Chance of Rain (10 page)

In the bedroom, Sawyer was still out cold, his brow furrowed. She smoothed his forehead with her fingertips, wondering what plagued him. No matter her frustration over their slip, she cared about him. She wanted to soothe him, wished that could be enough. Slipping into bed, she curled into his side, willing him a peace that she no longer knew.

* * *

Sawyer woke up breathing hard, sweating. He had been dreaming again, recounting the more gruesome missions in a macabre memorial for friends fallen. His nostrils still registered diesel and desperation even as his gaze greedily drank in the sight of Natalie. She crouched against the headboard, wide-eyed.

His throat felt raw. “Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not.” But her voice was shaky. Maybe he had hurt her, maybe not, but he’d scared her.

He sat up and ran his hands over his head, trying to release the residual adrenaline.

The military wasn’t the linchpin he’d hoped it would be when he’d left town as a cocky eighteen-year-old. Violence was too messy to hold anything together. But it had one thing going for it as a life choice: he was damn good at it.

Even now it called to him. Fight, win. What could he fight here, except the memory of an empty childhood? What could he win except the disappointment of a woman who wanted more than he could offer? His time with her had been...amazing. Unforgettable. Over. As soon as it was daylight, he would find a way to send her back.

“Sawyer?”

At the sound of her voice, he refocused and realized she had come closer. Kneeling beside him, she watched him. It was too dark to read her expression. “Do you want to go back to sleep?”

He shook his head. “Not particularly.”

She paused, looking down. “Sex?” she asked softly.

There was something off about it. Her confidence was missing, though he didn’t know why. Her playfulness too, though he didn’t have it in him now to chase after it with silly jokes and roaming hands. Nor could he trust himself to be gentle with her in this state. “No, thank you,” he answered just as quietly.

“I know. I’ll tell you a story. A bedtime story. Would you like that?”

“Hmm.”

“Everyone likes bedtime stories and mine are very good.”

Well, with an argument like that... “What kind of stories?”

“Fairy tales that Gram used to tell me. They’re part of my heritage, actually, so you have to agree with me about how great they are.”

She looked so earnest, that he wasn’t entirely sure she was kidding. “I’d be honored.”

At her prodding, he lay back down. Instead of lying down, she cradled his head in her lap, gently stroking his temple. He closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of sleep and woman. A bedtime story looked a lot more appealing from this angle.

Outside, the storm raged against the window. Whatever had ravaged the town and phone lines the night before was back. They were in the thick of it, so why not? Why not enjoy her softness, her strength when he had the chance? He couldn’t imagine her even wanting to stay after seeing firsthand how wrecked he was.

“Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a young prince. The prince had beautiful golden hair, and everyone admired it.”

“Don’t fairy tales usually open with princesses locked up in towers?”

“Please save your questions until the end,” she said primly. “One day the king captured a man from the forest, who was secretly a sorcerer. The sorcerer tricked the prince into releasing him, and when the king found out, he was so enraged that he vowed that whoever did it would be executed. Then they discovered it was the prince who’d done it.”

“Let me guess. The king saw the error of his ways? Sorry. No questions, I remember.” He closed his eyes and allowed her words to float around him. Her voice was like a caress, soothing the tension away in tandem with her gentle massage.

“Unfortunately, no. The king ordered his son to be executed, but when the guards took him away, they were so moved by his pleas and the beauty of his golden hair that they sent him away into the forest.”

He whistled. “This is a kid’s bedtime story? What exactly is your heritage here, the Huns?”

“I’m German, of course. At least partly. I thought you knew that.”

He was as obsessed with this woman as he could ever imagine being, but tracing her ancestral lineage on the sly was a step too far, even for him. He shrugged. “I figured Bouchard was French.”

“I’ve got French ancestors too, but they came by way of Germany. Or maybe they married in. To be honest, I’m not really sure. That part of the story changed a little every time Gram told it. The fairy-tale parts were much more consistent, so I think we can depend upon that.”

“Excellent,” he said.

A smile crossed her lips. He had come to understand her dry humor, whether he liked it or not. But he did like it. “Where are your ancestors from?”

He stretched out, pulling her down beside him. “Poland. And before you ask, I don’t know any Polish fairy tales. Dad wasn’t much for telling stories, unless they involved me failing horribly.”

She was quiet. Then, “Your dad seemed very sad to me.”

Sad? Dad was stubborn. Solitary. Mean, when he bothered to pay attention. But then it was like Natalie to look deeper, to give him the benefit of the doubt. If Dad had been sad that he was left alone, that he had driven everyone away, including his son... well, then that was what he deserved. Sawyer wasn’t going to feel shitty about it.

She continued the story with the prince wandering through the forest. He wrapped his golden hair in rags so that no one would recognize him. Then one day he came upon a gardener. The gardener thought the boy was a simple beggar, so he took him in and put him to work. The prince worked hard under his guidance and proved himself, keeping his hair color and his identity a secret the entire time.

