Judith Bowen

by The Man from Blue River

  Dave didn’t need these young rams yet, Fraser knew; they wouldn’t do for breeding until next fall. But as he and Martha had driven into the ranch yard yesterday, after the tense trip home from Jackson, something had made him decide to take the lambs to Utah right away. Running away, that’s what it’s called, McKenna. He ignored the voice inside him.

  The girls wouldn’t be back until the next day, Monday. That meant another evening—and night—alone with Martha. They’d spent the previous night in separate beds at the hotel in Jackson. They hadn’t made love—had sex, as she called it. She hadn’t said anything. But he felt like a complete fool. She didn’t deserve this—no woman did. What in hell did he plan to do about it?

  It was a problem he had to work out on his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t want her. The truth was, he wanted her too much. But the thought of making love to her not using anything, knowing she might get pregnant…

  The thought of another baby, his baby, growing in a woman’s body, his wife’s body, made his blood run cold. He felt trapped, as he had the night he’d run out on her, their wedding night. He’d had to get out, get some fresh air, had to think. And then he’d run into Sam Garrett, a guy he’d cowboyed with many years before on the Broken Bar M, and then Sam had told him Brent Chisholm was in town, and before he knew it, they were toasting old times in Chuck Higgins’ steak house. He hadn’t even told them he’d gotten married again. Why? It wasn’t as though this whole thing was going to go away, blow over like a piece of bad weather. Begin as you mean to go on, or so the expression went. Well, he didn’t intend to go on this way. Question was, just what was he going to do?

  “WHAT’D YOU BRING these little fellas over for? I was thinking of coming up after Christmas to get them. Bringing you a little mare I think you’ll like. Little vacation for me and Jeannie.” Dave held up his gloved hand to guide Fraser, who was backing the truck and trailer. “You’ve got another two and a half feet, Fraser…” He held up both hands. “Whoa!”

  Fraser stopped the truck and swung out of the cab. He clapped his hands together. Damn, it was cold. And if it was cold down here in the flat country, what was it like back home? The Blue River area registered some of the lowest temperatures in Wyoming. He never should have left Martha and the girls. Anything could go wrong. Electricity lines could go down, fuel lines could freeze. Tom was there, but he couldn’t count on Tom to take over for him. He couldn’t count on anyone; it was a hard-learned lesson, one he’d never forget.

  “Good to see you, buddy.” Dave smiled. “You know you’re always welcome here. We’ll let Ben unload these critters and go on up to the house. Jeannie’ll be surprised to see you.”

  Fraser looked over at Ben, Dave’s oldest son, tall, gangly, maybe sixteen. He’d unfastened the stocktrailer gate and was expertly checking the young rams before taking them into pens in the barn. Something grabbed at Fraser’s insides as he watched the silent teenager straighten and settle his shoulder-length hair under his ball cap.

  I should have sons that age. And daughters.

  Sometimes he felt so old. “So, what’s new down here on the flatlands?” Fraser fell into step with his friend.

  “Nothing much. Ben made the high school basketball team, and Jeannie’s got her eye on a new loom. How’ ’bout you?”

  “Got married.”

  “Danny’s pretty disappointed he never made the team this year, but he’s only—” Dave stopped dead and grabbed his friend’s sleeve. “You got married? What the hell you talking about?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “When?”

  “Couple days ago.” Had it only been a couple of days since his life had turned upside down?

  “Who? Jeez, Fraser, wait’ll Jeannie hears this. She’ll be mad you never invited us to the wedding.”

  “Not much of a wedding. It was…kinda sudden. You don’t know her, Dave. Martha Thomas.” McKenna now, he had to keep reminding himself. “From Wisconsin.”

  His friend stared at him, then gave a low whistle. “Kinda sudden, huh?”

  Fraser didn’t like the look on his friend’s face. “Not what you think, Dave. You know me better than that.”

  Dave nodded; the reference was clear. Fraser had made no secret of how he felt about fathering another child. For the past two years, he’d even avoided anything in the way of a real relationship. But there’d been a time…

  He’d been pretty wild, and Dave knew all about it. The first year after Charlotte died, Fraser had grieved and holed up on the ranch, the second year he’d tried to kill the pain with booze and women. Dave had hauled him out of more than one bad situation.

