The Longing

by Wendy Lindstrom

  “You never were, Kyle. I had enough money in my own account to buy the tavern from Pat. He’s been running it for me for two months now.”

  “What?” Kyle gaped at his brother. “Then why were you talking about getting a loan from Richard?”

  “Because I thought we might need the money to keep the mills running. I would have mortgaged the tavern back to the bank.”

  Kyle stared in stunned disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d bought the tavern?”

  “Because you needed me to be here.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  It was past midnight when Kyle felt four tiny paws pad across his stomach. He lifted his head off the pillow and stared down at Cinnamon. “How did you get up here?”

  She ducked away from his accusing gaze and crawled up his chest, nuzzling his chin until he laughed and swept his tender palm over her soft fur.

  “You little weasel. You’ve been taking wheedling lessons from Rebecca and Amelia, haven’t you?”

  He scooped Cinnamon into the crook of his arm and sat up, glad for the company. For the fourth consecutive night he’d slept alone while Amelia stayed in the guest room in consideration of his discomfort.

  Since the fire, his mother had been staying with them, and Kyle and Amelia hadn’t had a moment of privacy. She’d waved away any attempts to talk, telling him they would have plenty of time to do so after he healed.

  Between Amelia and his mother, Kyle hadn’t been left alone during the day or evening unless he was in the bathroom. Tonight, he’d finally convinced his mother to go home by telling her that he was feeling strong and was barely suffering any pain. Of course, he’d been stretching his recovery a bit, but he really did feel better, and her concern was suffocating him. So she’d hugged Amelia goodbye and promised to come back and help her can preserves in the morning.

  Kyle left his bed and wandered through the dark house with Cinnamon tucked in his arm. The night silence mocked him and he nearly slugged the wall to break the monotonous sound of peepers and his own tense breathing. He stumbled over the rocking chair leg as he’d done almost every night since Amelia had moved it. He clutched Cinnamon and kept himself from falling, but instead of cursing, Kyle felt like howling out his heartache.

  From the moment he’d gone to her father’s lumberyard, Kyle had begun systematically killing Amelia’s ability to laugh. He hadn’t meant to hurt her any more than he’d meant to cause Tom’s collapse, but his own self-serving actions were at the root of her heartache.

  She’d said they had to learn to forgive each other, but Kyle wondered how she would ever manage to forgive him after everything he’d done to cause her heartache.

  Kyle wandered into the kitchen. The bathtub still sat beside the stove where she’d left it because she’d taken her bath late and was too tired to bother draining it. Her washcloth hung over the edge of the tub and Kyle ached to hear the sound of Amelia’s laughter, of her pouring water over her head and shoulders while she bathed.

  He stuck his fingertips in the cool bathwater. Evelyn had told him to look beneath the surface of life, but all Kyle could see as he stood alone in his kitchen with a purring fur ball in his arm was Amelia’s smiling face glistening with water, her laughter filling the room as she smacked him with her wet towels. She’d been vibrant that day, filled with wild exuberance from the minute they put her little rowboat in the creek, until he poured her into bed because she’d drunk too much wine at his mother’s birthday party. She loved adventure. She was passionate and exciting, and he wanted that spirited woman back in his life.

  He turned toward the guest bedroom, vowing he would find a way to apologize, to express the depth of his feelings.

  o0o

  Amelia opened her eyes to see Kyle standing beside her bed with Cinnamon in his arms. She’d always thought of Kyle as strong and invincible, but seeing him look so vulnerable broke her heart.

  As long as she lived, she would never forget the horrendous roaring sound of the flames as they engulfed the warehouse, or the taste of fear in her mouth knowing Kyle was trapped inside the inferno. He’d been so panicked when they pulled him from the building, his eyes so wild, that Amelia knew a few minutes longer and he would have died alone, confused and frightened. The thought made her throat ache, but it was also a feeling of self-pity that caused her eyes to mist as she sat up in bed. She loved him so desperately that for one reckless moment, she considered throwing away her last shred of pride and begging Kyle to love her.

