by Eileen Wilks
Jenny.
He'd wanted her so much back then. More than anything, he'd wanted the laughing, lovely Jenny Rydell.
Eventually, he had gotten what he wanted.
Another memory replaced the first, slipping between the cracks in his defenses to coat the present with its oily sheen … red-gold hair hanging straight and shiny down her back. But the laughter wasn't so innocent this time, and it was only her eyes that laughed. At him. Her head had been tipped to one side, her expression gleeful as her eyes met his from across the room, her lips parted and moist from a kiss.
Mark's kiss. He'd been sixteen at the time.
Nate stared at his outstretched hand and tried to remember what he'd been reaching for, but all he could think of was how amazing it was that her name hadn't permanently marked his skin. Over and over she'd traced those letters, but they were gone now, completely gone. Just like everything he'd once felt for her, for his lovely, laughing, lying Jenny.
She was Jenny Jones now—still—though he'd never understood why she'd refused to go back to her maiden name after the divorce. She'd been Jenny Jones when she'd laughed at him from Mark's arms, Jenny Jones when she testified against him at his trial, and she was Jenny Jones still. He wished like hell he could take the name back, but some things, once given, could never be recovered.
His hand moved, closing around the volume control on the intercom, just as something bumped his leg. He looked down.
Trixie had a stick in her mouth, a hopeful look in her eyes and a motor in her tail. The silly dog considered any break in Nate's routine an invitation to play. He shook his head and took the stick. She danced back a few steps, then took off running when he threw the stick out the open door of the barn.
Trixie was the only female Nate really trusted nowadays. He knew that was a skewed way of looking at the world, but a man had to be cautious. Maybe he had no reason to think the new nurse wasn't everything Harry had claimed: kind, capable, nurturing. But he had no reason to think she was like that, either. And her beauty put him on guard. Trust was a concept he could consider academically, but it had no roots in him, no way of reaching the places inside where he really lived. Not anymore.
Nate accepted the stick from Trixie and threw it again. He wasn't going to take any chances. Aside from the discomfort of his own reaction to that centerfold-quality body of hers, this was the first time in years that Mark had come home for more than a day or two at a time. Nate might not know how to go about straightening things out between him and his brother, but he knew damn well that having Hannah McBride around wouldn't help.
So she thought Mark was gorgeous, did she?
Trixie raced back with the stick. "What do you think, girl?" he said, taking the love offering and then ruffling the dog's ears while she sat there, grinning her foolish, doggy grin at him. "You think she's after Mark, or me?"
She wouldn't know that Mark stubbornly refused to let Nate give him part of the inheritance that should have been Mark's, too. No, she probably thought Mark was good husband material, financially. Normally, Nate wouldn't have worried about his little brother getting tangled up with a woman. If anything, Mark was too cynical, too apt to slip from bed to bed. But the woman back at the house now was the hottest thing Nate had seen in years. Any man might take a tumble over a woman like that.
Any man except him.
Trixie butted her head against his hand to remind him of his duties. Idly, he tugged at one of her silky ears, then ran it through his fingers. Her eyelids sagged blissfully.
"I know one thing I can do," he told his dog, giving her one last scratch behind the ears. He could tell the woman the way things stood at the ranch. With any luck, learning that Mark didn't have much money would turn her attention away from him.
Would she focus on Nate then? Hunger drummed in his blood at the thought—a low, insistent summons. He liked the idea. He wanted her hands and her gaze and her mouth on him, and if she had money or marriage in mind when she touched him, what did that matter? He'd make it clear he wouldn't offer the one, and most of the other was tied up in the ranch. Not that he couldn't afford a little jewelry or something, if that was what she wanted. If…
He straightened, scowling at himself, his fingers tightening around Trixie's stick. If she were staying. Which she wasn't, not for any longer than it took for him to find a replacement.
He sent the stick flying again and glanced at the house.
The intercom had been silent all morning. Suddenly, that seemed ominous. What was she doing? He'd find out, he decided. He'd talk to Mark and find out just how much he needed to worry.
