Home Field Advantage

by Johnson, Janice Kay

"Race?" John challenged. His hair was windblown, his lean face relaxed. In faded denim he looked like the cowboy he was, as graceful on horseback as he ever was on a football field.

  It suddenly occurred to Marian that she couldn't remember the last time she had done something impetuous, foolish, glorious. Or when she had been so happy. That thought was a wondering one. This was one of those rare moments when she was aware of her own emotions with every fiber of her body. She wasn't just content, but radiantly, blissfully happy.

  So she held on tightly to the saddlehorn and kicked the mare. "Let's get 'em, Rafcarah!"

  The words were snatched away by wind as the mare sprang forward. She caught one glimpse of John's startled face, then heard him laugh.

  It really wasn't much of a race. For the most part the trail was too narrow for John's gelding to pass, anyway. But the run—the wind tugging Marian's hair from her braid, the power of the animal beneath her, the muted thud of thundering hooves, the crisp air and peaceful autumn countryside—conspired to make her laugh with joy. When at last the trail came out of the woods onto a dirt lane, Marian pulled Rafcarah up. Her legs ached and she knew she would regret this gallop tomorrow.

  John eased his horse to a stop beside her. "God, you're beautiful," he said abruptly.

  Marian's cheeks were already glowing, but she would have sworn they became hotter. "More like the wicked witch of the West," she protested, trying to keep the moment light. "My hair..." She reached up to run her fingers through the tangled, wind-whipped mass in an unsuccessful search for the ponytail holder.

  "Beautiful," he repeated, his voice a notch huskier. "Don't you believe that?"

  "I..." His disturbingly intense gaze robbed her of coherent thought. "I don't know."

  He reached out and gently lifted her chin, his touch a potent caress. "That husband of yours has a lot to answer for."

  "I don't know what you mean..." she said self-consciously.

  "This is what I mean," he said, and urged his horse close enough to Rafcarah for him to bend his head and kiss Marian. The kiss was brief but thorough, and as exhilarating as the gallop.

  When he raised his head, there was a molten glow in his eyes and his mouth was tender and sensual. He looked down at her for a moment, during which she couldn't breathe or think, and then as suddenly as the interlude had begun, John kicked his gelding into a trot, leaving Marian and Rafcarah to trail behind.

  He scared her, Marian thought, her feelings as tangled as her hair. No, she scared herself. When John kissed her, when he touched her, she didn't care what kind of parent he was. She didn't care if he was too much like Mark for comfort. She knew only that she had been sleeping, and he had awakened her.

  *****

  John had set his lawyer to the task of finding Marian's husband the morning after the dinner when he'd coaxed her story from her.

  "What we want is a private investigator," said the attorney, George Browder. "If you're willing to take my recommendation, we have one who does work for our firm regularly."

  "Hire him," John said. "I'll try to get some more information from her, but no matter what happens, she isn't to find out I'm behind this. I want the SOB to pay, but she'd never agree to my taking on the expense of finding her ex-husband. That's a condition for the investigator. Got it?"

  "Got it," the attorney agreed.

  John hung up the phone with the unpleasant awareness of having taken an irrevocable step. He sat behind his desk brooding, facing the fact that he almost hoped the PI couldn't find Marian's ex-husband.

  "Damn," he finally said softly. "Damn."

  *****

  The tension between Marian and John came out into the open that Friday. It started when Emma's teacher, Mrs. Rogers, called at ten-thirty in the morning.

  She introduced herself and said, "May I speak to Emma's father?"

  Alarmed, Marian said, "Is something wrong? He's out in the barn. I'm Marian Wells, the housekeeper."

  The teacher's voice relaxed. "No, no, nothing serious. The thing is, we're on a field trip at the TV station..."

  "Yes, I remember."

  "Well, Emma isn't feeling very good. We've had a flu going around, and I'm afraid she has it. Fortunately, we'll be ready to board the bus to go back to school in just a few minutes, but I'm hoping you or her father can come get her once we're there. She's thrown up only once, but..."

  "Of course I'll pick her up! Can I meet you there in Seattle?"

  "No, really, we're about to leave. You couldn't get here any faster than it'll take us to get back. Probably just a little over an hour, if that's convenient."

