“No one understood how dangerous Daddy's work was, or how much courage it took for him to go into the arena over and over again.” She looked up at John, her eyes filled with tears, mouth trembling. “He'd been gored once and nearly trampled. He was scared. Every time he got in there with the bulls, he had to wrestle with that fear and overcome it.” She hiccuped and buried her face in her hands, shaking her head. “No one else understood,” she repeated, mumbling. “But I did.”
Now she did let John comfort her, so he abandoned his questions. “It's okay,” he said awkwardly, patting her back as she cuddled against his chest. Her tears dampened his shirt. Standing there and hearing her pain, he felt useless and clumsy.
Finally she sniffed noisily and stepped away. He dug into his pocket and handed her a bandanna handkerchief.
“Thanks,” she muttered, wiping her face with it.
What kind of man was Buchanan, John wondered, to take advantage of someone with a family? How did a person like him sleep at night? And what, exactly, had he done to get her father fired? Thrown his weight around, called in some markers? Maybe even greased a few palms?
Judging from how upset Leah was already, now wasn't the time to ask. Maybe, if he ever ran into the other man again, he'd ask him instead.
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“Mama, this is my friend John Brown,” Leah told the older woman sitting in the rocking chair with a quilt over her lap.
The resemblance to her daughter was easy to see, although Leah's mother appeared much older than John would have expected. Her eyes, a darker shade of blue than Leah's, darted to his face. A hesitant smile deepened the grooves bracketing her mouth. She raised a wrinkled hand to her short, curly gray hair, patting it nervously before she smoothed the collar of her housedress.
“Hello, Mrs. Randall,” John said, leaning down.
She returned his greeting without any real interest in him. Her gaze didn't linger and he felt as though he'd been dismissed. Leah's neighbor had shown more curiosity about her new hired hand than her own mother did.
Leah perched on the edge of a chair and twirled a strand of her hair around her finger while John sat on a maroon velvet sofa that felt like padded concrete. Lace doilies were pinned to the arms and needlepoint pillows surrounded him. On the opposite wall was a glass cabinet full of antique dolls. A nearby piano was covered with framed photographs. A clock ticked loudly.
Rocking slowly in her chair as she stared through the lace window curtains, Leah's mother answered her questions, lapsing into contented silence between each one. She asked no questions of her ownânot about the ranch and not about her only child. While Leah chattered about the weather, the flower garden, the new kitten she'd taken in, John watched the two of them and let his mind wander.
They'd stopped at a small clothing store first, jammed to bursting with racks of jackets, shirts and jeans for every member of the family. Shelves of boots and hats lined one wall. John bought underwear, jeans, socks and two new shirts while a tiny woman Leah introduced him to twittered around like a nervous bird.
Now he was looking forward to dinner and the movie. Funny, he could recall other shows he'd seen, but nothing about who he'd gone with or where he'd been at the time. Memories of the impersonal things in his life were coming back first and he wondered why.
He was trying to conjure up some image of where he lived or worked when he realized that Leah had gotten to her feet. She kissed her mother's lined cheek, so he bade the woman goodbye.
“Who's the young man?” Mrs. Randall asked, clearly startled, so Leah repeated her earlier introduction. After more goodbyes, John followed her from the room. Looking back, he saw that the older woman had turned her attention to the window.
“She's already forgotten we were here,” Leah said softly.
Hearing the sadness in her voice, John squeezed her shoulder. “But you haven't,” was all he could think of to say.
The two older women he'd met on the way in were seated at the kitchen table playing cards. One wore a flowered dress and a string of pearls at her neck, the other a pink sweat suit and tennis shoes.
“Is she eating?” Leah asked them.
“Like a bird,” replied Rosemary, who was wearing the dress. “She likes her chocolate, though.”
“I'll bring her some next time I visit,” Leah promised. She opened her purse and took out a check.
“Thank you, dear.” Rosemary folded it in two and stuck it in her pocket without looking at it.
“Call me if she needs anything,” Leah said. “I'll see you next week.”
“Bring your young man with you again.” Irene, the other sister, winked at John. “We don't have many male visitors anymore.”
Leah's face flamed and John chuckled. “I'll be back.” He took the hand she thrust at him. It was thin, with blue veins, swollen knuckles and a diamond so big it looked like glass, so he was careful not to squeeze too hard. The feel of her brittle bones teased at his memory, but the half-formed impression was gone before he could grasp it.
