by Tracy Sumner
He handed her two.
A sly smile only he could see lit her face. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Without another word, she sailed past Tom, who stared at Adam a moment before following.
Adam watched them leave, then dropped to his haunches and grasped the abandoned flask that lay at his feet. He rotated the canister between his fingers. Amber liquid swirled and swished like an angry tide—reminiscent of his chaotic emotions. He ran his finger along the letter E burned into the casing. Eaton had been carrying it in his coat pocket the day he died.
His father had given them identical ones, engraved with their first initial, on their eighteenth birthdays. Of course, they had begun to drink long before that conspicuous occasion. How like their father to think he had the power to bestow the privilege upon them. Adam sighed and pushed those thoughts from his mind. He needed to forget the past. Leave it behind. It sometimes appeared to be stronger than he, wrapping him in ugly memories as binding as shackles.
Why had he thought so much about it lately?
She brought memories he never wanted to remember to the forefront of his mind; emotions he wanted to deny he could feel into his being.
He ran his tongue across his lip. Had he been close to kissing her?
In the absolute depths of his soul, he knew he had been thinking about lowering his head and—
It had to stop. Had to.
Surely, if nothing else, he had put her reputation in jeopardy. He could not count on Charlotte Whitney to put a halt to anything because of that. He had never met a woman who cared less about propriety.
If it was anyone else, he would be damned if he did.
He stopped rotating the flask and stood, clutching the decanter like a lifeline. “No.” He shook his head.
The barn door hinge creaked, ending his blind contemplation. Lila stood in the doorway. He thanked God for the semidarkness that shielded his expression. Unfortunately, he could see her pout from a mile away.
“What are you doing in here in the dark all alone?”
“I wanted to get away for a moment. To write a bit.”
She frowned. “You have to write? Today?”
“Lila, writing is my job. I don’t make excuses for the time I put into it.” He knew anger over her stunt with Tom entered into their conversation. He didn’t stop to ponder if that was fair.
“Why are you hovering in the doorway like some frightened child?”
She looked at him like he was mad. “I can’t come in here with you. Alone.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Do you?”
Ah...here we go. He had known she would not let the incident with Charlie pass; it would have been better for her if she had. He smiled—wanting the battle, tasting it. Slipping the flask into his pocket, he walked to her, his quiet footfalls and a horse’s high-pitched whinny the only sounds. He stopped just before their bodies touched. A slight tremor rolled through her. She was not as brave as she let on.
She intended to push him away. Before she could, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the barn, her body bumping against his. The door slammed shut behind them. She opened her mouth.
He didn’t waste the opportunity.
Grasping her head with one hand, he dropped his lips to hers. Now, he wouldn’t have to waste weeks trying to get her to open them.
She didn’t fight, but moaned and leaned into him.
Still holding her wrist, he wrapped his arm behind her back and plunged his hand through the stiff mess on her head; a hairpin pitched to the ground.
He knew she no longer cared if they were alone in the barn.
He used what he knew. His hands, his mouth; hot and demanding one moment, gentle and coaxing the next. He brushed his lips along her jaw, to her neck, took a bit of skin between his teeth and sucked.
Her breath leaked out in choppy puffs. “Please, again.”
“Like this?” His mouth returned to cover hers. All he could think was how much she tasted like strawberries.
He didn’t care for strawberries.
Fine, he wanted something from this. He wanted to frighten Lila; tell her without words he was not a man to toy with...or gossip about at some country picnic.
As he had come to understand with his first sweet taste of passion—there were many ways to get a message across. Lila’s kind learned much faster this way...and certainly with marked retention.
Surprisingly, this method of persuasion embarrassed him.
Though he was pretty good at it.
He favored talking openly...exploring ideas...exchanging thoughts, but hell, when had he ever had the chance to do that with a woman?
A tremor glided across his skin. For the first time in his life he was experiencing that...and he found he thrived upon it, upon her.
Upon Charlie.
What was he doing in response to this new emotion? This new...friendship? Standing in some damned barn kissing the hell out of her cousin.
He let his hand fall free and stepped back. He bent to gather her hairpin, allowing her time to gather her senses.
Lila arranged her hair as best she could and smiled at him. “My, you’re full of surprises.”
He glanced toward the barn door. He wanted to flee. From the smell of witch hazel, which clung to her skin; from her coy smile and smug response; from the watchful, premeditated gleam in her eyes.
Disappointment filled him. He could not stay in the hollow, dank, odoriferous barn another minute.
He brushed past her, flinging the door open with a slap.
9
Acquiescence
Giving tacit assent; reluctant agreement.
Charlie glanced about, hoping Tom was still occupied with organizing the horse race. She grabbed her pencil—Chase’s pencil—and hurried past the people laughing and talking as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. All but a few lived within a mile of town and saw each other on a weekly, if not daily, basis.
