by Linda Howard
The first sheet of rain hit the house, drumming down on the tin roof. The late-afternoon sunlight was almost completely blotted out, darkening the rooms. She moved through the gloom to the oil lamps set on the mantel, her hand setting surely on the match box. The rasp of the match was unheard in the din of rain, but he turned at the sudden small bloom of light and watched as she lifted the globes of the lamps and touched the match to the wicks, then replaced the globes. She blew out the match and tossed it into the fireplace.
Without a word she went into the kitchen and duplicated the chore, though there were four oil lamps there because she liked more light when she was working. The fire in the stove had been banked; she opened the door, stirred the hot coals, and added more wood.
“What are you doing?” he asked from the doorway.
Mentally she rolled her eyes. “Cooking.” Maybe he’d never seen the process before.
“But we just ate.”
“So we did, but those sandwiches won’t hold you for long, if I’m any judge.” She eyed him, measuring him against the doorframe. A little over six feet tall, she guessed, and at least two hundred pounds. He looked muscled, given the way his shoulders filled out his shirt, so he might weigh more. This man would eat a lot.
He came on into the room and settled at the table, turning the chair around so he faced her, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His fingers drummed on the table. “This irritates the hell out of me,” he confessed.
Her tone was dry. “I noticed.” She dipped some water into the washbowl and washed her hands.
“Usually I can do something. Usually, in bad weather, I have to do something, whether it’s working a wreck or dragging people off of flooded roads. I need to be out there now, because my deputies will have their hands full.”
So that was the cause of his restlessness and irritability; he knew his help was needed, but he couldn’t leave here. She liked his sense of responsibility.
He watched in silence then as she prepared her biscuit pan, spraying it with nonstick spray. She got her mixing bowl and scooped some flour into it, added shortening and buttermilk, and plunged her hands into the bowl.
“I haven’t seen anyone do that in years.” He smiled as he kept his eyes on her hands, deftly mixing and kneading. “My grandmother used to, but I can’t remember ever seeing my mother make biscuits by hand.”
“I don’t have a refrigerator,” she said practically. “Frozen biscuits are out.”
“Don’t you want to have things like refrigerators and electric stoves? Doesn’t it bother you, not having electricity?”
“Why should it? I don’t depend on a wire for heat and light. If I had electricity, the power might be off right now and I wouldn’t be able to cook.” He rubbed his jaw, brow furrowed as he thought. She liked the sight, she mused, eyeing him as she continued to knead. His brows were straight and dark, nicely shaped. Everything about him was nicely shaped. She bet that all the single women in town, and a few of the married ones, were hot for him. Short dark hair, bright blue eyes, strong jaw, soft lips—she didn’t know how she knew his lips were soft, but she did. Oh, yeah, they were hot for him. She was a bit warm herself.
She thought of walking over to him and straddling his lap, and an instantaneous flush swept over her entire body. Warm, my foot; she thought she might break out in a sweat any minute now.
“Running a gas line would be even harder than running power lines,” he mused, his mind still on the issue of modern conveniences. “I guess you could get a propane tank, but filling it would be a bitch, since there aren’t any roads out here.”
“The wood stove suits me fine. It’s only a few years old, so it’s very efficient. It heats the whole house, and it’s easy to regulate.” She began pinching off balls of dough and rolling them between her hands, shaping them into biscuits and placing them in the pan. If she kept her eyes on the dough, instead of him, the hot feeling cooled down somewhat.
“Where do you get your wood?”
She couldn’t help it. She had to look at him, her expression incredulous. “I cut it myself.” Where did he think she got it? Maybe he thought the wood fairies chopped it and piled it up for her.
To her surprise, he surged up out of the chair, looming over her with a scowl. “Chopping wood is too hard for you.”
“Gee, I’m glad you told me, otherwise I’d have kept doing it and not known any better.” She edged away from him, turning to the sink to wash the dough from her hands.
“I didn’t mean you couldn’t do it, I meant you shouldn’t have to,” he growled. His voice was right behind her. He was right behind her. Without warning, he reached around her and wrapped his fingers around her right wrist. His hand completely engulfed hers. “Look at that. My wrist is twice as thick as yours. You may be strong for your size, but you can’t tell me it isn’t a struggle for you to chop wood.”
“I manage.” She wished he hadn’t touched her. She wished he wasn’t standing so close that she could feel the heat from his body, smell the hot man-smell of him.
“And it’s dangerous. What if the ax slips, or the saw, or whatever you use? You’re out here alone, a long way from medical help.”
“A lot of things are dangerous.” She struggled to keep her voice practical, and even. “But people do what they have to do, and I have to have wood.” Why hadn’t he released her hand? Why hadn’t she pulled it away herself? She could; he wasn’t holding her tightly. But she liked the feel of his hand wrapped around hers, liked the warmth and strength, the roughness of the calluses on his palm.
“I’ll chop it for you,” he said abruptly.
“What!” She almost turned around; common sense stopped her at the last minute. If she turned around, she would be face-to-face, belly to belly, with him. She didn’t dare. She swallowed. “You can’t chop my wood.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” Because, why? “Because you won’t be here.”