“Take some cookies,” Rosemary insisted, thrusting a covered plate at him. “Chocolate chip, fresh baked this morning.”
Thanking her, he followed Leah down the back steps to her truck.
“I'm starved,” she said as soon as they were both inside. The aroma from the cookies filled the cab. “How about you?”
“I could eat.” He looked longingly at the covered plate sitting between them on the seat.
As Leah drove through town, she didn't mention her mother or their visit, so neither did he. Instead she identified the businesses they passed. None of them rang a bell with him, as if he'd dropped out of the sky onto her property. If it hadn't been for the local newspaper he'd found in her living room, he wouldn't even know what state he was in.
For all he could trust of what he knew, he could have lived here all his life. But then wouldn't someone recognize him?
As they passed the pizza place, the talk turned to food: Chinese, which they both liked; Thai, which Leah hadn't tried; and the Mexican they were headed for at the Blue Dog.
“The hotter the better,” John said, surprising himself. Why couldn't he put a location to the restaurants he remembered: Frosty's, the Crab Cracker, Armadillo Barbecue, Clifford's? Leah didn't know any of them.
Since John didn't have a license, Leah was driving. “Want to stop by the sheriff's office?” she asked as they passed the station. “We have time. Perhaps he's heard something.”
John gritted his teeth and tension curled in his gut. His head began to throb and he touched a hand to the scabbed-over gash on his forehead. “Not today.”
Her mouth looked pinched as she turned her attention back to the road. Clearly she didn't understand his reluctance. “Okay.”
“I suppose you think I should talk to him,” he said, feeling defensive and pressured despite her agreement. How could he explain? His attitude confused him, as well.
“It's your life.” Her attention stayed on the road ahead as she slowed for a dog that wandered in front of the truck.
“That's right, it is.” Suddenly John felt petty for trying to stir up an argument. Seeing her mother had to be difficult for Leah. Mothers were supposed to be supportive, nurturing. Leah didn't need him picking at her, too.
“I'm looking forward to dinner,” he said by way of a silent apology.
Leah glanced over and gave him the sweet smile that never failed to melt some of the ice around his lonely heart. “Me, too.” There was relief in her gaze and more, as if she was looking forward to the evening together as much as he was.
She had dressed up for the outing, wearing snug jeans in a soft shade of lavender and a purple, blue and white striped shirt with a stand-up collar under a light blue windbreaker that exactly matched her eyes. There were small pearl studs in her ears and she was wearing perfume, something light and flowery. He, of course, was wearing a pair of worn jeans and a plaid shirt from his limited wardrobe. At least he'd polished his boots and dusted off his borrowed hat.
John wished he'd thought to tell her how pretty she looked, but when she'd come downstairs he'd been unexpectedly tongue-tied. Had he really imagined her plain at first?
She glanced over, her gaze colliding with his before it slid away. The silence between them grew awkward.
“Uh, you look very nice,” he stammered, wondering what the heck was wrong with him. Surely he could do better than that around an attractive woman. Had he been such a bumbling clod in his former life? He sure hated to think so.
“Mama likes me to dress up a little when I visit,” she said as she slowed and turned the corner. “She'd rather see me in a skirt, but having to wear them to work is bad enough.”
And he'd assumed she had fussed with her appearance for him. That should teach him to jump to conclusions. He didn't say another word until they pulled up in front of a stucco building painted an alarming shade of blue a little way outside of town.
Later, through their excellent Mexican dinner and during the movie that followed, John tried to read between the lines they exchanged and figure out what she was thinking. When he reached for her hand in the darkened theater, she didn't pull away but laced her fingers with his and held on tight as they both watched the screen. By the time the movie, a science fiction thriller about the battle of two worlds, was over, John had come to a decision.
“Let's get out of here,” he said as the houselights came up. Ignoring the curious glances of the other patrons, he held tight to her hand as he urged her up the aisle.
Leah nodded to several people in passing, but she didn't stop to talk. When the two of them walked outside, darkness had fallen. By the time they got to the truck, parked behind the building, the small crowd from the theater had scattered in other directions. Before Leah could open her door, John reached past her and did it for her. When she turned her face to his, smiling in the golden glow of a nearby streetlight, he moved closer, spurred on by the attraction and need humming through him all evening. Their bodies were almost touching.