  But Dave’s words now, and the imputation—slight as it was—to Martha’s good name, riled him. Then the fact that it riled him made him mad. Hell, the whole point of this marriage was that neither of them cared that much about the other! So why was he all of a sudden so prickly about everything that had to do with her?

  Dave clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. “Any more news, buddy? Although I’ll admit I’m kinda scared to ask.” They’d almost reached the house, a neat two-story affair with lilac hedges, bare now, and a deserted snow-swept garden to the side. Whitepainted, picket fence, two-car garage.

  “Brenda Langston died—you remember her?” Fraser stomped the snow off his boots on the frozen sidewalk.

  Dave nodded. “Skinny little kid? Mousy blond?”

  “Yeah. Got herself killed in a car accident down in Alabama somewhere. Hell of a thing. I was taking care of her two kids at the time.” He hesitated. “I’m adopting them, Dave. Me and Martha.”

  “Legally?”

  Fraser nodded.

  “That’s a big step, buddy.” Dave looked worried. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Probably thinks I’m crazy, Fraser thought. Married, adopting a couple of girls, new wife dying to get herself pregnant—of course, Dave doesn’t know that part. “It’s what I want to do, Dave. What I have to do.”

  His friend didn’t have time to say anything more.

  “Fraser!” Dave’s wife threw her arms around him as they opened the door. “I wondered who was driving up here this time of night. Come on in. I’ve got the coffeepot on, and I can warm you up something to eat in a minute.”

  Fraser gave her a big hug, then released her and bent to take off his boots. “You’re looking great, Jeannie.” She always did. Today she had on one of her hand-woven skirts and a big multicolored sweater. Hand-spun, no doubt. Her prematurely graying hair was tied up in some loose attractive style. Her smile was wide and warm.

  “You’re not looking so bad yourself, Fraser. For an ornery old bachelor,” she teased.

  “Where you been, honey?” Dave tossed his hat onto a peg and turned to her with a grin. “Fraser’s hitched again. Married some sweet-talkin’ little lady from Wisconsin.”

  “No!”

  “Yessir. Couple days ago. And he tells me he’s all set to adopt a couple of kids. Any way you look at it, Jeannie, I’d say this here ornery bachelor has turned into a one-hundred-percent family man. Wouldn’t you?”

  ONE-HUNDRED-PERCENT family man.

  Maybe Dave was right. And if he was, it was time to put the past behind him, square up to the future. It wasn’t just him anymore. There were the girls to consider.

  But number one was making it up to Martha. If she’d accept his apologies and if she’d believe him when he said he wanted to start over again.

  He felt himself getting more wound up the closer he got to Blue River. He’d left the Blackwell place late, after sitting up half the night talking with Dave and Jeannie, and then the weather had been worse than he’d expected. He’d had to take it slow with the trailer. He’d brought back the mare Dave had traded him for the lambs. He’d give her to Martha. A wedding present.

  He remembered that time he’d come home in a snowstorm just like this, the night of Ted’s wedding. How he’d come in the door, dog-tired and seen Martha standing there, her flannel nightgown stickin
g out below that exotic-looking red dressing gown she always wore, flip-flop slippers peeking out beneath. He remembered the hunger he’d felt for her then and there, despite the long drive and the events of the day.

  He felt that hunger now, just remembering. Only now he could do something about it. Now she wasn’t his employee or a guest in his house. She was his wife.

  Fraser turned the mare into a big box stall in the barn and made sure she had feed and water. He ran his hand down her withers critically. She’d make a good saddle horse. A little on the small side, but Dave had told him she had some Arabian in her. You could see it in the shape of her head. He didn’t even know if Martha rode. Showed how much he knew about the woman he’d married.

  That would have to change.

  The house was quiet and there were no lights on even in the bunkhouse. After all, it was past midnight. Fraser showered in the small bathroom off the kitchen. Then, towel hitched around his middle, he looked at himself in the mirror. He could use a decent haircut. He ran his hands quickly through his hair and made a mental note to get one next time he went to town. Then he ran one hand appraisingly over his jaw. Better shave. All the while he shaved, he couldn’t get his mind off Martha, lying somewhere in this house—his bed, he hoped—sound asleep.

