Lone Star Twins

by Cathy Gillen Thacker

  Did they?

  Trace hadn’t heard any of his guy friends talk about it.

  But then, he avoided any conversation centering on marriage. Wives. And efforts—often futile, from what he could see—to make them happy.

  Aware Mrs. Brantley was waiting for him to pick something out, he said lamely, “Poppy’s not a jewelry kind of gal.” Unless it was something jokey. Like the Christmas tree earrings or Easter bunny necklace he had gotten her.

  Poppy liked anything that was funny or fun.

  Mrs. Brantley looked down her nose at him. “All women want to be recognized at this special time.”

  * * *

  “IS IT TRUE?” Trace asked Poppy’s brother-in-law, Clint McCulloch, when he stopped by the ranch to help put out feed for the horses and cattle. “All women expect a ‘push present’ when they become a mom?”

  Clint retrieved a bale out of the back of the truck and handed it to Trace. “That’s a tricky question.”

  Trace cut the twine holding it together and spread it across the ground. “Help me out, man.”

  Clint got in behind the wheel. “Always err on the side of generosity. So if other new moms get push presents, get your wife one, too.”

  Trace rode shotgun. “Poppy always says that stuff like that doesn’t matter.” She considered it superficial.

  Clint drove a little farther along the pasture. “Rose doesn’t buy it. She thinks Poppy just says that because, up to now, anyway, she’s been so fixated on whatever it is that she has with you, to ever be in a position to receive it from someone else. I mean, she’s never dated anyone since the two of you started hanging out together. And from what I understand, it’s been the same with you.”

  “No time.” No interest.

  Every other woman pales in comparison.

  “So it’s a good thing you two put each out of your misery and got hitched. All this time Poppy felt she was missing out, not being married, not having a family. Now, thanks to you, she won’t have to suffer that gap in her life anymore.” Clint grinned over at him. “She’ll get the babies she has always wanted. You’ll have a wife and kids to come back to whenever you’re on leave. And you’ll both still have your freedom. Bottom line? Everyone will be happy.”

  But would they? Trace had sensed that Poppy wasn’t as ecstatic as she should be.

  His feelings were cemented when she came home that night, her expression anything but delighted as she walked through the front door.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Poppy set down her work bag and keys, the aloof look back in her eyes. “Nothing. Dinner sure smells great.”

  “It will be.”

  She tilted her head. Her mouth smiled but the rest of her did not. “All that and modest, too.”

  Okay, something was up. He might not like fighting with her—if you could even call their mild disagreement the past couple of days that. But he definitely did not like their playing games with each other. He caught her elbow as she tried to breeze past. “Come back here and tell me why you had that look on your face just now.”

  Her defenses went higher. “What look?”

  Not about to admit how impatient he’d been waiting for her to come home, or that he’d stood at the window, watching her get out of her minivan and cross the lawn, Trace pulled her outside onto the porch.

  She gazed at the twinkling lights up and down the street. Then back at her bungalow.

  It was true, thanks to the lack of his design skill, theirs weren’t as elaborate as some others. But wasn’t the spirit of the season still obvious? Apparently, given the slight rigid set of her shoulders, not.

  “It’s really nothing.”

  He stepped close enough to inhale her sweet and sultry scent. “It’s something, Poppy. So just spit it out already.”

  Her attention turned briefly to the front door, obviously noting the replacement strand he had gotten was a good two feet too long, which had required it be doubled back on either side of the door frame. But, hey, hadn’t he been able to move the Woodstock and his friends yard ornament out in front of the house, where it belonged?

  Wanting to know just why she was so unimpressed, he came closer still. “I’m waiting.”

  She released a sigh that smelled like peppermint. “That’s the inside wreath.” She pointed to the door.

  Inside, outside. “What the heck’s the difference?” It was the new one she’d made the other day, and hadn’t had the time or interest to put up. He had figured she would want to put it on the front door, where everyone walking by could see.

  Her brow lifted. “The holly leaves and berries on it are made of silk. They are too delicate to stand up to inclement weather. And it always either rains or spits a little snow in December, so...”

  So he was an idiot.

  “But that’s okay,” she rushed to reassure him as if suddenly remembering her manners. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He really didn’t want her lying to him, even to spare his feelings. “Except to a class-A designer, it does.”

  “It’s the thought that counts. And it means a lot to me that you went to all this trouble.”

  Except it clearly wasn’t right. “I can fix it.”

  “No. Really...”

  “I’ve done enough?” he goaded in a low, silky tone.

  Maybe it was because she’d had such a long day, but abruptly she stopped trying to sugarcoat the situation and became the straight-spoken woman he adored. “Look, Lieutenant—”

  An even better sign. She only called him “lieutenant” when she was getting worked up. And getting worked up always led to one thing.

  She crossed her arms and fixed him with a withering stare. “You doing all this for me is kind of like me randomly deciding to fly a plane to help you out. My intentions might be good, but the results would be calamitous.”

  He laughed. “You’re saying my decorating is a disaster?”

