by Lisa Jackson
Tessa wanted to drop through the floor.
Denver shoved his chair from the table. “Thanks for the meal,” he said to Milly, then he strode, whistling—whistling for crying out loud—down the hall.
Tessa snatched several plates from the table and carried them into the kitchen. Her entire body was shaking, and the china rattled in her hands.
“Careful now,” Milly warned, eyeing Tessa’s flushed features. “You’re letting that man get to you.”
“He’s not getting to me!”
Smothering a knowing smile, Milly snapped an apron from a hook near the stove and tied it around her thick waist. “Whatever you say, Tess,” she said, turning on the tap. Hot water began to fill the sink, steam rising to Milly’s face.
“He’s as changeable as a chameleon,” Tessa sputtered. “One minute he’s nasty as can be, the next he’s sweet as pie, praising everyone, asking their opinions, when all he wants to do is get the hell out of here!”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Milly said, sliding a knowing glance Tessa’s way as she began to stack rinsed plates into the dishwasher.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tessa had been placing leftover stew into a bowl, but she paused.
“I just happened to walk by the den this morning—you remember, when he took that phone call from Jim what’s-his-name, his partner.”
“Van Stern.”
“That’s the one. Anyway, Denver was convincing this Van Stern character that he needed more time here; maybe another couple of weeks.” Milly dried her hands on the edge of her apron and grinned. “The way he was talking, barking orders, trying to convince his partner that he didn’t need to return to L.A. until certain things were just right, made me think he wanted to hang around here.”
Tessa couldn’t dare believe, not for a second, that Denver actually wanted to stay in Montana. All his life he’d never been interested in the land or the livestock. He’d been restless at the ranch. He was just waiting until she could break away and pay off her debt. Damn him! Damn her stupid pride for taking that bet! “He probably just wants the extra time to tie things up and get rid of the place.”
“His lawyer could do that,” Milly pointed out. “No, if you ask me, that man has another reason for staying here.” Her kind eyes met Tessa’s and she winked.
“His decision has nothing to do with me.”
“Oh no?” Milly’s lower lip protruded thoughtfully. “Maybe not. But you’ll never know until you take down your armor, now will you?”
“Meaning?”
“If the two of you could ever quit fighting long enough to talk sensibly, you might surprise yourselves.”
“I don’t think so. Denver made it very clear how he feels about me the first night he was back.” But she couldn’t forget yesterday at the lake. He’d seemed so sincere. So honest.
Milly’s lips pursed pensively. “Well, maybe he was lying to save his pride. Did you ever think of that?”
Remembering how callously he’d told her he’d never loved her on the first night he returned to Montana, Tessa shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“We’ll see,” Milly said. “We’ve got a couple more weeks of Mr. McLean. A lot can happen.” She hung her apron on a hook near the door and reached for her old, plaid jacket. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
As Milly left with the few remaining ranch hands, Tessa decided to check on the horses and try to get her mind off Denver. She couldn’t for a minute think Denver still cared for her. Though she wanted to believe that Milly was right, that Denver still felt something for her, she knew those hopes were only foolish fantasies. And even if Denver had loved her before the fire, too much had happened since for that love to rekindle. Never once had he suggested he loved her. Wanted her, yes, but love? Never. Even the other night, when his tongue had been loosened with liquor, he’d never mentioned love.
“Don’t even think about it,” she muttered to herself, shoving open the door of the barn and snapping on the lights. Though the only sounds she heard were the snorting of horses and rustling of hooves, she sensed someone else was inside. “Who’s in here?” she called through the musty, dark interior.
“I am,” her father’s voice boomed.
“Dad?” Turning, she found him sitting on a bale of hay, a half-empty bottle dangling from his hands. “What’re you doing here? I thought you were still in the house.”
“I was. But I thought I’d better wait for you.”
“Give me that,” she said, afraid Denver might show up. She reached for the bottle, but her father yanked it away, twisted on the cap and stuck the flask behind the very bale on which he was seated.
