by Anna Jeffrey
The co-mingling scents of Polo and freshly-brewed coffee filled the room. Coffee aroma hadn’t been present in the kitchen since her dad’s demise.
After the night she had spent, none of it was what she needed to see, hear or smell first thing this morning. Aggravation pecked at her. The cantankerous old hen was back.
Luke smiled up at her, his expression giving no indication he had any emotion about what had happened on the front porch. An unwanted pang of disappointment punched her.
“I found some milk bottles in the fridge,” he said. “I checked the dates.”
The bottles came from expressing milk to relieve breast engorgement as well as to have milk available when she couldn’t conveniently nurse Joe. She seldom used them, more often than not, ended up pouring the milk down the drain.
“I try not to feed him from bottles,” she said righteously. “It affects my milk production.”
She walked over and lifted her baby from Luke’s arms and put him against her shoulder to burp, felt his diaper dry. She looked at Luke. “Did you change him?”
“Well, he was wet.” Luke’s gaze moved to her chest and back. “I bathed him in the sink, so you could catch some extra Z’s.”
Damn. Did he think her inadequate as a mother. “I don’t recall saying I’m suffering.”
“Don’t be nervous, Dal. I’m not a threat. I’m just trying to help you out.”
Double damn. He was too good at reading her mind. Being reminded of that didn’t improve her attitude either. “I’m not nervous,” she said sharply and sat down to let Joe finish his breakfast at her breast.
Luke went to the cupboard and took out a tall glass, then moved to the refrigerator and poured it full of apple juice. He returned to the table, took a seat and scooted the glass within her reach. “I didn’t forget. No caffeine.”
Her anger subsided as she sipped. Staying mad at him was impossible. And silly, considering that by not coming to her bed, he had done only what she demanded. Now she wished she were wearing something besides the spiteful thin T-shirt.
He sat down at the table, rested his forearms on the table top and clasped his palms together, giving her a measured look. “I always liked your hair put up like that. It shows off your neck. It’s real pretty.”
She ducked her chin and smoothed her hand up the back of her head, attempting to catch loose tendrils and avoid his eyes. “That’s just one more thing I’ve never understood about men. They like long hair, but they like to see it put up.”
“Guess it’s ‘cause we think it’s fun to take it down.” He kept grinning and looking at her, looking at Joe.
“It’s cooler like this.”
She would never let him know she hadn’t had time to do her hair because she had overslept after waiting half the night for him.
“There sure is a lot of killing around here,” he said. “The newspaper’s full of it.”
“Only in Fort Worth and Dallas. Even there, they say the murder rate is down.”
“There’s never been a murder in Callister and damn few in the whole state of Idaho.”
“There’s never been a murder in Loretta, either,” she parried., “And we aren’t affected by the murder rate in the Metroplex.”
He shrugged. “Good. That’s real good.”
She felt smart at winning that exchange.
Luke’s gaze lowered to their son’s pumping jaws. “You’re a good mother, Dahlia.”
“Well, I won’t be writing any books on parenting. The fact that he’s survived shows what a hardy kid he is. I didn’t know much about babies when he was born. It’s taken me, Piggy’s mom and half the Handy Pantry employees to get us to this point.”
“You like being a mother, don’t you?”
She smiled, thinking of her childhood goals. “Yes. I wanted a lot of kids once. I still do. I know how lonely being an only child is.
Luke stood, stepped to her side and unexpectedly placed a quick kiss on her neck beneath her ear. “That was always one of my favorite spots,” he said softly.
Her throat closed. She stared into his eyes as her free hand sprang up to touch the spot.
Luke’s heart flipped backward. Her eyes had that shimmery look, the one that made his backbone wilt and his dick swell, but he willed away those urges. He had been cussing himself all night for grabbing her like some horny teenager out on the front porch.
He guessed he shouldn’t have kissed her, but he couldn’t have stopped himself. He had found her as mouth hot and sweet as he had known it would be and she still kissed him back in that hungry way that made every other woman he had ever known vanish from his memory. She didn’t even know how sexy she was.
