by Rebecca York
It was well into the afternoon by the time she arrived back at the ranch. She paused in the yard, looking toward the sycamore grove, but it was as deserted as when she’d left. And as quiet. She heard no music.
With a sigh, she headed for the kitchen where she ate some of the roasted chicken and coleslaw she’d bought the night before and read one of the novels—The Egyptian—letting herself get caught up again in the story of the man who had been the pharaoh’s physician.
It would be dark in a few hours, and she wanted to keep reading. Using a flashlight wasn’t so great for her eyes, and neither was trying to read by the light of the one oil lamp she’d gotten from the front room.
But there were several more lamps on the top shelf of the pantry. Together they should provide decent light.
The step stool was in the corner, and she carried it over and then climbed up to reach for one of the lamps. The stool was old, and when she mounted the second step, it gave way under her foot, sending her flying.
Before she hit the tile floor, a rush of wind filled the room and a man’s strong arms caught her from behind, breaking her fall and holding her upright against his firm body.
She looked down, seeing Matthew’s hands around her middle—seeing them more clearly than she had seen him since she’d arrived at the ranch. They still weren’t the hands of a flesh and blood man, but they were more solid than those of the ghostly figure who had met her in the sycamore grove.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, burrowing into his warmth. “You saved me from a nasty fall.”
“Yes.” His voice was a deep rumble in his chest, the voice she remembered from long ago.
“How . . . did you know?”
“I was watching you.” She heard him swallow. “I couldn’t stay away.”
“But you left me in the grove. Why?”
For the span of a few heartbeats, he said nothing. Finally he answered, “I remembered the gun battle at the militia compound. Then everything went black.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The sadness in his voice tore at her. She couldn’t speak as her throat tightened.
“Remembering that was a shock.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I don’t know.”
She wanted to keep him talking. Wanted to keep him with her as long as she could. “I’d like to know what happened.”
Long seconds passed, and she thought he wasn’t going to respond.
Then he heaved a sigh. “I was on assignment, closing in on a terrorist compound. The local cops didn’t have the resources to challenge the bad guys. The P.D. asked Decorah to find out what was going on there.”
Still behind her, he stroked his large hands up and down her arms. “There were five of us and more of the bad guys. And they had a lookout at the road. They ambushed us on the way in.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I should have been more careful.”
“You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”
“Better than making excuses.”
“No.” She waited a beat before she answered. “But how did you get here?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. One moment I was sinking into blackness with a bullet in my chest. And in the next, I was at the ranch.”
She winced at the image his words conveyed. Matthew Houseman lying on the ground, blood spreading across the front of his shirt.
“Did you come here right away after that?”
“I don’t know. But when you came and I found out who you were, it felt like I’d been waiting for you.”
“Oh, Matthew,” she answered, allowing herself to sink into a fantasy—because it was what she wanted. He hadn’t told her much about himself when he’d been on guard duty here. Would he tell her now?
“What else do you remember about your life?”
“I remember when I was a little kid. My mom always made chocolate chip cookies and apple pie. The American favorites.”
“For me, it was flan. And hot chocolate,” she said.
“I remember your telling me.”
“You do?”
“You were homesick. You talked a lot about San Marcos. You had a house in the city and another in the mountains.”
“Yes.”
“I remember you wished you could get magazines from home. Women’s magazines and movie magazines.”
“Yes!”
“I would have gotten them for you, if I could.”
“I know. You brought me some American magazines written in Spanish.”
“And back home you went to a private school where you learned English starting in first grade.”
“That’s right. I didn’t know how much I was going to need it.” She leaned against him. “I never even knew where you were from. Tell me now.”
“I grew up in Durango, Colorado.”
“And what did your parents do?”
“We had a little ranch where Dad raised horses.”
“That’s why you were so much at home here.”
“Yes.”
“And did you have any brothers or sisters?”
“One sister. She went off to Europe and kind of lost contact with the family.”
“Why?”
“She wanted a completely different life. My parents were sad about that. I think they never got to see her again before they died.”
“I’m sorry.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Where did you learn to play the guitar?”
“My dad played. He taught me.”
“You like the old folk songs.”
“Yes, and more modern stuff. ‘The Sound of Silence’ by Simon and Garfunkel.”
“I remember that one.”
She rested her head back against his chest, and he shifted his weight behind her. “I should leave.”
“No!”
“We’re doing things together that we . . . shouldn’t.”
His certainty made her stomach clench.
“Why not? What’s wrong with it?”
“What future is there in it for you?”
She had thought the same thing. Now she heard herself say, “Do we have to worry about the future? Can’t we just focus on now?” As she asked the question, she knew she was digging herself deeper into the fantasy of Matthew Houseman.
