Dammit. What an unholy mess.
Trent couldn’t lie to himself any longer. He was head over heels in love with Bryn. And it wasn’t something that was going to magically go away. Hell, he’d been half in love with her for years. She was his heart, the very essence of who he was. And whatever it took, he couldn’t lose her.
He’d been an ass about Allen. He didn’t know much about children, and the fact that the boy was Jesse’s son hit Trent hard. He was only the uncle, but the bare truth was, he wanted to be the boy’s father. And if Jesse wasn’t Mac’s son… Good God.
And still he rode on, paying penance, seeking answers, looking for absolution.
Bryn barely slept. Every time she rolled over to look at the illuminated dial of the clock, only an hour had passed…sometimes less. Her whole life hung in the balance. For years she had assumed that her son would one day take his place as a Sinclair. And she had believed that such a moment would cement the fact, once and for all, that the ranch would always be her home, no matter where she actually chose to live.
Deep in her soul she recognized a connection to the land here. Perhaps it was unwarranted. Her parents had been no more than hired help on the Sinclair ranch. But that reality couldn’t change the way she felt.
And Trent…dear, complicated Trent. She loved him beyond reason. Loved him enough to know that no other man would ever measure up. She didn’t want to spend her life alone, but it would take a long, long time to forget the imprint Trent had made on her soul.
Jesse might have been the one who took her virginity, but Trent had showed her what it meant to be a woman.
An early morning walk calmed some of her agitation and made it possible for Bryn to greet her son and aunt across the breakfast table with some degree of equanimity. Beverly and the nurse carried on a lively conversation. Mac’s mood was jovial, and no one remarked on Trent’s absence. An empty cereal bowl and coffee cup were evidence that he’d been up early.
Allen finished off his pancakes and turned, bright-eyed, toward his mom. “What are we going to do today?”
Bryn had thought about letting him explore the attic—she’d loved doing that as a child—but she worried that the dust might aggravate his asthma. He wasn’t going to be content with puzzles and board games now that he was feeling better. Inspiration hit her. “Come with me,” she said. “I have a surprise for you.”
With Allen bouncing along beside her, she went to the large family room and opened the cabinet that stored all the leather-bound picture albums. Gage, Mac’s second son, had developed a passion for photography early in life, and Mac had indulged him with fancy and expensive cameras, lenses and developing equipment. Mac could never have imagined in those early days how Gage’s love of photography, combined with a strong wanderlust, would take him to far-flung places across the globe.
Bryn opened one of the early albums and spread it in Allen’s lap. Her throat tightened as she recognized a long-forgotten photo. It was one of the rare instances where Gage was actually “in” the picture, and Mac had been the photographer. Five children, four boys and a girl, sat on the top corral rail, their legs dangling. The three older brothers bore a striking resemblance, though Trent, probably twelve or thirteen, stood out as the eldest.
Bryn and Jesse sat side by side with the bigger kids, their arms around each other’s shoulders. Bryn’s hair was in pigtails…Jesse’s blond head gleamed in the morning sun. All five children looked healthy, happy and carefree.
When Allen wasn’t looking, Bryn took the photo and slipped it in her pocket. Soon, very soon, she’d tell him about his father. And she wouldn’t lie, if possible. There were plenty of good memories to share.
She flipped the pages…showing Allen a montage of county rodeos, family Christmases, impromptu picnics on the ranch…all chaperoned by a much younger Mac. Allen drank it all in with avid interest.
The final album was smaller than the rest. Inside the front cover was a faded Post-it note in Mac’s handwriting that read For Bryn. Every photo inside was of her parents, sometimes together, sometimes smiling alone for the camera, many times holding their little girl.
She touched one picture she barely remembered. “That’s my mom and dad,” she said softly. “I wish you could have known them. But they died a long time before you were born.”
A frown creased Allen’s small forehead. “Did my daddy die, too? Is that why he doesn’t live with us?”
