Judith Bowen

by The Man from Blue River

  She didn’t answer, simply pulled his head down with both hands to join her mouth to his, to fan the fire that still burned inside him. He welcomed the fire, let it roll over him, sear him, consume him. He had the terrible feeling that this—what he felt right now, with Martha—would never end. Ever.

  It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PERHAPS HER DREAM had already come true.

  Perhaps the baby she’d longed for had already begun to grow deep inside her body, tiny cells dividing, growing, becoming more than a possibility. Martha felt herself blush as she thought of exactly how that possibility had been realized. If it had.

  Could she be right? She frowned, trying to recall for a moment when she’d had her last period. Offhand, she couldn’t say. There hadn’t been a reason to remember, and so much had happened since then.

  Who cared? She intended to get pregnant. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?

  She stretched deliciously, welcoming every ache and tenderness. Could she have forgotten how wonderful it was to make love? It had been three years at least, nearly four, since she’d been in a physical relationship with a man, but a woman didn’t forget that kind of thing. Unless the man had been pretty forgettable, and she had to admit most of the men she’d dated had been.

  Fraser was gone Somehow she’d known he wouldn’t be there when she woke up. Waking up together, pillow talk—that wasn’t part of the bargain. To get along as best they could, to hammer out something that would work for both of them…But what had happened last night hadn’t been a dream. It had been completely, gloriously real.

  He’d lost control.

  He’d made it up to her, as he’d said he would, and it was remembering that that made her blush. But the fact remained—he’d lost control that first time, and the knowledge allowed her to feel that they might, just might, have a real future.

  Possibilities.

  It meant he wanted her. Really wanted her. He’d wanted her so much, physically at least, that he hadn’t been able to hold back. He’d admitted it. He’d been embarrassed by it. That one simple fact told her that bringing her to his bed meant more to him than simply fulfilling an obligation.

  Perhaps his obligation had already been fulfilled. What would that mean to this part of their relationship? Martha frowned again. She didn’t want to think about that.

  Heavens! What time was it? She looked for a clock by Fraser’s bed and didn’t see one. What she did see was a nearly cold mug of coffee. The house was quiet. Fraser must have brought her the coffee and then taken Daisy and Anne to meet the school bus. Her job. But it wasn’t her job anymore, just her responsibility. And her privilege.

  She saw her nightgown in a heap on the floor and reached over to retrieve it, shaking out the folds. Recalling just how it had ended up there, she pulled it on, feeling ridiculously modest all of a sudden. There was nothing about her that Fraser hadn’t seen. Or touched. Or kissed.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood and walked to the window, absently fastening the buttons at her throat. One was missing. The image of Fraser tearing at those buttons last night, kissing her throat, hurriedly pushing the flannel from her shoulders, sent heat flooding through her body again. She closed her eyes.

  He was wonderful, incredibly tender and passionate. The lover most women met only in their dreams. And he was her husband. Her legal husband.

  Martha opened her eyes again. The morning sun was brilliant on the new snow. A fresh clean world. Not even tracks from the dogs yet, or the children. Smoke rose straight from the bunkhouse chimney. Clear sky, no wind—it must be very cold outside. A weather change. Christmas coming, barely three weeks away now. She’d call her mother this morning, invite her to spend Christmas with them, get to know her new family….

  Martha stepped closer to the glass and traced the delicate lace of frost on the window. Last night’s storm had swept the house violently, and she’d worried about Fraser driving in such weather. Now, thank heaven, he was home. So much had changed in the past few days.

  Martha walked to the chest where the photograph of Fraser’s first wife stood, its silver frame bright in the morning sun. Charlotte Mae. She studied the image, wondering at the sadness she felt as she looked at the young woman’s smiling face.

  Then she reached for the frame and rubbed her sleeve over the glass. What a tragedy. Young, in love, about to become a mother…With a shaky breath Martha returned the photograph to its place. Charlotte was part of Fraser’s life, part of his past, and how could she feel jealous of a dead woman? A ghost? A woman Fraser had loved more than a man ought to love a woman…

  Martha heard the growl of the truck’s engine and felt her heart jump. She wasn’t even dressed yet. She heard the door slam and Daisy’s yell. Without thinking, she jumped back into bed and grabbed her coffee.