As she crossed the tobacco field, she knew whispers would follow. About the scene in the barn earlier today, or perhaps her flight from the festivities. They wondered why she didn’t want to stay and acquaint herself with the other ladies, make plans to join the next sewing circle, or agree to attend a Beautification Society meeting. She smiled as she imagined their words: “Look at her running off, with a damn pencil in her hand no less.”
Her smile vanished. It was not really very amusing. Her discouragement didn’t come from the way she was. She was proud of her skills. Proud to be strong, intelligent, driven. She liked herself. She only wished someone besides the Lamberts appreciated her.
She looked into the distance, aiming to sit beneath the shade of the solitary oak sitting atop the hill. Whenever she had visited the farm as a child, she and Chester had scrambled along its thick limbs, laughing as they dropped to the ground. That was before she grew into a person too different for most of her neighbors to accept.
A chicken, obviously an escapee from the coop, pecked and clucked its way across her path. She lifted her arms and inhaled, admiring the poignant fragrance of wildflowers and moist earth.
Her steps faltered. A hint of black stood out among the tall blades of grass.
A pair of gleaming, black boots to be exact.
Chase. Leaning against the oak. Asleep. Fast asleep.
Long, muscular legs. Trim waist. Solid chest. Her travels abruptly halted at the gaping neck of his shirt. Muscle and dark hair peeked through the open collar. She swallowed as her face got hot. Of course, she had seen a man’s chest before. Not a chest like this one, no, but she had seen a few.
Lean, firm—and tanned.
Tanned. Well, hellfire. Chase obviously sat in the sun without proper clothing.
She jumped as he shifted, his lips moving as he dreamed. His hand closed around the pencil still locked between his fingers. The pad of paper had fallen to the ground. She did not question that he caught sleep where he could—the intensity with which he worked
exhausted him.
She contemplated whether to wake him.
Not yet, Charlie. You can take a moment to look like you can’t possibly when he’s awake.
She had already decided that he was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Patrician features: sculpted nose with just a hint of a bump marring its surface, slender lips, square jaw. The dimples she was gradually becoming used to slept with him. He muttered something, and she moved closer, a guilty thrust warning her she intruded upon his dreams.
The dream was the same.
A stench. Pine trees, wet earth, blood. Always blood. His nostrils flared. Thorns pulled at his clothes as he ran. The sounds of boyhood games reverberated in his ears, echoing unnaturally. The sharp tang of brandy sat upon his tongue.
“Eaton? Where are you going? Wait!” He stopped among the trees. Their home sat just before him. His father was going to be angry if they were late. He started to run again, Eaton’s footfalls ahead of him, loud, thundering in his ears. He placed his hands over them, trying to block the sound. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, the sun struck his face. Dunes rose like waves around him.
He stumbled, looking with wild eyes for his mother. This was her beach.
Fear danced along his skin. The water his feet kicked up coated his face; salt stung his eyes. Where were they?
“Eaton, wait!” Panic-stricken, he glanced down to find a pair of legs that belonged to a boy. They were incapable of matching Eaton’s long strides. He watched in horror as Eaton disappeared over the horizon.
“Chase.” A soft caress, fingers brushing through his hair. His mother?
His mother had never called him Chase.
“Chase, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”
Whose voice? He swallowed and turned his head. His surroundings began to come together. Without opening his eyes, he inhaled deeply.
The scent?
Roses.
He blinked, not needing sight to know who was there. He had known the minute his nose joined the game.
“You were dreaming,” she said, as if this explained her presence. Black hair whipped about her face like a storm cloud.
Her blue candor beckoned: let me in. He didn’t want to let her in. But he was tired, and he would never find anyone more willing to listen, never find anyone whom he was more willing to tell.
He patted the grassy area beside him. Charlie hesitated, her gaze sliding from where his hand lay to his face. Seeming to make the decision, she sat.
He smothered a smile as he noticed how wrinkled her dress was becoming. He guessed she would rather be dressed in those beat-up britches that looked as if they should be dust rags, but fit her like a tight, inviting glove. Taking a deep breath, he determined not to let his mind veer into those waters.
With a forced smile, he glanced at the pencil in his hand. Placing it beside him, he drew his legs close to his body and crossed his arms on his knees. His stared at the toe of his boot as he twisted his hands around his elbows. “What was I saying?”
She shot a quick glance at his face, then lifted her gaze to the sky. “You were mumbling. But I did hear you calling—”
“Calling to whom?”
“Eaton.” She cleared her throat. “I believe you said the name Eaton.”
He dropped his forehead to his arms. The touch to his hand was light, warm; he didn’t look up but closed his fingers over hers. “I was running...trying to catch him to tell him, I don’t even know what. I never know. Then I look and see that my body is a boy’s body, while Eaton’s is a man’s. Then the panic really hits me, because I know I will never be able to outrun him.”
He stared at the grass at his feet. A piece of peach fabric had gathered between the heels of his boots. “Eaton was my older brother. By three years. He was always there for me.” He struggled to put his feelings into words. He had never talked to anyone about this. “My mother died when I was ten, Eaton thirteen. My father remarried very quickly.” He heard the tremor in his voice but forced himself to continue. “Eleana was much younger and probably no more prepared to be a substitute mother than my father was to be a devoted father. At a time when you need guidance, Eaton and I were on our own.”