The question came out of the blue and took her breath away. Allen had never once asked about his father. Bryn had been prepared for some time now to launch into an explanation when Allen seemed old enough to understand, but until today, he’d never questioned their nontraditional family.
She had lain many nights, sleepless, wondering how to explain to a small child that his father didn’t want him. Now she didn’t have to.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, desperately wanting to point to a photo of Jesse and say, “That was your dad.” But she couldn’t. Not yet. Not until things were settled.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Your father died. But he loved you very much.” Perhaps God would forgive her for the lie. A son needed to know that his father thought the world of him. Even if it wasn’t true.
In the way of five-year-olds, Allen suddenly lost interest in the past. “Can we go see the puppies now?” he asked, wheedling in every syllable of his childish plea.
“You bet.” She laughed. “I’ll get Julio to bring them up from the barn.”
Lunch was a scattered affair. Bryn and Allen took sandwiches out into the sunshine to eat, spreading a quilt on the ground and enjoying their alfresco meal. It had been a long, hard winter in Minnesota, and the spring warmth was too appealing to resist. But by one o’clock, Allen was flagging. Bryn turned him over to Beverly and the nurse.
When she left her son’s bedroom, Trent appeared suddenly in the hallway, his expression somber. “Are you ready?”
She nodded, her stomach flip-flopping with nerves. “Yes.”
One of the ranch hands insisted on helping Bryn saddle her horse, though she could have done it on her own. Trent mounted a beautiful stallion and waited for her to put a foot in the stirrup and leap astride the gentle mare assigned to her. She was self-conscious about Trent watching her, but she managed not to embarrass herself.
They rode side by side in silence, crossing a meadow bursting with flowers and sporting new green in every shade. Trent had rolled up Bryn and Allen’s luncheon quilt and tied it to the back of his saddle. He’d also brought along a couple of canteens of fresh water.
When they reached the creek, Trent helped her dismount and tied both animals to trees so the horses could eat and drink as needed. He spread the faded blanket and dropped the canteens to anchor the fabric against the capricious breeze.
Nearby, the crystal-clear, frigid water burbled gently over smooth stones that were as old as the mountains themselves. Trent faced her, his expression unreadable.
The breeze tossed her hair in her face. She took a rubber band from her pocket and bound the flyaway mess at the base of her neck. “Where do we start?” she asked. The calm in her voice was a complete fabrication. Her knees were the consistency of jelly, and her heart fluttered in her chest.
Trent took one step in her direction. “With this,” he said gruffly. He took her in his arms, and instantly her fear and anxiety melted away to be replaced by heat and certainty. It was a homecoming, a benediction, a warm, wicked claiming.
Did he know? Did he have any idea that she was his in every way that mattered? She met the urgency of his kiss eagerly. The hunger that consumed both will and reason no longer frightened her.
She would have followed him into hell for the chance to have him again, to know the searing touch of his hands on her damp flesh.
He was inside her jeans, his big hands cupping her bottom, drawing her tight against the hard, pulsing ridge of his erection.
“Trent. Oh, Trent.” She wanted to say more, needed to say more.
But it was all she could do to remain standing.
They ripped at clothing, hers and his, unashamed to be naked beneath the gentle afternoon sun. Bits of shade dappled their bare skin.
She barely noticed when he drew her to the soft caress of the quilt. He went down on his back, taking any discomfort from the rocky ground and making it his, while she sat cradled astride his hard thighs.
His thick, eager erection was impossible to miss. It lifted boldly between them, filled with life and purpose.
The gleam in his eyes made her blush. “Stop that,” she hissed, unable to hold his gaze. She looked around, knowing they were alone, but feeling bashful nevertheless.
He gently traced the curve of one breast, lingering to coax the nipple to hardness. “Stop what?”
The innocence in his question might have been more convincing if he hadn’t simultaneously brushed his finger in the wetness between her legs. Where his touch trespassed, her body went lax and soft, ready to take him. Eager for more.
