"Tut tut," John reproved, picking himself up. "We wouldn't want to soil the ears of innocent children."
"They're laughing too hard to hear me," Marian said. She stuck out her tongue at Emma and the giggling twins, which set them off again. Then she turned to glower at the goat, who stood stiff-legged and wary at the end of the rope. "Do you suppose we could pick her up?"
John took off his Stetson and used it to slap at the dust on his jeans. "Have you put her on a scale lately?"
"She's supposed to be fat," Marian said defensively.
"Yeah?" He put the cowboy hat back on. "Maybe so, but we'd still have to get our arms around that belly."
"I'll take the back and you take the front."
John eyed Esmerelda's expression. "Why don't you take the front, and I'll take the back?"
"She kicks."
"Oh, hell."
"Please," Marian said loftily. "We don't want to soil the ears of..."
The three children sat in a row on the bottom rail of the fence, waiting expectantly for the next act. John looked at Marian, and suddenly they were both laughing.
"I'll take the front," he said ruefully.
A minute later, John slammed the door of the horse trailer, dropping the bolt just in time. The whole trailer shook when Esmerelda rammed her head against the door.
"Are you sure you want her?" Marian asked doubtfully. "Now that you know what you're getting into?"
"If I can't handle one little goat..."
"You mean, one overweight, bad-tempered, useless goat?"
"Remember those blackberries."
Marian smiled at him. "I'll believe in those when I see 'em."
At her smile, something changed on John's face, and his arrested gaze locked with hers. "Doubting me?" he asked roughly.
She couldn't look away from the disturbing expression in his gray eyes. "I think you're nice enough to lie," she retorted, not quite as calmly as she would have liked.
He shoved the Stetson back on his head, his grin an unmistakable challenge. "One hedge of blackberries coming up. I'll give you the grand tour right now. Why don't you follow us on over?"
She began an automatic protest, "Oh, I don't think..."
"Come on," John coaxed. "I want you to feel comfortable visiting your animals. You have to see where we live sometime. Why not tonight?"
"I really should pack and..."
He didn't let her finish. "Emma made dessert, just for you. She was hoping you'd come. She's pretty excited."
"Dessert?" Marian said weakly.
"Lemon meringue pie." This time his grin was self-mocking. "We did our best. Store-bought crust, Jell-O mix, and the meringue...well, it's a little on the flat side, but..."
Marian held up one hand. "I surrender. I couldn't possibly hurt Emma's feelings. As you know darn well." She heard his soft chuckle when she raised her voice for the benefit of their audience. "Let's get our coats, guys. We'll go see Snowball and Esmerelda's new home."
"Hey, cool!" Emma jumped up. "Come on, hurry up. I'll show you my bedroom and everything!"
Unfortunately, everything included her dad's bedroom. Half an hour later, Marian and the twins had already dutifully inspected a living room bigger than their entire house, complete with gleaming maple floor, river rock fireplace, vaulted ceiling, and a wall of windows that looked out toward the Cascade Mountains. Marian stood for a long moment in front of the windows, gazing past the red barns and crisp white fences toward the jagged mountain range, shadowed by dusk. The scene was heartbreakingly beautiful. She had to wrench herself away to continue the tour.
There was a large office as well, and a small room set up with a projector and screen that covered one wall.
"Game films," John said.
The kitchen gave Marian a spasm of envy, with its counters tiled in bright blue, glass-fronted maple cabinets, and dishwasher, microwave, and double ovens. Emma's pride in her bedroom upstairs was poignant. It was so perfect for a little girl. Marian knew each toy and piece of white-painted furniture had been anxiously chosen by John, trying to make up for all that Emma had lost.
She was reassured by the normality of their small family when he stuck his head around the door and raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's the first time in days I've seen the floor in here. I have a cleaning agency coming twice a week," he added as an aside. "I guess they must have bulldozed their way through here today."
Anna stared big-eyed at the two-story pink Barbie house and the Barbie Ferrari. Jesse's eyes were just as wide as he peeked around Marian's leg at a four-foot-tall teddy bear. Emma bounced on her bed, then whirled past John and Marian to fling open the door across the hall. Marian followed without thinking.
