by Theresa Weir
“Looks cozy.”
“I used to like it. Marcia and I made up these really elaborate games and waved to everyone on the road when we were kids.”
“Did you do it a lot?”
He lifted a shoulder. “About once a month or so, I guess, we drove into Farmington for supplies. Less in the winter.”
“Don’t you ever miss it?”
“Farmington?” He shook his head. “Not at all.”
“I didn’t mean Farmington, exactly—just living there, on the land like that. It’s so different.”
“Have you been there?”
“With Daniel to set up the project.”
Daniel again. Luke shrugged. “Maybe I’m not as romantic as he is. I don’t miss it.”
“It didn’t strike me as a particularly romantic place.” Unaccountably, she smiled. “Anyway, I came out to tell you supper’s ready.”
“Okay, I think I’m done.”
“Sure?” she asked, tongue-in-cheek. “Don’t want to add some parachutes in case we’re stranded on a cliff and have to make our way back to civilization?”
He grabbed her neck from behind. “Enough, woman. You’ll thank me if there’s a blizzard.”
She just laughed, dancing away from his grip to run inside ahead of him.
Marcia had put herself in charge of the evening meal. The scent of pork fat and green chilies and fry bread filled the kitchen, and the windows were fogged over with the cooking. The humid, scented air hit Luke’s cold face with a powerful feeling of welcome. As the sound of female voices rose and fell around him, he took off his coat and muddy boots.
Giselle, wrapped in an apron that swallowed her and dusted with flour from head to toe, set the table, giggling at something Marcia said. Jessie reached for the honey, and Marcia used a slotted spoon to take the last of the fry bread from the skillet, piling it atop a big stack already on a plate. Against the opposite wall, Nino and Sylvester watched with deceptively sleepy eyes, tails swishing.
All at once, an acute homesickness swept over Luke. This was what his life had been missing, the chatter of voices in warm supper kitchens and the smell of food about to be shared with family. Jessie swung around to deposit the honey bear on the table and caught his eye. She grinned, unselfconsciously nibbling a piece of fry bread, and touched Giselle’s head, directing the girl to put the spoons on the other side of the bowls.
To hide his feelings, Luke turned away for a moment, pretending to search his jacket pocket for something. He wanted this—a place to come home to, a woman he loved and children. Lots of children. He wanted four or five. Once upon a time, Jessie had wanted that many, too. Did she still? He wondered.
He glanced over his shoulder, trying to remember how old she was exactly. They were four years apart. He was thirty-six, so she was thirty-two. Plenty of time for more children. For an instant, he had a vision of her nursing a new little one in this warm kitchen. He would make her a rocking chair…
“Earth to Luke,” Marcia called, settling at the table. “Come eat while it’s hot.”
Feeling oddly apart from them, he sat down, bowing his head as Marcia blessed the table. When he looked up, Jessie was looking at him with a piercing gaze. He met it for a brief moment, then reached for the food. Get a clue, he told himself. Get a clue.
She didn’t even want to get close enough to kiss him, and he already had her bearing his children. But was it Jessie or Luke who didn’t want to get close now? He found he’d lost track of who was moving forward, who was moving back—the scorecard was getting a little black from scratching it out so many times.
The image amused him, and he felt the tension slip from his shoulders as the chili hit his belly. “This is great, Marcia.”
“I helped,” Giselle asserted.
“So did I,” Jessie said with a grin.
He chuckled. Maybe this little family scene wouldn’t last. Maybe it wasn’t all he wished it could be. But suddenly it didn’t matter. He had one child, where a week before he’d had none. Around his table, arranged with gentle harmony, were people he cared about. Tonight, it was enough. “It’s good,” he said.
* * *
After supper, Marcia fetched her violin and played, mainly for Giselle, Luke knew. The violin—and the possibilities it unleashed in the lives of children—was her passion.
And it did seem to have a soothing effect on Giselle. Her sudden panic of this afternoon was gone, and Luke thought she seemed more at peace with the order of things.