  "Of course," Marian said again, and rang off. Poor Emma! For the first time, she'd invited a friend from school to come over Saturday to play and ride Snowball, and Emma had been so excited. At the very least they would have to cancel her friend's visit, and at worst Emma would be stuck in bed feeling wretched. After which Anna and Jesse would undoubtedly catch the bug, and then Marian probably would, and then John and then...Isaiah?

  The barns seemed to be deserted, with even Isaiah nowhere to be seen. The two stablehands must have left for lunch, which came early after the horrible hour they started in the morning.

  "John?" Marian called, when she slipped in the huge double doors to the smaller stallion bam. Her voice echoed, and she was answered by the thud of hooves against a wooden stall door.

  The next moment, John appeared in the doorway of a stall halfway down the aisle, wearing jeans, high rubber boots, and a heavy sweater. A pitchfork twined with straw was in his hand. "Yeah?"

  Marian hurried toward him. "The school just called, Emma's sick."

  Frowning, he leaned the pitchfork up against the wall. "Seriously?"

  "Well, no, the teacher says probably the flu, but she wants me to pick Emma up as soon as they get back from their field trip."

  "Oh, Lord, the TV station. She was hoping they'd recognize her as a star on sight so she could give up school and be in a sitcom. She's going to be crushed if she had to sit it out."

  Marian laughed, despite her worry. "She said she'd settle for a commercial. Maybe for Barbie dolls."

  John laughed, too, and wiped the sweat off his forehead with his shirt-sleeve. Catching sight of his watch, he said, "Damn, I've got to get cleaned up."

  "Cleaned up...?" she began, then remembered. Friday. His time to cut and run. How could she have forgotten? "But you're not leaving yet, are you? Surely you'll want to see Emma."

  "I don't have time," he said decisively. "Anyway, it's not the first and it won't be the last time she has the flu. She'll live without me."

  His tone was so offhand, Marian was chilled. He had established his priorities all too clearly.

  He reached for the pitchfork, then stopped when he caught sight of her face. "What's wrong?"

  Anger made her voice brittle. "I just can't believe you aren't going to wait long enough to be sure Emma's okay."

  His own voice became crisper. "Marian, there's a reason I have a housekeeper instead of depending on day-care. This is it."

  "In other words, that's what you hired me for. To take care of your daughter when you're unable or unwilling to."

  "Unwilling?" He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell does that mean?"

  "That means I think Emma should come first." Marian felt as though all the blood had left her face, and her lips moved stiffly. "You're a single parent. Emma doesn't have anyone else to take responsibility for her."

  Very quietly, he said, "Are you trying to tell me I don't?"

  Marian knew she had long overstepped any right she had, but she couldn't seem to stop herself. "Sometimes that's the way it looks to me."

  John's tension showed in the rigid set of his neck and shoulders, though he still didn't raise his voice. "But then, you have a slight bias, don't you?"

  The air seemed to crackle, making it hard to breathe. "Maybe," she said, sounding stifled.

  "Let's make sure all the cards are on the table here." He cro
ssed his arms. "You think, because I have a job that takes me away a couple of days a week, for maybe five months a year, that I'm a lousy father."

  "I didn't say you were a lousy—"

  His interruption sliced across her protest like a sharp knife. "Just irresponsible."

  Marian felt suddenly panicky. "Not irrespon—"

  "No?" he said coldly.

  "Why couldn't you stay home while Emma is young and needs you so much?" she burst out. "Why couldn't you have waited?"

  "You think I should have been a full-time parent for a few years."

  "Yes!"

  "And it never occurred to you that your perception might be a little warped by that son of a bitch you were married to?"

  "I..." The words died. Had she been so grossly unfair? Or had Mark's ultimate irresponsibility only opened her eyes to lesser forms of it?

  John's cool abruptly cracked. "God damn it, Marian, I'm not your ex-husband! I haven't walked out on my daughter and I never would! And, by God, I wouldn't walk out on you, either!"

  She licked dry lips. "I'm not the issue."

  "Oh, yes, you are! Don't tell me that hasn't crossed your mind."

