Journey's End

by BJ James

  The smile was still there when his head dipped. There when his mouth teased over hers sending waves of shivering sensations through her.

  Shaken, she jerked away. “What are you doing?”

  “I thought that was obvious.” His arms closed around her bringing her back to his embrace. “I’m winning an argument.”

  “Ty!” She would have turned her face away. Two fingers at the tense line of her jaw stopped her.

  “Shh.” His breath was warm against her cheek as his fingers tunneled into the mass of her hair, holding her, keeping her. He was so close his lashes tangled with hers. His mustache and the seeking lips beneath it grazed her cheek, as he admonished hoarsely, “Don’t disturb a man when he’s arguing.”

  As if testing the feel and taste of her, his head tipped down to hers, his lips nibbled, explored, persuaded. Seduced. Promised. She meant not to respond, intent on winning the battle. But intentions were no match for the strength of the wide, hard chest pressed against her breasts. The mesmerizing power of his touch.

  She felt herself falling into the spell he wove so well, a pawn in the game he played. In one great effort, reaching into a last reserve of discipline, she shoved him away. In one startled, tremoring moment she was free. But her freedom was short-lived, for in the next, she found herself caught even more tightly, more closely.

  “No!” she managed in a great gasp even as the tickle of his mustache at the corner of her mouth sent a hunger she strove to deny to new heights. “No.”

  His gloved hands on her body were steadfast, unyielding, the latent strength overwhelming. He held her captive as easily as he might have a kitten, or a child, or the woman she was. Yet, dimly, part of her knew that if she fought him, really fought him, he would back away.

  She would. She even thought she had, but with the simplest ease his lips found hers again. With the same gentle teasing. The same promise.

  The intriguing promise.

  Her pulse was pounding, her blood rushing, leaving her dizzy and with her head swimming. Struggling against the clamor of her own body, she would play his game the only way she could, not matching strength for strength, nor obstinance with obstinance. She would meet the madness he created, and the urgency rising like a tide within her, with cool-headed, passive resistance. For one heady increment of time she thought she’d succeeded. That she was passive, that she had resisted. Then, with a flick of his tongue over the curve of her lips, as if her body and mind had waited only for this, her world exploded in a blinding flash of white hot heat.

  In a shivering, thrumming red tide, all she’d denied, all she needed for so long, swept any silly imaginings of resisting Tynan O’Hara from her mind.

  If her pulse had pounded, now it slowed to a steady drumming, with each shattering, thundering beat shaking every inch of her. If her blood rushed, now it seethed and churned. As she trembled with the impact, her muscles went slack, the last of her tenacity and vigor slipping away. Tension banding her neck and shoulders eased, as if with the intimate touch cables of steel were transformed to bands of pliant satin.

  Still, she knew she should remember it was a game, only a game. She should pull away; she should insist that he not hold her so tightly nor kiss her so cleverly.

  She should.

  Of course she should, but simmering passion spiraling to the point of ignition was far more insistent, far stronger.

  Far more truthful.

  Embers of desire licking at her mind and body, plundered and mocked even this half rational thought. And as her mouth opened to his, not in anger or denial, but yearning and urgent, sleeping passions that slept no more soared beyond mere ignition. Smoldering embers flared in a consuming conflagration.

  Shaken by the sudden reversal, seared by the power of it, Ty drew away. Only the little needed to look down at her. The little needed to see what his touch and his kiss had done. Merrill stared up at him, her breasts rising, pressing against his chest with each labored breath. Her eyes were huge, the color gone from them, leaving only the dark, bottomless depths of bold desire.

  Shocked, not by the intensity of her passion, but that it lay so close to the surface, he would have called on the last shred of sanity, the last reserve of strength, to move away. He would have given her space, time to catch her breath. Time to think. Allowing himself a moment to deal with the avalanche of sensations his kiss had wrought.

  Or so he thought. So he intended. Until it was her hands framing his face and her gaze blazing into his. Until it was her look scorching with its heat, with aching hunger a rampage in its depths.