Leah's eyes, made luminous by the night, widened slightly and her lips parted. Perversely, testing them both, John stepped back.
“Let's go home,” he said, holding her door. His voice sounded rough to his ears and his tongue felt sluggish. Despite the chill in the air, he was hot and more than a little edgy, on the brink of something he couldn't name.
Without speaking, Leah climbed in the truck and he shut her door. Her face was a pale oval as he circled around and got in beside her. She started the engine and turned on the radio. As if by mutual consent, the ride home was conducted in silence except for the steady stream of country music. John kept time with it by tapping his fingers on his knees while he did his best to ignore what was building between him and the woman beside him. When they finally pulled into the yard and she turned off the engine, the sudden silence wrapped around them like a living thing.
Leah turned to John and he swallowed thickly.
“I had a nice time,” she murmured, as if they'd been on a date.
“So did I.” They stared at each other.
“As soon as I change, I'll be out to help you with the animals,” she said.
John's hands curled into fists. “I can manage if you're tired,” he offered. “I know the routine.”
“I'm sure you do.” She seemed to be considering his offer. “When you're done, you could come to the house,” she suggested. Her voice had altered, becoming uncertain. She licked her lips as if they were dry. “I've got some of dad's whiskey, if you'd like a drink.”
John tried to decipher what she was really saying, but all he saw in her face was indecision. He would have liked to tell her not to invite a man in if she hadn't made up her mind about what she was offering. Instead, he nodded slowly and silently cursed himself for a fool. “I won't be too long.”
They got out of the truck and Duke was waiting to greet Leah. After she praised him and stroked his head, he came around and accepted a pat from John, neither responding nor rejecting the touch. When she walked toward the house, John stood and watched her in the glow from the yard light. Right before she reached the steps, she turned, waving, and then continued on inside.
As soon as she disappeared through the door, John whirled and hurried toward the barn. He might not remember much, but he knew that nothing matched the feeling of having a woman you cared for in your arms, and he realized beyond a doubt that he cared for Leah. Soon he'd have to deal with that, but not tonight. Tonight was for making memories, not dredging them up.
Chapter Eight
L
eah was in her room when she heard the outside door shut. Pressing a hand to her stomach, she listened to the sound of John's boots cross the floor below and wondered if she had finally lost her mind.
“Leah?” he called from the base of the stairs.
Heart in her throat, hands trembling, she walked to the landing. Her bare feet made no sound on the well-worn floorboards. The long whisper of red nylon she'd found in the back of a drawer skimmed over her body and swirled around her ankles when she moved.
Gripping the railing, barely able to breathe, she looked down at John. His hair was damp, as if he'd washed up before putting on the new clothes he'd bought in town.
He must have heard her heart hammering in her chest, because he glanced up sharply. His eyes widened.
“Sweet heaven,” he exclaimed, obviously stunned.
Leah knew she'd made a terrible mistake. She'd misread the situation, embarrassing them both. Face hot, she took a step back on legs that shook.
“No, don't go!” he protested, his hand on the banister and one foot poised on the bottom step. “Please, honey, stay where you are. Don't even move. Just let me look at you.”
If it hadn't been for his own change of clothes, she would have felt unspeakably foolish. As it was, she just felt brazen, silly and unbearably exposed.
“You look lovely.” His voice had changed, deepening, and his gaze was locked on hers.
“Thank you,” she whispered, wondering whether he could even hear despite the silence that flowed around them like a dark force. She wished she had turned on some music to fill the huge void.
As if he could read her thoughts, John glanced around the living room. “Do you mind?” he asked, indicating the stereo in the corner.
She tipped her head in assent and he went over to fiddle with the knobs until something unabashedly romantic filled the room. Some of Leah's tension ebbed away.
“The animals are all bedded down,” John said, sounding as matter-of-fact as if they were facing each other across a pasture gate. “May I come up?”
Again, nervousness gripped her with its icy fingers. “I promised you a drink,” she exclaimed, false gaiety making her voice rise. “I'll be right down.” Before he could answer, she fled to her room and threw on her old plaid bathrobe. She must have been out of her mind to parade in front of him dressed the way she was! Belting her robe snugly at the waist, she hurried down the stairs. When she had nearly reached the bottom, he blocked her descent and extended his hand as though she were a royal princess making her grand entrance. With a courtly bow, he escorted her down the last step. His expression was grave, but his eyes glowed. Slowly, he leaned forwardâand sniffed.