  Instead, she tipped her chin and tried to see his eyes in the moonlight and night shadows. “Are you all right?” she asked, wondering if he was suffering discomfort from the burns, or if Cinnamon had disturbed him.

  “No,” he said, his voice hoarse. His presence overwhelmed the tiny room as he gazed down at her. “I’m filled with remorse and regret and a chest full of feelings I don’t know how to express. I’m going to try, though. No matter how badly this comes out, Amy, I need to tell you what I feel.”

  Seeing the painful expressions play across his face as he gazed down at her was more than Amelia could endure. She had suppressed her raw emotions after the fire, trying to give Kyle time to heal, but she needed to know what he was carrying inside him. “I don’t care how it comes out, Kyle. All I’m asking is that you be honest with me.”

  “I promise,” he said, sitting on the bed beside her. He looked down as Ginger climbed onto his lap to curl up beside Cinnamon. Amelia waited for Kyle to go on, but he seemed to have hit a shoal.

  “Kyle?” His eyes met hers. “Do you love Catherine?” she asked, needing to know, and sensing Kyle needed a hard shove to get him talking again.

  “She’s a friend in my past who gave me a place to go when I needed one. That’s all.”

  “Are you saying you don’t love her, then?”

  “It depends on what you call love, Amy. Catherine is a good woman who needed my friendship. I felt protective of her, and I cared about her. If that’s love, then yes, I love her.” He stroked the kittens, but looked at Amelia. “If friendship is another form of love, then I love Evelyn, too. I care about my brothers and my mother, and I adore Rebecca, and even our demon twins. That’s love, isn’t it?”

  “Of course, Kyle. That’s not what I’m asking.”

  “I know.” He gave her a tender smile. “There are many shades of love, Amy, but only one that is filled with passion, that can make a heart soar or send it crashing onto the rocks. Until I married you, I didn’t know that love existed. I didn’t know I’d be willing to lay down my pride and bare my soul to show you how much I care. But I will, Amy. When I look at you, I see a woman who loves me, someone I want to spend the rest of my life with. I love every flaw that makes you unique and every expression that crosses your face.”

  Her eyes welled up. “I do love you,” she said, her voice filled with so much longing for his love in return that it came out as a whisper.

  “I know you do. And I love the girl who dresses in my old shirt and those britches that drive me crazy. I love the sassy lady who kicked me in the shin, and the passionate woman who makes love to me all night.”

  His beautiful confession of love left her speechless.

  “You know what I see when I look in your eyes?” he asked. She shook her head and he lowered the kittens to the bed. He reached out and caressed her bare arms with his thumbs. “I see strength and tenderness. Resilience and intelligence. I see a child who likes to play and a little girl who misses her father. I see a woman who needs a child of her own and a daughter who will always need her mother. I see my own longing for companionship, passion, and love reflected in your eyes.”

  To her shock, Kyle knelt beside the bed on one knee and clasped her hand between his own. “My days are empty and meaningless without you. I never had the opportunity to ask you to marry me, Amy, but I can still ask you to be the love of my life.”

  To see her proud, arrogant husband on his knees, spilling every emotion in his heart, made her eyes flood. “Do
n’t kneel for me,” she said, wanting to tug his hand to make him stand, but afraid to hurt his tender skin.

  “I don’t care about the past—yours or mine. What matters is our future.” Sincerity filled his eyes as he stood. “Your past is what caused you to become the woman you are today; strong, resilient, intelligent. That is the woman I’ve come to love. I don’t care about Richard, except that he hurt you.”

  “You really don’t?”

  “No. All I want is for you to be happy.”

  Amelia wiped the tears from her face. “I don’t believe you’re really saying these things.”

  “I should have told you this long ago.” He leaned down and kissed her. “I want to start over, Amy. I want to do things right and treat you the way you deserve to be treated. I want to make you laugh again.”

  “We can’t start over, Kyle. We need to remember what we’ve learned and use it to make our future stronger. We need to keep going right from this moment forward.”

