by Eileen Wilks
"So you don't have a place picked out yet." Casually he reached out and captured a handful of her wind-tossed hair. His knuckles brushed her cheek as he pushed the hair away from her face. "What about a man?" he asked softly. "Do you have a man picked out to settle down with, Hannah?"
"No," she whispered. Her heart was beating too hard. The wind tasted of danger and desire, and she had to swallow before she could speak in a normal voice. Almost normal, anyway. "I need to tell you something."
"Is there a man in your life?"
"No, but—"
"Then it can wait."
"No, it can't. You should know that I have decided not to have a man in my life right now." She spoke firmly, so he would understand and not be misled. "I realize I may have given you the wrong impression earlier, and I wanted to correct that."
His expression didn't change. "I appreciate you setting the record straight."
"I don't want to have any misunderstandings."
He nodded. Slowly, the fingers in her hair relaxed their grip. His hand dropped to his side, and her hair immediately flew in her face again. "I don't, either. Do you understand why I've brought you up here?"
"You want to tell me what happened."
"I want to seduce you."
Her jaw dropped. She had to close her mouth so she could swallow her heart, which had inexplicably jumped up into her throat where it didn't belong. Then she said, very sensibly, "No."
His eyebrow—the bent one—lifted quizzically. "It wouldn't be seduction if you said yes right away. But I won't touch you until I've told you the truth."
She frowned at him, thought about what he'd said, and turned to go. "If that's the only reason you have for telling me, I'll see you back at the ranch." She was leaving. It was the only thing to do. Obviously she'd been a fool to come here with him.
"Don't you want to know, Hannah?"
She ignored him and kept walking. She managed to get four more steps between them before he spoke again and stopped her in her tracks.
"Six years ago, I killed my wife's lover."
She hadn't wanted to know. That was the first, foolish thought that slid through Hannah's mind. Deep down, she'd wanted to keep reality at arm's length, as if ignorance were some sort of shield. Hannah was ashamed to realize that now. She'd been afraid. It was that simple, and that unpalatable. But had she been afraid that the truth would change the way she thought about him? Or had she feared that it wouldn't?
She straightened her shoulders, turned around to face him—and learned something else. She still wanted him.
Nate stood there tall and angry and alone in his blue cotton and faded denim, his midnight eyes daring her to either condemn or forgive him—she wasn't sure which he would hate worse. And she still wanted him. She put one hand on her middle, right where panic swirled and desire clawed, and made herself meet those challenging eyes. "How?"
"In a fight in a bar."
She flinched. "That's sordid."
"Murder usually is."
Telling Hannah had been hard. Harder even than he'd expected. Nate watched her now, standing with her feet planted firmly, her hands clenched at her sides and her spine straight. She looked ready to do battle. The wind whipped her hair in her face again, and she met his gaze squarely through a froth of wild red curls.
"But—it was an accident." An erratic gust of wind tossed her hair back out of her eyes for a moment, and he saw them clearly. Please, those soft brown eyes begged. Please tell me again that it was an accident.
Nate had promised that he would never defend himself again. But her eyes looked so sad. "Yes. It was."
"So," she said, and this time she grabbed her hair herself and kept hold of it, keeping it out of her face, "how did it happen?"
"Publicly." He'd made sure of that, hadn't he? His mouth twisted. "When Jenny told me about her affair with the two-bit singer who was performing at a local bar, I decided I'd had enough of her games. I dragged her down to the Lucky Chance and gave her to him—up on stage. Ramos didn't like my attitude. We went from words to fists pretty quickly. He was a lot smaller than me, so I held back, but he was still pretty easy to flatten. Then I made a mistake. I turned my back on him."
"What did he do?"
"He came at me with a knife. I … hit him with everything I had." He paused. "The Lucky Chance had black metal tables back then that were bolted to the floor. It kept people from breaking the furniture whenever there was a fight. When I hit Ramos, he went flying off the stage and fell against one of those tables, and he landed wrong. It broke his neck."
