Authors: Rebecca York
Chained (5 page)
She prayed for strength to get through this trial. She
prayed for her father’s safety and her own. And she prayed for Matthew, too.
“Let him feel free to come back to me,” she whispered,
wondering if she was being foolish. If he was a ghost, their relationship could
lead nowhere. Nothing she had with him could affect her real life. The sadness
of those realizations brought tears to her eyes, making her vision blur. They’d
finally found each other, but it was too late.
It was well into the afternoon by the time she arrived back
at the ranch. She paused in the yard, looking toward the sycamore grove, but it
was as deserted as when she’d left. And as quiet. She heard no music.
With a sigh, she headed for the kitchen where she ate some
of the roasted chicken and coleslaw she’d bought the night before and read one
of the novels—The Egyptian—letting herself get caught up again in the story of
the man who had been the pharaoh’s physician.
It would be dark in a few hours, and she wanted to keep
reading. Using a flashlight wasn’t so great for her eyes, and neither was
trying to read by the light of the one oil lamp she’d gotten from the front
room.
But there were several more lamps on the top shelf of the
pantry. Together they should provide decent light.
The step stool was in the corner, and she carried it over
and then climbed up to reach for one of the lamps. The stool was old, and when
she mounted the second step, it gave way under her foot, sending her flying.
Before she hit the tile floor, a rush of wind filled the
room and a man’s strong arms caught her from behind, breaking her fall and
holding her upright against his firm body.
She looked down, seeing Matthew’s hands around her
middle—seeing them more clearly than she had seen him since she’d arrived at
the ranch. They still weren’t the hands of a flesh and blood man, but they were
more solid than those of the ghostly figure who had met her in the sycamore
grove.
She closed her eyes and leaned back against him, burrowing
into his warmth. “You saved me from a nasty fall.”
“Yes.” His voice was a deep rumble in his chest, the voice
she remembered from long ago.
“How . . . did you know?”
“I was watching you.” She heard him swallow. “I couldn’t
stay away.”
“But you left me in the grove. Why?”
For the span of a few heartbeats, he said nothing. Finally
he answered, “I remembered the gun battle at the militia compound. Then
everything went black.”
The sadness in his voice tore at her. She couldn’t speak as
her throat tightened.
“Remembering that was a shock.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“I don’t know.”
She wanted to keep him talking. Wanted to keep him with her
as long as she could. “I’d like to know what happened.”
Long seconds passed, and she thought he wasn’t going to
respond.
Then he heaved a sigh. “I was on assignment, closing in on a
terrorist compound. The local cops didn’t have the resources to challenge the
bad guys. The P.D. asked Decorah to find out what was going on there.”
Still behind her, he stroked his large hands up and down
her arms. “There were five of us and more of the bad guys. And they had a
lookout at the road. They ambushed us on the way in.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I should have been more careful.”
“You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”
“Better than making excuses.”
“No.” She waited a beat before she answered. “But how did
you get
here
?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. One moment I was sinking into
blackness with a bullet in my chest. And in the next, I was at the ranch.”
She winced at the image his words conveyed. Matthew Houseman
lying on the ground, blood spreading across the front of his shirt.
“Did you come here right away after that?”
“I don’t know. But when you came and I found out who you
were, it felt like I’d been waiting for you.”
“Oh, Matthew,” she answered, allowing herself to sink into a
fantasy—because it was what she wanted. He hadn’t told her much about himself
when he’d been on guard duty here. Would he tell her now?
“What else do you remember about your life?”
“I remember when I was a little kid. My mom always made
chocolate chip cookies and apple pie. The American favorites.”
“For me, it was flan. And hot chocolate,” she said.
“I remember your telling me.”
“You do?”
“You were homesick. You talked a lot about San Marcos. You
had a house in the city and another in the mountains.”
“Yes.”
“I remember you wished you could get magazines from home.
Women’s magazines and movie magazines.”
“Yes!”
“I would have gotten them for you, if I could.”
“I know. You brought me some American magazines written in
Spanish.”
“And back home you went to a private school where you
learned English starting in first grade.”
“That’s right. I didn’t know how much I was going to need
it.” She leaned against him. “I never even knew where you were from. Tell me
now.”
“I grew up in Durango, Colorado.”
“And what did your parents do?”
“We had a little ranch where Dad raised horses.”
“That’s why you were so much at home here.”
“Yes.”
“And did you have any brothers or sisters?”
“One sister. She went off to Europe and kind of lost contact
with the family.”
“Why?”
“She wanted a completely different life. My parents were sad
about that. I think they never got to see her again before they died.”
“I’m sorry.” Changing the subject, she asked, “Where did you
learn to play the guitar?”
“My dad played. He taught me.”
“You like the old folk songs.”
“Yes, and more modern stuff. ‘The Sound of Silence’ by Simon
and Garfunkel.”
“I remember that one.”
She rested her head back against his chest, and he shifted
his weight behind her. “I should leave.”
“No!”
“We’re doing things together that we . . . shouldn’t.”
His certainty made her stomach clench.
“Why not? What’s wrong with it?”
“What future is there in it for you?”
She had thought the same thing. Now she heard herself say,
“Do we have to worry about the future? Can’t we just focus on now?” As she
asked the question, she knew she was digging herself deeper into the fantasy of
Matthew Houseman.
She wanted to do that—for herself. But it was more than
selfishness. She couldn’t stop thinking that he needed her. Maybe more than she
needed him. Maybe that was the reason he was here, but she was afraid to say
it—lest he vanish again.
She leaned back against him, just breathing, just tuning in
to something fundamental that seemed to emanate from the contact between them.
