Boundary Lines

by Nora Roberts

  He grinned and shrugged. “Worried about me?”

  Jillian gave a snort of laughter. “I’ve got some good liniment—it’ll take the soreness out of the bruises you’re going to get.”

  He ran a fingertip down her spine. “The idea tempts me to make sure I get a few. You know”—he turned her into his arms in a move both smooth and possessive—“it wouldn’t take much for me to forget all about this little competition.” Lowering his head, he nibbled at her lips, oblivious of whoever might be milling around them. “It’s not such a long drive back to the ranch. Not a soul there. Pretty day like this—I start thinking about taking a swim.”

  “Do you?” She drew her head back so their eyes met.

  “Mmmm. Water’d be cool, and quiet.”

  Chuckling, she pressed her lips to his. “After the calf roping,” she said and drew away.

  Jillian preferred the chutes to the stands. There she could listen to the men talk of other rodeos, other rides, while she checked over her own equipment. She watched a young girl in a stunning buckskin suit rev up her nerves before the barrel racing. An old hand worked rosin into the palm of a glove with tireless patience. The little breeze carried the scent of grilled meat from the concessions.

  No, she thought, her family could never understand the appeal of this. The earthy smells, the earthy talk. They’d be just as much out of their element here as she’d always been at her mother’s box at the opera. It was times like these, when she was accepted for simply being what she was, that she stopped remembering the little twinges of panic that had plagued her while she grew up. No, there was nothing lacking in her as she’d often thought. She was simply different.

  She watched the bull riding, thrilling to the danger and daring as men pitted themselves against a ton of beef. There were spills and close calls and clowns who made the terrifying seem amusing. Half dreaming, she leaned on the fence as a riderless bull charged and snorted around the arena, poking bad temperedly at a clown in a barrel. The crowd was loud, but she could hear Aaron in an easy conversation with Gil from somewhere behind her. She caught snatches about the little sorrel mare Aaron had drawn in the bronc riding. A fire-eater. Out of the chute, then a lunge to the right. Liked to spin. Relaxed, Jillian thought she’d enjoy watching Aaron pit himself against the little fire-eater. After she’d won another fifty from him.

  She thought the day had simply been set aside for her, warm and sunny and without demands. Perhaps she’d been this relaxed before, this happy, but it was difficult to remember when she’d shared the two sensations so clearly. She savored them.

  Then everything happened so quickly she didn’t have time to think, only to act.

  She heard the childish laughter as she stretched her back muscles. She saw the quick flash of red zip through the fence and bounce on the dirt without fully registering it. But she saw the child skim through the rungs of the fence and into the arena. He was so close his jeans brushed hers as he scrambled through after his ball. Jillian was over the fence and running before his mother screamed. Part of her registered Aaron’s voice, either furious or terrified, as he called her name.

  Out of the corner of her eye Jillian saw the bull turn. His eyes, already wild from the ride, met hers, though she never paused. Her blood went cold.

  She didn’t hear the chaos as the crowd leaped to their feet or the mass confusion from behind the chutes as she sprinted after the boy. She did feel the ground tremble as the bull began its charge. There wasn’t time to waste her breath on shouting. Running on instinct, she lunged, letting the momentum carry her forward. She went down hard, full length on the boy, and knocked the breath out of both of them. As the bull skimmed by them, she felt the hot rush of air.

  Don’t move, she told herself, mercilessly pinning the boy beneath her when he started to squirm. Don’t even breathe. She could hear shouting, very close by now, but didn’t dare move her head to look. She wasn’t gored. Jillian swallowed on the thought. No, she’d know it if he’d caught her with his horns. And he hadn’t trampled her. Yet.

  Someone was cursing furiously. Jillian closed her eyes and wondered if she’d ever be able to stand up again. The boy was beginning to cry lustily. She tried to smother the sound with her body.

  When hands came under her arms, she jolted and started to struggle. “You idiot!” Recognizing the voice, Jillian relaxed and allowed herself to be hauled to her feet. She might have swayed if she hadn’t been held so tightly. “What kind of a stunt was that?” She stared up at Aaron’s deathly white face while he shook her. “Are you hurt?” he demanded. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

  “What?”