Her eyes closed for a second, then opened. "But that's not murder. He had a knife."
"I threw the first punch."
She shook her head so vigorously that her hair escaped, whipping itself in her face again. "But it wasn't on purpose. Why would the jury call it murder?"
"Because my wife did."
"What?"
"Jenny told the DA, our neighbors, the jury, anyone who would listen, that I was a madman that night, crazy with jealousy. She said that I went to that bar intending to kill her lover. That I had said so, several times, on the way there."
Her eyes were wide. "People say things like that all the time without meaning them."
"I didn't say one damn word to her once I got her in the truck. I sure as hell didn't threaten her boyfriend's life. I didn't care enough by then."
"She lied," Hannah whispered. "Dear God. How awful for you. Why did she do that? Was she so in love with this man that she had to punish you?"
He laughed, but it didn't come out right. "Hell, no. She did everything for love, all right, but it was me she claimed to love. Jenny came to see me in jail just before the trial to tell me she was sorry. And how much she loved me." His lip curled in scorn. "That was always her excuse—love. Oh, she loved me, all right. Told me she couldn't go on without me, and that she'd lie on the stand for me if I'd take her back."
"But she was already lying!"
He shrugged. "I'm not sure Jenny knew the difference between her stories and the truth by then."
"She tried to blackmail you."
"In a sense." He looked away. For some reason, this was the part that shamed him. He didn't like to talk about any of the events of that night, but he'd come to terms with the rest of it pretty well—with his mistakes on that one night, and with the long folly of his marriage. But he'd never told anyone this part. "She was frantic when I refused to take her back. She said she would kill herself if I didn't."
"Oh, Nate. Did she—try?"
"I don't know." He met Hannah's eyes. The coldness inside him was both pain and comfort. "It wasn't the first time she'd said that, you see. I didn't really think she'd do it, but I didn't know for sure. I sent word to her brother so he could watch her, and all through my trial I waited to see if she would kill herself. If she did make the attempt, I never heard about it."
Hannah looked at him in silence for a moment, then she came forward. She stood next to him and leaned her forearms on the shelf of rock once more. "I thought you hated her. When you spoke about her, you sounded so angry."
It had been a long time since Nate had tried to put words to what he felt about Jenny. "Maybe I'm angry, but I don't hate Jenny. She's too pathetic. She got trapped in the great myth of love back when we were teenagers, and never found her way out. She wanted love to be everything, the entire world, for both of us. I guess it was, for her."
"She wanted an excuse not to be responsible for her actions," Hannah said tartly. "That's not love."
"That's all love is. An excuse."
She frowned at him in such obvious disapproval that he had to smile. "I can see everything you think, everything you feel, right here." He stroked two fingers along the curve of her cheek. Such a simple touch, he thought. But not innocent. It was impossible to touch this woman innocently. "Are you still going to let me touch you, now that you know the truth?"
She shook her head, dislodging his hand. "I wasn't going to let you touch
me before."
His smile deepened. "My mistake." He drifted his fingertips down the smooth line of her throat. "I thought you liked it."
She shivered. He was almost certain that it was from hunger rather than fear. "I like raspberries, but I don't eat them. They give me hives."
He grinned. "Hannah," he said, and took her shoulders in his hands to turn her toward him. "You delight me." He threaded his hands into her hair to tilt her face up, stroking his thumbs along the vulnerable underside of her jaw.
Her pulse was jumping beneath his thumbs. Her eyes were smoky with desire; her voice, firm with resolve. "I am not going to kiss you."
"Now, there's a problem. I guess I'll have to kiss you, instead." He was still smiling when he covered her mouth with his.
She was stiff, unmoving. He coaxed her with his tongue, and she tasted good, so good. Even better than he remembered. Kissing Hannah was like swallowing sunshine—a sensation so rich and curious he wanted to spend the next hour getting acquainted with her mouth. Just her mouth.