  Again, she couldn't lie. Marian stood there, frozen, horrified by everything she had said and by the anger he radiated.

  "Well, since you asked, I'll tell you why I work."

  "Please…"

  But she was far too late. "I was a low draft choice. At twenty-one I was still tripping over my own feet. I was so glad to make it with the Rams, I signed a contract that didn't pay me a hell of a lot more than the bag boy at the grocery store gets. Yeah, I had a few high-paying seasons before the last knee injury, but not enough." The muscles in his jaw clenched and he gestured tightiy. "You know how much a place like this costs to set up?"

  She shook her head, mute.

  "A bundle. Took everything Isaiah and I had. And it's not going to pay back for a while. Those little weekend jaunts foot the bill for the ranch. And you want to know something else?" He stalked a couple of strides away from her, then swung back. "I wasn't ready to do nothing but muck out stalls. Does that make me a lousy father, because I still wanted to accomplish something with my life?"

  Marian shook her head. Doubt clutched her, and it was all she could do to hold her head up and meet his eyes.

  "What the hell was I supposed to do?" he demanded. "I was thirty-four years old, my career gone to hell, and my wife dead in a car accident. Was I supposed to live for parenthood? Would that have been right for me or Emma?"

  Again she shook her head. Faced with her own prejudice, she was badly shaken. Had she seen the entire world through the filter of her own bitterness? How could she have let Mark do this to her?

  "No," she said, squeezing her fingers together so tightly they hurt. "No. I didn't know enough about you to make a judgment. I'm sorry, John. I was...it was none of my business anyway. I...I don't have any excuse..."

  "No. Don't do this, Marian." Suddenly he was in front of her, his hands gripping her shoulders. His gaze was so intense, it stripped her of defenses. "I want it to be your business."

  Marian felt raw, frighteningly vulnerable. Was he saying what she thought...? But she quit thinking, because he abruptly bent his head and took her mouth. She moaned, and the kiss deepened. Her blood sang in her ears, deafening her. Under her hands, automatically raised to brace against his chest, she felt his heartbeat, somehow in time with hers like a chorus of African drums, primitive and compelling.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck so that she could hold on. His body was long and powerful against hers, both familiar and strange, comforting and terrifying. How could a kiss be so tender even as it asked so much? Marian couldn't think clearly enough to answer, but her body seemed to be doing it for her.

  Desire was a heavy warmth inside that weakened her even while it gave her strength. If there was a decision to be made, she had already made it. She heard herself moan again as she kissed him back, curled her fingers into the short hair at the nape of his neck, pressed herself against him.

  He shuddered, and then, without breaking the kiss, he swung her into his arms and carried her into the empty stall. He lowered her to the thick bedding of straw and followed her down. She had dreamed of him above her like this, his eyes blazing down at her before his mouth captured hers again. Now his hands were free to rove, to touch and caress and sample the gentle curves of her body. When his hand went under her shirt, her bare skin shivered in reaction, and when he cupped her breast over the lacy bra, she whimpered.

  But when he groaned and lifted himself enough to start tugging her shirt off, she foggily realized what they were doing—and where they were doing it.

  "What if somebody comes?" she whispered.

  "They won't," he said raggedly. "They just left for lunch."

  "Oh." She hated the reminder of mundane reality. He must have felt her hesitancy, because he stilled, his fingers curled around her shirt. He held himself up on one elbow, his breathing harsh and his face taut with restraint.

  "Am I going too fast?"

  She wanted to cry, Don't make me choose! But that was exactly what he wanted: Her to come to him freely, to be certain that she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

  And somehow she found the courage to whisper, "No. Please. Kiss me."

  His eyes blazed, and then he took her at her word. This kiss was passionate, starving, physical hunger out of control. Pleasure shuddered through Marian, blurring reality. All that counted was this moment, John's touch and kiss and weight heavy on her:

  Her shirt was gone, the straw scratchy under her back. John unfastened her bra, lifted his head to look at her bare breasts, creamy skin, and puckered pink nipples. If she had not been lost before, she would have been when she saw the expression on his face. Wonder, heat, desperation. His calloused fingers were rough against her sensitive skin, but his touch was as gentle as he could make it. And when he bent his head to kiss her breasts, to nip and taste and tease, she cried out. It was she who tugged his sweater off so that her hands could travel over the damp, strong expanse of his back, feeling the muscles tighten at her exploring touch.