“Don’t trust him,” he said flatly.
“Who? Denver?”
“Right.”
“Hey! Whoa!” She pointed an accusing finger at her father. “Aren’t you talking out of both sides of your mouth?”
“What do ya mean?”
“Was I mistaken, or were you the guy hanging on his every word at the dinner table? Weren’t you chatting with him about the merits of an Angus over a Hereford?”
“He’s the boss, damn it.”
“I know, but the last I heard you weren’t even planning to show up for work. You thought he’d fire you.”
“He didn’t,” Curtis grumbled. “After that one lecture, he never brought up the fire again. I figured the least I could do was help out.”
“So now you’re telling me not to trust him? I don’t get it, Dad.” She leaned one hip against the manger, felt a soft nose nuzzle the side of her jeans and absently patted Brigadier’s muzzle. “What’s it going to be? Is Denver friend or foe?”
“That’s a tough one,” Curtis admitted, rubbing a trembling hand over his stubbled jaw. “Just remember that he’s different from you and me. He’s only here to sell this place. He doesn’t give one good goddamn about it, and when it goes, we go.”
“Not if I buy it.”
Her father snorted, reached behind him and, as the hay stirred and dust motes swirled, extracted the bottle again. “I already told you what I thought of that fool notion—I’m not goin’ to waste my breath again.” He opened the bottle and took a long swallow.
“Stop it,” she whispered harshly. “You just said you’re getting along with Denver. Don’t blow it with this!” She grabbed for the bottle again, grazing it. Spinning crazily out of Curtis’s hands, the flask dropped onto the floor, crashing into a thousand pieces and spraying alcohol on the dry hay and old floorboards.
Tessa couldn’t move. She stared at the glittering glass and pooling liquid and her stomach turned over. This is how it could have happened! Carelessly spilled alcohol, a dropped match that was still smoldering, combustible hay . . . Oh God! She remembered the horrid black smoke, the crackling flames, her desperate, haunting fear for Denver’s life and her father’s body being dragged from the inferno.
“You see anyone else in there?”
“I—I don’t know,” he mumbled, still coughing.
The paramedic glanced at the fire chief. “He wouldn’t know. He’s three sheets to the wind.”
Tessa stood frozen, scared. The smell of alcohol and smoke had clung to her father that day and she hadn’t cared. She had just been thankful that he was alive.
Now, as she saw the amber drops staining the floor, she said angrily, “Let’s clean this up before Denver sees it.”
“Too late.” Denver’s voice rang through the barn.
Tessa jumped and her father flinched.
Standing in the open door, his dark eyebrows drawn into an angry black line, Denver glared at the pitiful scene in front of him. “Accident?” he mocked.
“You could say that,” Tessa said. She was shaking inside, her stomach quivering. Please God, not Dad, she silently prayed. He couldn’t have been responsible for the fire!
“It’s my fault,” her father cut in, before realizing the irony in his words.
“Is it?” Denver’s eyes narrowed o
n the old man and his jaw slid to one side. Every muscle in his body tensed. The back of his neck was flaming, his teeth clenched tight. “Go home and sleep it off,” he advised slowly. “I’ll take care of this mess.”
Curtis hesitated.
“Have Mitch drive you,” Tessa said softly, her insides wrenching. Was it possible? Could her father really have started the fire accidentally and lied about it to everyone? Everything she’d believed in had somehow crashed with that bottle shattering against the floor.
His arthritic shoulders stiff with pride, Curtis stood and walked tightly to the door. Denver moved enough to let him pass, but the coiled tension in his every muscle was as condemning as a public flogging.
“Don’t you ever speak to my father like that again!” Tessa hissed, once Curtis was out of earshot.
“Open your eyes, Tessa, the man has a problem.”
“Don’t we all?” she snapped back, seeing him flinch a little. She found some towels and a broom and began cleaning up the spilled whiskey. Denver reached for a whisk broom.