  He shook her again because his hands were trembling. “Damn it, Jillian!”

  Her head was spinning a bit like it had when she’d had that first plug of tobacco. It took her a moment to realize someone was gripping her hand. Bemused, she listened to the tearful gratitude of the mother while the boy wept loudly with his face buried in his father’s shirt. The Simmons boy, she thought dazedly. The little Simmons boy, who played in the yard while his mother hung out the wash and his father worked on her own land.

  “He’s all right, Joleen,” she managed, though her mouth didn’t want to follow the order of her brain. “I might’ve put some bruises on him, though.”

  Aaron cut her off, barely suppressing the urge to suggest someone introduce the boy to a razor strap before he dragged Jillian away. She had a misty impression of a sea of faces and Aaron’s simmering rage.

  “. . . get you over to first aid.”

  “What?” she said again as his voice drifted in and out of her mind.

  “I said I’m going to get you over to first aid.” He bit off the words as he came to the fence.

  “No, I’m fine.” The light went gray for a moment and she shook her head.

  “As soon as I’m sure of that, I’m going to strangle you.”

  She pulled her hand from his and straightened her shoulders. “I said I’m fine,” she repeated. Then the ground tilted and rushed up at her.

  The first thing she felt was the tickle of grass under her palm. Then there was a cool cloth, more wet than damp, on her face. Jillian moaned in annoyance as water trickled down to her collar. Opening her eyes, she saw a blur of light and shadow. She closed them again, then concentrated on focusing.

  She saw Aaron first, grim and pale as he hitched her up to a half-sitting position and held a glass to her lips. Then Gil, shifting his weight from foot to foot while he ran his hat through his hands. “She ain’t hurt none,” he told Aaron in a voice raised to convince everyone, including himself. “Just had herself a spell, that’s all. Women do.”

  “A lot you know,” she muttered, then discovered what Aaron held to her lips wasn’t a glass but a flask of neat brandy. It burned very effectively through the mists. “I didn’t faint,” Jillian said in disgust.

  “You did a damn good imitation, then,” Aaron snapped at her.

  “Let the child breathe.” Karen Murdock’s calm, elegant voice had the magic effect of moving the crowd back. She slipped through and knelt at Jillian’s side. Clucking her tongue, she took the dripping cloth from Jillian’s brow and wrung it out. “Men’ll always try to overcompensate. Well, Jillian, you caused quite a sensation.”

  Grimacing, Jillian sat up. “Did I?” She pressed her forehead to her knees a minute until she was certain the world wasn’t going to do any more spinning. “I can’t believe I fainted,” she mumbled.

  Aaron swore and took a healthy swig from the flask himself. “She almost gets herself killed and she’s worried about what fainting’s going to do to her image.”

  Jillian’s head snapped up. “Look, Murdock—”

  “I wouldn’t push it if I were you,” he warned and meticulously capped the flask. “If you can stand, I’ll take you home.”

  “Of course I can stand,” she retorted. “And I’m not going home.”

  “I’m sure you’re fine,” Karen began and shot her son a telling look
. For a smart man, Karen mused, Aaron was showing a remarkable lack of sense. Then again, when love was around, sense customarily went out the window. “Trouble is, you’re a seven-day wonder,” she told Jillian with a brief glance at the gathering crowd. “You’re going to be congratulated to death if you stay around here.” She smiled as she saw her words sink in.

  Grumbling, Jillian rose. “All right.” The bruises were beginning to be felt. Rather than admit it, she brushed at the dust on her jeans. “There’s no need for you to go,” she told Aaron stiffly. “I’m perfectly capable of—”

  His fingers were wrapped tight around her arm as he dragged her away. “I don’t know what your problem is, Murdock,” she said through her teeth. “But I don’t have to take this.”

  “I’d keep a lid on it for a while if I were you.” The crowd fell back as he strode through. If anyone considered speaking to Jillian, Aaron’s challenging look changed their minds.

