Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  She finally found a guest bedroom, went in and sat on the bed, looking down at her stockinged feet, wiggling her toes against the oval of braided rug that stuck out from under the bed, and waited, wondering what to do next, and why it mattered so much. How she’d know when it was safe to go downstairs again, what she would say when she did.

  The first question was answered by the sound of a car engine starting up outside. She got up, looked out the window, and saw the black SUV reversing, bumping into the snowbank behind it, the tires spinning a little as the driver gunned the engine, then the car shooting forward, barely missing the side of the garage, and heading down the drive a little too fast.

  She took a breath, ran her hands over her hair again, and went back downstairs.

  He was at the dining room table, sitting there looking down at nothing. Junior was off his bed, lying under the table, his head next to Cal’s foot.

  Cal turned his head at her entrance, and the bleak expression on his face made her feet stop moving.

  “What happened?” she asked, not at all sure he’d want to tell her.

  “She wanted to come back.” He’d turned away again, was staring out the front window, out into the fields. Out toward the road where she’d driven away.

  “But you said no,” she said cautiously. “I’m guessing.”

  He laughed, a sharp sound. “Hell, yeah, I said no.”

  She stood there a moment more. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

  He didn’t seem to take it in for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Yeah. Sure.”

  He got up, but she waved him down. She could see the machine sitting on the counter. Nothing fancy. Basic.

  “Yeah,” he said, following the direction of her gaze. “She took the espresso machine. Surprise. Doesn’t matter, because I don’t like fancy coffee anyway. Coffee and filters are in the cupboard above the machine. Thanks.”

  She found them, stuck the paper basket filter into the machine, filled the carafe at the farmhouse sink. She was guessing who had been behind the kitchen remodeling, too. She opened cupboards, found the mugs, milk in the fridge.

  “Sugar? Milk?” she asked.

  “No, thanks,” he said. “Black.”

  She brought it to him, sat down next to him, but not too close, and took a sip. And waited, because she didn’t know what else to do.

  “You know what?” he asked her after a minute. “I got to say all the things I wanted to for so long. All the things I’d rehearsed. All the things I wished I could say, all those nights when I was lying there on my back in the dark. I got exactly what I wanted back then. Her coming back to me, asking me to give her another chance. I got to tell her no, and I got to tell her why. I thought, if I could just make the speech, I’d feel better. I’d win again.”

  “And it was . . .” she said cautiously. It didn’t look like it had been anything great.

  That laugh again. “And it stunk. It hurt.”

  “It still hurts, then. That she left.”

  He looked at her this time. “No. It hurts that I don’t care. That I looked at her and I didn’t feel anything. Anything except wanting her gone. When she walked down the aisle to me, looking so beautiful, I felt like I’d won the lottery. And all of that . . .” He made a sweeping motion with his arm, dropped it into his lap again. Helpless. Final. “It’s just . . . gone. And the worst part is, I don’t even know if it was ever real. It’s like everything she said, everything I felt, everything I thought she felt—it’s gone. Everything I thought was true was a lie.”

  He stopped, ran his hand through his hair. “And, so what? It’s all over now. I’m guessing you know why we split.”

  “Well, yes,” she admitted. “Rochelle told me.”

  “Turns out she didn’t want a farmer, and I’m not even sure she ever wanted me. Not the man I am. That’s what hurts, being so wrong, being so blind, being . . . fooled. It wasn’t the money. I didn’t care. I told my lawyer not to fight that hard. Just get it done. Just get her gone. Just let it be over. She got half of everything I’d made, everything I’d worked for, and I didn’t even care. But you know what she kept saying today?”

  “No, what?” She was trembling. It hurt, watching him, hearing him. It hurt her own heart.

  “That she’d made a mistake. A mistake. Like she’d bought size four pants instead of size two or something. She didn’t make a mistake. She made a choice. I should have said that, I guess. But . . .” He sighed, took a final swallow of coffee. “What did I just say? That it didn’t matter what I said, because it’s over, and there’s no point in any of this. Cowboy up and move on.”

  He stood up, took his cup and hers to the sink, rinsed them out, and stuck them into the dishwasher. “I’d better give you a ride back to town so you can grade those papers or whatever,” he said, coming back to lean against the breakfast bar. “Vern said he’d get to your car first thing. You should have it Monday, Wednesday at the latest. You okay driving back and forth with Rochelle until then? Because otherwise, I could come get you.”

  She could feel him closing off, and she didn’t stand up to leave. “Of course I am. But that’s it? We’re all done here? You get to be upset for ten minutes, and then it’s ‘cowboy up and move on’?”

  “What’s the alternative? Wallow in it a little more? Sit around and drink beer and talk to the dog? I tried that. No, thanks. I’ll do what I’ve always done. Get back to work and get over it.”

  She did stand up, then. “You could ask a friend for a hug.”

  “A hug?”

  “Yeah,” she said, her throat dry. “Don’t cowboys hug?” She stepped closer, put her arms around him, and held him. Felt him standing rigid for a moment, then his arms coming around her, pulling her tight. She felt how much he needed somebody to touch, and was glad she could be the one to do it. That she could be here for him.