John's bedroom. She didn't want to see it, but she was trapped in the doorway, her gaze riveted to the king-size bed. From her peripheral vision she knew that the floor in here was carpeted in a rich shade of rust, the pile deep and lush, that the walls were oyster white, dominated by a huge wallhanging, stylized and primitive, that some distant part of her recognized as South American. Below it was the bed. Marian couldn't look away from the expanse of black coverlet, the simple table beside it with a clock and a lamp and a pair of glasses.
Dear Lord. Why was the sight of his bed so intimate, so unnerving? Of course he slept in a bed! What had she expected? Why was panic stealing her breath and heat coiling in her belly? Why was she painfully conscious of John standing just behind her? Why was she so sure he knew what she was feeling?
Her voice defied her best attempt to control it. Huskily she said, "You wear glasses?"
When he didn't answer, she turned her head to look at him. Their eyes met and Marian quit breathing altogether. John was watching her with blatant desire, the curve of his mouth unbearably sensual. The children no longer existed. She was frozen in the doorway, achingly conscious of the big hand braced on the doorframe only inches from her shoulder, of his wide shoulders in a worn denim shirt, and the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. They stared at each other, neither moving.
The shocking spell was broken when Emma snatched Marian's hand and said eagerly, "Let's have pie now. I made it myself. Except Daddy helped some."
When John smiled crookedly at his daughter, Marian's stolen breath was restored. Shaken, she wondered if she had imagined the expression of naked desire on his face.
"I... Thank you, Emma. I'd like some. Jesse...Anna? Would you like pie?"
"What kind?" Jessie asked with deep suspicion.
Emma dropped Marian's hand and grabbed his. "Oh, come on. It's good. Really. I think it's good. Daddy and I've never made it before, but when I licked the bowl I liked it."
Somehow they were retracing their steps, first through the hall and then down the carpeted steps, the children bumping on their bottoms and giggling.
Marian was about halfway down in their wake when she heard John's voice behind her, more rough-edged than usual. "I wear glasses to read. It's a sign of impending middle age."
She seriously doubted that he would look any more middle-aged in glasses than he did without. She could picture him tipping them down, smiling lazily at her over the top of the frames. Leaning against a pillow, long legs stretched out. On a bed.
She couldn't think of a thing to say. What in God's name was wrong with her? She didn't want a man in her life. Any man!
In the kitchen Emma laid out quilted placemats on the antique oak table, then solemnly served Marian, Anna, and Jesse before carrying her own plate to the table. Marian felt...odd. Going through the motions. Smiling at Emma, lightly thanking her, answering Anna's questions—"Mama, why do they have two tables to eat at?"—sliding the tines of her fork into the weepy meringue and tough crust.
But on another level she remained acutely conscious of Emma's father. In faded jeans and scuffed leather cowboy boots he looked nothing like a television personality. His straight brown hair showed the marks of the Stetson and he smelled faintly of horse and hay. And goat, she thought, with the first stirring
of humor she'd felt since she walked in his front door. But even that faded when he drew up the pressed-back oak chair next to her and dubiously eyed his pie. His knee touched hers under the table. He glanced up to smile ruefully at Marian, though the look in his eyes somehow didn't match the smile.
"I can make a damned good dinner," he said. "But I have to admit, my baking still leaves a little bit to be desired."
"This is fine," Marian said. "Really." It wasn't a lie. She couldn't taste the pie. She was too miserable. There she sat in John McRae's kitchen, facing the facts. She was jealous. No, worse than that. She was swamped by longing for this kitchen, this house, for the acres of rolling green pasture and the horses behind those freshly painted fences. For Emma with her anxious brown eyes and for Emma's father with those intent gray ones. The hunger was a searing, wholly unexpected pain. Marian wanted to belong here. She would have given almost anything to belong here—anything but the pitiful remnants of her pride.
