by Cait London
“I had to do something or you would have run off, just when things were getting good. It’s only mud,” Rio answered in a reasonable tone. With the look of an artist contemplating his work, he slid his finger down her cheek, leaving a cool, damp stripe. “People pay high prices to do just this, don’t they?”
She looked down the length of his body, splattered with mud, and jerked her head away from the finger that was markmg her other cheek. “You are naked, Rio. You are lying naked in a mud puddle...and you’re obviously—” She blinked. “You are obviously aroused.”
He grinned and wiped a splatter of mud from her nose, leaving more. “You’re not exactly clean yourself. Don’t look so shocked.”
“I’m filthy. You threw me in a mud puddle. You threw me in a mud puddle.” Paloma blinked and wiped at the mud covering her chest. She eyed Rio, who was staring there, too, at the sweater clinging to her breasts. She reached out and placed her muddy hand flat on his face and pushed him back, struggling to her feet. When she slid, Rio hooted with delight and tugged her full-length over him.
He patted her muddy, jeaned bottom. “Now isn’t this nice, slim?”
“Ohhh.” This time, she didn’t bother to mask her anger and scooped up a handful of mud to hurl at his face.
Rio dodged the flying mud, stood and bent to toss her over his shoulder. He patted her bottom again. “Don’t worry. You’ll get better at this. Take it easy, slim. You’re going to blow a gasket. You know, I think you just could have a nasty temper.”
“It’s you. I’ve never been tormented like this before,” she stated, struggling against his hold.
“Okay,” he shot back easily as he kicked the door shut and began undressing her, dodging her swatting hands. Amid a flurry of Rio’s hands, which tugged up her sweater, opened her jeans and pushed her back into the chair to tug off her boots and jeans, she shot out her hand and grabbed. Her fingers latched onto Rio’s chest hair, and through the muffled layers of the sweater covering her face, she heard his harsh grunt.
“You are a handful, slim,” he muttered darkly and reached to tug the band from her braid. “That really hurts, you know,” he said when she didn’t release him.
In the next instant, Paloma was in the shower, gasping for breath as hot water poured down on her head.
Stopping her efforts to free herself, Rio quickly massaged shampoo into her hair, and bent to give her a brief kiss that tasted of soap. “Wishing you knew how to curse, honey?” he asked pleasantly and pushed her head under the running water.
He pulled her free and let the water pour over them both. Studying her intently, he pushed her hair back from her face, wiping the water from it. “Are you scared of me? Is this area too small for you?”
“If you’d get out, I’d be just fine,” she sputtered. Rio had swung from teasing playmate to concerned lover, unbalancing her.
Apart from his concern, he was testing her, pushing her, and she wasn’t certain just how to push back. But she would. Before she could demolish him, he soaped a washcloth and ran it over her face, taking care to wash her ears. Then he flopped the cloth over her head and began soaping himself with a grin. She whipped the cloth away and eyed him, thinking of where to start and how to pay him back. Meanwhile, with his shower finished, Rio bent to kiss her cheek. “That cute little dimple gets deeper when you’re trying to hold your temper.”
Paloma narrowed her eyes, searing him. “You have no idea what I could do to you.”
“Oh, yes, I surely do,” Rio answered in a sensuous drawl, then stepped out of the shower, leaving her to finish
As she got out of the shower, Paloma decided she had a real need for Rio’s rifles. Quickly drying and wrapping a towel around her head, turban-style, she grabbed the soft chambray shirt Rio had left her. She glanced at the bandage left unopened on the counter and knew that he hadn’t taken care of his wounds. Dressed in his shirt and nothing else, Paloma rummaged through Rio’s medicine cabinet She found the antiseptic and cotton and marched through the bathroom door, determined not to be the cause of his wounds becoming infected.
The fireplace was blazing when she entered the single large room, the firelight gleaming a path across the varnished boards; the clothes washer hummed behind the louvered doors. Rio stood in the kitchen area, legs braced apart, wearing faded jeans. He looked up from whipping the batter in the bowl in his arm, and before she could express just what she thought of him, he said quietly, “You look good in that. The blue brings out the sky-blue color of your eyes...don’t worry about who you are, or how you feel. The important thing is that you’re feeling. You’ll work all this through.”