“I’m here now.” He paused, and his tone dropped lower. “I can be again.”
She went still. The only sound was the storm, the boom of thunder and wind lashing through the trees, the rain pounding down on the roof. Or maybe it was her heart, pounding against her rib cage.
“I have to be careful here,” he said quietly. “I’m acting as a man, not a sheriff. If you tell me no, I’ll go back to the table and sit down. I’ll keep my distance from you for the rest of the night, and I won’t bother you again. But if you don’t tell me no, I’m going to kiss you.”
Lilah inhaled, fighting for oxygen. She couldn’t say a word, couldn’t think of anything to say even if she had the air. She was feeling hot again, and weak, as if she might collapse against him.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and turned her into his arms.
5
His lips were soft, just the way she’d known they would be. And he was gentle, rather than bruising her lips by pressing too hard. He didn’t try to overwhelm her with a sudden display of passion. He simply kissed her, taking his time about it, tasting her and learning the shape and texture of her own lips. The leisurely pace was more seductive than anything else he could have done.
She sighed, a low hum of pleasure, and let herself relax against him. He gathered her up, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her onto her toes so that they fit together more intimately. The full press of his body against her made her catch her breath, and that now-familiar wave of heat swept over her again. She looped her arms around his neck, pressing even closer, shivering a little as his tongue moved slowly into her mouth, giving her time to pull away if she didn’t want such a deep kiss. She did, more than she had ever thought she would want a man’s kiss.
Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Pleasure was a siren, luring her to experience more, to take everything he could give her. His erection was a hard ridge in his pants; she wanted to rub herself against it, open herself to it. Knowing herself to be on the verge of losing control, she forced herself to pull away from the s
low, intoxicating kisses, burying her face instead in the warm column of his throat.
He wasn’t unaffected. His pulse hammered through his veins; she felt it, there in his neck, just where her lips rested. His lungs pumped, dragging in air. His skin felt hot and damp, and he moved restlessly, as if he wanted to grind his hips against her.
He didn’t say anything, for which she was grateful. Innate caution told her to slow down, while instinct screamed at her, urging her to mate with him; it was fated, anyway, so why wait? What would waiting accomplish? The outcome was the same, no matter the timetable. Torn between the two, she hesitated, not quite willing yet to take such a large step no matter what the fates said.
“This is scary,” she muttered against his throat.
“No joke.” He buried his face against her hair. “This must be what it feels like to get hit by that famous ton of bricks.”
The knowledge that he was as rattled as she wasn’t very reassuring, because she would have liked for one of them to be in control.
“We don’t know each other.” Neither did she know with whom she was arguing, him or herself. All she knew was that, for one of the few times in her life, she wasn’t certain of herself. She didn’t like the feeling. One of the foundation bricks of her life, her very self, was her knowledge of herself and other people; not to know was if that foundation was being shaken.
“We’ll work on that.” His lips brushed her temple. “We don’t have to rush into anything.”
But when he did know her, would he still want her? She worried at that, feeling, not for the first time, the weight of her differentness. She came with so much excess baggage that a lot of men would think she was more trouble than she was worth.
That thought gave her the strength to push gently at his shoulders. He released her immediately, stepping back. Lilah took a deep breath and pushed her hair out of her face, trying not to look at him, but the clear, dark red of passion emanating from him was almost impossible to ignore. “I’d better get those biscuits in the oven,” she said, stepping around him. “Just sit down out of my way and I’ll have supper ready in a jiffy.”
“I’ll stand, thank you,” he said wryly.
She couldn’t help it; she had to look, meeting his rueful blue gaze in perfect understanding. The dark red of his aura was still glowing hot and clear, especially in the groin area, though more blue was beginning to show through in the aura around his head.
But he did move out of her way, leaning against the wall by the door. She put the biscuits into the oven and opened a big can of beef stew, dumping the contents into a pot and placing that on top of the stove. The simple meal would have to be enough, because she wasn’t about to go out into the storm to chase down a chicken for supper. The biscuits could cool, and the beef stew could simmer until he got hungry again.
He was watching her. She felt his gaze, his utter male focus on her. Being female wasn’t something to which she gave a great deal of thought, but under that intent study she was suddenly, acutely aware of her body, of the way her breasts lifted with each breath, of the folds between her legs where he would enter. She didn’t have to look down to know her nipples were tightly beaded, or at the front of his pants to know his erection hadn’t yet subsided.
His unabashed arousal did more to turn her on than any sweet nothing he could have whispered. Something had to be done to lessen the sensual tension, or she would shortly find herself on her back. She cleared her throat, mentally searching for a neutral topic.
“How did a nice Texas boy end up in Alabama?” She already knew; Jo had told her. But it was the only thing she could think of, and at least the question would get him to talking.
“My mother was from Dothan.”
No further explanation followed. Deciding he needed more prodding, Lilah said, “Why did she move to Texas?”
“She met my dad. He was from west Texas. Mom and a couple of friends from college were driving to California after graduation, and they had car trouble. My dad was a deputy then, and he stopped to help them. Mom never did get to California.”