  After wrenching open the door of his truck, Aaron gave her a none-too-gentle boost inside. Jillian pulled her hat from her back and, taking the brim in both hands, slammed it down on her head. Folding her arms, she prepared to endure the next hour’s drive in absolute silence. As Aaron pulled out it occurred to her that she had missed not only the calf roping, but also her sacred right to gloat over her bull’s victory at the evening barbecue. The injustice of it made her smolder.

  And just what’s he so worked up about? Jillian asked herself righteously. He hadn’t scared himself blind, wrenched his knee, or humiliated himself by fainting in public. Gingerly she touched her elbow where she’d scraped most of the skin away. After all, if you wanted to be technical, she’d probably saved that kid’s life. Jillian’s chin angled as her arm began to ache with real enthusiasm. So why was he acting as though she’d committed some crime?

  “One of these days you’re going to put your chin out like that and someone’s going to take you up on it.”

  Slowly she turned her head to glare at him. “You want to give it a shot, Murdock?”

  “Don’t tempt me.” He punched on the gas until the speedometer hovered at seventy.

  “Look, I don’t know what your problem is,” she said tightly. “But since you’ve got one, why don’t you just spill it? I’m not in the mood for your nasty little comments.”

  He swung the truck over to the side of the road so abruptly she crashed into the door. By the time she’d recovered, he was out of his side and striding across the tough wild grass of a narrow field. Rubbing her sore arm, Jillian pushed out of the truck and went after him.

  “What the hell is all this about?” Anger made her breathless as she caught at his shirtsleeve. “If you want to drive like a maniac, I’ll hitch a ride back to the ranch.”

  “Just shut up.” He jerked away from her. Distance, he told himself. He just needed some distance until he pulled himself together. He was still seeing those lowered horns sweeping past Jillian’s tumbling body. His rope might’ve missed the mark, and then—He couldn’t afford to think of any and thens. As it was, it had taken three well-placed ropes and several strong arms before they’d been able to drag the bull away from those two prone bodies. He’d nearly lost her. In one split second he’d nearly lost her.

  “Don’t you tell me to shut up.” Spinning in front of him, Jillian gripped his shirtfront. Her hat tumbled down her back as she tossed her head and rage poured out of her. “I’ve had all I’m going to take from you. God knows why I’ve let you get away with this much, but no more. Now you can just hop back in your truck and head it in whatever direction you like. To hell would suit me just fine.”

  She whirled away, but before she could storm off she was spun back and crushed in his arms. Spitting mad, she struggled only to have his grip tighten. It wasn’t until she stopped to marshal her forces that she realized he was trembling and that his breathing came fast and uneven. Emotion ruled him, yes, but it wasn’t anger. Subsiding, she waited. Not certain what she was offering comfort for, she stroked his back. “Aaron?”

  He shook his head and buried his face in her hair. It was the closest he could remember to just falling apart. It hadn’t been distance he’d needed, he discovered, but this. To feel her warm and safe and solid in his arms.

  “Oh, God, Jillian, do you know what you did to me?”

  Baffled, she let her cheek rest against his drumming heart and continued to stroke his back. “I’m sorry,” she offered, hoping it would be enough for whatever she’d done.

  “It was so close. Inches—just inches more. I wasn’t sure at first that he hadn’t gotten you.”

  The bull, Jillian realized. It hadn’t been anger, but fear. Something warm and sweet moved through her. “Don’t,” she murmured. “I wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t nearly as bad as it must’ve looked.”

  “The hell it wasn’t.” His hands came to her face and jerked it back. “I was only a few yards back when I got the first rope around him. He was more’n half crazy by then. Another couple of seconds and he’d’ve scooped you right up off that ground.”

  Jillian stared up at him and finally managed to swallow. “I—I didn’t know.”