She hadn’t expected his gentle tone, nor his understanding. Once again, Rio had her off balance. “I can’t keep up with you,” she admitted softly. “One minute you’re tormenting me, and the next you—”
He reached inside her just that easily, just when she knew how she felt about him. He knew how to make her angry, how to make her smile. How could he know so much? He placed the bowl on the counter and walked to her. “Your hair needs to dry or you’ll catch cold. What’s this?” he asked, looking down at the bottle of antiseptic and the cotton clutched in her fists.
“You didn’t take time to treat these...I thought I would—” she whispered huskily, unevenly. She wanted to tend to his wounds—the emotion shocked her once more.
“I would appreciate your attention, ma’am.” He drew her to the fireplace and eased her down upon the old patchwork blanket. When she was seated tailor-fashion, Rio sat opposite her and solemnly held out his injured arm. “You’ve got a kind heart, Paloma Forbes, and gentle hands.”
Slowly, carefully, Paloma smoothed the antiseptic over the wounds, concentrating on avoiding his intent gaze and mourning the torn skin. When she was done, she placed the antiseptic and bandaging aside. Rio had been too quiet, too pliable, too intent upon her. She’d been the center of a tough audience’s focus, but this one man could unnerve her, causing her to tremble. “You should take better care of yourself.”
“I will. If you say so.” With his free hand, Rio slipped the damp towel from her head. He eased his fingers into the tangled length and began smoothing it. Paloma couldn’t breathe, her emotions too unsettled by the man gently untangling her hair with his fingers. Rio spread her hair upon her shoulders, lifting it to dry in the warmth from the fire. His touch was so gentle and soothing that Paloma gave herself to feeling, letting the tension ease within her. Then Rio’s hand cupped her cheek, and his face rested against hers, warm and safe. He lifted her head with his fingertip and looked down at her. “You’ll be fine, honey. Give yourself time.”
“How do you know?” She couldn’t bear to stay or to leave, captive between her fears and her hopes and dreams.
“You came back to settle what troubles you. It takes a strong person to do that.”
She grasped his wrists, desperate to believe him. “I wish I could believe you.”
“You can. You’ll come through this.”
For just a moment, Paloma leaned forward to rest her head against his shoulder, trusting him. Rio’s strong fingers caressed her nape, relaxing her. When she withdrew, frightened of the tenderness inside her for this man, she found his smile gentle and warm. He slowly ran his thumb across her lips. “I make pretty fair pancakes. Will you stay for dinner?”
“You’re asking this time?” She tried a wobbly smile and placed her hand flat on his chest, right over his heart. The solid beat comforted the wild, restless, haunted side of her. She skimmed her fingers over Rio’s taut, corded, muscled shoulder, enjoying his warm skin, the shiver that whipped through him. She didn’t want to trust him.... “I think I may be Boone’s daughter.”
She swallowed as Rio’s hand claimed hers, his warm, hard palm pressing her hand to his shoulder. His touch reassured, gave her strength to share her fear. “He didn’t like me enough to claim me as his own.”
“Boone was a good man. He loved you. I remember how he looked at you,” Rio said
quietly.
The tears that had been lurking, burning in her eyes, spilled onto her cheek, and Paloma dipped her head, shielding them. She knew how to conceal pain, but suddenly it spilled from her keeping. Rio reached to place his hand on the back of her head, drawing her forehead to his shoulder again. His arm went around her shoulders, rocking her gently.
“He loved your grandmother, Rio. When he talked about her, his eyes would go soft and warm.” Why couldn’t Boone claim her as his own? Why did the look in Rio’s eyes for her, remind her of that same softness?
“I know. I remember him coming to see her, us kids all around, curious about the man who had been in all those faraway places. He just wanted to know that she was happy and had a good life. She gave him a freshly baked apple pie, a kiss on the cheek and a smile. ‘I’m glad,’ he said, and she said she was glad, too.”
“I shouldn’t—” A lifetime of aching rejection welled up in her throat, tightening it
“Sure, you should. Let it go, honey, just let it go.”