  “Damn you,” she whispered on a shuddering sigh. The pressure of her hands slipped to his nape, her finger twining in the shaggy length of his hair, drawing him back to her. Back to her kiss. Her mouth brushed his. Once, twice, lingered, waited. Her nails scored the tender flesh of his neck as her lips teased the clipped edge of his mustache. Her breath quickened, her fingers convulsed in his hair. Her eyes blazed as she turned her head away and back as quickly, yet setting a little space between them.

  Her lashes fluttered to her cheeks. A gold tipped fringe veiling her eyes. She was still, silent as stone. Only her hands moved, curling into fists in his hair as she waged one final, paltry battle and lost.

  Slowly, her lashes lifted,. The storm still raged in her level gaze, even as her taut grasp of his hair became a caress. “Damn you,” she whispered as she drew him down to her, harder, closer. This was a game, but not to her. “Damn you, Tynan O’Hara.”

  “I was. The first moment I saw you.” Yanking her to him, closing the little space she’d left, he folded her in his rough embrace. Even if she fought him now, he wouldn’t let her go. As his head dipped once more to her, as her mouth opened to him, he muttered, “God help me, I am.”

  Merrill didn’t fight She was done with fighting.

  The last pretense fell away. The last reserve shattered as his mouth devoured hers. Enveloped in the clean, crisp scent of him, with its lingering traces of leather and smoke she gave herself up to the magic he made. Reveling, with no repentance, in the intoxicating taste of the primal male and his primal needs.

  There was no gentleness in a gentle companion. No reason in a reasonable man. But reason and gentleness were not what she wanted, nor what she needed.

  She forgot time and place and circumstance. She forgot heartaches and tragedy and memories. She forgot everything until Tynan groaned, and leaned his forehead against hers, for once needing her strength.

  “We have to go,” he murmured as he broke away to draw air into lungs that were starved.

  Sensing a change, Tempest sidled a little away, tired of crowding against Bogart, eager for a gallop. Reaching out, Ty settled her down with an absent tug at her mane.

  Merrill straightened, taking up the reins in a grasp that was not as steady as she’d like. Dazed, she tried to make sense of what he’d said. “Go?”

  “Yes, go. Now.” Ty laid his palms on her shoulders, his grip crumpling the fabric of her jacket. “Unless you want me to finish what we started. What I want to do—drag you from the saddle, make love to you—here, now, in the snow.”

  His body ached with the effort it took not to do exactly as he threatened. He’d only been playing a game, only meant to tease, but the game had gone awry. He hadn’t known that even in teasing he would find her seductive and alluring, and irresistible. He hadn’t expected that desire and passion smoldered so close to the surface, that it would take only a kiss or a touch to kindle the flame.

  Until he looked at her now, he didn’t know that at the sight of her disheveled hair and her swollen mouth, he would want to say to hell with the rest of the world. That he would want nothing more than to begin the game that wouldn’t be a game all over again.

  “Is that what you want, sweetheart.” The back of his gloved hand skimmed down her temple, to her mouth. And even with the thin leather between them, touching her was sweet. “Would you make love in the snow?”

  “No!” The word
spilled from her, even as her body cried yes. The image of Casey waiting by the window, watching for her, eager for her visit, was the only source of her constraint. “You were right, we should go. Casey’s waiting.” Though he knew, she reminded, “I don’t want to disappoint him.”

  “I know,” Ty agreed as needlessly.

  “But it would be no, even if he weren’t waiting,” Merrill flung at him with more than a touch of bravado. “Snow or no snow, making love with you isn’t what I want.”

  “No?” Ty cocked a brow as he studied her face, lingering long on her lips and the all too evident mark of his kiss as he repeated softly, “No?”

  “No! N. O.” Merrill was suddenly adamant, remembering how the passionate confrontation had come to pass. With a swipe of her arm over her mouth, she snapped, “You picked one hell of a way to win an argument, O’Hara.”

  Ty looked hard at her for a long while. Then in slow, measured motions, he leaned away from her, took his hat from the pommel and set it firmly on his head. The little ritual complete, he folded his hands before him and shifted in the saddle as he watched her from the shadow of the tilted brim. “Is that what you think I was doing?”