  Her head was against his chest, under his chin, and he felt so good. Warm, and strong, and so solid.

  “Jolie was a fool,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t matter what you are. It matters who you are. If she couldn’t see that, if she couldn’t see you, she was a fool.”

  A REAL GOOD HUG

  She could feel the tension in him softening, the deep breath he took, the slow, controlled way he let it out. She stood quietly and held him, and waited.

  She waited, and after a while, she realized that he wasn’t soft at all, and her heart stopped beating for a moment, and everything else started up, despite everything that had happened, all the emotion. Or maybe because of it.

  The thrum. The sizzle. The heat.

  He eased back from her, his hand coming up to frame her face, to tip her head back.

  “This probably isn’t the right time,” he sighed. “But what the hell.”

  Another thud of her heart, and her lips had parted, because all she could see was his mouth, and her body wanted that mouth. She wanted it right now.

  She got it. His lips descended on hers, softly at first. It was all soft, and slow, and patient, until her mouth opened and his hand was clenched in her hair.

  He deepened the kiss then, his lips and tongue still in no hurry, still exploring, starting a slow rhythm that told her what else he could do. Everything he could do, everything he wanted to do. The fire was licking down into her breasts, her belly, into every warm, sweet spot that needed his touch, and she pushed up against him, trying to get closer. Trying to get more.

  She was trying to move forward, but he was moving her backward. His other hand, the one that wasn’t still fisted in her hair, had been on her lower back, holding her tight. Now he sent it lower, stroking her curves, and she gasped into his mouth at the sensation.

  An upward jerk, and he was lifting her, setting her on the edge of the table. Her legs parted with a will of their own, because they wanted him between them.

  �
�You’re too small for me,” he said. “I need you up here where I can reach you.” He had a hand in her hair again, his thumb stroking over her cheek, and she was leaning into it. He still wasn’t rushing her, and she found herself wishing he would. That he would hurry.

  “Or maybe,” she said, doing her best to curb her body’s headlong plummet, “you’re too big for me.”

  A husky laugh at that. “Aw, sweetheart. No such thing as too big. And I take it back. No such thing as too small, either. Just sweet and fine and so damn hot. We’ll fit just right. You’ll see.”

  He was finally moving closer, putting a hand on each thigh, gently moving them farther apart so he could get there, right where she needed him to be. She could feel the size and the heat of him even through the layers of fabric separating them, and her own hands had gone to his hips, then had grown bold and were holding him to her, pulling him closer, because she needed him to be closer. She needed him to be there.

  He closed his eyes and groaned a little. “You’re killing me here, darlin’.”

  “Then kiss me some more,” she said, loving that she could do that to him. “Because you’re killing me, too.”

  She found out why he’d put her on the table. So he could give her more of those long, slow kisses. So he could nibble, and lick, and tease her mouth. So he could slide a hand up, when she thought that he never would, that she would explode if he didn’t do it, and close it over her breast.

  And that was when the teasing began in earnest. His hand stroked, still so slowly. Fingers, and palm, and best of all, his talented thumb. Every touch was a lick straight to her core, like she was connected that way, like there was a wire going right to that one sweetest spot. She was hanging on to his broad shoulders for dear life, moaning a little, and when his mouth trailed across her cheek, found the side of her neck, all gentle lips and barest graze of teeth, she was squirming. A strangled moan escaped her, and his mouth wasn’t quite so gentle anymore. He was biting a little, moving down her throat, teasing out a response in every place he touched.

  She was gasping, and when he got a hand under her sweater, touched bare skin at her waist, she jumped.

  “I need to touch you,” he told her. “So if you don’t want it . . . tell me.”

  She wasn’t going to tell him that. But he was asking. He was asking.

  “I want it,” she managed to tell him, and she felt him sigh. With relief, she thought, and pleasure, the same pleasure he was giving her.

  She should be touching him, too, she realized fuzzily. Not just sitting here letting him do whatever he wanted, and not giving him anything in return. And then she forgot all about it, because his hand was leaving a trail of heat all the way up her side, all the way to the lace of her bra, sliding over the pebbled nipple and drawing another jump and gasp out of her.

  “So sweet,” he murmured, and he was kissing her again, his hand still touching her through the lace, the extra friction of the material only adding to the pleasure. His other hand was holding her lower body tight against his, his hips beginning a slow grind, and she was whimpering into his mouth, spiraling up farther with every stroke.

  “I need more,” he told her. “I need it now.” He traced the lace edge of her bra over and over again with his fingertips, the light contact over the swell of her breast at once frustrating and so incredibly stimulating. And then, when she thought she couldn’t stand it another minute, he slipped his hand inside and touched her.

  Hard hand on soft, warm flesh. Stroking, circling, pinching. Teasing and playing until she was writhing, until she was calling out.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please. I need . . .”

  “I know you do,” he said. “That’s why we’re going to let you do it.”

  He stood back a pace, and she reached to pull him close again, because she had to feel that slow, grinding pressure. She had to.