When the silent tears became sobs, tearing out from her, Rio reached to turn her, drawing her back against him as they sat facing the fire. Paloma leaned back and gratefully accepted the gentle rocking of his arms, his body, and wept.
At one o’clock, after Rio’s long sweet good-night kiss, drained by her emotions, Paloma drove toward Jasmine and the feed store. Her sleeping bag was all she needed for a bed in the old store, her heritage from Boone and memories around her.
Then she found herself parking Rio’s pickup a distance away from the Llewlyn family cemetery. The clouds had cleared and moonlight skimmed across the knoll. Who was she? Was she really Boone’s daughter? How could she have lived her entire life without laughter, without anger, without playing or—without love? Why did she trust Rio?
The Llewlyn House, a two-story, white, turn-of-the-century wooded structure, graced with beautiful gingerbread trim, stood in the moonlight. It looked like a monument to her childhood sense of safety, to those brief stays with Boone. He had been kind to her, and yet he’d allowed her mother to tear her away. She couldn’t bear to visit the house, to let the memories haunt her.
Rio. He hadn’t wanted her to leave—she saw him fight the need to keep her. The pickup bore his scent—that wood and smoke and leather blended with the dark essence of the man who had made love to her in the cabin. She’d never been held like that, never been cherished as Rio had cherished her that night.
A lone rider crossed a moonlit knoll. The horse stopped and the man sat straight, and she knew Rio had followed her. To keep her safe. Her instincts told her that underneath Rio’s playful guise, he was a strong, safe man who cared deeply, just like Boone.
Too drained and tired to fight the safety she needed desperately, Paloma started the pickup and drove back to Rio’s house. Arriving before him, she entered the darkened house and lay down on his bed, fully clothed. Too tired to do more, she gathered the pillow, scented of him, close to her.
“Go to sleep, honey,” she heard him say sometime later as he drew off her boots and tucked a heavy, soft quilt around her. She was safe now, and warm, Paloma thought drowsily as his fingers slid between hers. His other hand smoothed the hair at her temple. “Go to sleep.”
Six
Paloma clenched her eyelids against the invading morning sunlight. She flipped on her stomach and frowned at the distant, rumbling sound of men’s voices. A woman hushed them, and the sound of footsteps crossed the room.
“The Blaylock men have a way of mining a good sleep-in. It’s nine o’clock, almost noon by rancher-time,” Kallista said as Paloma opened her eyes. She handed Paloma a mug of tea. “I made coffee, too, because sooner or later Roman and Rio are going to stop arguing. James, Dan and Logan will want coffee, too. If you stay here, you’ll get used to waking up to the Blaylock men turning up early in the morning—to help each other. And Else loves to come cook for her little brothers. I love to wake up to her breakfasts.”
Paloma groaned, remembering the Blaylocks at the feed store. “‘Little brothers?’ They are all well over six feet and overpowering, all that raw power and dark looks. I’m not a family person, Kallista. I don’t like landing in the middle of one. I didn’t come here for this.”
“I didn’t, either. I was used to traveling, being on my own, just like you. But now—” she caressed the mound of her baby “—I can’t imagine anywhere else. All the rest has been erased. I’m happy. But it wasn’t easy adjusting to one place, a small town like Jasmine, and the huge Blaylock family. Now I love them. The Blaylock men make perfect, adoring husbands.”
“I’m not likely to stay.” Paloma took the mug and flung back the quilt. She was still fully dressed, wearing Rio’s shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, studying Kallista’s gentle smile, Paloma rubbed her soles back and forth against the smooth wood floor, luxuriating in the cool surface. She sipped her tea slowly, aware that something ran between the other woman and herself that she did not understand. “I suppose you think—”
“I think you shouldn’t worry.” Kallista arched an eyebrow as the sound of the men’s voices rose. She smiled and glanced meaningfully at the shirt Paloma wore. “But you might want to button Rio’s shirt properly before the whole family arrives.”
Paloma glanced down at the shirt and quickly rebuttoned it. Rio must have known all along that the curve of her breast had been revealed. His eyes had darkened as he looked down her body and now she knew why. No man had ever wanted her like that or been so tender. “My sweater wasn’t dry. Thanks to Rio, I had a mud bath last night.”