. . . My feelings aren’t the same as they were last summer. . . .
The declaration had pounded with the thud of a splitting maul inside his skull all night. He had lost her and he could cuss nobody himself. She had been in love with him last summer. She never said so, but he had suspected it. Hell, why kid himself? He had known it. But like a dumb-ass, he had been thoughtless of her feelings. Who could blame her for getting on with life without even trying to reach him?
And when that thought hadn’t been keeping him awake, there had been the knowing she was in bed in the room down the hall and imagining her coming to him, smelling all female and flowery, on golden legs that went on forever . . .
He had sweated like a pig in spite of that roaring monster blowing air across the bed from an overhead vent, which only made a healthy erection throb that much more. It seemed as if he had been in a smoldering state ever since he hit Texas, and that kiss on the front porch had only added a log to the fire.
Now there was more to it than sex. Besides being the woman who haunted his nights, she was the mother of his child and he longed for the binding ties—a piece of official paper and a ring on her finger for the world to see she and Joe were his. But to his heart-crushing distress, she wasn’t interested in making a life with him and it didn’t appear she was ever going to be.
He didn’t believe in prolonging agony, so he said, “I’ve been thinking about things, Dal. I shouldn’t have come down here without warning. I’ve decided to go on back home.”
Her chin lifted. Her cheeks were flushed. “Oh?”
He thought he saw a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, but hell, it was probably nothing more than poor light. He was giving up trying to read this woman’s thoughts.
Besides everything else that had been going on in his mind and body all night, he had wrestled his decision to go, had made it only after exhausting every option he could think of. She hadn’t said or done a thing to make him think he should do anything else. “I’m mostly in the way here and I’m needed up there. The ranch has a lawyer. I assume you have one, too They can work out something about Joe.”
She gave him a tight-lipped stare, which puzzled him. He had figured she would be glad to get rid of him. Was he wrong?
“I don’t have a lawyer,” she said. “But if it’s necessary, I’ll hire one.”
Shit. What woman with an illegitimate kid wouldn’t have a lawyer lined up? It hadn’t crossed his mind she wouldn’t have one. “It won’t be necessary. You can trust me. You’ve got nothing to fear from me. There’s a trust fund set up to educate my other kids. I’m gonna add Joe, so maybe knowing that will take a worry off your mind. Support and visiting can be arranged between you and the lawyer. I’ll have him get in touch with you. Just tell him what you want. As for me, all I’m asking you for is fair treatment. And the opportunity to get to know my son.”
He turned toward the phone. “I’ll be going tomorrow. Guess I need to change my ticket.”
She didn’t reply and he couldn’t read her expression. She placed her little finger into Joe’s mouth and unlatched him. Luke’s gaze dropped to her nipple, dark as chocolate and puckered, then to the infant, his milky little mouth still working and his tiny fingers folded into fists. For a crazy minute, his chest felt so full he thought he might burst into t
ears. He didn’t know what to do with himself. A fierce longing seized him. The idea of his son, the product of his seed, growing up without him was as heavy as a cross. How was he going to forge a place for himself in Joe’s life?
Dahlia broke into his thoughts by standing up and passing Joe to him. Automatically, he placed the infant against his shoulder and began to rub his back, as he had done hundreds of time with his other children.
Dahlia went to the cabinet and lifted a phone book from a cabinet drawer. Plunking the heavy tome onto the counter, she pawed through the tissue-like pages. He rose and walked over to stand beside her and looked over her shoulder, still unable to make out her mood.
“Here’s ‘Airlines.’” She took Joe from him, stamped back to the chair and sat. She began cooing at the baby who smiled and waved his arms.
My feelings aren’t the same . . .” Luke couldn’t erase that pronouncement from his mind as he hid his eyes in the phone book.
Flight confirmed, he returned his attention to her. “Flight’s at noon tomorrow. I’ll leave here early, maybe before you get up.”