He still worried about her, though. It was a pretty big change for such a little girl. Protectively, he held her in his lap for much of the evening, taking pleasure in the smell of her hair and the feel of her lean limbs. When it was time for her to go to bed, Luke volunteered to do the honors.
After a bath and a story, Luke tucked his daughter in and listened to her prayers, which she murmured in Navajo. It was touching, and he felt a new appreciation of the lengths to which Jessie had gone to make sure Giselle had contact with Navajo people.
As he straightened from hugging her, Giselle asked, “Do you think I might really be able to come here at Christmastime?”
“We have to talk about it, honey. Your mom might want to have you with her at Christmas.”
Giselle, troubled, nodded. “Couldn’t she come, too?”
Luke smiled. “She might have other things to do.”
“Maybe you could just marry her and then she’d have to be here all the time.”
Life looked so simple through the eyes of a child. He sighed. “I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you what—I promise I’ll see you as often as I can. Okay?”
This was still not a completely satisfactory answer; Luke read the doubt in her eyes. But she was overtaken by a yawn that seemed to chase away any momentary concerns. “Do you think I can ride in the truck with you tomorrow?”
“That’s up to your mom. We’ll ask her in the morning. Go to sleep now. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
When he returned to the kitchen, Marcia had spread papers all over the table—all material related to the project. It was the first time Luke had seen the actual statistics. There were lists of galleries all over Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah and Texas. A star marked each location at which a representative had appeared, and the response of each was highlighted different colors—green for positive, pink for negative. The pinks were predominant, but he was surprised at the numbers of greens. There was more support for the project than he would have imagined. All in all, he was impressed.
They drank a pot of coffee as they reviewed the paperwork. Luke asked questions, more of which Jessie was able to answer than Marcia. Jessie knew monetary figures, which weavers were more likely to hang tough and which were likely—due to financial pressures or fear of witches—to give up, and who was in charge of which portion of the project.
Daniel was the project’s lifeblood. His computerized databases and spreadsheets unified scattered bits of information and created an order from the chaos of people, issues and geographical distance. Marcia, whom Daniel knew from childhood, had become the main Colorado contact. And Jessie had been with the project from the beginning, when Daniel had come to her for information on the way galleries ran.
At one point, Luke felt his head spinning with the figures. He put the papers aside and rolled a cigarette. “I’m impressed,” he said. “Daniel has done a hell of a job.”
Jessie stacked various sheets into neat piles. “He’s a genius, I swear. There’s nothing he doesn’t know.”
A prick of jealousy stabbed Luke. “How do you know him, anyway?”
“We met at a powwow in Albuquerque—Actually, I mean, I sort of met him a few times before that, but—” She chuckled, and Luke’s jealousy increased at the fondness in her tone. “I was very, very pregnant, and I slipped on some spilled pop on the floor.” She shook her head with a smile. “Didn’t really hurt myself, but once I was down, I was too pregnant to get up again. It was so embarrassing. A little boy tried
to help me, but I was so huge and the floor was slippery so he just ended up beside me. We were both laughing our heads off by this time, and that’s when Daniel came along.”
Marcia hooted and slapped Jessie’s arm. “That poor little boy.”
“I know—poor thing. But I think he got a kick out of it.” She lifted a shoulder. “Anyway, I guess the jolt brought on my labor, and Daniel is the one who drove me to the hospital and called my coach. He hung around until Giselle was born. After that, we just ended up being friends.”
Luke glared at the end of his cigarette. About the same time another man had been rescuing his woman at a powwow, Luke had probably been drunk. The knowledge twisted his stomach.
With a stifled yawn, Jessie stood up. “If no one needs the bathroom right away, I’d like to wash my hair.”
“Go ahead,” Marcia said, glancing at the clock. “I have to be in Denver at eight in the morning. I’m going to turn in soon.” She stood to give Jessie a hug. “Just call me if you need anything, okay?”
