Boundary Lines

by Nora Roberts

  So be it, he thought with a muffled oath. His mouth devoured hers.

  She matched his urgency, aroused simply by knowing she had taken him to the edge. He wanted her. Her. In some ways he knew her better than anyone ever had, and still he wanted her. She’d waited so long for that, not even knowing that she’d waited at all. She couldn’t think of this, or what the effects might be when his long desperate kisses were rousing her, when she could see small, silvery explosions going on behind her closed lids.

  She felt him tug at the buttons of her shirt, heard him swear. When she felt the material rip away she knew only that at last she could feel his flesh against hers. As it was meant to be. His hands wouldn’t be still and drove her as she had driven him. He pulled clothes from her in a frenzy as his mouth greedily searched. Somewhere in her hazy brain she felt wonder that she could bring him to this just by being.

  Their bodies pressed, their limbs entwined. Their mouths joined. He thought the mixing of their tastes the most intimate thing he’d ever known. Under him she arched, more a demand than an offer. He raised himself over her, wanting to see her, wanting her to see him when he made her his.

  Her eyes were dark, misted with need. Need for him. He knew he had what he’d wanted: she thought of nothing and no one else. “I wanted you from the first minute,” he murmured as he slipped inside her.

  He saw the change in her face as he moved slowly, the flicker of pleasure, the softening that came just before delirium. Pushing back the rushing need in his blood, he drew out the sensations with a control so exquisite it burned in his muscles. Lowering his head, he nibbled at her lips.

  She couldn’t bear it. She couldn’t stop it. When she thought she finally understood what passion was, he showed her there was more. Sensation after sensation slammed into her, leaving her weak and gasping. Even as the pressure built inside her, drumming under her skin and threatening to implode, she wanted it to go on. She could have wept from the joy of it, moaned from the ache. Unwittingly it was she who changed things simply by breathing his name as if she knew no other.

  The instant his control snapped, she felt it. There was time only for a tingle of nervous excitement before he was catapulting her with him into a dark, frantic sky where it was all thunder and no air.

  Chapter Ten

  The lengthy, dusty drive into town and the soaring temperatures couldn’t dull the spirit. It was the Fourth of July, and the long, raucous holiday had barely begun.

  By early morning the fairgrounds were crowded—ranchers, punchers, wives and sweethearts, and those looking for a sweetheart to share the celebration with. Prized animals were on display to be discussed, bragged about, and studied. Quilts and pies and preserves waited to be judged. As always, there was a pervasive air of expectancy.

  Cowboys wore their best uniform—crisp shirts and pressed jeans, with the boots and hats that were saved and cherished for special occasions. Belt buckles gleamed. Children sported their finest, which promised to be dirt streaked and grass stained by the end of the long day.

  For Jillian, it was the first carefree day in the season, and one she was all the more determined to enjoy because of her recent problems. For twenty-four hours she was going to forget her worries, the numbers in her account books, and the title of boss she worked day after day to earn. On this one sun-filled, heat-soaked day, she was going to simply enjoy the fact that she was part of a unique group of men and women who both lived and played off the land.

  There was an excited babble of voices near the paddock and stable areas. The pungent aroma of animals permeated the air. From somewhere in the distance she could already hear fiddle music. There’d be more music after sundown, and dancing. Before then, there’d be games for young and old, the judgings, and enough food to feed the entire county twice over. She could smell the spicy aroma of an apple pie, still warm, as someone passed her with a laden basket. Her mouth watered.

  First things first, she reminded herself as she wandered over to check out her bull’s competition.

  There were six entries altogether, all well muscled and fierce to look at. Horns gleamed, sharp and dangerous. Hides were sleek and well tended. Objectively Jillian studied each one, noting their high points and their weaknesses. There wasn’t any doubt that her stiffest competitor would be the Double M’s entry. He’d taken the blue ribbon three years running.

  Not this year, she told him silently as her gaze skimmed over him. Pound for pound, he probably had her bull beat, but she thought hers had a bit more breadth in the shoulders. And there was no mistaking that her Hereford’s coloring and markings were perfect, the shape of his head superior.