  “How ever you want to do it, Amy. I’ll go forward, or start over, or whatever it takes to make you happy.” He brushed the backs of his fingers across her wet cheek. “Is there room for two in this bed?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  Pain filled his eyes as he lowered his hand. “You need time yet. I understand.”

  “No you don’t.” Amelia slipped out of bed. With care for his burns, she gently took his hand. “I want us to move forward, together, in our own bed.” She lifted her face and kissed him. “Take me to our room.”

  The tension in his body seemed to drain away with his relieved sigh. “Really?” he asked, and she nodded.

  They hurried through the parlor and into their bedroom. The instant they were inside, Kyle cupped her jaw and gazed down at her. Amelia prepared for the touch of his lips, but he didn’t kiss her. “I have one last confession to make.”

  She clapped her palm over his mouth. “Don’t you dare tell me anything that’s going to break my heart.”

  He nodded and she uncovered his smiling lips. “I think we should get a couple more cats.”

  “What?”

  “We could get the rest of Missy’s litter if you want.”

  “No!” A breathless laugh escaped her and she shook her head, barely able to believe her ears. “Are you serious?”

  “No,” he said, “I just wanted to hear you laugh.”

  He hooked his arms around her waist then lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss so hot and deep, Amelia thought their bodies would melt together.

  She kissed his cheek and neck. “Are your hands and back too sore to make love with me?” she whispered, brushing her lips over his earlobe.

  Quiet laughter resonated in his chest. “Not if I stay off my back, and don’t use my hands.”

  She gasped and laughed in the same breath. “Well, how do you propose to participate then?”

  A mischievous grin spread across his gorgeous face. “You’ll see. Close the door so the girls don’t surprise us. I don’t want kitty paws swiping at me while I’m trying to make up to you.”

  Amelia laughed and pushed the door shut. “They would more likely be swiping at me for stealing your attention.”

  “I suppose the demons have grown on me.”

  “Bosh. You’ve loved them from the minute you saw them.”

  Kyle shrugged, his grin fading into an expression of intense longing and passion, all the powerful emotions bursting in Amelia’s own heart. “Take off your gown, Mrs. Grayson.”

  “My pleasure,” she whispered, welcoming her husband’s arms, his tender kiss, his promise for a future filled with love and laughter and dreams come true.

  -END-

  Chapter One, LIPS THAT TOUCH MINE

  Preview Boyd Grayson’s story

  Fredonia, New York December 13, 1873

  Boyd Grayson glanced over his shoulder at his part-time bartender and local distiller. "Karlton! Pour me an ale and charge it to Mr. Lyons. He's going to owe me a drink in about ten seconds."

  "The hell I will." Pat Lyons gritted his teeth as he arm wrestled Boyd. He tried to force Boyd's knuckles the last few inches to the bar, but Boyd didn't budge. "Damn you, Grayson. You've got an arm like a lumberjack."

  Boyd laughed. The description was more accurate for his older brothers, Duke and Kyle. Both topped six feet and were thick in the arms and chest. Boyd was their height but lean like their eldest brother Radford. It wasn't bulky muscle that was keeping his knuckles off the bar—it was stubborn pride. At twenty-three, Boyd refused to be bested by anyone, especially in his own saloon.

  The regular patrons gathered around the bar, cheering and placing bets, crowding in as the intensity of Boyd's nightly arm wrestling match escalated. The noise roused his dog, Sailor, out from under the billiard table. The long-legged, mixed-breed mutt paced between the men, searching for the cause of the excitement.

  Duke leaned his elbows on the bar to watch the match. "You're losing your touch, little brother. The life of a saloon owner is making you soft."

  Boyd snorted. "Don't worry, Duke. I'll still be able to whip your ass when I finish here."

  Jovial laughter filled the tavern, and Boyd's arm slipped back a couple of inches. Pat took advantage of Boyd's lack of concentration and gained another inch.

  "Pay attention," Karlton said, nudging Boyd's shoulder. "I wagered a week's earnings on you winning this match."