Maybe he was surrendering to whatever it was, too, because
he bent his head and brushed her hair aside so his lips could find the tender
place where her jawline met her neck. And there was no denying the sensuality
of his touch.
“I always loved your hair. So shiny and black,” he murmured.
“I’m glad you didn’t cut it.”
“I have to pin it up at work.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a nurse.”
“That suits you. I knew you’d be good at taking care of
people.”
“How? I was a shallow teenager.”
“You weren’t. You took care of your father.”
“When he let me.”
“He was worried about you. Worried about the future. I think
you’ve done him proud.”
They were speaking of reality, and she didn’t want it to
interfere. Reaching back, she stroked her fingers against the stubble of his
beard, loving the subtle roughness.
He stopped talking and slid his lips along the side of her
neck, then found her ear, nibbling, then stiffened his tongue to probe the
narrow cavity.
“That’s nice,” she whispered.
“Very nice.”
His fingers found her lips, caressing her with a light,
teasing stroke.
Once again she closed her eyes, simply enjoying anything
that he was willing to give her.
Her neck arched so that her head rested against his
shoulder. She wanted to turn around and face him, but she was afraid that might
break the spell between them, so she stayed where she was, feeling the heat
building between them.
Smiling, she took the lead, stroking his arms, reaching up
to run her fingers through his hair. He felt so solid, so real. As she pressed
her bottom against him, she felt his erection again. How could he be a ghost
when he was responding to her like this?
He made a small sound deep in his throat, and she knew he
liked what they were doing.
Her breath quickened as his hands moved inward to cup her
breasts and then found her nipples through the fabric of her T-shirt.
The clothing was in the way. Without giving herself time to
think about what she was doing, she reached behind her back and unhooked her
bra.
His hands slipped under her shirt, under the bra, so that he
could play with her breasts, squeezing their fullness, then tugging on her
nipples.
She leaned back, drifting on the sensuality of his touch,
content to stay where she was.
When his hands left her breasts, she made a sound of
protest, but he was only dropping them to her waist where he unbuttoned her
jeans and lowered her zipper.
He felt so real, so masculine, so intense as he slipped one
hand into her panties, then into the moist heat of her most intimate flesh. In
long, lingering strokes, he fueled her passion, his finger finding the entrance
to her vagina, then traveling upward to tease her clit.
She cried out, her hips pressing forward and back,
increasing the friction of his strokes.
At the same time, his other hand cupped her breast, playing
with the hardened tip, tugging and squeezing as he brought her up to a higher
level, then higher still.
She was lost to everything except the sensations he was
creating. Trapped between his two hands and his hard body, she gave herself
over to his care.
The heat built, reaching flash point. She cried out as she
came, her whole body convulsing as he continued to pleasure her, wringing every
drop of sensation from her.
When she collapsed back against him, limp and satisfied, he
held her to him.
“Matthew?”
“Um?”
“That was wonderful.”
“I’m glad.”
“But what about you?”
“That was for you.”
She remembered how he had vanished suddenly in the grove.
She didn’t want him to do that now. She tried to turn in his arms, but he held
her in place.
“Don’t leave me,” she whispered. “Not now.”
He sighed. “I shouldn’t have done that, but I couldn’t help
myself. I’ve wanted you for too long.”
“No longer than I wanted you. And don’t tell me you’re sorry
about giving me pleasure, because I’m not.”
“You think this is fair to you?”
“Don’t think about it in those terms. I told you. It was
wonderful for me.”
“And where is it leading?” he asked, his voice turning
harsh.
“We’ll have to figure that out.”
Because he wouldn’t let her turn, she leaned into his
warmth. “When I first came here, you were only in the wind. Then you came to my
bedroom like a man would. I think being with me is changing you, bringing you
back to yourself.”
“Maybe.”
“So we should . . . see how far we can take it.”
He swallowed. “And then what? Let’s be brutally honest. I
was killed.”
“And you came back to me.”
“As a ghost. Ghosts don’t come back to life.”
“Maybe you’re wrong.”
“I’d like to be wrong. But I don’t think so.”
She wanted to face him, but he kept her where she was.
“Don’t you want to get married, have children?”
She didn’t answer.
“Don’t lie to yourself. Or to me.”
“Before I heard about what happened in Montana, I used to
dream of getting married to you and having your babies.”
His arms tightened around her. “Yeah, I used to think of
that, too,
querida
.”
“You did?”
“Yes. About living on a little ranch with you. Raising
horses like my dad.”
Her heart squeezed as he said that.
“But that was impossible, of course.”
“Why?”
“Your father and I had a professional relationship. That was
supposed to be my relationship with you, too. And then there’s the age
difference. I’m nine years older than you are.”
She laughed, hardly able to believe they were having this
conversation. “I think I’ve more or less caught up to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not seventeen anymore. I’m twenty-five. And you’re . .
.”
“Dead,” he repeated what he’d said before.
“Have you ever heard of anyone having this kind of
conversation with a ghost?”
“No.”
“I did.”
She heard his breath catch. “When? How?”
“I never told anyone about it. But after my grandmother
died, she came to me to say good-bye.”
“That’s different. She was on her way to heaven.”
“And you’re here with me because we have unfinished
business.”
Before she could say more, she felt his body stiffen.
“What’s wrong?”
“Somebody’s coming.”
“My father?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I want you to get into the escape tunnel.
Now,” he ordered in a voice that left no room for argument. He was Matthew
Houseman, the Decorah agent again.
Gloria ran down the hall to the nursing station.
“Something’s happening with Matthew Houseman,” she gasped as she reached the
desk.
Peggy Bradley, the supervisor on duty looked up, annoyed.
“Nothing ever happens with Matthew Houseman.”
“Something’s changed.”
“Like what?”