  She pointed to the oddly wrapped lights around the front door. “Interesting.”

  He prodded her wordlessly.

  “Uneven,” she continued, stepping past him to enter the house.

  “To the point you’d rather not look at it anymore?”

  Reaching back, she grabbed his wrist, tugged him across the threshold and shut the front door behind him. “To the point I...” Whirling, she thrust herself against him, went up on tiptoe and cut off all further discussion with a hot and steamy kiss. Stopping only to wrestle her way out of her coat.

  He watched her toss it on the coat rack, pivot and sashay to him once again. “Was that a thank-you?”

  She leaped, so her legs were secured around his waist, her arms around his neck. “It was a ‘please shut up and properly welcome me home.’”

  Grinning broadly, he carried her into the living room where a fire was already blazing in the hearth. “Well, darlin’, that I can do.”

  He sank onto the big chair she’d gotten just for him, taking her with him. Combing his fingers through her hair, he trailed kisses across her temple and cheek, lingering on the sensitive spot behind her ear. “I’d make love to you beneath the Christmas tree, but we don’t have one yet.”

  Poppy groaned. Settling more intimately on his lap, she went back to kissing him. “Please stop talking decorations...”

  Not hard to do when he felt her thighs straddling his. Awed by her beauty, he took his time unzipping her vest and unbuttoning her shirt, touching and kissing as he went. She trembled in response, her flesh swelling to fit his palms. Lifting her to her knees, he kissed and caressed her creamy breasts and rosy nipples. His fingers traced from base to tip, then laved the tight buds with his tongue, until her skin was so hot it burned.

  “Oh, Trace,” she whispered, kissing him again and again. “I want you so much.”

&
nbsp; “I want you, too.”

  His body shaking with the effort to rein in his own pressing needs, he took her onto the floor, in front of the fireplace. He let her go just long enough to remove the rest of her clothes and for him to strip down to his skin.

  Her eyes widened at the sight of his arousal.

  He parted her legs, then touched and rubbed and stroked. She caressed him in turn, moving her fingers lightly from base to tip, then back again. They lay on their sides, the V of her thighs cradling his hardness. They kissed and kissed as he throbbed against her surrendering softness. And when the tip of his manhood pressed against her delicate folds, she moved to accept him.

  Then he was going deeper still, harder, slower. She whimpered low in her throat as his thumb found the most sensitive part of her. Rocking against him, until he was embedded as deep inside her as he could be.

  “Trace,” she whispered, climaxing.

  He joined her, the pleasure fast and fierce.

  And as they clung together afterward, still shuddering, he knew. This was more than friendship or a longtime affair, more than a legal arrangement born of necessity.

  Much, much more, he thought as Poppy lay with her head on his chest, her pulse slowing, even as he stroked a hand through her hair. “Damn, you smell good.” And she felt good, too.

  She cuddled closer. “Like sweat and hot glue?”

  “Woman and evergreen,” Trace drawled, rolling her onto her back.

  The second time they made love was more leisurely but no less passionate. Finally, they ended up in the kitchen, in their pajamas, eating the dinner he had picked up earlier. Steak tacos with all the fixings and the peppermint ice cream he knew Poppy loved.

  She sighed contentedly, looking as happy and relaxed as he felt, as she helped herself to a little more ice cream. “I could so get used to this.”

  That made two of them. Trace grinned. “Tell me about your day.”

  She did, in great detail.

  He listened, impressed by all that went into decorating the ranch house of the movie director and his film-critic wife. She had just finished her recitation when her cell phone chimed, alerting her that an email had come through. His buzzed at the same time.

  Poppy read, yawned. “It’s Mitzy, reminding us we need to be in her office tomorrow at nine sharp for the continuation of the interview.”

  Trace gathered up the dishes and carried them to the sink. He turned to ask her if she wanted any coffee, then grinned at what he saw. Poppy sitting with her head propped on her hand, fast asleep.

  “Sweetheart.” He touched her shoulder lightly.

  She sighed and did not budge.

  There was only one cure for this, he knew.

  He lifted his sleeping wife in his arms, cradled her against his chest and carried her to bed. As he laid her down, a wave of tenderness swept through him.

  If this was marriage, it was definitely okay by him.

  Chapter Eight

  “Wardrobe crisis?” Trace asked at eight-thirty the following morning when he emerged from the bathroom after his shower. Clad in nothing but military-issue briefs, he was in the process of spreading shaving cream over his face.

  And then some, Poppy thought glumly as she watched him return to the bathroom to shave with careful, even strokes.

  Not about to tell him the real reason why—which was too many stress-provoked bowls of peppermint ice cream lately—she waited until he rinsed his face and razor, then continued rummaging through her closet for something suitable to wear.

  “You really want to know the dilemma?” The one she could tell him anyway.

  He slapped aftershave on his jaw as he returned, the fragrance of sandalwood and man filling the room.

  “I want to know everything.”