  Time for you to move over and make room for new blood, she told the reigning champion. Rather pleased with herself, she hooked her thumbs in her back pockets. First place and that little swatch of blue ribbon would go a long way to making up for everything that’d gone wrong in the past few weeks.

  “Know a winner when you see one?”

  Jillian turned at the thready voice that still held a hint of steel. Paul Murdock was dressed to perfection, but his hawklike face had little color under his Stetson. His cane was elegant and tipped with gold, but he leaned on it heavily. As they met hers, however, his eyes were very much alive and challenging.

  “I know a winner when I see one,” she agreed, then let her gaze skim over to her own bull.

  He gave a snort of laughter and shifted his weight. “Been hearing a lot about your new boy.” He studied the bull with a faint frown and couldn’t prevent a twinge of envy. He, too, knew a winner when he saw one.

  He felt the sun warm on his back and for a moment, for just a moment, wished desperately for his youth again. Years ate at strength. If he were fifty again and owned that bull . . . But he wasn’t a man to sigh. “Got possibilities,” he said shortly.

  She recognized something of the envy and smiled. Nothing could’ve pleased her more. “Nothing wrong with second place,” she said lightly.

  Murdock glanced over sharply, pinned her eyes with his, then laughed when she didn’t falter. “Damn, you’re quite a woman, aren’t you, Jillian Baron? The old man taught you well enough.”

  Her smile held more challenge than humor. “Well enough to run Utopia.”

  “Could be,” he acknowledged. “Times change.” There wasn’t any mistaking the resentment in the statement, but she understood it. Sympathized with it. “This rustling . . .” He glanced over to see her face, impassive and still. Murdock had a quick desire to sit across a poker table from her with a large, juicy pot in between. “It’s a damn abomination,” he said with a savagery that made him momentarily breathless. “There was a time a man’d have his neck stretched for stealing another man’s beef.”

  “Hanging them won’t get my cattle back,” Jillian said calmly.

  “Aaron told me about what you found in the canyon.” Murdock stared at the well-muscled bulls. These were the life’s blood of their ranches—the profit and the status. “A hard thing for you—for all of us,” he added, shifting his eyes to hers again. “I want you to understand that your grandfather and I had our problems. He was a stubborn, stiff-necked bastard.”

  “Yes,” Jillian agreed easily, so easily Murdock laughed. “You’d understand a man like that,” she added.

  Murdock stopped laughing to fix her with a glittering look. She returned it. “I understand a man like that,” he acknowledged. “And I want you to know that if this had happened to him, I’d’ve been behind him, just as I’d’ve expected him to be behind me. Personal feelings don’t come into it. We’re ranchers.”

  It was said with a sting of pride that made her own chin lift. “I do know it.”

  “It’d be easy to say the cattle could’ve been driven over to my land.”

  “Easy to say,” Jillian said with a nod. “If you knew me better, Mr. Murdock, you’d know I’m not a fool. If I believed you’d had my beef on your table, you’d already be paying for it.”

  His lips curved in a rock-
hard, admiring smile. “Baron did well by you,” he said after a moment. “Though I still think a woman needs a man beside her if she’s going to run a ranch.”

  “Be careful, Mr. Murdock, I was just beginning to think I could tolerate you.”

  He laughed again, so obviously pleased that Jillian grinned. “Can’t change an old dog, girl.” His eyes narrowed fractionally as she’d seen his son’s do. It occurred to her that in forty years Aaron would look like this—that honed-down strength that was just a little bit mean. It was the kind of strength you’d want behind you when there was trouble. “I’ve heard my boy’s had his eye on you—can’t say I fault his taste.”

  “Have you?” she returned mildly. “Do you believe everything you hear?”

  “If he hasn’t had his eye on you,” Murdock countered, “he’s not as smart as I give him credit for. Man needs a woman to settle him down.”

  “Really?” Jillian said very dryly.

