by Donna Fasano
“Absolutely.”
She showed him the front parlor, an old fashioned formal room used for afternoon teas and quiet conversations. The dining room boasted a fireplace made of local, hand-hewn rock and a long maple table and chairs polished to a rich patina only years of use could produce. As they went through the kitchen, Tori took a moment to fill an antique crystal vase with water for the flowers. She set them on the small round table that she’d set for the very informal meal she had planned. Then she led him into the great room, the gathering place of the inn. Guests usually listened to music here after returning from dinner in town, they socialized with other guests, or simply relaxed with a glass of wine as they enjoyed the marvelous view of the surrounding valley offered by the large windows.
A fire flickered in the deep hearth and Tori had candles burning on both the coffee table and the stone mantel. The wide French doors flanking the fireplace were the perfect frame for the countryside, which was spectacular in every season, but especially so in the fall.
“This house is just great,” he said once again, stopping to pick up a large paperweight that sat on a table.
Tori nodded. “Holds loads of good memories for me.”
Absently he smoothed his fingers over the glass orb, and Tori’s eyes riveted on his hands, wishing his touch was roving over her skin rather than the heavy paperweight. The wholly unexpected thought had her eyes widening a fraction.
“This came from the rez.” He indicated the intricate blown-glass ball as he set it back down on the tabletop. “Looks like Cory Snow-Rabbit’s work.”
“It is,” she told him. “I do what I can to support the local artists. I don’t know if you know this, but besides Cory’s glass gallery, the Kolheek have several wonderful painters, a talented basket weaver. And a silversmith.”
Chay glanced out the window. “No,” he murmured, “I didn’t know.”
“In recent years,” she continued, “people who were born on the reservation and had moved away are returning. The place is growing by leaps and bounds. They’ve built a new community center and a new elementary school.”
An obvious discomfort crept over him and immediately Tori felt guilty. Her report on reservation happenings hadn’t been completely innocent. She wanted him to talk about himself, reveal his reasons for staying away from his home for so long.
Finally, he murmured, “I had heard about the community center.”
Awkwardness slipped between them, and Tori was well aware that it was all her fault.
“Well, now you’re back,” she offered brightly. “You can see everything for yourself. The artists and their shops, the community center, the school. Everything.”
Their gazes connected, held.
“I’ll do that.”
The timbre of his voice caressed her, but his expression remained somber. The moment grew more intense than she could bear and she was forced to let her eyes slide from his.
“Is that the building you want to renovate?” he asked. He pointed toward the yard outside the window.
She nodded. “That’s the carriage house, yes.”
He moved toward the wide glass doors. “Let’s go have a look.”
Tori followed him out onto the deck, down the steps, and across the yard. He moved easily, with grace, like someone who was confident with both his body and its ability.
He stopped and studied the building with a critical eye. “Nice solid structure.” He circled to one side, then the other. “Foundation looks sound. You’ll need new windows. And a new door.”
Chay unlatched the wide door and let it swing open. He stepped inside and Tori followed.
He whistled. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a floor made of these wide oak planks. Very nice.”
“I was hoping to have the floor sanded down and refinished,” she said.
“That’s a great idea.”
It pleased her that he agreed. They talked about the placement of the bathroom that would need to be added. Chay told her to be sure to have insulation placed in the space between the rafters and the ceiling. He even suggested putting in a wood-burning stove to lend a cozy atmosphere.
“Several weeks of work,” he estimated, “and this place could be transformed into a nice little hideaway for your newlywed guests.”
Actually, Tori hadn’t been entirely honest about her intentions for the carriage house. She didn’t want it as a honeymoon cottage at all, but as a place in which her “harbored” guests could feel safe, tucked out of harm’s way, while they tried to get their lives back on track.
She was relieved to hear that Chay felt the project she had in mind was achievable.
Ever since they’d entered the carriage house, Tori had sensed a low thrumming, a purr that stirred the air, as if some invisible undercurrent were swirling around the two of them.
His onyx gaze was too intense for words. His tone was whisper soft as he said, “Has anyone ever told you how good you smell? Like rain-washed skies. Like… flowers warmed by the sun.”
He actually looked embarrassed by the words that had spewed from his mouth, and she thought his chagrin was more enticing than anything she’d ever seen in her life. The compliment flattered her, yet at the same time she was overwhelmed with self-consciousness. Words failed her, and all she could do was smile a silent thank-you.
She finally blurted, “We should go eat. I’d planned to serve dessert on the deck, and I don’t want to miss the sunset.”
His expression was unreadable. “Of course,” he told her.
The spacious kitchen had always been her favorite room in the rambling house. As Chay opened and poured the wine, she broiled the brochette. The thinly sliced and marinated steak was juicy, the chunky vegetables crisp-tender as she slipped them off the skewers onto a bed of saffron-flavored rice minutes later. It was a simple and succulent meal that never failed to raise compliments from her dinner guests.
As they ate, they swapped childhood stories.
Chay told her, “I was raised by my grandfather, Grayson.”
Tori knew the shaman, had welcomed him into her home; however, the habit of secrecy kept her from relating this information. She never talked about her side work to strangers. Never. And even though she felt attracted to Chay Makwa, he was still very much a stranger to her.