  He watched as the color her temper had given her fled from her cheeks. And I just had to tell you, he thought furiously. Taking both her hands, he brought them to his lips, burying his mouth in one palm, then the other. The gesture alone was enough to distract her. “It’s done,” Aaron said with more control. “I guess I overreacted. It’s not easy to watch something like that.” Because she needed it, he smiled at her. “I wouldn’t have cared for it if you’d picked up any holes.”

  Relaxing a bit, she answered the smile. “Neither would I. As it is, I picked up a few bruises I’m not too fond of.”

  Still holding her hands, he bent over and kissed her with such exquisite gentleness that she felt the ground tilt for the second time. There was something different here, she realized dimly. Something . . . But she couldn’t hold on to it.

  Aaron drew away, knowing the time was coming when he’d have to tell her what he felt, whether she was ready to hear it or not. As he led her back to the truck he decided that since he was only going to bare his heart to one woman in his life, he was going to do it right.

  “You’re going to take a hot bath,” he told her as he lifted her into the truck. “Then I’m going to fix you dinner.”

  Jillian settled back against the seat. “Maybe fainting isn’t such a bad thing after all.”

  Chapter Eleven

  By the time they drove into the ranch yard, Jillian had decided she’d probably enjoy a few hours of pampering. As far as she could remember, no one had ever fussed over her before. As a child, she’d been strong and healthy. Whenever she’d been ill, she’d been treated with competent practicality by her doctor father. She’d learned early that the fewer complaints you made the less likelihood there was for a hypodermic to come out of that little black bag. Clay had always treated bumps and blood as a routine part of the life. Wash up and get back to work.

  Now she thought it might be a rather interesting experience to have someone murmur over her scrapes and bruises. Especially if he kissed her like he had on the side of the road . . . in that soft, gentle way that made the top of her head threaten to spin off.

  Perhaps they wouldn’t have the noise and lights and music of the fairgrounds, but they could make their own fireworks, alone, on Utopia.

  All the buildings were quiet, bunkhouse, barns, stables. Instead of the noise and action that would accompany any late afternoon, there was simple, absolute peace over acres of land. Whatever animals hadn’t been taken to the fair had been left to graze for the day. It would be hours before anyone returned to Utopia.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been here alone before,” Jillian murmured when Aaron stopped the truck. She sat for a moment and absorbed the quiet and the stillness. It occurred to her that she could cup her hands and shout if she liked—no one would even hear the echo.

  “It’s funny, it even feels different. You
always know there’re people around.” She stepped out of the truck, then listened to the echo of the slam. “Somebody in the bunkhouse or the cookhouse or one of the outbuildings. Some of the wives or children hanging out clothes or working in the gardens. You hardly think about it, but it’s like a little town.”

  “Self-sufficient, independent.” He took her hand, thinking that the words described her just as accurately as they described the ranch. They were two of the reasons he’d been drawn to her.

  “It has to be, doesn’t it? It’s so easy to get cut off—one bad storm. Besides, it’s what makes it all so special.” Though she didn’t understand the smile he sent her, she answered it. “I’m glad I’ve got so many married hands who’ve settled,” she added. “It’s harder to depend on the drifters.” Jillian scanned the ranch yard, not quite understanding her own reluctance to go inside. It was as if she were missing something. With a shrug, she put it down to the oddity of being alone, but she caught herself searching the area again.

  Aaron glanced down and saw the lowered-brow look of concentration. “Something wrong?”

  “I don’t know . . . It seems like there is.” With another shrug, she turned to him. “I must be getting jumpy.” Reaching up, she tipped back the brim of his hat. She liked the way it shadowed his face, accenting the angle of bone, adding just one more shade of darkness to his eyes. “You didn’t mention anything about scrubbing my back when I took that hot bath, did you?”

  “No, but I could probably be persuaded.”

  Agreeably she went into his arms. She thought she could catch just a trace of rosin on him, perhaps a hint of saddle soap. “Did I mention how sore I am?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I don’t like to complain . . .” She snuggled against him.

  “But?” he prompted with a grin.

  “Well, now that you mention it—there are one or two places that sting, just a bit.”

  “Want me to kiss them and make them better?”