She wanted to do that—for herself. But it was more than selfishness. She couldn’t stop thinking that he needed her. Maybe more than she needed him. Maybe that was the reason he was here, but she was afraid to say it—lest he vanish again.
She leaned back against him, just breathing, just tuning in to something fundamental that seemed to emanate from the contact between them.
Maybe he was surrendering to whatever it was, too, because he bent his head and brushed her hair aside so his lips could find the tender place where her jawline met her neck. And there was no denying the sensuality of his touch.
“I always loved your hair. So shiny and black,” he murmured. “I’m glad you didn’t cut it.”
“I have to pin it up at work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a nurse.”
“That suits you. I knew you’d be good at taking care of people.”
“How? I was a shallow teenager.”
“You weren’t. You took care of your father.”
“When he let me.”
“He was worried about you. Worried about the future. I think you’ve done him proud.”
They were speaking of reality, and she didn’t want it to interfere. Reaching back, she stroked her fingers against the stubble of his beard, loving the subtle roughness.
He stopped talking and slid his lips along the side of her neck, then found her ear, nibbling, then stiffened his tongue to probe the narrow cavity.
“That’s nice,” she whispered.
“Very nice.”
His fingers found her lips, caressing her with a light, teasing stroke.
Once again she closed her eyes, simply enjoying anything t
hat he was willing to give her.
Her neck arched so that her head rested against his shoulder. She wanted to turn around and face him, but she was afraid that might break the spell between them, so she stayed where she was, feeling the heat building between them.
Smiling, she took the lead, stroking his arms, reaching up to run her fingers through his hair. He felt so solid, so real. As she pressed her bottom against him, she felt his erection again. How could he be a ghost when he was responding to her like this?
He made a small sound deep in his throat, and she knew he liked what they were doing.
Her breath quickened as his hands moved inward to cup her breasts and then found her nipples through the fabric of her T-shirt.
The clothing was in the way. Without giving herself time to think about what she was doing, she reached behind her back and unhooked her bra.
His hands slipped under her shirt, under the bra, so that he could play with her breasts, squeezing their fullness, then tugging on her nipples.
She leaned back, drifting on the sensuality of his touch, content to stay where she was.
When his hands left her breasts, she made a sound of protest, but he was only dropping them to her waist where he unbuttoned her jeans and lowered her zipper.
He felt so real, so masculine, so intense as he slipped one hand into her panties, then into the moist heat of her most intimate flesh. In long, lingering strokes, he fueled her passion, his finger finding the entrance to her vagina, then traveling upward to tease her clit.
She cried out, her hips pressing forward and back, increasing the friction of his strokes.
At the same time, his other hand cupped her breast, playing with the hardened tip, tugging and squeezing as he brought her up to a higher level, then higher still.
She was lost to everything except the sensations he was creating. Trapped between his two hands and his hard body, she gave herself over to his care.
The heat built, reaching flash point. She cried out as she came, her whole body convulsing as he continued to pleasure her, wringing every drop of sensation from her.
When she collapsed back against him, limp and satisfied, he held her to him.
“Matthew?”
“Um?”
“That was wonderful.”
“I’m glad.”
“But what about you?”
“That was for you.”
She remembered how he had vanished suddenly in the grove. She didn’t want him to do that now. She tried to turn in his arms, but he held her in place.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not now.”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that, but I couldn’t help myself. I’ve wanted you for too long.”
“No longer than I wanted you. And don’t tell me you’re sorry about giving me pleasure, because I’m not.”
“You think this is fair to you?”
“Don’t think about it in those terms. I told you. It was wonderful for me.”
“And where is it leading?” he asked, his voice turning harsh.
“We’ll have to figure that out.”
Because he wouldn’t let her turn, she leaned into his warmth. “When I first came here, you were only in the wind. Then you came to my bedroom like a man would. I think being with me is changing you, bringing you back to yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“So we should . . . see how far we can take it.”
He swallowed. “And then what? Let’s be brutally honest. I was killed.”
“And you came back to me.”
“As a ghost. Ghosts don’t come back to life.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’d like to be wrong. But I don’t think so.”
She wanted to face him, but he kept her where she was. “Don’t you want to get married, have children?”
She didn’t answer.
“Don’t lie to yourself. Or to me.”
“Before I heard about what happened in Montana, I used to dream of getting married to you and having your babies.”
His arms tightened around her. “Yeah, I used to think of that, too, querida.”
“You did?”
“Yes. About living on a little ranch with you. Raising horses like my dad.”