* * *
Hannah was finishing the last of the accumulated dirty dishes when she heard the door open, then close. She glanced over her shoulder. Her boss stood in the middle of the kitchen in his worn denim and dark hat, looking around as if he'd stumbled into unfamiliar territory.
"There's coffee, if you're ready for a break." At least she was properly dressed now, in a uniform tunic and slacks and her white Reeboks. Hannah didn't always wear uniforms when she worked—it depended on her clients. Some people were uncomfortable around uniforms, while others were reassured. But she usually dressed the part on her first day.
"You've been busy."
He made that sound more like an accusation than a compliment. She resumed her efforts on a pot that had once held macaroni and cheese. "There's a lot to do," she said. "Did you know the floor in here is a pale green?"
"Of course I know what color the floor is."
"Well, I didn't. Until the second washing, I thought it was a funny shade of gray." She gave the pot a last swish and held it up to see if she'd gotten everything. It looked okay, so she set it down. "Sure you don't want some coffee? I'm going to have—"
She turned around and stopped speaking, because there was no one there to speak to. He'd left without a word.
Hannah shook her head. Rude man. She picked up the dish towel. He was checking on his brother, no doubt. She would applaud his concern if she didn't think it came from a lack of confidence in her.
She dried the pot and her hands, squirted lotion into one palm, then stood, massaging the lotion into her skin and surveying the room with satisfaction. It did look better than it had when she stepped into it this morning.
The kitchen was a big, square room totally lacking in designer touches, and Hannah's favorite spot in the house so far. The appliances were old, but they had once been top-of-the-line. The solid cherry cabinets could be beautiful again, given a little elbow grease. In that, they were like most of what she'd seen of the rest of the house. As she poured herself a cup of coffee, she wondered if the pervading shabbiness meant that the ranch had fallen on hard times. A lot of ranchers were struggling these days.
Or maybe its condition simply reflected a masculine lack of interest, though Hannah found that hard to understand. If she had a grand old house like this one—a home that had been around so long it seemed to have grown right into the rocky landscape where it rested—it would never suffer from neglect. Of course, she would never have such a house. Nurses didn't earn that kind of money.
But Hannah didn't need much. She didn't want much. Just a home.
The kitchen would come first, she decided as she carried her coffee over to the big, round table. She'd get those cabinets glowing, then she'd see what she could do with the living room. Maybe, before she left, she would plant some bulbs in one of the neglected beds outside. There was something about the promises bulbs made when you put them in the ground…
"He's asleep."
She jolted, sloshing some of her coffee onto the table, then frowned at the man standing in the doorway. He'd returned as silently as he'd left. "I could have told you that. You don't have to go sneaking around that way," she scolded, going to the sink for a dishrag.
"He hasn't slept well at night since he came home. I've never seen him sleep in the middle of the day. Not since he was six, anyway."
"I drugged him," she said dryly
, mopping up the spill, then carrying her cup back to the coffeepot for a refill. "You going to join me in a cup?"
"How did you get him to take his pain pills?"
"Poker." She opened the cabinet, took down a mug. The heck with the man. She was pouring him some coffee whether he wanted it or not. "Cream or sugar?" she asked, turning around, one steaming mug in each hand.
"Black."
Darn him, he'd moved again, just as silently as before. He was close now. Too close. Those dark eyes staring down at her were almost as unnerving as his oversize male body standing so near her own.
"You played poker with him to get him to take his pain medication?"
Her pulse skipped a beat as nerves hummed along just beneath the surface of her skin. She handed him a mug. "Yep. Five hands of five-card stud. He accused me of cheating, but I told him that unless he caught me, he couldn't prove anything and he had to pay up. I'm too good to get caught right off the bat," she said cheerfully. "Now, I take a little milk in my coffee. If you wouldn't mind…? You're sort of blocking the path to the refrigerator."
He stepped back and took a sip of his coffee. His eyebrows lifted. "This is good."