  Yech! It was ice cold.

  “Martha!” Daisy raced into the room, kangaroo clutched in one hand, hair flying. “Guess who’s here? Guess! Fraser!”

  She jumped onto the end of the bed with a shriek.

  “Whoa, Daisy. Slow down.” Martha laughed, then set the coffee cup down and gathered the little girl into her arms. “I know he’s back, munchkin. He came back last night when you were sleeping.”

  “Hey!” Daisy turned to look at her fully, eyes wide. “You’re in his bed.”

  Martha felt her face flood with heat. Good heavens! She hadn’t thought of dealing with this just yet. “Er, yes, I-”

  “I guess it’s ‘cause you’re married now, huh?” Daisy nestled closer to Martha. “Anne says moms and dads always sleep together in the same bed without their jammies on, and now you’re gonna be kinda like our mom, aren’t you?” Daisy’s eyes had never been bigger or bluer. “And Fraser’s gonna be kinda like our dad, ‘cept Anne says we don’t have to call him Dad. She says it’d just ‘barrass him.”

  Martha hugged the warm little body. “I’m sure Fraser won’t mind what you call him.” She kissed the child’s golden flyaway hair. Some sound, perhaps the scrape of a boot heel, had her looking, startled, toward the door.

  Fraser stood there watching them. He leaned against the frame, hands supporting him on both sides—Martha had a flash of what he’d looked like the first time she’d ever seen him, only then he’d been half-dressed and hung over. Now he was wearing faded jeans and a red-and-blue-plaid work shirt, open at the throat. She could see the dark hair low in the V of his shirt, and felt every inch of her skin tingle as she remembered the feel of his hard hair-roughened chest against her bare breasts.

  He said nothing, and his face gave nothing away, but Martha could feel the heat from his dark gaze burning right through her. She shivered.

  “What’s ‘barrass mean, Martha?” Daisy asked solemnly, gazing up at her. Martha quickly looked at the child, away from Fraser’s half smile. “Anne always uses big words on me, just to show off ‘cause she goes to school,” Daisy complained. “It’s so ag-ger-vatin’.”

  Martha smiled. “Embarrass means…oh, you know, to feel kind of silly. Or rattled.” She glanced up to meet Fraser’s grin. The child’s mimicry of Birdie’s favorite expression was spot on.

  “Come on, Daisy. Let’s give Martha a chance to get dressed.” His eyes held hers—she wasn’t imagining the heat. “I think we might be, uh, embarrassing her.”

  Whooping, Daisy bounced off the bed, ducked under Fraser’s arm and ran into the hall. With a slow smile and an even slower appraisal, Fraser reached for the doorknob. “I see you found your nightgown,” was all he said before closing the door gently.

  Just after lunch, Martha placed a call to California. Her mother’s enthusiasm the previous week when Martha had called about her sudden decision to marry Fraser had surprised and pleased her. She hadn’t realized her thoroughly modern completely unflappable mother had been so concerned, in her quiet way, about Martha’s single status. Or—heaven forbid—was it the possibility of grandchildren on the horizon th
at had Ullie Thomas so sentimental?

  “When can I meet him, dear? Your sheep farmer?”

  Martha grinned. Her mother sounded as enthusiastic this week as she had been last. A good sign. And she was glad her mother hadn’t asked too many questions. Deep down, for reasons she wasn’t clear about herself, she wanted her mother to believe this marriage was a love match. “How about coming and spending Christmas with us?”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful, a white Christmas, just like in Wisconsin. I’ll bring Harry with me, if you don’t mind, and—” who the heck was Harry? “—send me the sizes of those two darling girls you’re looking after.”

  “We’ve decided to adopt them, Mom.”

  “Adopt them!” After a brief pause, Martha’s mother continued, “Well, you just tell them to go ahead and call me Grandma right away. Oh, Martha, this is such good news!”

  That afternoon, after Fraser and Tom had come up to the house for coffee—a time during which Martha kept herself overbusy peeling too many vegetables for supper, aware of Fraser’s eyes on her as she worked— he asked her to come down to the barn with him. Said he had something to show her.