This house had made obvious the vast gulf between her and John. Maybe he didn't walk around with a pretty blonde on each arm. Maybe he loved his daughter and did the best he could. Maybe he even worked hard with those elegant Arabians out in the pasture. But his life was as alien from hers as that classy gray stallion out in the pasture was from dumpy, shaggy Snowflake. What were either of them doing here? She tried to picture John in her kitchen, tasting her jam, washing dishes, gently teasing, but the image wouldn't come. Why had he chosen to leave his daughter with her when this was what she was accustomed to?
For Emma's sake, Marian finished every bite on her plate. Then she said with determination, "Thank you, Emma. That was delicious. But I'm afraid we'd better be going."
"But Emma said I could play Barbie," Anna whined. "Can we?"
"I wanna play, too," Jesse said. "Not go home."
"Please?" Emma chimed in.
Defeated before she opened her mouth, still Marian tried. "We really need to..."
John laid down his fork and said casually, "Why don't you let them play while I show you the barn. You should know where the tack is. And don’t forget the blackberries."
"I..." What could she say? She was as trapped as she'd been upstairs in the door to his bedroom. "Just for a few minutes," she conceded.
The three children poured out of the room, Emma's nonstop chatter leading them. "You can play with my Western Fun Midge. She has red hair, like the Little Mermaid. Jesse can be Prince Eric. I'll be the Witch. You know how to play Little Mermaid, don't you? I can sing the songs, too..."
John shook his head. "Bossy."
"Normal for that age." Marian began carrying dirty dishes to the immaculate sink. "Anyway, Anna and Jesse are young enough to like being bossed."
"Leave the dishes," John said. "Come and meet Isaiah. I see his pickup's out there. He must be back from town."
She glanced involuntarily out the window. "Isaiah?"
"My partner. He's good with horses."
Reluctantly Marian left the pile of plates in the sink and followed him. "Does he know about Snowball and Esmerelda?"
"As long as it walks on four legs, Isaiah likes it," John said. He waited at the bottom of the front porch steps for her to catch up with him.
Evening was coming on, and outside the light was gilded by the setting sun, the shadows deep and long. All that was missing was a garden, Marian thought irrelevantly. Roses climbing the porch rails behind tall lilies and spiky blue speedwell and heavy-headed peonies.
Her effort to distance herself failed when John said bluntly, "What's wrong, Marian? Why are you so quiet?"
"Oh, I'm just tired," she said evasively. "It's been hard work getting packed and still taking care of the mob. I'll be relieved to get settled again."
He studied her in silence for an uncomfortably long moment. At last he took a different tack. "Emma doesn't like the new rental. I hope you didn't settle for something..." John hesitated.
Marian managed a chuckle. "Your daughter has no imagination! It's a perfectly adequate house, just kind of blah. Some fresh paint and wallpaper and a flowerbed in front will do wonders."
He was frowning, his searching gaze too perceptive, but Marian kept her chin up and waited him out. Finally he smiled crookedly. "You shouldn't be so polite. It's none of my business, anyway."
"But it's kind of you to be interested," she said, a little stiffly.
John nodded toward the barn. "Shall we get on with the tour?"
She murmured agreement and fell into step beside him, very aware of his size and sheer physical presence. His long strides ate up the ground and she had to hustle to keep up.
"Where does your partner live?" Marian asked.
"Right over there." John nodded past the barns to a rise, where a small white farmhouse sat. Marian had vaguely noticed it and assumed it belonged to another property. "That's the house that came with the place," John added. "Isaiah and I talked it over. He decided to keep the old house and I'd build a new one. It's worked out."
The huge doors to the barn stood open, revealing a wide, sawdust-covered aisle with stalls to each side. A soft whicker called her to the first stall, and she glanced over the half door to see a leggy bay yearling moving restlessly.
"Oh, you're beautiful," Marian murmured.
John paused beside her and propped his elbows on the Dutch door. "He's one of our first crop of foals. I like his looks."
"What a wonderful way to make a living," Marian said, then asked impulsively, "Why do you ever leave?"
"Hey, it's an expensive hobby. I have to support it somehow, don't I?"