She chuckled and took out the milk. "I bet you were expecting city-girl coffee, weren't you? I learned how to make coffee from my daddy. Of course, he's always claimed he liked it best boiled in a pan over an open fire, with the white of an egg dropped in to gather the grounds. I don't go that far, but I do like it to have some body." And then she liked to smooth out that bitter brew with plenty of milk.
"Your father is a cowboy?"
"He sure is." She replaced the milk and closed the refrigerator. The buzzer went off. "Oh, that'll be the coffee cake. Hold on a minute."
Somewhere, she thought as she opened the oven door, releasing a fragrant cloud of steam, there might be a man who was proof against the pecan-topped, caramel-sticky coffee cake that the housekeeper at the Barstow Ranch up in Montana had taught her how to bake—but she hadn't met him yet.
At least, she didn't think she had. Nate stood near the table, waiting, his face impassive.
"Want a piece?" she asked, turning so that she all but waved it under his nose.
"No." He looked at the coffee cake. "Sure. Why not?"
She was getting to him, she told herself as she took out the knife and cut two generous pieces. "So, what did you want to talk about?"
"Sit down, would you? I can't talk to you when you're hopping all over."
Hannah would have liked to think that he just couldn't wait to taste her coffee cake, but a glance at his face told her that food wasn't uppermost on his mind. She sighed. "Here." She set his piece in front of him, and sat.
He sat down across from her. First he frowned at the coffee cake, then he transferred the frown to her. "I can't believe you admit you cheated at cards."
"Oh, that was my last resort. First I tried slipping his pain pills into his food, but he got suspicious and refused to eat, so I tied him down and—"
"Miss McBride—"
"Hannah."
Something very like a smile glimmered in those dark eyes. "Hannah. You don't think I'm being very reasonable, do you?"
"Well … no."
"I'm glad you got him to take his pain medicine. He needs more sleep than he's been getting, but he's very stubborn."
"This wouldn't be a family trait, would it?" She paused, then triumphantly produced the word she wanted. "Patroclinous, perhaps?"
"Patro-what?"
"Patroclinous." It had been her hardest vocabulary word last summer. She'd written it on the back of her hand for three days straight before she could remember it. "It's a genetic thing—traits that are derived mostly from the paternal parent."
That glimmer looked more than ever like a smile. "Ah. Very likely." He took a sip of his coffee, looked at it, and took another sip. "You do make good coffee."
"Try a bite of the coffee cake."
This time the smile got all the way to that hard mouth of his and tilted one corner up. "You trying to soften me up with food?"
"You betcha. I—what's that?"
"I don't hear anything." He looked down and cut a bite of the coffee cake.
"I heard something at the door."
"You're right. This is great coffee cake." He cut another bite.
She frowned. There it was again—a soft, sad little whine. She pushed back her chair. "I'm going to see what's making that sound. It sounds like an animal that's been hurt."
"It's my dog. And she isn't hurt."
"Your dog?" She went through the laundry room to the side door, where that sad little whine came from. "I didn't know you had one. Is she a working dog?"
"Her?" He snorted. "No, that worthless animal would rather make friends with the cattle than herd them."
She reached for the doorknob. "What kind of dog is she?"
"She's not supposed to come—"
A huge brown Labrador retriever barreled through the doorway, all but knocking Hannah down on her way in. Hannah laughed. "Not supposed to come inside, huh? Have you told her this?"
The dog was wiggling all over and licking Nate's hand. Two faint spots of color appeared high on his cheeks. "Sometimes I let her come in the kitchen. Just the kitchen. Only when it's really cold at night."
He was embarrassed? Hannah watched her grouchy boss turn into a marshmallow. His hand automatically found the spot just behind the ears that the dog desperately wanted to have rubbed, and canine devotion fairly oozed out of the animal.
Charmed, she came close and knelt. "Introduce us."
"Her name's Trixie," he said, not looking at her.
"Hey, Trixie," Hannah said softly, holding out her hand. "C'mere, girl. That's a sweet— ooph!"