  On his way down the hall, he gently pushed open the door to the girls’ room. They were both asleep, sprawled in characteristic postures on their beds. Daisy held her new stuffed lamb close to her cheek. Fraser felt his heart swell almost to the point of hurting. It was a visceral feeling, unlike anything he’d ever felt before. They were his children now; he’d move heaven and earth to make sure of that. His to love, his to protect. He closed the door quietly.

  At the entrance to his bedroom he took a deep breath, then pushed open the door. She wasn’t there. Nothing had changed in this room since he’d left it yesterday. The shirt he’d tossed off then still hung over the footboard.

  What did he expect? That she’d be lying here waiting for him in a sexy negligee? He had to woo her back; he had to bring her to his bed. He had to establish new terms with her. A new partnership.

  Fraser’s breath escaped with a whoosh, and, scooping up the dirty shirt in one hand and discarding it, along with the towel he wore, in the laundry basket, he stalked to the closet. He grabbed the dressing gown he rarely used and put it on. He wasn’t exactly sure of the reception he was going to get, and there was no sense scaring her half to death, showing up wearing nothing but a towel in the middle of the night.

  As he left his room, walking quietly, he thought about the many times he’d dreamed of making this trip down the hall. To Martha’s room. How he’d dreamed of lying down beside her, taking her into his arms, kissing her…

  This was no dream.

  Martha lay on her back, head to the side, one hand tucked under her pillow. She’d pulled the old quilt up to her shoulders to ward off the chill. He could see her clearly in the reflected light from the moon, which had come out now that the snow had stopped falling. He crossed to the window and stood there for a moment.

  The Wind River Mountains, familiar and eternal, rough and ragged, rose behind the ranch. He’d grown up here, and he’d never wanted to live anywhere else. Charlotte was up there on the ridge. The ashes of his wife. And the ashes of the child-that-neverwas. Dead. Brenda was gone, and the girls’ grandparents. Dead. Gone forever.

  He was alive, and these girls were alive. Blossom Anne and Daisy. And this woman, Martha, this stranger who’d come to live with them. This woman he’d married. It was up to them—all of them—to take hold of the future.

  Fraser took a deep slow breath and turned away from the window toward the sleeping woman.

  His heart beat heavily, his blood swelled thickly in his veins, he felt his desire for her as keen and deep and fundamental as it had ever been. He moved closer to the bed.

  He bent down. He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, softly. She opened her eyes. He saw the lightning flash of surprise, then saw it vanish. She knew why he’d come.

  He didn’t kiss her, although he longed to kiss her. He pulled back the quilt. Yes, she wore that flannel nightgown, flower-sprigged, hiked up nearly to her hips, but she made no move to cover herself. He bent and slipped one arm beneath her shoulders, one beneath her knees, and stood with her in his arms. She wasn’t as heavy as he’d thought she’d be. He felt very strong, unnaturally strong, as though he could take her anywhere— over mountains, across rivers—and never let her fall.

  She curved an arm around his shoulders. She knew they were going to make love. Now. Tonight. For the first time. Her eyes were a pool of waiting, of wanting. He felt himself tremble. He didn’t know if he could wait to touch her, to kiss her, until he’d brought her to his bed.

  Somehow he managed, pushing the door closed with his shoulder. He let her slide slowly to the floor.

  “Fraser…”

  “Shh.” He put his thumb to her lips, rubbed them lightly and felt her shudder run through the fire of his own body. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered. “I want us to start over. I want to begin again with you.”

  She nodded, holding her breath. He felt the tension in her.

  “Let me touch you, Martha.”

  “Oh, Fraser…yes.” Her voice was shaky, nervous.

  Carefully he unfastened the row of buttons down the front of her flannel nightgown and pushed the fabric to the smooth rounded warmth of her shoulders. Holding her gaze, he let the fabric fall to the floor. She gasped slightly and he saw tiny goose bumps rise on her flesh, saw the tightness of her nipples, proud and erect. He knew it wasn’t only the sudden chill.