How could he describe the pain of losing a part of himself, losing his only remaining family, on that black, rainy day? When the dirt and blood still stained his hands? “My father...my father was a bastard.” He lifted his gaze as he heard her gasp. “Harsh words, I know, but true.” He shook his head, after all this time hardly able to believe how true they were. “He let us grow up in a cold, pitiless home, no expressions of love, no fatherly encouragement. And we needed that. I guess we needed him.”
A ragged sigh slipped past his lips. “You see, as a boy I was small for my age, until maybe sixteen or so. I repeatedly came home with a battered face. Scraped knees. A broken finger. Quite nasty fights for a young boy, maybe not so nasty if I would have realized my size and given up once in a while. Eaton got tired of cleaning blood from the rugs. He finally pulled me behind our house and taught me a thing or two. Where to hit someone. How to hold my fists. He didn’t forget to include the most important aspect of pugilism: when to run. I seem to remember using that technique more often than not.”
Adam’s mind drifted. He looked directly at her, but he saw Eaton’s face. “As soon as I knew he would have done it—run away, that is—it was forever after an option I considered. Although, as I grew older...not one I needed to use as often.”
“Here” —he indicated the tree trunk— “if you’re going to listen, you may as well be comfortable.” He disengaged his hand as she leaned back, their legs touching from hip to knee. It was easier to be blind to the changing expressions crossing her face, but now there was the disturbing heat of her body pressed against his.
He inched his hand towards hers. “May I?”
She met his gaze. Without comment, she nodded.
Because it seemed safer, he turned to look across the field. “Eaton was a sensitive person. Much more so than I ever hoped to be. My father’s violent moods affected him, the verbal abuse that went hand in hand with living in that house. How I was able to shut it out, turn away from him as easily as if I had never known him...” His hand tightened around hers.
“I believe it was my eighteenth or nineteenth year when Eaton began to get into trouble. Gambling, liquor, women, fighting. Not such unusual pastimes for a young man; no need for alarm, I thought. I retrieved him from jail. Minor offenses. Paid off his debts, small at the time. Rescued him from a couple of situations which could have escalated into severe trouble.”
He shifted toward her then turned back before she had a chance to mirror the movement. “I wanted to take care of him. I had grown physically stronger and for some reason—luck of the draw, if you will—I knew I was stronger in other ways. He had taken care of me, and I vowed I would be there for him now that he needed me.”
He swallowed. “I had been asked, rather bluntly, to leave a prestigious college and Eaton...well, he never went. My father was disgusted with us, dismal failures in his eyes. I was writing. My first position with a newspaper. And, for the first time in my life, it was exactly that. My life. Eaton was working in the shipping business, very profitable endeavor, or so he said. I never asked questions. But obviously, my father did.”
“He came to our home one evening. Burst in without knocking. Eaton and I had just returned from our club, and we were a bit befuddled. My father was as furious as I had ever seen him. He was a judge—did I fail to mention that?” He laughed, but it sounded bitter even to his own ears. “He had a contact in the shipping industry and had found out that Eaton was involved in some illegal trade. I don’t know how illegal, but enough for my father to have had suspicions. And, enough for a trail to be left that my father’s contact could follow.”
He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, retreating from her. It would be a mistake to accept solace from this woman.
She was already too close.
“And?” she finally asked.
“And, that night my father and Eaton came to blows. He was yelling that Eaton had ruined his life, ruined the Chase name, ruined everything. I wanted to kill him then. I did. Because at first I imagined his anger was only fear for Eaton’s safety. If I was mad at my brother for any reason that’s all it was. But no, my father was worried about the goddamned family name.”
He lowered his chin to his chest and exhaled.
She looked at him—he could see part of her face—as if she had no clue what to offer. If she only knew, as his friend, she was more than he had ever been offered. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, bury his face in her rose-scented hair and forget. He had never wanted a woman in such a way before.
Only, it was too goddamned late to start now.
“Chase.” She ran her finger over his wrist.
He stood, throwing off her hand. The last, ragged remnants of self-control pulled and snapped within him, threatening to break. His hands trembled as he shoved them into his pockets. What was he doing, telling her this? The one person he needed to stay emotionally distant from.
He strode away, pausing to stare into the distance. He didn’t hear her walk up, but he felt the heat from her body when she halted at his back. A whisper of wind worked its way through the limbs of the oak, soothing, welcoming. He turned to face her—against his will—and found her lovely cobalt eyes pinned upon him. No censure darkened her gaze, and certainly no blame.
“Are you all right, Adam?”
He watched her lips move. A long, blue-black strand slipped into the corner of her mouth. He contained the urge to tell her he was not all right, that he needed her. To pull her into his embrace and let all the emotion he wanted to feel overflow and fill them both. He couldn’t do that, because he didn’t know what it would take from him.
And love? He would never be able to love her, even if he wanted to.