  “Me?” Daisy had chirped. “Me, too?” Fraser nodded, and she raced off to find Anne, who’d been reading and eating sunflower seeds in the sunny bay window ever since she’d come home from school.

  The barn was relatively warm after the crispness of the winter air, and rich with the scents of animals and fodder. Horses nickered in the dimness as the little group entered, and Martha could hear bleating from the big sheep enclosures that adjoined the barn. At the machine shed Tom left them to fire up the tractor fitted out with a blade to clear snow from the yards.

  Daisy and Anne immediately ran off to find the kittens. The litter was over six weeks old, and the girls often discovered the kittens exploring at their end of the barn, rarely in the nest where they’d been born. Daisy had—wisely, Martha thought—opted to have as many kittens as she wanted in the barn, rather than one in the house. Not that it would have mattered if she’d brought one up to the house, but perhaps Spook might have objected.

  She glanced down at the lopsided little dog trotting importantly at Fraser’s side, glaring up at her from time to time, as if to ask just what she thought she was doing here.

  Martha stopped to pat Banjo’s nose, the big roan gelding that Fraser often rode. The horse snorted and nibbled at her sleeve.

  “Sorry, big fella,” she said, scratching the side of his jaw, “nothing for you today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Fraser waited patiently beside her, and when she turned to him with a smile, ready to move on, his expression surprised her. Intense, serious…nervous? What was there to be nervous about?

  “Come down here on this side,” he said, leading the way. They walked past two other box stalls, then Fraser paused in front of the next one.

  “Oh, isn’t she pretty?” Martha exclaimed, stepping forward. The small bay mare inside stretched out her neck, sniffing tentatively. Martha extended her hand, and gradually the animal moved forward until she was close enough for Martha to run a hand down her crooked blaze and pat her neck. She had a delicate head, well-defined, with large, luminous, melting brown eyes.

  “Like her?”

  “She’s lovely, Fraser!” Martha dug in the pocket of her jacket. Maybe she did have something left from a previous visit to the barn, a wrinkled carrot, a crust of bread. “Is she new?”

  Fraser looked at Martha. “Yeah. I brought her back from Utah with me. She’s not quite three years old.”

  Martha cast Fraser a quick glance. There was something odd about his voice, as though he wanted to tell her something, yet was holding back.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Strange name. Mercredi. Dave got her from a Frenchman over in Elko.” Fraser paused. “But you can change her name if you want.”

  “Me?” Puzzled, Martha turned to him.

  “She’s yours.”

  “Mine?” Martha felt like a rather unimpressive echo. “Why?”

  Fraser looked at her for a few long seconds without speaking. Martha held her breath.

  “Because you took the chance and married me,” he said finally. Every word sent shivers down her spine. “Because you’re my wife. Because I didn’t treat you right the day we got married and I should have, and now I want to start over again. Start out right. I want to put what happened in Jackson behind us.”

  A wedding gift. Martha felt her heart hammer in her chest. Her throat felt dry. Something prickled in her throat. Hay dust, probably. “You’re giving her to me?” she whispered.

  “If you want her.” Fraser looked away for an instant and then looked back, a wry smile twisting his handsome mouth. “I don’t even know if you like horses, or if you ride. I don’t know much about you, Martha.” He laughed, a harsh sound. “Some husband I am.”

  She put her hand on his arm. He froze, gazing down at her, the pain in his eyes tearing her apart. “I think you’re a wonderful man, Fraser. I think you’re a wonderful husband.”

  “You wouldn’t know.” He turned and pulled her gently closer to him, one hand on her waist, the other brushing back a lock of hair that had fallen from her wool cap. “Helluva start we’ve had, huh? Besides—” he grinned “—I’m the only husband you’ve ever had. Right?”

  “That’s true,” she admitted, aware that he was teasing her, flirting with her. “But a woman knows these things deep down—”

  He stopped her words with a kiss, his mouth covering hers warmly, gently at first, and then with growing urgency. She welcomed him, eager to explore his mouth as he explored hers. Her heart pounded and she felt her blood turn to flame. She’d never grow tired of this man’s kisses, never.