  And then he was kissing her again, stroking between her jean-clad legs until she squirmed under him and tried to pull him onto her. He half laughed, half groaned.

  "That's it, love," he murmured. "I want you around me. All around me."

  She had imagined this so many times, dreaming and awake. She didn't know which she was this time, didn't care. His body was more beautiful even than she'd imagined, the muscles long and supple, his chest broad and his hips narrow. When he raised himself to kick his jeans off, she sucked in her breath, and he said hoarsely, "Look all you want, love. I'm going to disappear inside you any minute."

  Her stomach clenched at the thought and a ripple of excitement ran through her. His hands gentled her like a fractious filly as he slowly eased her jeans and panties off. He touched the matted dark curls, slid his finger into her, and then said in a voice that sounded nothing like his, "I want to go slow and I can't. Sweetheart, I'm sorry..."

  In answer Marian smiled and arched her hips. "Now," she whispered. "I want you."

  He groaned again, deep in his throat, and accepted her invitation. The first stroke was long and slow; sweetness and agony, pleasure piercing her like a revelation. This was like galloping with the wind, spending herself with laughter, dying of thirst and swallowing ice-cold water, holding her newborn babies—all the joys of her life in one, and surpassed. She did wrap her legs around him, held on to him for safety in the whirlwind, and let herself be blown away.

  She was spun in the power of their lovemaking until she was hopelessly, helplessly dizzy, spiraling to the end. Her convulsions were joined by his, and she knew the heady satisfaction of giving as much as she had taken.

  Dreamy, drained, Marian became conscious in only tiny bits of their surroundings. John's weight first, then the straw scraping at her back. The warmth of the bam, a soft whicker a few s
talls away. The rich aroma of hay and horse. Something tickling at her nose, and then the rumble as John chuckled against her neck.

  "Maybe the bed would have been better, Emma or no."

  "Mmm," she said incoherently.

  "Am I crushing you?" He turned his head to brush a tender kiss over her swollen lips.

  "Mmm," she said again, refusing to let go of the mindless peace.

  At last he rolled off her onto his back, pulling her with him. In surprise, Marian shook her hair back from her face and sat astride him. He smiled at her, a deep glow in his eyes, and reached up to cup her breasts in his palms. "Beautiful," he said huskily.

  She smiled back with unconscious sensuality and said, "You, too. Except..." she wrinkled her nose, "maybe those scars on your knees."

  His grin deepened the creases in his cheeks. "I didn't think you ever got below the, uh...waist."

  Startled, Marian laughed. "I guess not," she admitted.

  "Care to look your fill?"

  "I thought I already did that."

  His chest vibrated under her hands when he laughed. Marian felt deliriously wanton—and increasingly conscious of the passing time and the broad aisle just beyond the open stall door. She needed to pick up Emma. And John's flight... "I hate to say it..." she began.

  "But we'd better get dressed and respectable. I know." His big hands came up to frame her face and his expression became heart stoppingly tender. "I wish I didn't have to leave, but I owe them..."

  "No." She covered his mouth. "It's okay. I know you do. Emma will be fine, and I'll be waiting. I promise."

  "I'll call you," he said.

  Marian leaned down to give him a quick kiss. "I like your phone calls," she said softly.

  His eyes darkened. "Then I'll call once an hour."

  "And I'll watch you on TV," she promised.

  "You can watch me any time," he said, and pulled her down to him for a kiss that was neither tender nor quick.

  *****

  He was his usual self on television: sharp-witted, funny, knowledgeable, relaxed. Marian watched the half-time show with the kids at her feet turning the living room into a giant city peopled by princesses and kings and one Tyrannosaurus Rex. Watching John the first time on television had been disorienting enough—she knew him, he'd stood in her living room the day before. But this time she gazed at the screen with two images wavering over each other: the man who was comfortable, smiling, charismatic, talking on about intensity levels and the number of holding penalties and similar incomprehensible stuff, and the man who'd held her astride him, his hands on her breasts and his face taut with passion.