  “It’s what you set out to do, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” Plucking her Stetson from her back, he angled it over her forehead and eased the slide that held it in place to her chin. When she would have cringed away, he ignored it and continued his ministrations—turning up the collar of her jacket, easing a wrinkle from its fabric. Then, grasping the lapels he’d just smoothed, he made her look at him. His own look ranged over her face, tarried at the glittering anger in her eyes, the swollen, just kissed pout of her mouth. His voice was roughened, his tone mild, when he said, softly, “Then again, maybe not.”

  “Tynan...”

  “Shh.” A leather clad finger slanted over her lips, stopping any comment. “Careful, you aren’t out of the woods yet, honey.”

  Pushing his hand away, her chin jutted at a challenging angle, hoping with all her might that he wouldn’t suspect how close she’d come to the edge. “Then what do we do?” In a lazy, mocking drawl, she added, “What next, O’Hara, honey?”

  “We ride.” With a whistle to Shadow, who had gone to investigate a snowdrift, he gripped the reins, pulling them up short. Bogart quivered at the signal, needing only the tap of a spur to fly.

  “We.”

  “Yes, we.” He grinned at her. “I won the argument, remember.”

  Her expression was all innocence, and all a lie. “Did you?”

  “Maybe.” In a move she didn’t anticipate, he caught her chin in the curl of his palm. His slanting kiss was quick and sweet, and over even as it began. The grin was still in place, but a little ragged at the edge. There was no laughter in his eyes. “Then again, maybe not.”

  With a touch at the brim of his Stetson in the gallant western salute, he raked his spurs over Bogart’s flank. It was the invitation the well-trained cow horse had awaited. The gelding didn’t need another. Snow flew in his wake as broad hooves tracked over virgin snow.

  Tempest reared and lunged and fought the tight hold of her reins. Sawing on them, backing the mare away, Merrill was tempted not to follow.

  But Casey waited.

  And what would be the point? Of what worth was a skirmish won, after the battle was lost?

  “All right, girl.” Merrill leaned down to stroke the flowing mane. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

  She rode then as Ty rode, hard, fast, recklessly. With Shadow tracking by her side, and desire a quiet companion, awaiting another day.

  “Hello.”

  Casey hailed them from the porch of the ranch house when they were barely in sight. As Tempest and Bogart slipped and slid down the last hill, he was descending the steps, with a confidence that grew each day. By the time they halted the horses at the weathered hitching post, he was waiting there, a beaming smile nearly splitting his face in half.

  “Well, look at you,” Merrill declared as she swung from the saddle and turned to embrace him. With a kiss on his cheek, she held him at arm’s length. “I leave you for half a week and look what you do. You look like you just rode the tornado deck of a bucking bronc and stayed on. And to top it all, I would swear you’ve grown an inch.”

  Casey lifted his shoulders as a blush added to the color the sharp air had drawn to his face. “And you,” he tapped her chin. “Practicing cowboy lingo.”

  The words were halting, the phrase punctuated with sporadic pauses, but the meaning was clear.

  “I’ve been reading,” Merrill admitted.

  Casey grinned. “Read more.”

  “Oh?” Merrill was all innocence. “Did I get something wrong?”

  The boy rolled his eyes at Ty.

  Ty grinned back, as aware of the word game Merrill played as Casey. “We know that in proper cowboy slang, it’s the hurricane deck of a bucking bronc. But be patient with her, boy.” He ruffled the dark hair that barely showed shaggy signs of the trauma Casey had suffered. “She’s a tenderfoot and a gal to boot.”

  “Pretty.”

  “Well now,” Ty crossed his arms over his chest and rubbed his chin as he pretended to consider. His considering took a long, thorough time. “There’s no denying that. Her eyes are pretty. They can be a little angry now and again, but that only makes them prettier. And her hair reminds me of your mom’s, and it’s almost as gorgeous. Then there’s her chin. A little stubborn, wouldn’t you say? Can’t deny that her nose fits right nicely where it sits.”