“You smell wonderful,” he murmured.
Leah could feel his warm breath on her neck above the collar of her robe while his words made pleasure curl inside her. She'd used the scented gel and matching lotion she'd gotten for Christmas. Although it was supposed to be from her mother, she knew that either Rosemary or Irene had picked it out. As soon as she'd smoothed the lotion over her skin, she'd had second thoughts. Now, seeing John's slow smile of appreciation, she was glad she'd bothered.
He leaned even closer, her hand still clasped in his, his gaze on her mouth. Leah lifted her chin and her eyes drifted shut as his lips touched hers. The kiss was as gentle as the brush of a butterfly's wing. When he broke contact, she nearly moaned with disappointment.
She wanted to be swept off her feet, seduced so thoroughly that she didn't have time for second thoughts. For common sense. Instead John seemed bent on drawing out the wooing of her. Or maybe he didn't even intendâ
“How about that drink?” he suggested, stepping back and releasing her hand.
Her eyes flew open. “Sure. Would you like it with Coke? Over ice? I think there's a tray in the freezer, but I don't know if it's fresh. Does ice get stale?” Realizing that she was babbling, she hurried toward the kitchen, bare feet slapping on the wood floor, robe swirling around her legs. What if the bourbon her father kept in a high cupboard had evaporated or spoiled? Did liquor turn bad?
“Just a little water for me,” John said right behind her, making her jump. She hadn't heard him follow her into the small kitchen. They'd been working around each other harmoniously in here for days, but now the room was so cramped she was afraid to move. Afraid she'd bump into him.
John ducked around her and retrieved two glasses from the cupboard. “These okay?”
They were jelly glasses with cartoon figures painted on them. That should set the mood. She bobbed her head and stood on tiptoe to reach the bottle from the top shelf. As she took it down, John saw the label and whistled under his breath. “Your father had good taste.”
“My father knew his liquor,” she said without thinking.
John's brows quirked, but he didn't comment. He ran water in one of the glasses and held up the other with a questioning glance. “How do you take yours?”
She felt stupid. “I don't know. I've never had it before.”
“You don't drink at all?” he asked incredulously.
She shrugged. “Well, I did have beer and a little wine in college. Nothing since.”
Setting down the glasses, he leaned against the counter and looked down at her. His arms were folded across his wide chest, covered by the new blue plaid shirt.
Heat throbbed in her cheeks. He must be thinking what a silly little country girl she was. When his memory of all the beautiful women he'd been with before came back, he'd laugh at himselfâand at her
“Why now?” he asked quietly.
She glanced away, locking her hands together in front of her and staring down at them. She had an idea that his question referred to more than just the bourbon. “What do you mean?” she hedged.
“Why are you drinking tonight?” he asked. “There must have been other times since he died that you needed something. A little boost, a bit of comfort.”
She shrugged. “Who said tonight was about comfort?”
“Then what is it about?” he asked.
Her courage deserted her and she remained stubbornly silent.
“I think you do need courage before you take off that robe,” he guessed, running one finger under the lapel before he raised his hand and tapped her nose lightly.
She reared back as though she'd been slapped. “That's not true!” she objected. He was treating her like a child.
“Then perhaps this is a celebration.” He ran water in her glass, added a small amount of liquor to both and swirled around their contents before handing one to her. “Cheers,” he said, clinking it with his.
Watching him, she tipped the drink to her lips as he did and let it fill her mouth. A shudder went through her, and when she swallowed, the liquor burned all the way down.
“Ugh,” she gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “It tastes like medicine.”
He gave a bark of laughter. “Damned expensive medicine,” he tensed, setting down his glass and grabbing her hand. “At least you never reacted that way when I kissed you.”
He was smiling, so she smiled back at him. Maybe he didn't think of her as an inexperienced bumpkin after all. Just a woman he found attractive, and not one he pitied.
“Do you want any more of that?” he asked, nodding toward her glass.
She shook her head and he took it from her. Then he slid an arm around her shoulders, holding her in a loose embrace. He was wearing cologne, something clean and woodsy.
She stiffened, suddenly nervous again. She'd only been with one man, her husband, and his opinion of her charms had been less than effusive.
