Then everything stilled as their eyes locked again, absorbing the moment, absorbing each other, and Cash tensed, fending off Emma’s attempts to breach his barricades, to reach inside and tug free his emotions. No, he thought, bracing himself against her pull, refusing to let his defenses crumble, knowing the moment he let her in he’d be helpless as an infant.
Holy hell, it’s never been like this scuttled through Cash’s brain before he tentatively moved inside her, afraid to hurt her. Afraid, period. Of the helplessness. Of the feelings surging inside him, desperate to find the way out.
No! sounded even louder in his brain as he clamped his hands on her waist and pulled her tighter against him, retaking control—of her, himself, the moment—only to feel everything sway again when her eyes drifted closed and her breathing hitched, releasing on a sweet moan…as he felt his heart—the heart he’d sworn didn’t exist—shift along a hairline fault he would’ve sworn didn’t exist, either.
And she smiled, victorious.
NO, dammit! he thought, pushing up even higher inside her, and this time she matched his thrust, gasping at her first spasm, and slow and gentle evaporated as she gave and gave and gave, more and more and more with each wave until they swept him away with her, and he dimly remembered somebody telling him the French called this the Little Death. Now he knew why.
And when it was over, he checked to make sure his heart, although cracked, was still locked up nice and tight. From what he could tell, it was.
But damn, had that been a close call or what?
Far more rattled than she wanted to let on, Emma kissed Cash and got out of bed, where it took her three tries to get her trembling arms through her shirtsleeves.
“Where you going?”
“I just need…” The shirt barely buttoned, she yanked her hair out of the collar. “It’s okay, I’ll be back.”
She’d intended to go out on the deck, but got sidetracked by what was apparently his music studio. There wasn’t much in the cinnamon-walled room—an old, small dining table, a couple of chairs, a dozen guitars on stands lining the walls. But once inside she noticed the pad of paper and mechanical pencil on the table, a half-filled mug, the coffee cold and disgusting. She angled her head, saw what were obviously the words to a song, half of them crossed out, rewritten, crossed out again.
“When did you do this?” she asked when she heard Cash behind her, standing in the doorway.
“I’ve been coming back here now and again for the past couple of weeks. At night, usually. When I couldn’t sleep. Em—you okay?”
She turned. He’d pulled his jeans back on but hadn’t buttoned the top button. Seeing him stand there, his thumbs hooked around the loops, tugging them below what most folks would consider decent, was enough to get her hot and bothered all over again.
The concern in his eyes, the gentle set to his mouth, though, turned her heart inside out. And that was far worse.
“I’m fine,” she said, shoving her tangled hair out of her face. “But you don’t strike me as a cuddler.”
His eyes narrowing, he leaned against the door frame, scratched the back of his neck, then crossed his arms. “What is it they say, about not being able to kid a kidder? Same goes for BS. I’m the king, Emma. Or so all the shrinks said. Emotionally defensive, I think is the term for it. You thinking about Lee?”
“What? No! No,” she repeated on a breath. “Which maybe surprised me a little, that I didn’t. That was…” She crossed to the keyboard, skimming her fingers along the keys. “A little more intense than I expected.”
He was quiet for a second or two, then said, “No surprise considering the way you make love.”
“So you’re writing again,” she said, nodding toward the pad. Changing the subject. “That’s good.”
After a long pause, he said, “Just an idea I wanted to get down. I get lots of ideas. Most of ’em never turn into actual songs.” He walked over, wrapping her in his arms from behind. And oh, it felt good, to feel taken care of, even if only for a little while. Even if it was only pretend. “Guess I miss it more’n I wanted to admit.”
You knew going in this wasn’t about miracles.
You knew.
“We should probably be getting back,” she murmured, pulling away, except he held fast, his mouth hot behind her ear as he deftly unbuttoned her shirt, then took the weight of her full, heavy breasts in his hands, and she sighed, happy. Content, despite the stinging in her eyes.