That was better; he was talking. She breathed an inner sigh of relief. “Why did she come back to Alabama, then?”
“Dad died a few years ago.” He settled his shoulders more comfortably against the wall. “West Texas isn’t for everyone; it can be hot as hell, and pretty damn empty. She never complained while Dad was alive, but after he died, the loneliness got to her. She wanted to move back to Alabama, close to her sister and her friends from college.”
“So you came with her?”
“She’s my mother,” he said simply. “I can be in law enforcement here as easily as I could in Texas. Mom and I don’t live together, haven’t since I was eighteen and went away to college, but she knows I’m nearby if she needs anything.”
“It didn’t bother you at all to leave Texas?” She couldn’t imagine such a thing. She loved her home, knew it as intimately as she knew herself. She loved the scent of the river in the early mornings, the way it turned gold when the dawn light struck it, she loved the dramatic weather that produced violent thunderstorms and torrents of rain, the hot, humid days when even the birds seemed lethargic, and the gray winter days when a fire in the fireplace and a cup of hot soup were the best she could ask of life.
He shrugged. “Home is family, not a place. I’ve got some aunts and uncles in Texas, a whole herd of cousins, but no one as close to me as Mom. I can always visit Texas if I feel the need.”
He loved his mother, and was unabashed about it. Lilah swallowed, hard. Her own mother had died when she was five, but she cherished the few memories she had of the woman who had been the center of life in the isolated little house.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you from here originally?”
“I was born in this house. I’ve lived here all my life.”
He gave her a quizzical look, and she knew what he was thinking. Most babies were born in a hospital, and had been for the last fifty years. She was obviously younger than that, but too old to have been part of the birth-at-home fashion that was making a comeback in some sections.
“Didn’t your daddy have time to get her to the hospital?”
“She didn’t want a hospital.” Was now the time to explain that her mother had been a folk healer, like her? That she too had seen the bursts of color that surrounded people, and taught her daughter what they meant, how to read them? That she had known everything would be all right, and thus hadn’t seen any purpose in spending their hard-earned money on a hospital and doctor she didn’t need?
“That was one tough lady,” he said, shaking his head. A small smile curved his mouth. “I delivered a baby when I was a rookie. Scared the hell out of me, and the mother wasn’t too happy, either. But we got through it, and they were both okay.” The smile turned into a grin. “My bedside manner must have been a tad off, though; she didn’t name the baby after me. As I recall, her exact words were: ‘No offense, but I never want to see you again for the rest of my life.’ ”
Lilah threw back her head on a gusty laugh. She could just see a young, inexperienced rookie deputy, sweating and panicky, delivering a baby. “What happened? Did the baby come early, or just fast?”
“Neither. West Texas does get snow, and that was one of the times. The roads were in really bad shape. She and her husband were on the way to the hospital, but their car slid off the road into a drift not a mile from their house, so they walked back home and called for help. I was in the area, and I had a four-wheel drive, but by the time I got to their house the weather was even worse, so bad I wouldn’t risk the drive.” He rubbed his ear. “She cussed me, called me every name I’d ever heard before, and a few that I hadn’t. She wanted something for the pain, and I was the one keeping her from getting it, so she made sure I suffered right along with her.”
His grin invited her to laugh at the image his words conjured. Lilah snickered as she checked on the biscuits. “What about her husband?”
�
�Useless. Every time he came around he got an even worse cussing than I did, so he stayed out of sight. I’m telling you, that was one unhappy lady.”
“How long did her labor last?”
“Nineteen hours and twenty-four minutes,” he promptly replied. “The longest nineteen hours and twenty-four minutes in the history of the world, according to her. She swore she’d been in labor at least three days.”
Under the amusement in his tone was a thread of … joy. She tilted her head, wondering if she read him correctly. “You liked it.” The words weren’t quite a question.
He laughed. “Yeah, I did. It was exciting, and funny, and amazing as hell. I’ve seen puppies and calves and foals being born, but I’ve never felt anything like when that baby slid into my hands. By the way, it was a girl. Jackson just didn’t seem to suit her.”
His aura was glowing now with more green in the mixture, shot through with joyful yellow. Lilah no longer had to wonder when she would fall in love with him. She did in that moment, something inside her melting, growing hotter. She knew her own aura would be showing pink, and she blushed, even though she knew he couldn’t see it.
She felt trembly, and had to sit down. This was momentous. She’d never thought she would love the way others did, not romantically. She loved many people and many things, but not like this. Always, mixed in with her feelings, was the knowledge that she was set apart from them, a caretaker rather than a partner. Even with Pops she’d been the rock on which he leaned. But Jackson was a strong man, both mentally and physically. He didn’t need anyone to take care of him; rather, he did the caring.
If she hadn’t been able to see his aura, she would eventually have loved him anyway. But she could see it, and she knew the essence of the man. That, and her own precognitive recognition of him as her mate, destroyed her sense of caution. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him do whatever he wanted. Instead she got up and checked the biscuits.
She stood there with the oven door open, letting heat escape, staring blindly at the biscuits. Jackson came up behind her. “Perfect,” he said with approval.