  Casey laughed, once a rare sound, but not since Merrill had come into his life.

  Tynan hadn’t finished his questionable tabulation of her attributes. “But do you know what I like best about little Short Bear, Casey?”

  Still grinning, Casey shook his head.

  “Her mouth,” Tynan said softly. “What I like best is her mouth. Makes a man’s own mouth water for a taste of it.”

  Merrill had listened to enough. Stepping in front of Casey, giving her back to Ty, she touched his face, feeling the cold. “What have you been doing that has you so mischievous? And why were you waiting here in the could?”

  “Something.” His grin faded. He took her hand in his. “Something to show.”

  Without ceremony he tugged her toward the house. The steps had been cleared, the porch was dry, and Casey moved across it with confident ease. It was then that Merrill realized, it wasn’t that he had grown, but that he stood straighter, taller. There was renewed strength in his body, and every shred of hesitance had fallen before the vigor of confidence.

  “Casey.” She caught at their joined hands with her free hand, slowing him at the door. “What is it? What has excited you so?”

  “See.” He shook his head, not satisfied with the single word. His eyes closed tightly, his teeth bit at his lip as he searched for the proper word, the proper order. “You shall see.”

  He beamed at Merrill, not caring that the phrase was stilted, the words not so crisp. What mattered was that he had put together a sentence in perfect sequence.

  “What will I see?” Merrill gripped long, slender fingers proudly. “Something special?”

  “Hope.”

  “A surprise? Inside?” Ty put in. Without waiting for Casey’s affirmation, he reached past them to push open the door. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  For all his eagerness, Casey hesitated, looking about, a frown beginning on his face. “Shadow?”

  “I didn’t forget, Casey.” Tipping his Stetson from his head, and shaking snow fallen from a low hanging limb from the shoulders of his jacket, he crumpled the battered brim in his hard grasp. “He found a scent he couldn’t resist, but he’ll be along in a minute.”

  “Good. Shadow’s fun.”

  The same effort was required to find the right words, formulate the sensible sentence, but at least Casey never stopped trying. But for Ty, anything, any effort at all was better than the silent, defeated existence the boy had lived before Mer
rill. “You won’t be so glad if he’s disturbed a skunk’s cold weather den,” he warned. “You remember what happened last year?”

  Casey grinned and pinched his nose. A spontaneous gesture and right on target. “Peeyew.”

  “Exactly,” Ty concurred. “In any case, and any condition, Shadow will be along in a bit Now,” he herded them through the door. “What is this great surprise you have for Merrill?”

  The house was quiet. With no set timetable for their arrival, Cat and Carl had evidently gone about their chores, leaving Casey to play welcoming committee and host. Another indicator for Cat’s renewed confidence in his safety.

  With an eager assurance, not giving them time to shed their coats, or brush the snow from their boots, the wounded young man led them to a worktable. There were wood shavings and tool scattered over it. And in the center of the table stood what was obviously a figure covered with a rough cloth.

  With a sweep of his arm, Casey indicated that they should sit. With palpable excitement he waited until they were settled and waiting. “Ready?”

  With a lancing fear of what hacked and clumsy creation she might see, Merrill looked desperately at Ty. Instinctively he reached out to her, covering the hand that clutched the arm of her chair with his.

  “We’re ready.” His voice was deep and calm and steady, the clasp of his hand strong and tight “Show us what you’ve done.”

  For a moment Casey’s exuberance faltered. Old doubts came back to haunt him. With the edge of the cloth only inches beneath his hovering fingers he hesitated.

  “It’s all right, Casey.” Ty spoke again, this time his calm was infectious. “There’s nothing you can’t show us.”

  Casey tried to smile. But the joy that had him waiting and watching for them had become doubt.

  “Please.” Merrill encouraged, joining forces with Ty.

  The boy nodded, too filled with conflicting emotions to struggle for the right word. The cloth moved in only fractions of an inch at first. Then with an impatience to have done with it, he snatched it away.