“We have an hour, yet,” he murmured, his touch scorching her skin, melting her resolve, making her laugh when he added, “I ever tell you vanilla’s my favorite flavor?”
Chapter Eleven
“So how was the movie?” Annie asked the next morning as Cash sat at the kitchen table, glowering at his half-drunk cup of coffee. A herd of cats followed her, meowing for food.
“Fine.”
The old woman tossed him a glance, hmmphed and went to refill two of the three continuous feeders. “Care to talk about it?” she asked over the whoosh of kibble against plastic.
“No.”
Swiping kibble dust off her front, Annie shuffled to the coffeemaker for her own cup, then plunked down across from him. “Not talking about the movie.”
“Neither am I.”
“You fixing to leave?”
Cash’s eyes lifted to hers, dropped again. “Can’t see much reason to stay. Emma’s back on her feet, the farm’s in pretty good shape, I can be in the house without wanting to throw up. So there’s one chapter finished. On to the next.”
“You got any idea what that is?”
“Workin’ on it.”
“You ever consider maybe the next chapter is here, too?”
“Not even for a second.” Which was a bold-faced lie, because he’d thought about nothing else since he’d brought Emma home less than twelve hours ago. Except every time he tried to visualize himself sitting at this table twenty years, five, even a month down the road, the picture kept coming up blank.
“She loves you, you know.”
Cash flinched. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m old, I can say anything I damn well please.” Then, with an you’re-an-idiot look, Annie pushed herself up and left him to stew in his own juices.
The irony, of course, was that he felt closer to Emma than anybody he’d ever met. Still, he had no doubt that, given enough time, even the unflappable Miss Emma would find herself seriously contemplating taking a two-by-four to the side of his head. Hell, he’d already seen frustration flash across her face a few times, even though she’d done her best to squelch it. He just had that effect on people. Only most of ’em didn’t bother trying to hide it.
Not that he wouldn’t miss her. And the kids. And all the rest of it. But she needed a man who could be as generous with himself as she’d been with him. Not somebody who’d deliberately held back at the very moment when she’d given him everything she had. And then some.
Twice.
Punching out a rough sigh, Cash got up for a fresh cup of coffee. His cell rang; he frowned at the readout, contemplated letting it go to voice mail, then answered anyway, his manager cutting off his “Yeah?” with, “So you are still alive. Good to know.”
“What do you want, Al?”
“For starters? For you to get your ass back to Nashville and start working again.”
“Noted. Next?”
The older man laughed. Al Parrish had been a two-bit nobody until he’d heard Cash perform at some equally two-bit honky-tonk sixteen years ago, along with a dozen other yahoos biding their time until Lady Luck bit ’em in the butt. In Cash’s case, Lady Luck was a balding, chunky little man with dubious taste in jewelry and mysterious family ties to half the Nashville music scene. Like Cash, Al’d been waiting for his big break—in this case, somebody with that indefinable something, as Al put it, that would put them both on the map.
At twenty, Cash would’ve signed his life over to the devil himself for a shot at the big-time. What Al hadn’t
realized was that it’d been more the other way around. Precious few other managers would’ve put up with his crap during those early years. But Al’s main talent lay in his ability to either ignore or look past the stupidity. In fact, he’d come as close as anybody to really believing in Cash. Except for—
“Francine called last week, looking for you.”
“What did you say?”
“Francine—”
“Never mind, I heard you. What on earth does she want?”
“To talk to you?”
“Tell me you didn’t give her my number.”
“I’m not an idiot, Cash. She did say it was urgent, though.”
Cash swept The Black One off the counter. Cat gave him a wounded look and stalked away. “She sound okay?”
“She sounded like Francine. Take that any way you like. You want her number?”
“No. But give it to me, anyway.” Cash scanned the counter for something to write with, found one of Zoey’s markers, scribbled the number on a napkin. “That all?”