  Boyd grimaced at Karlton's frightening penchant for gambling, but leaned into the fight. "You're sweating, Mr. Lyons."

  "And you're talking too damned much," Pat said.

  Boyd grinned and tightened his biceps. Shouts filled the smoky room as he lifted his fist upward, away from the bar. Pat's arm trembled as their clenched hands arched toward the ceiling.

  "Ah, hell," Pat said.

  Slowly, Boyd dragged his opponent's hand over and down to the bar. A roar of male voices cheered as he successfully ended the match.

  "Thank God," Karlton said, his relief so obvious that Boyd suspected he was trying to work his way out of another bad gambling debt.

  Duke lifted his mug in a toast, but Boyd felt a deep pang of regret. He wasn't worthy of the pride in his brother's eyes.

  "Bring him a drink," Pat called to Karlton.

  The short, stocky bartender placed a full mug of ale between them and Boyd reached across the mahogany bar and squeezed Pat's shoulder. "I earned this one," he said, complimenting his best friend's strength.

  Two years ago, Boyd had bought the Pemberton Inn from Pat, who had turned the inn into a busy saloon. Pat hadn't been at home anywhere else, so like many of Boyd's customers, he now spent nearly every evening at the bar, often as the bartender.

  Boyd raised his mug and toasted his friend, then saluted his patrons who were earning him, and ultimately his distiller Karlton Kane, a small fortune. Karlton was in the business of distributing liquor, but he worked as Boyd's second bartender three nights a week. Boyd earned a good living from the family sawmill, which he owned with his three brothers. He didn't need the income, but he did need the nightly entertainment that his saloon provided.

  Each night except Sunday the regulars would fill Boyd's homey tavern and line up along the bar to arm wrestle. Later, they would sprawl in chairs around the cast-iron stove to thaw the winter chill from their bones while they bragged with their friends and taught Boyd's dog ridiculous tricks.

  The Pemberton Inn was more than a place to drink ale. It was a meeting place to discuss town business and commiserate with friends, a second home for many hardworking men who didn't have anywhere more welcoming to spend their evenings.

  And it was Boyd's sanctuary. In the midst of the men and noise he could pretend he was happy.

  He circled the bar and sat beside Duke, careful to avoid the revolver holstered at his brother's hip. Boyd himself kept a gun behind the bar, but weapons were forbidden in his tavern. Duke was the local sheriff, though, and not about to drop his piece at the door.

  "You found a new deputy
yet?" Boyd asked, signaling the bartender to refill his brother's mug.

  "No." Duke accepted the ale from Karlton, gave a nod of thanks, then glanced at Boyd. "Want the job?"

  "Hell, no."

  Duke's laughter was buried in an uproar of voices and pounding, scuffling feet.

  Boyd jerked his attention to the middle of the tavern where Gordie and Louie Carson were tearing into each other. He and Duke shot to their feet. Karlton came out from behind the bar and Pat Lyons leapt off his barstool, but before anyone could get a hand on the Carson brothers, they careened toward the front wall. Their four hundred pounds of flesh and muscle slammed into Boyd's front door. The casing shattered and the door blew open, sending the Carsons tumbling outside and sprawling onto Main Street.

  With a curse, Boyd bolted outside after them. His patrons and his brother ran out of the bar behind him, with Sailor yelping at their heels. The neighbors were going to raise holy hell over this.

  Gordie and Louie Carson pummeled each other, grunting and huffing and kicking snow everywhere, while the patrons hollered and wagered on the outcome. Boyd exchanged an exasperated glance with Duke as they reached the fracas and pulled the men away from each other. They yanked the brothers to their feet and turned them toward Chestnut Street.

  "Time to go home, boys," Duke said.

  Gordie opened his mouth to argue, but Boyd nudged him in the shoulder. "Go, before I ask Duke to give you boys a room for the night."

  The sudden quieting of the patrons drew Boyd's attention. The men were all gawking across the street at the widow's house. A slender young woman stood on the porch pointing a revolver at them. She clutched the gun with both hands, anger and fear marring her beautiful face.