  “Don’t get fired up, girl,” Murdock ordered. “There’d’ve been a time when I’d have had his hide for looking twice at a Baron. Times change,” he repeated with obvious reluctance. “Our land has run side by side for most of this century, whether we like it or not.”

  Jillian took a moment to brush off her sleeve. “I’m not looking to settle anyone, Mr. Murdock. And I’m not looking for a merger.”

  “Sometimes we wind up getting things we’re not looking for.” He smiled as she stared at him. “You take my Karen—never figured to hitch myself with a beauty who always made me feel like I should wipe my feet whether I’d been in the pastures or not.”

  Despite herself Jillian laughed, then surprised them both by hooking her arm through his as they began to walk. “I get the feeling you’re trying to bury the hatchet.” When he stiffened, she muffled a chuckle and continued. “Don’t you get fired up,” she said easily. “I’m willing to try a truce. Aaron and I have . . . we understand each other,” she decided. “I like your wife, and I can just about tolerate you.”

  “You’re your grandmother all over again,” Murdock muttered.

  “Thanks.” As they walked Jillian noted the few speculative glances tossed their way. Baron and Murdock arm in arm; times had indeed changed. She wondered how Clay would feel and decided, in his grudging way, he would’ve approved. Especially if it caused talk.

  When Aaron saw them walking slowly toward the arena area, he broke off the conversation he’d been having with a puncher. Jillian tossed back her hair, tilted her head slightly toward his father’s, and murmured something that made the old man hoot with laughter. If he hadn’t already, Aaron would’ve fallen in love with her at that moment.

  “Hey, isn’t that Jillian Baron with your paw?”

  “Hmmm? Yeah.” Aaron didn’t waste time glancing back at the puncher when he could look at Jillian.

  “She sure is easy on the eyes,” the puncher concluded a bit wistfully. “Heard you and her—” He broke off, chilled by the cool, neutral look Aaron aimed at him. The cowboy coughed into his hand. “Just meant people wonder about it, seeing as the Murdocks and Barons never had much dealings with each other.”

  “Do they?” Aaron relieved the cowboy by grinning before he walked off. Murdocks, the puncher thought with a shake of his head. You could never be too sure of them.

  “Life’s full of surprises,” Aaron commented as he walked toward them. “No blood spilled?”

  “Your father and I’ve reached a limited understanding.” Jillian smiled at him, and though they touched in no way, Murdock was now certain the rumors he’d heard about Jillian and his son were true. Intimacy was something people often foolishly believed they could conceal, and rarely did.

  “Your mother’s got me judging the mincemeat,” Murdock grumbled. This time he didn’t feel that twinge of regret for what he’d lost, but an odd contentment at seeing his slice of immortality in his son. “We’ll be in the stands later to watch you.” He gave Jillian an arch look. “Both of you.”

  He walked off slowly. Jillian had to stuff her hands in her pockets to keep from helping him. That, she knew, would be met with cold annoyance. “He came over to the pens,” Jillian told Aaron when Murdock was out of earshot. “I think he did it on purpose so that he could talk to me. He was very kind.”

  “Not many people see him as kind.”

  “Not many people had a grandfather like Clay Baron.” She turned to Aaron and smiled.

  “How are you?” He couldn’t have resisted the urge to touch her if he’d wanted to. His fingertips skimmed along her jaw.

  “How do I look?”

  “You don’t like me to tell you you’re beautiful.”

  She laughed, and the under-the-lashes look she sent him was the first flirtatious move he’d ever seen from her. “It’s a holiday.”

  “Spend it with me?” He held out a hand, knowing if she put hers in it, in public, where there were curious eyes and tongues that appreciated a nice bit of gossip, it would be a commitment of sorts.

  Her fingers laced with his. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  They spent the morning doing what couples had done at county fairs for decades. There was lemonade to be drunk, contests to be watched. It was easy to laugh when the sky was clear and the sun promised a dry, golden day.