“I think it’s going to work out just fine,” Jessie assured her. “Don’t worry.” She bent down to embrace Marcia fiercely. “It was so good to see you. I’ll give Luke my address and phone number. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”
“Just try to keep me away from that girl,” Marcia said. “Take care.”
Jessie left the room, and Luke watched Marcia settle everything back into her soft-sided briefcase. He heard the water whoosh through the pipes as Jessie started her shower, and he had a brief, heated vision of her stepping into the spray, free of the shield of her clothes.
With an annoyed grunt he stubbed out his cigarette.
“You don’t have to be jealous of Daniel, Luke,” Marcia began.
“I’m not jealous.”
“They’ve had plenty of time to get together, if they were going to.”
Luke narrowed his eyes. “You’re seeing ghosts, little sister. I’m not the jealous type.”
“Whatever you say.” She shook her head, smiling, and dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “Good night. Take care of them.”
Luke got up to feed the dogs. Outside, the clouds had cleared, leaving behind a sky cold and bright with stars. With a sense of relief, Luke breathed in the crisp air. The dogs crowded around him, licking his hands and making small noises of anticipation. “Sorry it’s late, guys. I got sidetracked.” He scrubbed Tasha’s ears, rubbed Tiny’s belly and let Misha kiss his chin. He filled their dishes with food and made sure there was no ice in the water bowl.
When he turned back toward the house, his gaze snagged on the bathroom window. The light was still on. He’d never given much thought to what a neighbor might see through this window at night. It was plain there was no curtain over the frosted glass, and a blurry but undeniably female shadow figure moved against the light.
Jessie.
He told himself to go inside and leave her to her privacy, but his legs made no move. Cloaked by the darkness and silence, he was riveted to the spot, watching her shadow against the glass as she leaned backward to put her head under the light gray shadow of spray. She lifted her arms to thread her hands through her hair. Luke found his gaze fixed on the long, curved line of her throat, and followed it downward to the blurred, rounded shape of her breasts, uptilted with the arch of her back.
Damn.
He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly and urgently aroused. It wasn’t that he could see so much—in her clothes her figure was more visible than this. It was the thought that beyond that glass, she was gloriously naked and streaming with water. He wanted to be in there with her, wanted his mouth on those uplifted breasts and the curve of her neck. He wanted to fill his hands with her flesh and fill her up with himself.
Abruptly, she disappeared and Luke frowned, staring intently at the vacant, unbroken span of frosted glass. After a moment, he suddenly realized what had happened—she was finished with her shower.
Appalled, Luke vaulted into motion. He rushed for the back door, tore off his coat and skidded into a chair, breathing heavily. With shaking hands, he rolled a cigarette and had just scratched the match to life when she came into the kitchen.
He’d had no time in his guilty rush to steel himself for the look of her. Without speaking, she took a mug from the cupboard and put a tea bag into it and busied herself with the task before she looked at him.
Her hair, wet and neatly combed away from her freshly scrubbed face, trailed over her tightly belted robe. The robe itself was a plain white terry cloth that effectively hid every inch of her body, and she wore no makeup.
She shouldn’t have been so damned sexy.
But his mouth was dry. When she crossed the room to sit at the chair next to him, the scent of soap and her moist skin added to the pressure in his loins. He realized his cigarette burned in his hand unnoticed, and distractedly flicked ashes from the end.
“Luke, I think we should talk about what we’re going to do about Giselle.”
A hard thudding in his chest made it impossible for him to smoke. He stubbed the cigarette out, trying to keep his eyes from Jessie. “All right,” he managed.
He looked at her. It was a mistake. A big mistake. Her robe gaped a little at the neck, and below, her thin cotton gown had stuck to the damp flesh of her breast. Through the fabric he could see a hint of the dark edge of her nipple, a far more vivid detail than he wished to notice.
Without knowing he would do it, he reached for her hand on the table, dragging his gaze from the temptation of her almost bare breast.
