well?” she’d demanded.
Michael hadn’t moved, his gaze flickering down her nude body. His hands had moved toward her breasts and then, rested lightly beneath her throat. “You can’t just come at a man like that,” he finally whispered in a raw uneven tone.
“Why not?” she’d been curious, watching his dark hot expression, her hands over his.
“For one thing, I’ve got plans,” he’d said hoarsely. And because he’d looked so wary and fierce and hot at the same time, Kylie had leaped upon him.
She studied the man massaging her toes now, in her mother’s living room. The technique wasn’t quite clinical, but more of a caress as if he wanted to study every molecule of her. Michael had to be treated gently, she decided, and he’d been unprepared for her feasting upon him. “I hope I didn’t frighten you today.”
His grunt said little, his eyebrows drawn in concentration as he studied the chart. She wanted to discuss the intimacy running now between them. There had been little chance last night and this morning, when she’d walked into the kitchen to a dark brooding man who slapped a hearty breakfast on the table in front of her. “Eat,” he’d said, glowering at her, the night’s stubble covering his jaw as he sipped his coffee and considered her darkly.
She’d supposed he was a two-cup coffee in the morning man, one of those needing to be coaxed into the day, while she felt marvelous. Michael was delicate, she suspected, and needed reassurance. His slitted, hot looks at her could take her breath away, but she wanted action and quickly so. She wanted to rip away the rules and release whatever he held so close and tight. She couldn’t have secrets between them, and she’d waited forever for the event his hungry mouth and hands promised. “So how about a date?” she’d said over breakfast, feeling bold and untouched by his brooding silence as he considered her. “Tonight? Meet me at Willa’s after work?”
“Maybe” wasn’t exactly a cheerful answer as he held her hand, caressing the back with his thumb. The gesture was both erotic and friendly. At the door, seeing her off, his kiss was not friendly, but it tasted just right. “I’ll drop by the shop today. We need to talk,” he’d said roughly, caressing her sweatpants bottom. “This isn’t working out.”
At Willa’s earlier in the evening, Michael had growled deep in his throat when she took the check. “I asked you out, remember?”
He’d drawn into his shields again, closing her out with a cold expression. “This isn’t working out,” he murmured again in the cold November wind outside the Wagon Wheel. “It isn’t right. I have plans and you can’t afford to take me on like some orphan.”
“Stop growling,�
� she’d ordered lightly and slung her arm around his waist because he looked dark and frustrated. “It’s a trade-off. You cooked a lovely dinner last night. I paid for dinner tonight.”
“It’s not the same thing. It isn’t natural for a woman to pay a man’s way. I have money,” he’d said, slipping his arm around her as they walked down the street. His nettled pride came from his childhood when he was supporting his dying father and yet would ask for nothing.
“Why isn’t this working out?” she asked now after a lovely meal at Willa’s Wagon Wheel Café as Michael was massaging her feet. He had baked a chocolate cake, using her mother’s cookbook, and she had leaped upon it hungrily after their return to the house. Now, with a plate of crumbs balanced on her stomach, and a beautiful man with strong warm hands massaging her feet, she wallowed in her good luck.
He studied her foot and corresponded the zones to the colored ones on his chart.
“I’m busy here,” he muttered. “This takes concentration. Let’s see, this outside area by your little toe is for your ears. This area is for heart and lungs.”
As if she needed stimulation for those areas with Michael near and scented of the chocolate cake. Experimentally, she dipped her finger in a dollop of remaining frosting on her plate; she sat up to ease it into his lovely mouth. The flick of his tongue and the heated suction launched an unsteady frustration. She wiggled her free foot up his side, only to have it captured by the press of his arm. “Stop that. You’re distracting me.”
“Are you always so intent?”
His gaze jerked to her lips, brushed her breasts and slowly ran down her legs to the toes he was massaging. “I’m thorough once I get started.”
“I liked you nabbing me in the closet,” she said, tossing a tidbit into the beginning intimacy bin. “You don’t seem like the instinctive, impromptu type.”
“Sorry about that.” His tone lacked sincerity.