Paloma rose, stretched and glanced at the bed, finding no evidence of Rio sleeping beside her. She glanced at the rumpled sleeping bag in front of the fireplace and knew that if Rio had awakened her, she would have turned to him....
“This little thing?” Kallista asked, and held up a shrunken sweater. “A little too much dryer time, I’d say. Too bad. The designer would mourn its loss.”
Paloma knew exactly how Rio would react to a too-tight sweater. His desire for her seemed constant and unnerving. Still...she almost tripped over Rio’s jacket, which she had dropped on the floor last night. She picked it up, inhaling his scent, and a happy little zing shot through her. She was desired, as a woman, not a trophy. “Why is the Blaylock family here? I should leave.”
“You’re the reason. Rio wants you to be comfortable in his home. He turned up at the house at dawn—”
Kallista winced as Roman shouted from outside, “Kallista? Is she okay?”
“Just fine,” she called back, then turned to Paloma. “Roman is worried about you. He’s lecturing Rio right now, and Rio isn’t appreciating the message. Just a minute,” she called as Roman yelled again, “Kallista?”
She hurried to the French doors and opened them as Roman, James, Logan and Rio muscled in a huge upright piano, protected by a thick patchwork blanket. Dan followed, carrying the piano bench. Rio drew away the quilt and shot a sizzling look over the piano to Paloma with enough heat to jolt her. She couldn’t move, her bare feet locked to the floor, while the rest of her wanted to leap into his arms and take his mouth. She was just gearing up for a good-morning smile when Rio said, “It’s about time you got up.”
He spoke to her as if he had the right, as if she spent every night with him. She’d deal with him later, but for now, the old piano, the one that she had played for Boone, beckoned to her. On her way to the old beloved instrument, tugged by old memories and love, Paloma ran her hand across the sur face, layered with black varnish. “Put it by the window...just there, where the light is soft and the breeze can flow across it.”
“Boone wanted you to have it, Paloma,” Roman said quietly and spread a black fringed piano shawl, layered with bright flowers, across the top.
Paloma fought the tears and yet they came, layered with images of Boone, seated by her side as she played. Why hadn’t Boone acknowledged her? She ran her hand across the keys, darkened by age and smooth with wear. “It’s a lovely
old thing. I used to play his mother’s favorite songs.”
She glanced at the piano bench that Rio had just placed in front of the piano. She slowly opened the lid to find the old songbooks waiting for her. Carefully taking out an aged leather tube, she withdrew the rolled music sheets and ran her hand over Stephen Foster’s songs—they’d been Boone’s favorites. She’d played on the best of concert pianos, yet this was the dearest of all. She sat slowly, fitted her bare feet to the pedals, and placed her fingers on the keys. “They used to seem huge,” she whispered.
She couldn’t bear to play it now, with her emotions so tangled in the past. She glanced at Kallista, who had just served the Blaylocks coffee. “It’s a lovely old thing,” Paloma whispered, caressing the keys. One teardrop escaped her keeping and fell to a piano key, shining in the morning sunlight. “It was all so long ago. I don’t want to play now. Please don’t ask me to.”
“It’s up to you, honey. No one is asking,” Rio said softly.
Paloma straightened and shivered. She’d never had a family before and now surrounded by Blaylocks, their dark eyes tender upon her, she was frightened. “I’m not staying,” she said, her voice shaking, trying to explain to these kindhearted people why she couldn’t stay, why she couldn’t afford—
“Damn. Then I just made a good big bed for nothing,” Rio stated flatly, eyeing her, challenging her.
“Don’t start,” Roman ordered firmly. “Why did she sleep in her clothes? She’s all wrinkled. Kallista, you tell her she has to come home with us. Out of Rio’s clutches.”
“Keep out of this, Roman.” Paloma left her fears and reached for the safety of a good battle with Rio. “He can’t just set claim to me. He needs taking down a notch or two, and I’m just the one to do it. And by the way, you must have noticed the bandage on his arm. You’re his brothers. You shouldn’t have let him lift this heavy thing. He’s injured Shame on you.”