  He smiled a little painfully. “I know you need it, sweetheart. But I’ve got something even better for you.” He put a hand out, traced the center seam of her pants, up and down, over and over. His fingers moving slowly at first, still not rushing it. And then, finally, when she thought she’d die if he didn’t, he slipped that hand inside, found the spot, began a slow, steady circling, even as his other hand stayed on her breast, still moving inside her bra.

  She was caught in it, right there against his hand. This was all there was, and it was everything.

  “Feels so good, baby,” he told her. “Feels so good.”

  She was bucking, higher and higher, his hand was moving harder and faster, and the pressure was building. She was so close. So close.

  “We’re going to do it just like this,” he told her. “Just this hard. So come on. Show me how much you want that. Let me feel it.”

  She was there, shaking, crying out, jerking into his hand, and his other hand slid around to her back, held her there for him during the endless seconds it lasted. Until the spasms slowed, until she slumped, panting and spent.

  He stepped close again and kissed her, long, drugging, and deep, while her chest heaved and her breath came hard.

  “Damn,” he said when he came up for air, his hand smoothing down her back, soothing her. “You’re the best thing I’ve ever had on this table. You’re so sweet. That’s so good.”

  “I just meant to . . .” she managed to say, “give you a hug.”

  “And you did.” His smile did something to her. Everything about him did way too much to her. “You gave me a real good hug. Made me feel a whole lot better.”

  “We need to . . .” she said, feeling shy, which was ridiculous.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We sure do. Need a bed for that, I think, don’t you? This first time?” His hand was back on her face now, and she rubbed her cheek against it, loving it.

  Then it was dropping from her, and he was stepping back, pulling her off the table by the hips and setting her on her feet. “Damn it to hell.”

  “What?” She didn’t have to wonder for long, though, because Junior had got up from his bed with a woof and a wag of his tail, and a white pickup was pulling into the space beside the garage, the space where Jolie’s SUV had sat.

  Her hands went to her hair, smoothing it even as he tugged her sweater down a little more securely, then reached down into his jeans, gave himself a quick adjustment, and grimaced.

  “My mom will tell you,” he said, “that when Luke was born, I asked her to take him back, because I didn’t want a brother. And I don’t want one now.”

  The door to the truck opened, and sure enough, Luke was heading around the rear of it, jumping up the steps onto the porch, giving his boots a scrape on the mat, and coming right on inside.

  “Hey, Cal,” he began, then stopped at the sight of Zoe. “Well, hi there,” he said slowly, a grin starting on the handsome face. “Didn’t realize you had company, Cal.”

  “Yeah,” he growled. “Obviously.”

  “Um . . .” Zoe said. “We were just snowshoeing. I mean, not now,” she hurried on. “I mean we were. Before. And Cal was about to give me a ride home. Because my car’s in the shop.”

  “Uh-huh,” Luke said. “And see, I’m not actually illuminated by all that. But never mind. I just came by to borrow your chainsaw, Cal. Dorothy Taylor next door had a tree down in that storm.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  “Okay if I take a can of gas, too?”

  “Okay if you take the whole damn shop,” Cal said. “Just go.”

  Luke scratched his cheek, tried without much success to hide a grin. “All righty, then. I’ll just let you two finish your . . . committee work, and head on out. See you at the meeting next week, Zoe.”

  “See you,” she said weakly.

  ALL GOD’S CHILDREN

  “So,” he said when Luke had finally gotten out of there, about one second before Cal would have given in to the urge to help him
along his way, “where were we? I think I was kissing you. And I think we were about to go upstairs.” He sure hoped they were, anyway.

  “Uh . . .” She looked uncomfortable, and his heart sank. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I mean,” she hurried on, seeing the look on his face, “it feels like a good idea. But I wasn’t going to do this. I wasn’t going to do it at all. And then I did, we did, but I still . . .”

  He perched himself on the edge of a barstool and folded his arms. “I knew it,” he said with resignation. “Go on, tell me.”

  “I’m just so . . .” She was looking anxious, and here was one more emotion for today, because now he was the one wanting to give her a hug.

  He sighed. “Zoe. Just tell me. It’s all right. I’m a big boy. I can be disappointed, and I can get over it. And besides,” he said, trying to make her smile a little again, “it’s that ulterior motive. So tell me, baby. Tell me what’s holding you back, and if I can make it better, I will. If you need more time, we’ll take it. I’m not going anywhere.”

  She was leaning back against the table, struggling against the tears and not quite making it, and he was giving her a hug, and keeping it at that, too. Which deserved at least a medal.

  “I’m not usually nearly so high-maintenance,” she said, pulling away, trying to laugh, wiping at her cheeks with the heels of her hands. “It’s been too much emotion today, I guess. And last night. Being so scared, and glad to have you with me, and then so sad for you, and now this. Too much. Too many feelings.”

  “Funny,” he said, going into the living room and coming back with the tissue box, pulling one out and handing it to her. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  She blew her nose, wiped her eyes. “Really?” She sniffed again. “You?”

  “Yeah. Me.” She did get messy when she cried. Her nose was red, her eyes were puffy, and that was all right, too. She was real, had her heart right out there on her sleeve for him to see, and he loved knowing that he was seeing it. “Come on,” he coaxed. “Just tell me.”