His tone was so flippant that she discounted his answer. She read the sports page in the Seattle Times and knew darned well how much pro stars were paid. He must have had plenty of money or he couldn't have bought this spread to start with. She held one hand out for the colt to nuzzle. "You're lucky," she said, wondering why she felt a spasm of pain in her chest.
John didn't look at her, and his tone was unrevealing. "Yeah. I know I am."
The magnitude of the operation became more obvious to Marian as they continued the tour. A bisecting aisle led into a huge, covered arena, and she could see that on the other side of it was another corridor lined with stalls. John showed her the tack room and the nearby stall where he planned to put Snowball, who had been left with Esmerelda in a small paddock while the house tour was conducted.
"Shall I put the goat next door until we rig some kind of pen outside?" he asked.
"You know," Marian said thoughtfully, looking into the large, loose box with a thick bed of straw, "I'll bet Snowball and Esmerelda would happily share a stall. They're good friends."
"If you think that's best."
John's response was so terse that Marian turned her head, only to find that he was watching her again. The light was dimmer here in the barn than it had been in his bedroom, shadowing his expression, but she saw enough to make her pulse take a dizzying leap.
"John..." She stopped, licked suddenly dry lips. "You're doing it again. I wish you wouldn't look at me like that."
"Why not?" His voice had a thick, uneven timbre. "You're a very beautiful woman, Marian."
"I told you before. You...scare me."
Very slowly, as though to give her time to withdraw, he lifted one hand to her face, then laced his fingers into her hair. "You know something?" he whispered. "You scare me, too."
Marian opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she became paralyzed when his gaze dropped to her parted lips. Still slowly, he bent his head, but she couldn't have moved if she'd wanted to. This was inevitable, necessary, as important as breathing. She wanted desperately to know what the touch of his mouth would feel like, what he could make her feel.
The kiss was achingly tender, his gentleness a startling counterpoint to the rasp of his shaven cheek and the tension in his hand as it tightened in her hair, tugging at the roots, tilting her face up. He smelled of hay and leather, with an elusive hint of cologne. Marian instinctively laid her palm
s against his chest. Through the soft fabric of his shirt she could feel his warmth and the heavy beat of his heart. Still his mouth tasted hers, never demanding, only asking, but with such sensual intent that pleasure shuddered through her. She swayed against him and began to answer the kiss with a need she had nearly forgotten she possessed.
Marian felt the vibration of his groan before she heard it, and realized he had backed her up against the stall door. She was grateful for the support when the kiss ended and he laid his cheek against the top of her head. Her legs wouldn't have held her up.
But when she heard John say, only a little huskily, "Isaiah," as though in greeting, her strength returned as if she'd been jump-started.
Marian jerked away from John and swung to face the immense black man who had approached so quietly. Well, maybe not quietly. He might have stomped down the aisle for all she would have noticed.
He was downright homely, with massive shoulders, a disproportionately thick neck, and hands that dwarfed John's. More disconcerting, however, was his totally impassive face. He didn't appear disapproving, she thought, so much as uninterested. Either that, or he was very good at hiding his emotions.
"Isaiah, I'd like you to meet Marian Wells," John said calmly. "That walking ball of fur out in the paddock is hers. Marian, this is my partner, Isaiah Jones."
The big black man inclined his head gravely. His voice was a deep rumble that somehow sounded velvety soft. "And the goat on your front porch?"
"Goat on my... What the hell?"
John beat Marian out of the barn, but only by a few yards. Sure enough, Esmerelda was on the porch, her front hooves on a windowsill so she could peer inquiringly inside the house. She took an exploratory nibble at the wood trim just as Marian arrived.
"Esmerelda!" she scolded.
The goat dropped to all fours and gently butted Marian. John stared down at her, baffled.
"How the hell?" he repeated.
"She, uh...climbs," Marian said.
"Climbs."
Marian nodded nervously.
"Over a five-foot board fence."
"I'm...afraid so. Usually she'll stay where she's supposed to, but sometimes she, well...just wants to look around."
Home Field Advantage Page 7