Her heart squeezed as he said that.
“But that was impossible, of course.”
“Why?”
“Your father and I had a professional relationship. That was supposed to be my relationship with you, too. And then there’s the age difference. I’m nine years older than you are.”
She laughed, hardly able to believe they were having this conversation. “I think I’ve more or less caught up to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m twenty-five. And you’re . . .”
“Dead,” he repeated what he’d said before.
“Have you ever heard of anyone having this kind of conversation with a ghost?”
“No.”
“I did.”
She heard his breath catch. “When? How?”
“I never told anyone about it. But after my grandmother died, she came to me to say good-bye.”
“That’s different. She was on her way to heaven.”
“And you’re here with me because we have unfinished business.”
Before she could say more, she felt his body stiffen.
“What’s wrong?”
“Somebody’s coming.”
“My father?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I want you to get into the escape tunnel. Now,” he ordered in a voice that left no room for argument. He was Matthew Houseman, the Decorah agent again.
CHAPTER SIX
Gloria ran down the hall to the nursing station. “Something’s happening with Matthew Houseman,” she gasped as she reached the desk.
Peggy Bradley, the supervisor on duty looked up, annoyed. “Nothing ever happens with Matthew Houseman.”
“Something’s changed.”
“Like what?”
“He opened his eyes. And he was talking to me. Well, maybe not to me, but he was talking. Now something’s happening again.”
Peggy looked doubtful, but she rose out of her chair and followed the other woman down the hall.
Matthew Houseman was lying in the bed where he always lay, only instead of lying perfectly still, the way he always did, he was moving his head restlessly from side to side.
“What did you do to him?” Peggy demanded.
“Nothing!”
“You said he was talking. What did he say?”
“He called out to a woman—Isabella.”
“That’s all?”
“Maybe he said she was in danger.”
As they stood beside his bed, he opened his eyes again. “Isabella.”
When he tried to climb out of bed, alarm shot through Gloria.
“Matthew, take it easy,” she murmured as she pressed a hand against his shoulder. “Everything’s all right.”
“No. I have to . . .” He stopped talking abruptly and made a moaning sound.
“I’ll call Dr. Berman,” Peggy said.
oOo
One moment Matthew was there. In the next, he had vanished. Was this like the night she had arrived? Had he gone to confront the enemy or had he disappeared again?
Isabella had never lit the lamp. Now she moved quietly to the window, peering out. It was still light, and in the distance, she could see a dust cloud rising along the access road. But she had no idea who was coming to the ranch. It could be her father, Decorah Security agents, or the men who had tried to kill her.
Matthew had said he would protect her in this place, but she couldn’t rely on him. Not when her life might depend on saving herself. She ran back to her room, grabbing a knapsack and her purse. After snatching the gun off the kitchen table, she dashed into the study.
She picked up the rug and threw it into the tunnel, then yanked on the desk, pulling it over the trapdoor b
efore climbing down the ladder, lowering the panel above her as she went. In the tunnel, she opened the door to the safe and pulled out the canvas bag, which she stuffed into her knapsack and carried down the tunnel to the escape hatch where she opened the door and set the bag outside.
A stirring in the air made her catch her breath.
“Matthew?” she asked.
He didn’t bother to show himself, but he spoke in a low voice as though he were standing next to her. “Three men are coming.”
“Not from Decorah, I guess.”
“Not likely.”
“There were two the other night. Or maybe I didn’t see them all.”
“It’s definitely three. They all look like the ones you described yesterday.” His voice turned hard. “I listened to them talking. They’re here to kill you.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How did they find me?”
“I wish I knew.” Frustration laced his voice. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to smash all of them against the stable.”
“Blow them toward the house.”
“Toward you?” he asked, his voice full of doubt.
She told him what she had in mind.
He made a sound of approval. “Good.”
“How close are they?”
“Almost in the ranch yard.”
In the next moment he was gone again.
She was just heading back up the tunnel when she heard a noise outside.
A man shouted in Spanish. “What the hell? Get in the house. Quick.”
Then she heard the sound of shots being fired.
At the wind? She didn’t know, but it sounded like Matthew was doing what he promised.
Above her she heard footsteps pounding across the floor and more shouts from the men. They were looking for her.
“She’s been here,” one of them called out. “The bed’s been slept in. And there’s food and a book on the table.”
“She must be hiding. Maybe in the tunnel.”
“Where is it?”
“We’ll find it.”
Her heart leaped into her throat. They knew about the escape route.
Above her, she heard the thugs searching through the house. Praying that they wouldn’t find the trapdoor, she ran to the second panel. Inside was a timer attached to a long-life battery.