His dark gaze sparked attractively. “He taught me and my cousins to dive and swim, hunt and track. He instilled a fierce sense of competition between us.” He grinned. “None of us would admit to fear or doubt while honing our skills and learning new ones. Encouraging competition is the age-old Kolheek way, I suppose.”
Tori shook her head. “With such a strong rivalry, it’s a wonder one of you didn’t get hurt.”
“Grandfather always stopped us before we could do anything foolish.” Chay chuckled. “Not that we didn’t try.” Then he sobered. “One would think that my grandfather’s method of parenting us would have caused division among us, but that wasn’t so. Grandfather also fostered in us a deep love for each other. We were more like brothers than cousins. We respected each other. Loved one another. When I was a kid, my cousins and I were inseparable.” Again he laughed. “We could fight among ourselves like wildcats, but just let an outsider jump in and we’d gang up against the poor guy.”
Curious now, Tori commented, “It sounds as if you actually grew up under the same roof as your cousins.”
“I did.”
She was unable to contain her surprise.
“All three of Grandfather’s sons died,” Chay explained. “And two of his daughters-in-law. He raised five of his six grandchildren when, one by one, our parents either died or left the reservation. The five of us he raised were all boys. Grayson hasn’t seen his only granddaughter in years. My aunt Helen took her from the reservation and they never came back.”
“So all of Grayson’s sons died before they could raise their own children,” Tori summed up softly. “That’s odd. In the most tragic way. And really sad.”
&nb
sp; The Kolheek shaman had often counseled the women she took in. And each time Tori met Grayson, she noticed that a deep sense of desolation seemed to emanate from him. No wonder. She realized now that he had suffered a great deal of sorrow during his lifetime.
Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children. Tori could almost hear her own mother’s voice as they had bowed their heads at Susan’s grave site. It seemed that Grayson Makwa and Tori’s parents had something in common.
Burying one’s child… the very idea seemed to go against the laws of nature. Yet Grayson had laid to rest not one, but three sons. And two of his sons’ wives. Tori couldn’t imagine enduring such loss.
“My mother died when I was just a baby,” Chay told her. “I have no memory of her at all. My father was killed by a drunk driver when I was six. Head-on collision. He never had a chance.”
“Chay, I’m so sorry.” She reached out and placed her fingers on his forearm. Touching his bronze skin was like coming into contact with a candle flame that licked, icy hot, at her fingertips. She inhaled deeply, slowly, in an attempt to stifle her intimate response. She eased her hand away. He didn’t seem to notice her reaction, thank goodness.
However, the appreciation expressed in his midnight gaze made her flush with heat, made her heart thud, and she was certain he must have noticed the blush she felt rushing upward, burning her cheeks with color. He had to be the most handsome man she’d ever met. She’d never responded to anyone in this purely physical way.
As she sat there pondering all he’d said regarding the loving relationships he’d shared with his grandfather and cousins, she was once again amazed by the fact that he’d stayed away from his childhood home, from his family, for so long. The reasons behind his absence intrigued her beyond measure.
“You said your parents were retired,” Chay probed.
Tori realized it was her turn to talk. She told Chay how her mom and dad had moved to Belle Glade on Florida’s famed Lake Okeechobee.
“They’re doing well,” she said. “They’ve even visited Mickey Mouse a few times.” Chuckling, she told him about the vacation she had taken with her parents to Walt Disney World a few years ago. “You should have seen me. I was just like a kid.”
He murmured, “I wish I had.”
There was a lull in the conversation, but the silence that settled between them wasn’t uncomfortable. Chay picked up his glass by the stem and drained the last sip of wine from it.
“Your sister,” he said, “died very young.”
Tori felt as if she’d swallowed a small, jagged rock rather than the bite of soft rice she’d just been chewing. A frown furrowed her brow. She took a moment to pull herself together, but quickly realized she simply couldn’t venture down this path.
All she could say in answer was, “Yes, she did.” She set down her fork, then dabbed the corners of her mouth with her linen napkin and slid her chair back from the table.
“It’s almost time for the sun to set,” she announced, hearing the false brightness in her own tone. “We don’t want to miss it. There’s a bottle of dessert wine chilling in the ice bucket on the counter. You grab that and a couple of fresh glasses from the cabinet there.” She pointed. “I’ll get the platter of fruit and cheese, and we’ll go out on the deck.”
She bustled around the kitchen handing out orders in an attempt to avoid talking about Susan. Only a fool would have failed to notice her anxiety. Chay was no fool.
His fingers closed over her wrist. “I’m sorry.” His face was grave. “I’d never have brought up the subject had I known it was going to upset you.”
He had no idea of the magnitude of guilt she lived with every day, knowing that she’d failed to save her sister’s life. Or that it was that unconquerable remorse that spurred her on, kept her isolated, working in secret to try to help women who found themselves in the same sort of circumstances Susan had been in. However, no matter how many women Tori aided, it never seemed to ease her guilt over the one she’d failed.
His skin was warm against hers. Her gaze met his. “It’s still very hard for me,” she admitted.