She cleared her throat. “I thought we were going to talk,” she said. It seemed as though one of them should make an effort to be sensible, but it was difficult for a woman to be taken seriously when she was sprawled in erotic abandon beneath a cloudless sky.
A shadow darkened his face for scant seconds, but he shook it off, his hands clenching her hips hard enough to bruise.
“Later,” he groaned, rolling on a condom and lifting her to align their bodies. “Watch us,” he muttered. “Don’t close your eyes.”
He entered her inch by inch, and though she squirmed and shivered, her gaze never wavered from the spot where his hard flesh penetrated her. The act was as elemental as the cry of the hawk overhead, as life-affirming as the advent of new life in the wild.
He filled her completely, his mighty arms straining as he lifted her repeatedly. Her knees burned, her thighs ached. The intentionally lazy tempo drove her mad with longing. She bore down on him, squeezing, pressing his shaft so he would go faster.
But Trent Sinclair had an iron will, and his control was frustrating for a woman whose patience unraveled with every upward thrust of his hips. She was so close to the moment of release, she held her breath.
Acting on instinct, she lightly touched his copper-colored nipples, circling them and making Trent flinch and groan hoarsely. Within her, he grew. Harder. Longer. More insistent.
She was stretched. Impaled. Held captive to the madness that drove them both to the brink of insanity. And it was insane. There was no future for them. No hope for a positive conclusion.
All they had was the present.
She put her hands on his shoulders. He reached behind her, and with a brutal twist of his fingers, snapped the band that held her ponytail. The long silky strands tumbled over her breasts and onto his chest. He stroked her hair with wonder and reverence in his gaze.
Then his hands fisted in the silken fall and he dragged her down so his mouth could ravage hers. Teeth and tongues and clashing breath. His sweat-slicked chest heaved, her thigh muscles quivered. He tortured them both, making them wait, drawing out the anticipation of the end until she wanted to scream at him and scratch his bronzed muscles with her fingernails, anything to hasten the promised pleasure that shimmered just out of reach.
He seized her face in his hands, his fingers sliding into the damp hair at her nape. His rapier gaze locked on hers. “You should have been mine, Bryn. He didn’t deserve you. You should have been mine.” Something in the rough, aching words made her heart hurt. But then he kissed her again, and the joy returned.
They were helpless, lost in the windswept eroticism of the moment. He laughed at her, laughed at them both. Nothing could have torn them apart. She lay on his chest, exhausted. The new angle sent tingling sensations from her core throughout her body.
His strength and stamina amazed her. He grunted and thrust more wildly. She was limp in his embrace, desperately aroused, but unable to summon the energy to sit up again.
“Tell me you want me, Bryn. I need to hear you say it.” He rolled them suddenly, coming on top of her, but bearing most of his weight on his forearms.
She licked her lips, her throat parched. “I want you.”
“Tell me you need me.”
“I need you.”
“I wish I had been your first.”
Her slight hesitation sent lightning flashing in his dark gaze, dangerous, potent.
“I was immature,” she said softly. “I think I used him to make you jealous. And I am so sorry for that. But I was never in love with Jesse.”
She waited for him to say he loved her. Prayed with incoherent desperation that he would say the words that would change her life forever. The simple phrase that would make all her dreams come true.
But no such words were forthcoming.
Trent’s face was unreadable. He was a man in the throes of passion…nothing in his features to express anything other than a dominant drive toward completion.
And finally, when she was boneless in his embrace, he rode her hard and took his own release with a ragged shout that echoed across the plain.
Trent pulled the edge of the quilt around the sleeping woman in his arms and checked his watch. The minutes ran away from him like rivulets of water on a rain-soaked windowpane. He wanted to preserve this slice of time, keep it pristine in his memory. But the moment of reckoning was fast approaching and it might be very ugly indeed. No matter how much he wanted to protect Bryn and her son from pain, his efforts might be futile.
He closed his eyes, feeling the sun burn into the skin of his eyelids and face.