A moment passed before Al said, “You not even working on any new songs, nothing?”
The tug was a lot harder than he’d expected, an ache, almost, to crawl back inside what he knew, even though what he knew didn’t really exist anymore. “I might be. For my own amusement. Why?”
“Cash, nothing would make me happier than if you’d end this little hiatus and get back on stage. Start recording again. You’re still young, for cripes’ sake, what’s to say you can’t reinvent yourself—?”
“And piss off the few fans I have left? Why on earth would I do that?”
Al sighed. They’d had this conversation a dozen times in the past year. “You’ve got a lot more than a few fans left—”
“For how long? Look, you know I’m not interested unless I can headline. And only if I can do what I’m good at. Be who I am.” On stage, at least. “Not some ‘reinvented’ version of myself. Nothing sadder than a has-been reduced to opening for some young stud twenty years younger than him.”
“What makes you think I can’t get you a headline booking?”
“Can you?” A challenge, not a plea.
“Maybe. Probably. Sure, let me see what I can work out—”
“Al. Don’t.”
“But if I could. On your terms. Would you come back?”
Cash stared outside, at the sunflowers headed toward eight feet tall, the apple trees heavy with new fruit. Sunflowers he’d planted. Trees he’d pruned. None of which were his. “Maybe,” he said at last, and Al breathed out a sigh. “Not making any promises, Al. Just…exploring possibilities.”
“Cash, you gotta trust me, your career’s far from dead—”
“I’ll let you know. Talk to you soon.”
He turned to find Emma watching him, the baby sacked out in the funny sling she wore when she went about her chores. One brow rose, as close as she came to prying.
“That was Al. My manager.”
“So I gathered.”
“How much did you hear?”
“Nothing I wouldn’t have expected.”
“We weren’t talking about anything definite—”
Her laugh cut him off. “Cash, I’m not blind. Or stupid.”
He rubbed his jaw, then shoved his fingers into his front pockets. “Country music…it’s changed. I’m not even sure…” His head wagged. “But it’s what I know, Em. What I’m good at. The one thing I apparently can’t screw up.”
One hand cupping the baby’s head, Emma went to the fridge for a bottle of juice. Automatically Cash took it from her to twist off the top, feeling his forehead pinch.
“If you’re expecting me to try to talk you out of leaving,” she said, nodding her thanks when he handed her back the open bottle, “you’ve got a long wait. Not my style. Besides, like I said, it’s not a surprise—”
“No, it’s not that, it’s…” He exhaled, his head already feeling crowded without wondering why Emma’s giving up so easily was ticking him off. He should be grateful, right? He met that steady gaze and thought, Yeah. Gonna miss you bad. “The main reason Al called was because Francine’s looking to get in touch with me.”
The juice halfway to her mouth, Emma paused. His picking up his career again had been bound to happen eventually, even if she wasn’t feeling as copacetic about that as she was letting on. She sure hadn’t counted on an ex reappearing in his life, though. Neither had Cash, apparently, judging from his expression. “You’re kidding? After all this time?”
“Yeah,” he blew out. He held up the napkin, the bright turquoise numbers bleeding into the soft paper. “Her number.”
“So call.”
“And say what?”
She knew the question was rhetorical, that he wasn’t so much asking for her input as he was sorting through his options. Which was as it should be. After all, this had nothing to do with her.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Emma said, realizing her heart was breaking, dagnab it. So she carted the baby and her juice outside to check on the kids in their new, expanded pen. Not so much because they needed checking up on, but because she needed to absorb some of their unbridled joy. She had so, so much to be grateful for, it was downright petty to feel cheated about not getting the one thing she’d known all along she couldn’t have. Because “having” Cash wasn’t possible. Not only for her, for anybody.
Didn’t make it any easier to let go, though. Especially since she hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding on.
Hearing Cash’s slow footsteps behind her, she turned, only to start at the devastation on his face. “Cash…what is it—?”