But sunshine is both light and heat. Even as the light sang in his head, making him dizzy, the heat poured into his body, and his body reacted. He moaned and pulled her closer.
* * *
Chapter 10
«^»
Hannah would have been all right if Nate hadn't moaned.
She held herself rigid, not pushing him away, maybe, but not cooperating. That was an incredible accomplishment when thrills chased each other over her skin and desire coiled, serpent-like, in her belly. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands so she wouldn't reach for him. She shivered, but didn't open her mouth to that sweetly questing tongue. She closed her eyes as fire licked through her veins, but she didn't move.
In a second—just one more second—she was going to stop him. It wasn't fair to let him continue, not fair at all. And she would put her hands out and push him away just as soon as she could be sure she would be pushing, not pulling. In another second or two, she would do that.
Until he made that sound. Until she knew that he needed, just as she did.
He needed her.
Logic shut down. Her hands reached for him even as he pulled her closer, and she fit herself up against him. And, oh, Lord, but he felt good. Right. His body felt as natural up against hers as breathing, and as new and exciting as a birthday morning with presents waiting.
Her mouth opened to his. His hands slid under her bulky parka, and that was better. Much better. She could feel the heat of his palms on her back, and she wanted to feel him, too. She managed to get her hands up beneath his jacket so she could savor the taut muscles of his back, where he was firm and warm.
Hannah was a tall woman. She wasn't used to feeling small, or to tipping her head back so far to meet a man's mouth. She wasn't used to having a man wrap himself around her the way Nate was, as if she were his entire world. Dimly she remembered that she hadn't intended to kiss Nate, but she couldn't remember why. This felt right. He felt right.
When he pulled his mouth away from hers to trace kisses across her face and down her throat, she tilted her head to give him better access. When his hands tightened on her waist and his thigh slid between hers, pressing against her, she moaned and pressed against him.
Then he muttered something—maybe a curse—and pulled his head back. His breath came harsh and fast. "Hannah. Look at me."
Slowly she opened her eyes.
His face was taut with hunger. "There's nothing here but rock. We could find a way to do what we want even here, but we don't have to—not if we stop now, anyway."
"Nate—"
He released her waist to cup her face in his big hands, his fingers threading into her hair. "I want to lay you down, Hannah. I want you on your back somewhere soft, especially this first time, so I can look at your face when I push inside you." He pressed one more kiss to her mouth. "Come home with me. Come to my room."
"I can't—I can't just—Abe will still be there!"
"Tonight, then." He stroked his hands down her hair. "Come to me tonight."
She couldn't do that. Hannah rested her forehead on his shoulder, trying to get her breath and her heart back under control. This is all my fault, she thought, stricken. She'd led him on. There was no way a practical woman like her could take a chance on a man like Nate.
"Hannah?"
She raised her head, looked right into his midnight eyes and said, "Yes."
* * *
It would be all right, Hannah told herself on their ride back. They hadn't spoken much after climbing down from the rocky ridge, and the tension winding itself tighter and tighter inside her wasn't purely sexual. But she could handle that. She was a grown woman, after all. She could have an affair with a man without—
"I shouldn't have let you talk me into such a long ride," Nate said.
"What?" She blinked in confusion.
"You're hurting, aren't you?"
Not yet, she thought, and shook her head—more in rejection of her fears than in answer to Nate. "I'm okay."
"Sure you are. You've been scooting around in that saddle like you had fleas for the last ten minutes."
Ever since they got back on the horses, actually. But she wasn't doing it because her thighs hurt. "I'm a little sore, but I … it's been a long time," she said, and she wasn't talking about riding.
He didn't answer. Instead, he kneed Kami, bringing her up so close to Ajax that the gelding automatically tried to shift away. Hannah held the horse in place, looking at Nate curiously.
He held out his hand to her.
She hesitated only a second before reaching out to take it. As soon as he touched her, the coils of fear eased, even as those cast by desire tightened. Tears startled Hannah by suddenly sheening her vision, so that she had to blink rapidly to keep them from escaping.