Trixie, alerted to the fact that someone wanted her, had whirled around and lunged at Hannah, knocking her flat on her back. Hannah got a faceful of dog tongue and started laughing, which only encouraged the silly animal.
"Are you okay? Back! Sit!" Nate's stern voice said rather confusingly to the two of them. Trixie's happy face and tongue vanished from Hannah's field of vision, replaced by a very different one. This face was human and male, with mismatched eyebrows drawn tight in worry as his dark eyes skimmed over her and his hands fastened on her shoulders. "She didn't hurt you when she knocked you down, did she?"
Hannah's laughter faded. His hands were wonderfully large and warm. "No…" She pushed up on one elbow, which brought their faces closer together. His cheeks were dark. He must have shaved only a few hours ago, but his beard was already growing back.
Would his skin be scratchy?
He frowned. "That was a damn-fool thing to do, getting down on the floor with her. What if she'd been vicious?"
"Oh, yeah," she said dryly. "I can see how that dog might turn vicious at any moment." She could smell Nate, ever so faintly—a faint, comfortable scent that made her think of barns and apples. Was the apple scent his shampoo, maybe? If she raised up a little bit more, she could put her face in the place between his neck and his shoulder and breathe in that inviting smell, find out how much of it was from him and him alone…
"Uh-oh," she said. Then she kissed him.
* * *
Chapter 4
«^»
Curiosity and impulse brought Hannah's mouth to his. She wanted to know why he kept stirring such odd thoughts in her mind—wishful, wistful, hungry thoughts. She wanted to know if his cheeks were scratchy, if his mouth was as hard as it looked, if his frowning eyebrow felt different from the other one. She wanted to know what he tasted like, late on a winter morning.
Her answers came in a rush of sensations. The skin on his cheek was just rough enough to make her fingertips tingle. His lips were just soft enough to surprise hers in the first second of the kiss. As for his taste…
Nate didn't kiss like a curious man. No, he opened his mouth and kissed her as if he'd been fasting for days, for weeks, and she'd invited him to feast. His mouth tasted of coffee—hot coffee, dark
and bitter with need. When his hand fisted in her hair, loosening the braid, while his tongue wrote its demands on her lips, passion surprised her into opening for him, and her thoughts scattered like sheep when the wolf comes calling.
His tongue asked questions of her, yes, but he answered those questions as quickly as he asked them—answered them with his clever mouth, with his knowing hands. One hand loosed its grip in her hair to curve around her neck, where it paused, stroking her pulse. His palm was as warm as the syrupy heat that it stirred in her, his fingers as rough as the sudden hitch in her breath.
Her body arched and her hands went tunneling into his hair, knocking his hat off. His hair was a surprise, too. He had fine hair, short and deliciously silky.
Then his hand moved.
Her eyes opened in shock as his fingers slid down over her breast—inside her shirt. She tried to break the kiss, bewildered, unable to remember how her tunic came to be unzipped enough to let him touch her this way … unable to understand why she liked letting him touch her this way. She didn't know him. She wasn't at all sure she liked him.
But she liked what he was doing.
He muttered something against her mouth. His thumb and finger moved to tease her nipple through the sensible cotton of her bra—tease it, squeeze it, sending ribbons of heat slicing through her. His hand was firm with her, possessive, as if its owner didn't question his right to touch her. And for one long moment she lay there on the hard, clean kitchen floor and let him do what they both wanted him to do, let him learn what he pleased about the shape and feel of her breast … while other questions rose in her, questions as hard and hot and fierce as the need his hand was building.
It was too much. The caution Hannah had learned so painfully so many years ago woke and struggled with needs and cravings that were too strong, too sudden. She pushed against his chest.
He didn't move, and she pushed harder, but it was like shoving against a brick wall. She couldn't make him move, and she knew a moment's panic mixed with confusion over the way her body was still responding, heedless and helpless, to his touch. She made a frightened sound deep in her throat.