He guessed now was as good as a time as any to tell her the other half of the decision he had made. “For today, I’m gonna get out of your hair. Drive on over to Abilene, look a guy up we sold some bulls to a couple years ago. When I get back, if you’ve got time, I’ll take you somewhere to supper.”
Chapter 28
While Joe slept upstairs in the office, Dahlia worked in the butcher shop, trimming a long strip of tenderloin for slicing into filet mignon. A lake resident had ordered a dozen of the premium steaks. Thank God she was skilled enough to do it automatically because her concentration had been gone since Luke drove away from her house this morning.
A confusing mix of emotions stewed inside her—relief, regret. And anger. His leaving proved what she had always known. In Luke McRae’s world, it was his way or the highway. She hadn’t kissed up to him, so he was leaving. It was just as well, she told herself. A complication out of her life. Once he was gone, she could get back to a familiar routine.
At the same time, she was frustrated. They hadn’t discussed important details and she had to take the blame for that. Every time he had tried to talk, she had dug in her heels and thwarted the conversation. Now, he would be gone in a matter of hours. A bleak mirage crept into her head—Luke, mounting his horse and buttoning his parka, gathering his reins and tugging his hat brim, riding away without looking back. A traitorous part of her wanted to throw her arms around him and beg him to stay.
And as that stew in her head preoccupied her, a familiar freckled face peeked around the corner of the butcher shop. Piggy. Dahlia continued he task. “What are you doing here, Judas?”
The traitor stepped just inside the butcher shop doorway. “Just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by. . . . Luke here?”
Dahlia put down her knife and looked up. “You mean he didn’t leave his itinerary with you?”
Piggy’s brown eyes held a shimmer. “Is Joe with him?”
Dahlia refused to unaffected by a traitor’s tears. She returned her attention to the pile of steaks she had cut and began neatly stacking them onto Styrofoam trays. “I am not discussing Joe with you. The next thing I know, you’ll be helping Luke take him away from me.”
Piggy came closer. “Aren’t you just a teeny-weeny bit glad to see him?”
Dahlia pulled a long strip of cellophane wrap off its roll and began wrapping a tray of steaks. “Are you insane? You’ve screwed up my life royally, Piggy. I’ll never forgive you.”
A tear sneaked down Piggy’s cheek. “I know. Damn me. I should be killed.” Sniffling, she jerked a piece of parchment paper from a box on top of the meat case.
“Don’t you dare blow your nose in here,” Dahlia ordered. “Chuck and I spent hours sanitizing.”
Piggy dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I thought I was doing a good thing for everybody. I can’t stand you being mad at me, Dal.”
Dahlia felt a lump in her own throat. Piggy was the only childhood friend she still had a relationship with. They had always looked out for one another. They had shared every major milestone in each other’s lives.
“Damn you is right, Piggy. I can’t think of anything bad enough to say to you.”
“Go ahead. Call me names. Beat me up.” Piggy rounded the butcher block and they stood face to face. “But don’t be mad at me,” she said in a tiny voice.
Dahlia stared at her, realizing for the first time how much her anger at her only friend weighed on her. They fell into each other’s arms, weeping and wiping eyes. “After what you’ve done, you’re going to owe me big time,” Dahlia told the crazy redhead.
“I’ll do your laundry, clean your house.”
“Damn,” Dahlia said. “I got beef blood on your shirt.”
“I don’t care. I’ve got lots of shirts, but I’ve got only one best friend.
A few chores and an hour later, Dahlia climbed the stairs to the office, fed Joe and clicked on a musical for him to hear. Determined to keep herself too busy to think about Luke, she sat down at the computer to catch up the sales data she had neglected for two full days.
Her efforts to bring the Handy Pantry into the current century had included replacing the two antiquated cash registers with computerized point-of-sale equipment that scanned UPC codes and software that kept track of sales item by item. Having it would have been of no benefit to her dad whose mind had worked like a computer, but to her, the electronic aide was priceless.