  Children raced by with balloons held by sticky fingers. Teenagers flirted with the nonchalance peculiar to their age. Old-timers chewed tobacco and out-lied each other. The air was touched with the scent of food and animals, and the starch in bandbox shirts had not yet wilted with sweat.

  With Aaron’s arm around her, Jillian crowded to the fence to watch the greased pig contest. The ground had been flooded and churned up so that the state of the mud was perfection. The pig was slick with lard and quick, so that he eluded the five men who lunged after him. The crowd called out suggestions and hooted with laughter. The pig squealed and shot, like a bullet, out of capturing arms. Men fell on their faces and swore good-naturedly.

  Jillian shot him a look, then inclined her head toward the pen where the activity was still wild and loud. “Don’t you like games, Murdock?”

  “I like to make up my own.” He swung her around. “Now, there’s this real quiet hayloft I know of.”

  With a laugh, she eluded him. He’d never known her to be deliberately provocative and found himself not quite certain how to deal with it. The glitter in her eyes made him decide. In one smooth move, Aaron gathered her close and kissed her soundly. There was an approving whoop from a group of cowboys behind them. When Jillian managed to untangle herself, she glanced over to see two of her own men grinning at her.

  “It’s a holiday,” Aaron reminded her when she let out a huff of breath.

  She brought her head back slowly and took his measure. Oh, he was damn proud of himself, she decided. And two could play. Her smile had him wondering just what she had up her sleeve.

  “You want fireworks?” she asked, then threw her arms around him and silenced him before he could agree or deny.

  While his kiss had been firm yet still friendly, hers whispered of secrets only the two of them knew. Aaron never heard the second cheer go up, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to feel the ground move.

  “I missed you last night, Murdock,” she whispered, then went from her toes to her flat feet so that their lips parted. She took a step back before she offered her hand, and the smile on those fascinating lips was cocky.

  Carefully Aaron drew air into his lungs and released it. “You’re going to finish that one later, Jillian.”

  She only laughed again. “I certainly hope so. Let’s go see if Gil can win the pie-eating contest again this year.”

  He went wherever she wanted and felt foolishly, and appealingly, like a kid on his first date. It was the sudden carefree aura around her. Jillian had dropped everything, all worries and responsibilities, and had given herself a day for fun. Perhaps because she felt a slight twinge of guilt, like a kid playing hooky, the day was all the sweeter.

 
She would have sworn the sun had never been brighter, the sky so blue. In all of her life, she couldn’t remember ever laughing so easily. A slice of cherry pie was ambrosia. If she could have concentrated the day down, section by section, she would have put it into a box where she could have taken out an hour at a time when she was alone and tired. Because she was too practical to believe that possible, Jillian chose to live each moment to the fullest.

  By the time the rodeo officially opened, Jillian was nearly drunk on freedom. As the Fourth of July Queen and her court rode sedately around the arena, she still clutched her bull’s blue ribbon in her hand. “That’s fifty you owe me,” she told Aaron with a grin.

  He sat on the ground exchanging dress boots for worn, patched riding favorites. “Why don’t we wait and see how the second bet comes out?”

  “Okay.” She perched on a barrel and listened to the crowd cheer from the stands. She was riding high and knew it. Her luck had turned—there wasn’t a problem she could be hit with that she couldn’t handle.

  A lot of cowboys and potential competitors had already collected behind the chutes. Though it all seemed very casual—the lounging, the rigging bags set carelessly against the chain-link fence—there was an air of suppressed excitement. There was the scent of tobacco from the little cans invariably carried in the right rear pocket of jeans, and mink oil on leather. Already she heard the jingle of spurs and harnesses as equipment was checked. The bareback riding was first. When she heard the announcement, Jillian rose and wandered to the fence to watch.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t give this one a try,” Aaron commented.

  She tilted her head so that it brushed his arm—one of the rare signs of affection that made him weak. “Too much energy,” she said with a laugh. “I’m dedicating the day to laziness. I noticed you were signed up for the bronc riding.” Jillian nudged her hat back as she looked up at him. “Still more guts than brains?”