He stroked her hair, abashed to realize that he was no longer jealous of his dead brother. Jesse had held Bryn like this…had made love to her. The knowledge was painful. But he loved his brother. Would always love him. And Jesse’s premature death was a tragedy that would forever mark their family.
He was hard again. It seemed to be a perpetual, inescapable condition in her presence. He shifted her gently onto her side so they were face-to-face. Carefully, he lifted her leg across his hip. Breathing hard, he probed gently at her swollen entrance.
Bryn murmured, and the ghost of a smile teased her lips as her eyelids fluttered and opened. He pushed until he was seated fully in her still-slick passage. He moved slowly, savoring the way her body grasped his shaft. She felt small and fragile in his embrace, but she was strong in ways he could never match. She’d made a home for her son as a single mother.
Beverly had been a source of strength…true. But Bryn was a good mother, a woman of backbone and grit, much like the pioneer females who helped settle the wild and dangerous West.
She kissed him and murmured soft words of pleasure. He gritted his teeth as his climax bore down on him. He’d taken her like a crazy man less than a half hour before, and already he was at the edge again.
He slowed his strokes, relishing the position that enabled him to kiss her as he moved in and out with deliberate thrusts. Dark smudges beneath her eyes tugged at his heartstrings. Sleepless nights. Endless worry. But her smile was pure sunshine.
When he thought of the way he and Mac had thrown her out six years ago—a naive, pregnant eighteen-year-old—he was sickened. He’d never be able to make that up to her, but God knows, he could try.
He shuddered as his brain ceded control to his baser instincts. Tremors shook him. The base of his spine tightened.
“Bryn…” He spoke her name urgently, needing to see her forgiveness, wanting absolution.
She caught her breath. “Trent…ohh…”
Their position was intimate, sensual. He put his hand on the soft curve of her bottom and pulled her in to his downstroke. Her back arched. Her eyes closed. She was so beautiful, he was blinded. He told himself it was the sun.
But it was her. It was Bryn. Until she came back to the ranch, he’d had no clue his life was an empty shell. But she had shown him the truth. And all she’d had to do was be herself…pure, generous, charming.
He’d been
lost from the first moment, though he’d fought hard to believe she was a liar and a cheat. It was much easier that way.
He brushed a kiss across each of her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids. The urgent need for climax had retreated to a muted simmer. His primary emotion at the moment was quiet contentment. And for a man unused to examining something as hazy and insubstantial as feelings, it was a significant shock to realize that the woman in his arms was as necessary to him as breathing.
The knowledge was exhilarating and scary as hell.
He pushed her over onto her back and urged her legs around his waist. Her skin was soft and luminous in the unforgiving light of day. What would it have been like to be her pioneer husband, bound inside a tiny log cabin for weeks at a time as blizzards howled?
Isolation. Nothing to diffuse the interaction between male and female. Nothing to run interference when one of them was in a bad mood. Nowhere to escape when tempers flared.
He’d have taken her night after night, wrapped in a world of only two. And it would have been as close to heaven as a man like him was liable to get. He’d said Jesse didn’t deserve her, but the truth was, neither did he.
She smiled at him, a secretive curve of soft pink lips that made him shake. Her gaze was slumberous. The look of a woman who had been well loved. Any man in his right mind would move heaven and earth to make her his. He’d grown up believing that everyone and everything had a price. But not Bryn. She had never asked for a single thing.
And he wanted to give her the world.
He moved in her, wanting to imprint his touch on her heart so that she could never forget him.
She dug her heels into his lower back. “Whatever happens, Trent, I’ll always remember this.” Her gaze was solemn, melancholy.
He nuzzled her neck. “I’ll work it out. Trust me.”
A slight frown appeared between her perfectly arched brows. “Work what out?”
He withdrew almost completely and chuckled when she said an unladylike word. He dropped his head forward, resting his brow against hers. “Mac. Jesse. Allen. The letters. You’ll see.”
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