“I can handle this,” Tessa said coldly. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
“Not at the moment, no.” His eyes held hers for a second. Filled with accusations, they drilled deep. Tessa swallowed with difficulty.
“You can’t keep covering for him, Tessa.”
“I’m not covering for anyone!” Fury caused her heart to pound. She swiped at the floor with a towel and sucked in a swift breath when her fingers scraped over an invisible shard. “Damn.” The prick was small but deep, and blood dripped from her hand.
“Let me take a look at that,” Denver insisted, wrapping firm arms over her wrist.
“I’m fine. Just leave me alone!” She tried to yank back her hand, but his fingers were an unbending manacle.
“Hold it up,” he commanded, reaching with his free hand into his pocket for a clean handkerchief.
“It’s no big deal—”
“Not yet,” he admitted.
“Really, just a small cut . . .”
“That could get infected. This place isn’t exactly sterile, you know.”
“I’d noticed,” she said dryly, her gaze sweeping the long, hanging cobwebs, the dust collecting on the beams and the loose straw scattered in corners on the floor.
“Then you won’t argue about going into the house to clean it up. I’ll finish here.”
“I’m not a cripple,” she muttered, but saw the determined gleam in his gaze.
His fingers tightened over her wrist. “For once in your life, Tessa, just do as I say.”
“Yes, sir!” she shot back, offering a mock salute with her free hand.
His lips, despite the hard set of his jaw, twitched upward, and he released her arm.
Marching stiffly out of the barn, she tried to calm down—count to ten—do anything to cling to her fleeing patience. She’d never considered herself irrational or quick to anger, but with Denver around, her temper flared as instantly as a match struck against tinder-dry kindling. Every time she attempted to be reasonable, he said or did something that pushed her world out of kilter—like clamping his hand over her wrist and barking an order at her while her stupid pulse raced crazily. Or like tenderly swiping her hair from her eyes and telling her that when he made love to her again, there would be no regrets—
“He’s just a man,” she reminded herself when she turned on the water in the bathroom a few minutes later. But as the warm water dripped over her hand, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and saw the color in her cheeks, the still-pounding pulse at the base of her throat, the fire in her hazel eyes. “Why do you let him get to you?” she demanded of her silly reflection and knew the answer. Because, damn it, you’ve never stopped loving him!
Sick at the thought, she wrenched the faucet closed, rubbed her finger with an antibacterial cream and wrapped her wound quickly with a small Band-Aid.
Walking out of the bathroom, she found Denver sitting on the banister overlooking the entry far below. His hands beside him for balance, he hopped off the polished rail as she entered the hall.
“Are you okay?” he asked gently.
That stupid part of her heart warmed at the concern in his eyes. “I told you I was fine.”
“You don’t need stitches?”
“Nor neurosurgery either, thank you very much!” She heard the bite in her words the minute they passed her tongue and regretted speaking so harshly. “Look, I didn’t mean to snap, it’s just—”
“Just what?” he asked.
She felt her shoulders slump a bit, but she looked him squarely in the eye. “It just seems that I can’t do anything right when you’re around. You’re always trying to prove that you’re the boss or that you know more than I do, or that—” She thought back to the day by the creek and cringed inside. “Or that you have some sort of power over me.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “I don’t think anyone has any power over you, Tessa.” His voice was tender, endearing. If she were to close her eyes, she could almost imagine that he was seven years younger and they were in love again. That same gentle tone she’d found so special still brought shivers to her skin.
When he touched her lightly on the shoulder, she wanted to lean against him, beg him to call back the hateful words he’d spoken when he first returned, plead with him to forgive her and her father for inadvertently causing him so great a tragedy.
“You were hard on Dad.”
Denver was standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. “He can’t hide in a bottle forever.”
“It’s difficult for him, too.”