John ran a hand down the lapel of her robe to the knot in her sash while she held her breath.
“Relax, honey, I'm not going to ravish you unless you want me to,” he whispered. “Even though you look so pretty I can hardly keep my hands off you.” Sliding his hand back up, he let his thumb brush the bare skin in the vee of the neckline.
Her nerve endings snapped to attention and a shiver trembled through her, followed by a rush of warmth that seemed to radiate from her stomach outward. Maybe that was just the bourbon.
“Cold?” he asked, caressing her throat with his fingertips.
She shook her head without looking at him. “Nervous,” she admitted.
“Why?” he asked. “You've been married.” Then he froze and his hand tightened on her shoulder. “Did he abuse you?” The cold steel in his voice made her stiffen.
“No.” She couldn't admit that after the first few times, Gil had apparently lost his enthusiasm. He'd turned to her less and less often, hurrying through to his own selfish end without any regard for her feelings. She'd been too inexperienced, too shy to ask him what was wrong, but she'd always suspected something was lacking. They hadn't been married even two years before he left. Since then she'd been too busy to miss either him or the loving. Until John came along.
His fingers curled into the edge of her robe and her heart stuttered. “You do know I would never hurt you?”
Sometimes Gil had been rough, impatient. She'd heard enough from other women to know that wasn't always the case. Still, John was strong. If he got aroused, lost controlâ
“Leah?” he asked. “Do you want me to go?”
Her gaze flew to his face. “No!” She hadn't meant to say it quite so emphatically.
He grinned like a pirate who'd just been handed a bag of gold coins. “Okay. Then would you do me one favor?”
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
He glanced down and she followed his gaze to where her fingers gripped his shirt. “Just don't tear it, okay. It's brand-new.”
She pulled away as though her fingers had been scalded. Then he grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth. Gently, he nibbled her fingers. Sensation shot up her bare arm. Without letting her go, he moved to the middle of the living room and turned to face her.
Before she could ask what he was doing, he held out his arms. Soft, dreamy music poured from the stereo.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
“Do you remember how?” she blurted thoughtlessly, and then she nearly cringed, waiting for his reaction.
He cocked his head. “Let's find out.”
Leah couldn't remember the last time she'd danced. Her father had taught her the slow stuff and the two-step. Gil hadn't liked to dance, at least not with her.
“I'm rusty,” she apologized as John's arms came around her.
He inclined his head. “I'm John.” His mouth curved and he winked. “As far as I know,” he added dryly.
Leah was still giggling when she realized they'd started to move and she was following him as effortlessly as if they'd been dancing together for years. Not once did his boots crush her bare toes as his thighs brushed hers intimately. Her nipples tingled as her unbound breasts rubbed against his chest. Turning, swirling, he led her unerringly through the steps of the dance.
Finally the music came to an end and the announcer began pitching a headache remedy. Leah stood facing John, slightly out of breath.
“You're good,” she said.
“Funny what a person doesn't forget.” Crooking a finger beneath her chin, he bestowed another warm, soft kiss on her upturned mouth. This time his tongue touched her lips, seeking entry. When she yielded, his breath caught. His arms tightened. Immediately the kiss heated and changed. Fire licked at Leah and she moaned. He tasted, teased and coaxed her. His mouth melded with hers and the fire burned hotter. He wrenched his lips away to blaze a trail of kisses down her throat and into the V of her bathrobe. His hands slid up her ribs and cupped the undersides of her breasts, squeezing ever so gently.
Leah sank into him, feeling the roughness of his jeans, the sharp press of his buckle, the strength of his passion. Desire swept through her and she reached up to bestow a kiss of her own. His heart thundered beneath her palm, his breath rasped in her ear. She gloried in his reaction to her.
“Sweetheart,” he gasped between kisses scattered over her face like petals, “let me stay with you tonight.”
The moment of truth had come...the question. Somewhere deep inside, she'd known he would leave the choice up to her. He was that kind of man.
Unable to say the words, she took his hand and led him toward the stairs. With a smile, he followed.
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Her bedroom was a surprise, a lot more feminine than he would have pictured, and smaller. Then he realized this must be the room she'd grown up in and not one she'd shared with her husband. It was a girl's retreat with posters on the wall, ruffles around the bedspread and trinkets on the pink-and-white dresser.