  He drew back and stared down at her, his eyes glowing. “Martha, Martha,” he said softly. She let her head fall back against his arm. “You know something, Martha?”

  “Mmm?” She loved the sound of her name when he said it.

  “If the girls weren’t here, and if Tom wasn’t about to drive that tractor back into the shed and come looking for me at just the wrong moment, I think I’d take you up in the hayloft and…” He growled and nibbled on her earlobe. She shivered.

  “And what?”

  “You know what.” He buried his face in her neck, sending little ripples of delight all the way to her toes. “You’ll be the end of me, Martha.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you so much,” he said, his voice rough. “Too much. Last night was—” He stopped, looked at her, then kissed her again, only to wrench his mouth from hers a moment later. “Last night was heaven, and I just can’t believe it’s true. I can’t believe you married me inside of a week the way you did. That you wanted to do this with me.”

  “This?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Adopt the girls, live out here way the hell and gone with all of us—”

  “Even a cranky dog?”

  He grinned. “Even a damn cranky three-legged dog.”

  “Don’t forget I have my reasons,” she said softly, thinking only to tease.

  And felt him stiffen. Freeze.

  “Yes,” he said finally, and his voice was different, flatter, grimmer. “You’re right. We both have our reasons. I haven’t forgotten.”

  He held her then, continued to hold her, but the passion was gone. Still, she reveled in the sensation of closeness, too new, felt his body strong and warm, his arms tight around her. Felt the comfort of leaning against him, knowing she could trust him with her life. He was that kind of man. But she also realized that despite last night, despite their wanting each other physically—good sex or no good sex—he hadn’t really come to terms with her reasons for wanting to marry him. Not where it counted, not deep inside.

  Perhaps he never would.

  For the first time, Martha felt a flicker of fear, real fear, across her skin. What had they done, the two of them?

  CHRISTMAS AT WESTBANK Ranch was not normally a lavish aff
air. Or so it seemed when Martha dug through the attic hunting for decorations. It was time they got a tree up. Surely someone had once stored Christmas decorations up here. A grandmother, a great-aunt…?

  With Anne’s help, she found one ancient cardboard box that contained hand-painted glass baubles, mostly broken, and a bedraggled white porcelain treetop angel, with patchy hair and only one glass eye.

  “That does it!” Martha got to her feet and clapped the dust from her hands. “We’ll have to make a special trip into town to buy some decorations.”

  “Yay! Yippee!”

  “I can see you two are really upset about that,” she teased.

  Anne smiled, the shy sweet smile Martha had come to know and love these past few weeks. Daisy, who’d been on the other side of the attic, twirled before them, holding up her skirts. “Look at me!” She wore a big navy blue hat with a tiny veil and a red-and-whitestriped linen dress, floor-length on her.

  Spook barked hopefully from the bottom of the ladder, as he’d done for the past half hour. Daisy had wanted him to come to the attic, too; Anne, with better judgment, had refused to carry him up. Of course, he wouldn’t let Martha anywhere near him.

  “What have you been into?”

  Martha made her way to the other side of the attic, stepping carefully on the wide boards that spanned the ceiling joists. Anne was ahead of her. “All these dressup clothes,” Daisy said. “Look!” The little girl plunged both hands into a metal steamer trunk, a relatively new model, that stood open beside her. There were purses and silk scarves and shoes and skirts and even a fur jacket. Was it mink? Martha wasn’t up on furs. Size eight, everything appeared to be.

  Charlotte Mae.

  Had these things belonged to her? Had Fraser stored them up here to be out of sight, out of mind?

  “Let’s get changed, girls,” Martha said, glancing at her watch. “If we hurry, we can go into town and be back before supper.”

  The lure of town—each girl had twenty dollars to spend on Christmas gifts—was stronger than the lure of the mysterious trunk. Daisy tossed the clothes back in and Martha gently lowered the lid. She saw the handwritten label on top—Miss C. M. Racey and a San Francisco address. The sight of it chilled her heart. The feeling she’d had, many times, of a female presence besides hers and the girls’ in this house, came back full force. Now, seeing all these clothes here…