  She finally picked out a long-sleeved jersey-sheath dress that fit, no matter what time of the month it was, and eased it off its hanger. “Well, I want to demonstrate by my attire how important this meeting with social services is to me.”

  She slipped off her robe, as enamored of the way he ironed a shirt, as he was of watching her get ready. “However, there’s going to be an abundance of glitter, glue and marker at the elementary school card-making session you volunteered to help me with later, and although the art supplies will all be washable, I just don’t think I should wear wool or cashmere since we’re going there right after our interview with Mitzy.” Aware of his eyes on her, she shimmied into the red dress and released a sigh. “You, on the other hand, have no such dilemma since you’ve been asked to wear your everyday uniform and talk to the kids about being a medevac pilot in the air force.” And his daily uniform was machine washable.

  He stepped into his desert khakis then sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. “But otherwise you’d wear cashmere to our meeting with Mitzy?”

  “Or my best wool skirt.” Assuming she’d be able to get into it, which, to her frustration, she hadn’t been able to do today.

  As he moved closer, she turned so he could zip her dress. Reaching for a cotton cardigan, she slipped that on, too. To her relief, a quick glance in the mirror showed no evidence of the five pounds she’d gained since Halloween—and would definitely need to work off. Probably would work off without even trying once the twins were home and commanding every bit of energy she had.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, said gently, “You’re really that nervous about our second interview with Mitzy?”

  She shrugged. “Aren’t you?” So much was riding on this amended home and character study.

  Wriggling free of his steadying grip—lest they be tempted to make love again—she rummaged through her jewelry box for her favorite Christmas angel pin and secured it to her sweater.

  His turn to shrug. “All she’s going to do is ask us some questions. All we have to do is answer.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she said as she found her coat and bag and they headed out the door.

  * * *

  UNFORTUNATELY POPPY’S INSTINCTS that the morning could be tougher than Trace thought, proved correct.

  Mitzy started out by handing them a long questionnaire based on each other’s family histories that they had to fill out on their own. Then she moved into verbal questioning that was even more intense.

  “You’re both notoriously independent. Any idea where or when this started?”

  Poppy knew success meant digging deep. Even if she would have preferred not to do so. “It probably comes from being the only single-birthed daughter, as well as the oldest of six siblings.”

  “A lot of responsibility there.”

  As well as often feeling like the odd woman out since she didn’t have anyone exactly her age to pal around with.

  Mitzy zeroed in. “Did you enjoy having twins and triplets for sisters?”

  Poppy sucked in a breath. “I love them all dearly.”

  “But?” Mitzy coaxed.

  Trace was studying her, too. With good reason, since she’d never really talked about this stuff.

  Determined to be as candid as the situation required, Poppy admitted, “As a kid it could be a little rough. As firstborn, I was used to being in the spotlight, then the twins came along when I was three, and I...”

  The social worker guessed. “Didn’t get a lot of attention?”

  “I did.”

  “Just not the way you were used to.”

  Poppy nodded.

  “And when the triplets arrived two years later?” Mitzy persisted.

  Forget it. Poppy inhaled sharply. “We all had to step up and be more autonomous and responsible. That is true in all big families.”

  Nodding, Mitzy turned. “Trace? How were things for you growing up?”

  Realizing that the social worker was digging for deficienc
ies, he said in a clipped tone, “My parents were each married and divorced so many times, I had to learn how to handle myself, no matter what the situation.”

  “Do either of you think your inherent independence might undermine your ability to forge a truly workable marriage?” Mitzy asked.

  “No!” Trace and Poppy said firmly.

  Mitzy made a note in her file. “Regarding marriage... Poppy, why have you never even considered marriage to this point?”

  Because the only person that even seemed remotely possible with was Trace, Poppy thought as the heat of embarrassment rose in her chest and spread into her neck and face. And he was not the marrying kind. At least, he hadn’t been until circumstances warranted it.

  Mitzy frowned. “Don’t parse your answers, Poppy. Tell us.”

  Perspiration beading her brow, she waved a dismissive hand in the air in front of her. “Is this why they call it the hot seat?” she quipped to lighten the tension “Because I’m suddenly hot all over.” She stood and took off her cardigan.

  Trace gave her a weird look. As if she’d lost her mind.

  “Aren’t you both hot?” Poppy persisted, a sweat breaking out, all over.

  “Actually, I think it’s kind of cold in here,” Mitzy said, pulling her blazer closer to her chest.

  Stunned, Poppy turned to her husband.

  As ready to come to her rescue as ever, he said, “I think it just feels warm in here because it’s so cold outside today.” His brows drawing together, he looked over at her. “Actually, now that you mention it, your face and neck are kind of red.” He touched the back of his hand to her forehead. “Are you sure you’re not getting sick?”

  Poppy pulled away, the way she always did when someone did that to her.

  “I feel fine,” she returned irritably, wiping her suddenly damp forehead. “I’m just hot.” She waved off the mutual concern of the two others in the room. Then babbled on offhandedly. “This has just been happening to me a lot lately. One minute I’m cold as can be, the other completely burning up...”