Something was happening inside her. Something large and important and frightening. Something other than lust.
Nate's hand was warm and rough and comforting, but holding hands with him gave her no answers.
But then, she hadn't dared ask any questions.
They rode in silence for several minutes, the sun bright overhead and the wind chilly around them, holding hands. Hannah found herself thinking about her word for the day: chimera—a mythological monster with a lion's head, a goat's body and a serpent's tail; an unreal creature of the imagination.
Hannah's imagination had conjured plenty of monsters when she was a child. She'd lain awake on far too many nights, staring into the darkness of an unfamiliar bedroom in a new house, afraid to move. Oh, she'd known there wasn't really a monster under her bed, waiting to grab any stray body part she was careless enough to let stick out over the edge of the mattress. Her big sister had told her that often enough. Then and now, Leslie had had an irritating habit of being right about most things.
That hadn't kept Hannah from tucking all the covers up under the mattress before she went to bed. After every move, especially, she'd had to make sure none of the covers hung down to the floor where the monster could get on them and climb up and get her. Because however imaginary the monster might have been, the fear had been all too real.
When a stand of mesquite made Nate drop her hand so their horses could make their separate ways around the thorny growth, Hannah shivered. The feelings fluttering to life inside her were as unlikely as any chimera. And all too real.
* * *
The hand who'd drawn Sunday duty this week was waiting by the barn when they returned. At eighteen, he was the youngest of Nate's employees, but he seemed steady and as sensible as anyone ever is at that age. So when he told Nate that he needed to come have a look at King Lear, Nate set aside his intention of going up to the house with Hannah.
It was just as well, he decided as he swung down from his horse. He needed time to get his body back under control.
Hannah had agreed to come to him. Tonight.
Triumph sang sweetly in his blood. He went to her as she dismounted, wanting an excuse to
touch her again. But because Felix waited nearby, Nate did no more than lay his hand on her shoulder. Soon, he thought. Soon he would have the right to do a great deal more. "I'll be along later."
She smiled, but he saw the doubts crowded up behind her eyes. "Does that mean you're actually going to join Mark and me for supper tonight?"
"You're not thinking of cooking, are you? Today's your day off." And just this once he didn't want to share her with his brother. "I'll fix something and take it to Mark."
"I don't mind cooking."
She was having second thoughts. He knew it, and frustration bit hard. He pulled his hand back before giving in to the impulse to clamp down harder, to hold on so tightly she'd quit trying wiggle free. "We'll talk later."
Felix was obviously eaten up with curiosity as he walked with Nate to the barn, but he didn't ask any questions.
Nate did. "What happened?"
"A mouse got in his stall."
Nate sighed. King Lear hated mice. The bull's reaction would have been funny if it didn't cause so much trouble. "You said he didn't do himself too much damage."
"Scraped up one of his hocks some, that's all. But he nearly kicked one side of his stall into splinters."
Nate looked over the damage, both to King Lear—placid now that no tiny rodents were darting under his feet—and to his stall. He checked the weather report, and decided to let the repairs wait until tomorrow. It wouldn't hurt the bull to stay out in the paddock a couple of days.
Then he went to the house.
It was five-thirty and he needed to come up with something to fix for supper. He wondered if there was enough roast left for a second round of sandwiches, or whether he'd have to fall back on opening some cans of chili. As soon as he opened the door, though, he smelled chicken.
Nate shook his head when he walked into the kitchen. Hannah sat at the big table, reading a magazine. "You don't listen worth a damn, do you?"
"What?" She looked up from the magazine—an old issue of Farm and Ranch. He felt a touch of guilt. She'd never made it to the library that day they went to town. After the encounter with Mario and his friends, he'd taken her back to Jenks's, loaded up the groceries and headed straight home. "Oh, you mean the chicken? I just cut one up and put it on to boil with a little bay leaf. You can figure out what to do with it now that you're back."