“I don’t think I can really talk right now, Jessie,” he said. Slowly, he moved closer and touched his lips to the smooth edge of her chin.
“Luke,” she protested.
He kissed her jaw, tasting the moist freshness of the shower on her skin, and when he found himself teetering unsteadily at the very edge of the chair, he swiftly left it to kneel in front of Jessie, putting his hands on her thighs. The scent of her body enveloped him.
“Luke,” she whispered, “I don’t think—”
To halt the words, he kissed her. Her mouth was deep and sweet and all too willing, and he groaned at the enfolding softness. He deftly untied the knot of her robe. She made a small, husky sound when the heavy terry cloth parted, and he knew she was as aware as he of the transparency of her gown. Lace in an open weave edged the neck and ran down the front. Luke traced the line of it with one finger and realized she wore nothing at all below.
“God, Jessie, I don’t know how you expected me to resist you when you’re dressed like this.” He stroked her thighs and kissed her neck. “Maybe you didn’t want me to.”
“Maybe not,” she agreed in a whisper, and shifted to touch him. Her mouth fell on his temple, and her fingers restlessly laced through his hair.
Every inch of him thrummed with a passion so vivid he could barely breathe. In an agony of desire, he touched the soft shape of her breast. Unsure of how far she was willing to go, Luke gave her time to pull away if she wanted to, if she wasn’t ready. Her nipple pearled against his thumb.
With a deep groan, he pulled her from the chair onto his lap, and Jessie made a sharp, surprised noise at the sudden, intimate contact between them. She cupped his face in her palms, settling closer, letting him pull her tightly against him, not protesting when his hands slipped below her gown to caress the length of her thighs.
She kissed him deeply, with no holds barred, nibbling his lips and suckling his tongue and opening herself to him completely. Luke explored the satiny length of her thighs and—
The awkwardness of the position defeated them both suddenly. Luke fell to one side, catching himself painfully on one elbow, and Jessie tumbled with him, bumping her head on the chair as they went down.
Luke nearly surfaced then, aware that they were not alone in the house, that they were sprawled on the kitchen floor on a cold winter night, that the linoleum was not the most comfortable thing in the world. “Are you all right?” he asked, reaching for her.
> “No,” she whispered, and touched his lips with the tips of her fingers.
Luke swallowed. Her long white robe protected them from the cold of the floor. Jessie gazed at him with her wide topaz eyes, her lips soft and gently parted, her gown demure and covering nothing. A wave of need stole his reason once more and he found himself bending to kiss her again, to taste that mouth so long lost and so deeply missed.
His hand fell upon her belly, and it was a new shape to him. Surprised, he lifted his head to examine with his eyes as well as his fingers the new, gently rounded shape.
She caught his hands. “Don’t—I’ve never really gotten it back in shape.”
Back in shape. Once her flat belly had been a source of pride for her. His child had changed her forever.
The knowledge caught in his throat. Against his will, a vision of another man picking her up when she was too pregnant to stand alone slipped into his mind.
He closed his eyes and thought of that same man driving her to an Albuquerque hospital late at night while hundreds of miles away Luke had no doubt been in some bar, telling lies as he tipped back another shot of tequila.
Shame knifed through him. He eased away from her. “I’m sorry.” He shifted and wrapped the edges of her robe around her body, covering her. “I was wrong to start that.”
She sat up, clutching the terry around her like a shield. In her eyes, he saw a sharp pain, the same confused and vulnerable expression he’d glimpsed this afternoon, and he cursed himself for his weakness.
Gently, he helped her to her feet, letting go when she stood beside him. “It’s not you, Jessie,” he said tightly. “I’m an ass and I know it. I’m sorry.”
Before he could weaken, he stalked out of the kitchen, taking his conscience and his struggle with him.
* * *
Jessie slumped in her chair, stunned and confused. Against her belly and the side of her breast, she could feel the imprint of his fingers, hot places on her cold body. There was a slurry feeling in her legs and a thwarted congestion in her breasts and loins.