His fingers gently pulled her backward until her shoulders met the firm wall of his chest and his breath fanned across her crown. Closing her eyes, she willed the waves of tenderness forming in her heart to recede. Although she yearned to tell him she loved him still, that deep in her heart her feelings had never wavered, she couldn’t. He would only laugh at her confession, chide her for being the same silly romantic she’d been years before.
With all the effort she could muster, she tried to think clearly, to fight the magic of his nearness. Her fingers curled around the cool wood banister, her nails digging into the polished surface.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said softly. “We don’t have to keep lunging for each other’s throats.”
She could hear it then, the hard beat of his heart. Pounding in counterpoint to her own, it seemed to echo through the long, carpeted hall.
“Do you know you’ve been driving me crazy?”
“Is that what’s doing it? It’s my fault you’ve been acting like a madman from the minute you stepped onto the ranch?” she asked, wishing she could add some venom to her words, but her voice sounded breathless and hoarse—as if it belonged to a frightened young virgin.
He chuckled, gripping her tighter, forcing her against him until her spine pressed tight to his chest and abdomen. His hands slid the length of her arms, to her wrists, then closed over her stomach, holding her so close that she felt the hard bulge in his jeans.
Bending a little, he placed his chin over her shoulder. His cheek was warm against hers, and she felt like moaning. Her fingers dug deeper, knuckles white, rigid in their grip of the railing as his lips, warm and inviting, soft and gentle, touched her neck, sweeping slowly from her shoulder to her earlobe.
“Denver, please,” she said, trying to think. “Don’t.”
“You don’t like it?” he teased, his fingers lacing under her breasts.
Was he crazy? “I-I just don’t think it’s wise ... Oh!” His teeth nibbled on the shell of her ear and it was all she could do to hold on to the balustrade. Her knees went weak, her heart beating a wanton cadence. “Denver—” Turning in his arms, hoping to convince him that what they were doing was insane, she caught one glimpse of the passion smoldering in his eyes before his lips captured hers in a kiss that cut off any further protest.
His mouth molded against her skin, coverin
g her parted lips anxiously. His tongue darted and flicked between her teeth. Bittersweet sensations raced through her body. Like wildfire through prairie grass, passion seared through her, until she couldn’t think, and didn’t want to.
Her arms lifted, circling his neck, holding him closer still as she returned his fever. Pulsing white-hot between them, the smoldering ashes of desire ignited.
His hand stole upward, strong fingers surrounding one breast. Tessa moaned softly, weak inside as he kneaded her flesh, causing her nipple to harden and protrude against the lacy confines of her bra.
Still he kissed her, his hips thrust hard against hers, her back now supported by the railing.
The front door banged open. “Tessa?” Mitchell’s voice shattered their intimacy.
Tessa froze in Denver’s arms and reluctantly dragged her mouth from his.
“Hey, Tess? Where are you?” her brother said, his voice booming up the stairs.
“Up here,” she choked out. “I’ll be down in a second.”
“Good! I’ll be in the kitchen. We need to talk.” His footsteps echoed through the house and Tessa, forcing her unsteady legs and arms to work, pushed away from Denver.
“We’re not finished,” he insisted in a hoarse whisper that hissed through the upstairs hallway.
“I think we are.”
His arm reached forward, jerking her around. “We’re not finished by a long shot, Tessa,” he said, his eyes glinting like newly forged steel. “Get rid of him.”
“Just like that?” she mocked.
“Just like that.”
She yanked her arm away and started for the stairs. “Don’t hold your breath!”
He was leaning over the rail, watching her descend. “It’s not my breath I intend to hold on to,” he said suggestively.
Denver McLean had to be the most despicable man on earth!
And you love him.
“Fool!” she ground out, stalking toward the kitchen, her steps echoing through the old house with the same ring as Denver’s amused laughter.
Chapter Eight
Mitchell was waiting. The heels of his boots propped on one chair, he leaned back in another and cradled a cup of coffee between his hands.