She studied the August numbers, chewing on her jaw. The meat department had started producing good sales again, thanks to targeting a market that had money to burn—out-of-towners and second homeowners. Thick, top-quality steaks on barbecue grills at the lake helped them endure the hot summers. Several times a week, she thanked her dad for teaching her butchering the old-fashioned way. Since leaving Dallas, her expensive university education hadn’t been as beneficial as knowing how to skillfully carve excellent cuts of meat.
She was building a following. More and more often, on their way to the lake, instead of bringing meat with them from the city, people from Abilene, Fort Worth and Dallas, stopped in to buy it at the Handy Pantry. Often they called in advance and placed orders or bought cuts to take back to their tables in the Metroplex. Shipping steaks packed in dry ice in Styrofoam containers had become routine.
That modicum of success went a long way in preventing the Handy Pantry’s being nothing more than a convenience store. Still, it had a long way to go. She and Joe were getting by on what Dad had paid himself five years ago.
Deciding to add a new function to her spreadsheet, she dug into her lower desk drawer, lifted out a new box of computer disks and reached her computer program manual on the bottom of the drawer. As she fanned its pages, a white envelope fell out on the desk blotter and she paused, knowing what it contained. She opened it and slid out two snapshots. One she had snapped of Luke smiling. The other was of her and Luke wrapped in each other arms beside his river boat in the Callister cottage’s driveway. They were her only pictures of him. She hadn’t looked at them for months, although once she had wept over them every day.
She reached for the newborn shot of Joe on the corner of her desk, looking for her baby’s resemblance to his father. . . . This little boy’s got my blood in his veins. . . . Luke’s words confronted her and for the first time, she saw the magnificence of Joe’s birth from his father’s eyes. Like their Scot ascendants, McRaes were bound by an old world tradition. In light of the incapacity of Luke’s first-born son, Joe was the successor. A prince. The blood of heroes coursed through his tiny veins, the stuff of legends lived in his soul.
She hadn’t given this a moment’s thought before. To her, devotion to family tradition had scant meaning. If she had relatives on her mother’s side, she didn’t know them. She couldn’t remember her father’s father at all. Her Grandmother Montgomery was nothing more than a dim, white-haired chimera from childhood who
sang songs in a high-pitched voice and moved to and fro in the antique rocking chair used of late to soothe Joe.
What logical excuse was there, really, why her son shouldn’t know his father and love him?
She reached for the scissors in her middle desk drawer, trimmed the snapshot of Luke’s face to an inch square and tucked it into the corner of the frame that held Joe’s photograph. Then she replaced the frame on the corner of her desk and sat back to admire the man she had once believed was her soul mate and the child of their union.
It was too late for the three of them as a unit. Luke had trampled the arcane connection that had been the glue of their relationship. Her bitterness was deeply seated. Last night she shunned him, but how she had loved him last summer. Whatever the future held for her, she would never love again in the same way.
The snapshot of her and Luke by his boat lay in the center of the desk blotter. Leaning to look closer at its tiny images, she smiled. The picture had been snapped prior to leaving for a day of fishing at Hells Canyon Reservoir. Having not seen each other for a week, they were lost in mutual adoration when Piggy darted out of the house with a throw-away camera.
Another memory from that day pushed into her mind, blocking out all else. . . . Luke’s high-sided river boat tied to a rock on a deserted beach. The electric blue of the Idaho sky . . . His motioning her to the back of the boat with a hitch of his chin, pulling her down to lie on the flat deck. With a wink and a grin, stripping off one of her boots and one leg of her jeans and panties, unhooking his belt . . .
She had laughed and pushed at his hands, told him somebody might see them, but did she stop him? Hardly. . . .
Then, maddening, wet friction. His hard, thick penis thrusting deep and fast, her bare buttocks grinding against the deck’s abrasive surface, his belt buckle and pocket change jangling in steady beats; the boat bouncing, rocking, water slapping its aluminum sides; the sun a red weight on her eyelids. She buried her face inside his shirt collar, the pungent scent of him flooded her nostrils. She grew dizzy, disoriented, acutely sentient.