  Her breasts were small and perfect, her waist smooth and taut, her legs long and slender. He ran his hands lightly over her breasts, over the tender curve of her belly, over the warm swell of her hips. He kissed the side of her throat, once, twice, three times, tasting, absorbing the delicate sweetness of her skin.

  She shuddered violently and grabbed his upper arm with one hand.’ “Fraser…please!”

  Her plea was his undoing. She couldn’t wait; nor could he. With a sudden uncontrolled movement he swept her into his arms again and took two steps, bringing her to his bed. Their bed. He laid her down and looked at her. God, she was beautiful. God, how he wanted her. Nothing else mattered. Nothing at all.

  Eyes still on hers, he unfastened the belt that had loosely secured his dressing gown. He pulled it off and tossed it to the floor. He felt her gaze on his naked body like a flame trailing over his skin, scorching him wherever it touched. He looked down at her, saw himself between them, swollen, urgent. She could not possibly mistake how much he wanted her.

  Then he was beside her, feeling the heat of her skin against his, the satiny length of her body pressed against him, her breasts warm and soft flattened against his chest. It was heaven. It was what he’d dreamed of, what he’d wanted for so long.

  He kissed her throat, her shoulders, lowered his mouth to her breasts. She moaned. He couldn’t kiss her mouth, didn’t dare; couldn’t risk the complete loss of control he knew kissing her would bring. Then, somehow, she was beneath him, her thighs welcoming him, her softness, her heat, her wetness driving every rational thought from his head. Every cell ached for completion.

  He wanted her, he wanted to bury himself inside her, he wanted to flood her with pleasure and with his seed, his scent. He wanted to make her his woman. It was raw instinct. It was an urge much older than thought, as old as time.

  It could not be denied.

  He entered her slowly. She gasped and he forced himself to stop. To freeze. To think.

  “Martha—” his muscles, his nerves, his very blood protested the interruption “—you okay? Am I hurting you?”

  “No.” Her hips rocked, rose to meet his. He nearly died. “You’re not hurting me.”

  With a groan that came from beyond his soul, he met the rise of her hips. Far, far beyond reason, he plunged into her, again and again, going on pure instinct, k
nowing only the need to mate, to connect, reveling in the ancient rhythm that had only one goal—completion. Release.

  Too late, Fraser realized that the control he’d prayed for had deserted him. Nothing mattered—not her pleasure, not his. Only physical release. Release from this exquisite torture.

  Then release came, shimmering, pulsing, ascending, descending. Glorious. He fell, spent, against her neck, his breath hot on her hair. He twisted slightly to one side as he collapsed, so that she wouldn’t have to support all his weight. She trembled in his arms.

  Damn. You didn’t get it right, McKenna. You lost it.

  He lay there, panting, feeling the pooling heat of sweet release in every muscle, every nerve, every cell. How long? He had no idea.

  Then sense returned. His own sweat felt cold on his back. He raised himself on one arm and looked down at her. She was smiling slightly, eyes warm, questioning. He saw the wet track of tears on her cheeks. He shook his head and bent to kiss her mouth gently. Her taste was sweet and salt and perfect. Her mouth was soft. He felt her hands on his back, stroking his damp skin, small, fluttering strokes that soothed and excited at the same time.

  “Sorry,” he muttered, kissing her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth lightly.

  “Sorry?” she whispered, eyes wide. “About what?”

  “Well, hell.” He gave her a wry smile. “I guess you could say I got carried away. I couldn’t hold back. Not the sort of thing a guy’s too proud of, you know.”

  She simply smiled.

  “It can’t have been too good for you. I’m sorry.”

  “It was perfect, Fraser James McKenna,” she whispered, still smiling. “Absolutely perfect. Don’t you dare apologize.”

  To his dismay, he felt himself stir and swell inside her. He still wanted her. It wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t just that he owed her or that they had a deal. He wanted to please her, to give her pleasure. To please himself.

  He rocked his hips slightly, and she opened her eyes wider. “I’ll make it up to you, Martha,” he promised with a smile he couldn’t suppress, a smile he could only hope didn’t look too ridiculously macho.