Chay simply nodded, then he turned to complete the tasks she’d set out for him by reaching for the wine on the counter.
The sky was glazed with an array of glorious color ranging from a rich fuchsia to a streaky purple. Long, narrow clouds stretched out, gilded in radiant gold light. Tori set the tray of cheese, grapes, apple slices, and orange sections on the glass-topped patio table. Chay stood transfixed as he surveyed the wonder before him.
She moved beside him, slipping a juicy grape into her mouth before resting her forearms on the wide deck railing.
“Beautiful view, don’t you think?”
He nodded silently. There was awe in his regal profile. In fact, his features held an intensity that could easily have been called reverent. Worshipful. And Tori prickled with sudden self-consciousness as if she were intruding on a very private moment.
Softly he said, “I’m sure this is what brings your visitors back here often.” He dragged his gaze from the horizon to look at her. “It’s almost as beautiful as you.”
The air grew dense and it seemed to hitch in the back of her throat when she attempted to inhale. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He handed her a glass. She took it from him, her movements that of an automaton, sluggish, mechanical.
“Of course,” he continued smoothly as he poured wine, first for her, then for himself, “it could also be your awesome cooking that brings people back here. Dinner was delicious.”
Her lips curled. Oh, my. What she needed more than anything was to put a little space between them. Give herself time to regroup, time to think and gather together her wits that seemed scattered all about her feet. It was as if the man had pulled the rug right out from under the soles of her shoes and she was rolling and tumbling through space.
He set the bottle on the deck railing and lifted his glass.
“To new friends,” he toasted.
Their crystal glasses tinged. The wine tasted sweet and fruity on her tongue. She was subconsciously aware of many things, the smooth, cool stem between her fingers, the fresh autumn breeze, the vibrant cast of the heavens overhead. But she was so swept away by the man standing next to her that it was impossible to hold on to a single thought for longer than a second or two before it went skittering off just out of reach.
“Tori…”
Whatever else Chay had been about to say ebbed into oblivion as he, too, seemed to become tangled up in… in… well, in whatever it was that carried her off and stole away all thought. He was going to kiss her again.
His fingertips scorched their way along the sensitive underside of her jaw. His wine-sweet breath brushed her skin as he drew ever closer. And then his mouth covered hers.
Hot. Luscious.
The heated male fragrance that was his alone filled her nostrils, and she closed her eyes to better savor the scent of him, the taste of him. Blindly she reached up with her free hand and smoothed her fingers through his long hair.
His tongue danced across her lips, enticing, tempting… and Tori felt dizzy. That if she didn’t hold on to Chay firmly, she’d completely lose her balance.
He was feverish, too. She sensed it in the urgency of his kiss. Felt it in the electric hum that fairly pulsed from him. His breathing was rushed, and his heart pounded against the palm she’d splayed on his hard chest.
She felt her body grow more pliant. Her joints loosened, her muscles relaxed. There was no resistance in her. But then he drew back, the passionate craze that had held him spellbound and hazed his crow-black eyes fading like a waning tide. Taking its place was an obvious sense of confusion… and a hefty dose of contrition.
“I’m sorry, Tori.” He stepped away from her, absently brushing back the length of blue-black hair that had fallen over his shoulder. “I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”
Disappointment welled up in her, smacking her square in the face and stilling the fierc
e thudding of her heart. That he saw the kiss as a mistake upset her.
“I’m sleep deprived,” he continued. “I’m sure exhaustion has my mind fogged. Adding to that the wine… the atmosphere—” He looked out at the magnificent twilit sky, one shoulder shrugging, and when he looked at her again, apology was thick in his gaze. “I guess I just got carried away.”
Carried away. Tori thought that was a pretty good description of what had just taken place between them.
Reaching for his wineglass, she slipped it from his grasp. “Maybe I should make us some coffee. It’s getting chilly out here,” she said. “We should go inside.”
She gathered up the dessert tray that they hadn’t even touched and motioned for Chay to follow her into the house.
“Have a seat,” she told him. “Relax. I’ll be right back with some coffee.”
Tori made short work of filling the coffeemaker with ground beans and water, and as the coffee brewed, she stood with her hip resting against the counter, her fingers worrying her chin.
Never in her life had another human being filled her with such delight, such longing, such excitement. Since meeting Chay Makwa merely days ago, Tori felt as if her whole life had brightened.
Yes, she’d already realized that he’d somehow short-circuited her usual hesitance and constraint where men were concerned. Why, she couldn’t help but wonder, should she feel cautious about a man who had done nothing but give to her? He’d been so generous and comforting the night they had first met. And he hadn’t even known her name then. She’d been a complete stranger to him, yet he’d held her, let her lean on him, offered her the kind of solace she’d needed. That had to account for something.
What was amazing to her was his willingness to take the brunt of the blame for the kiss they’d just shared. That meant something significant. The men she was used to dealing with in her work with the abused were nearly always censuring and critical, tending more often to point the finger of fault than take responsibility for anything that happened in their lives. She’d played just as strong a role as he in those sensuous moments out under the sunset, yet he’d held himself totally accountable. That spoke volumes for his character, didn’t it?