He walked over to the fence, clasping the top. Emma gave him his minute while he apparently processed whatever he’d just heard. When he finally spoke, his voice was strained.
“I’ve got a son.”
“What?”
He emptied his lungs, then looked over. Shock, disbelief, anger were all tangled up in his eyes, making her heart break a little more. “He’s seven. Francine was apparently pregnant when she left me.”
“Ohmigosh…Cash.” Whether he wanted it or not, she covered one of his hands with her own. To her surprise he grabbed hold and held fast. “But…how can you be sure?”
“She said if I don’t believe her I can certainly have a DNA test done when I get there.”
“So she’s going to let you see him?”
At that, a harsh, pained laugh pushed from his chest. “Oh, I can do you one better than that. It seems the guy she left me for? When he found out Wesley wasn’t his, he split. And Francine’s not exactly wild about being a single mother. So she’s decided…” He squeezed her hand harder. “She wants me to take him.”
“Take him?” she said, thinking, Yeah, here’s where that seeing-everybody-as-God’s-child thing gets a little dicey. “As in, simply hand him over after not even telling you about him? That’s rich.”
“One way of putting it.”
“So…are you going to?”
“Hell, Emma—I don’t know!” He pushed away from the fence to pace in front of it. “I only found out about him ten minutes ago! Have no idea if he even knows about me yet.” He turned, his face contorted. “Damn it—he’s a little kid! How’s he supposed to go from his mother to some stranger like it’s no big deal?”
Spinning around, he grabbed the fence once more, bowing over it for a second before shoving off again, backing away. “I gotta…I need to get out of here, figure out what I’m supposed to do next.”
Except, as Emma watched Cash stride to his SUV and get in, she knew exactly what Cash would do, even if he didn’t.
Because for all commitment scared the bejabbers out of him, the man she’d gotten to know over the past two months would, without doubt, put the needs of a little boy whose life was about to be turned upside down ahead of anything else. His own needs. His career. And certainly way ahead of a relationship that had barely gotten started.
A fact she saw clear as day
when his gaze touched hers before he drove off.
It took Cash three days before his head cleared enough to face Emma again. Three days of long drives and sleepless nights, of inner battles the likes of which he’d never known, of forcing himself to make the hardest decisions he’d ever made.
Wearing a body-skimming top nearly the same color as her eyes, she was rocking the sleepy baby on the porch glider when he drove up, her gaze questioning but calm as he got out of the car.
“Wasn’t sure if I’d see you again,” she said quietly when he came up the steps.
“I was hardly gonna head out without saying goodbye,” he said, thinking any other woman would’ve given him hell for leaving her in the dark that long. That she didn’t, that she wouldn’t… For the hundredth time, it hit him she was the only gal he’d probably ever regret leaving. He bent to pet the dog. “You alone?”
“Kids are still in school, Annie’s at art class. So, yeah. Just me and Bruiser, holding down the fort. Can I get you something?”
His stomach heaved. “For God’s sake, this isn’t… It’s not a social call.”
“No reason to throw common courtesy out the window.” She stood, then squatted to put the baby in his bouncy seat, and Cash stared at them both, miserable. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow. Early.”
Straightening, Emma picked up a glass of something from the wicker table beside the glider and took a sip, lifting the hem of the shirt to hook her thumb in her belt loop. “You selling the house, then?”
“Don’t know yet. Not sure what I need it for, but Tess thought I should hold off until things were more settled. Which makes her the only Realtor in the state who’d turn down a listing.”
Her lips curved. “Is there a plan?”
“At this point? Not really. I don’t even know what Francine’s told Wesley. If he has any idea what’s about to happen. Although…” Cash waited out the pang. “I’m gonna try my best to talk her out of giving him up.”
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Really.”
“Not for the reason you think,” he said, almost mad. “Not for me. But because I can’t see how it would be good for the kid.”
Welcome Home, Cowboy Page 16