Sleep claimed Sawyer in increments. Her voice was a tender lullaby, her caress the gentle rock of the sea. As he drifted away, her words weaved new pictures to replace the old, a blanket of silk and sweetness to keep him warm, the pull of her voice so strong it kept him tethered to her even as he slept.

Chapter Seven

Natalie woke to the sound of the phone ringing from the living room. Somewhat disoriented, she jumped out of bed only to realize she was naked. After slinging the sheet to cover herself, she realized that left Sawyer exposed and hard and...oh, God, the phone.

“Hello?” she answered, out of breath.

“Tally! Tell me you’re fine.” It was Joe Peterson, and though he sounded his typical happy self, she heard the note of haggard concern in his nickname for her.

“I’m fine, I swear it. How are you guys? I’ve been worried about everyone, and the phone lines were out.” Babbling, again. She took a deep breath.

“We’re good here. A few bumps and bruises around town, but nothing serious. You’ve been the one unaccounted for. Jesus, Tally.”

She felt dismay that she had been having sex when they’d been genuinely worried, even if she really hadn’t had a way to contact them. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know the storm would hit so soon or be so bad. I just drove out here because—”

He cleared his throat, his voice gruffer than before. “I know. Lucy told me you were planning on giving Sawyer a visit, so we figured you’d be there. Still, if the phone lines hadn’t come back up, I would’ve saddled Lefty and made my way over there today.”

She looked down at her nakedness, thinly veiled with the worn bedsheet. “I’m glad you didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

He seemed to read her mind. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on anything either.”

“There’s nothing to intrude on,” she said too quickly. She became aware of Sawyer leaning against a wall, watching her through lowered lids. He looked a little menacing and a whole lot sexy, his nakedness proving her words a lie.

“Whatever you say,” Joe said. “We’ve had the quilting club at our ranch since the storm hit. Lord, the speculation... Some of the words I’ve heard Lucy say, a man should never have to hear from his sister.”

There was a scuffle over the line, then Lucy came on. “I knew it!”

“Oh, God.” This was mortifying. “Why are you doing this? Don’t talk about it.”

“Listen, you’re all right, aren’t you? Big brother still has his concerned face on.”

“I’m okay, seriously. We slept through most of the storm. No big deal.” And it wasn’t, but then Sawyer raised his eyebrows at her, and she flushed without knowing exactly why.

Lucy spoke to her brother. “See? She’s fine. Now make yourself scarce unless you want to hear something really dirty.” Then to Natalie, “I wasn’t really worried about you.” She snorted. “As if you haven’t taken care of yourself for years anyway. But listen, I have a question. And before you answer, you should know that I have twenty bucks riding on this. So what is the precise color of his—”

“Lucy!”

But Joe had already wrenched the phone back. “Pretend that didn’t happen,” he said. “I’m sure going to. But about that, are you absolutely sure that you’re...well, willing. Because you can tell me if you’re even the slightest bit uncomfortable—”

“I’m uncomfortable,” she said quickly, “with this conversation.”

“That makes two of us.” Joe let out a breath. “In that case, I have some news for you. The storm has been gaining momentum. It’s a tropical storm now, and the last band is still on its way. Looks like it’s going to hit us in about two days. The advisory is in effect until then, which means we’re all staying put. Unless you tell me you feel unsafe or are in imminent danger of any type, then you’re camping out in Sawyer’s house. You guys got enough food?”

Oh, the chili. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, now that the phones are back up, you’ll be able to reach me if anything changes. I have been going out to check on folks. It takes forever to get anywhere and back with the roads like this, but it’s been a blessing. I have six women in my house, Tally.” He sounded haggard. “And they’re drunk.”

Natalie heard a chorus of “we are not” followed by raucous laughter.

“I feel for you, Joe.”

Any other man might see that as opportunity. After all, two of the six were both unattached and unrelated to him. But Joe hadn’t shown interest in a woman since his wife had been killed in a car accident.

In his younger years, he’d been a troublemaker. Marriage had done little to settle him down, and his passionate and tumultuous relationship with his wife was legendary. Her death had sucked the light right out of him, leaving a jovial husk in its place. Lucy moved back home to take care of the farm, and when he’d got himself back together, Joe had run for sheriff. He wasn’t the most rule-abiding lawman they’d ever had, but no one cared more about keeping this town safe than he did.

“Let me talk to Sawyer before I let you go.”

“You’re going to be nice, right?”

His voice was all innocence. “I’m always nice.”

“No talking about southern hospitality or any of that,” she said, reminding him of the time he’d gone after her boyfriend for what Gram had done.

“That was an honest mistake,” he protested. “And you know I offered that he could hit me back, when I found out.”

“Yeah, well, next time talk to me.”

“There better not be a next time,” he said. “If anyone gives you any trouble, you come to me. That includes Sawyer, and I don’t care how many goddamned medals they gave him. If he does anything or says—”

“Here you go.” She held out the phone for Sawyer, interrupting the lecture. “Joe wants to talk to you.”

Still naked, still half-erect, Sawyer pushed off the wall. The way he walked to her side was like a prowl, his gaze glued to hers as he accepted the phone.

“Sawyer here.” He responded to the tinny voice on the line with a series of grunts and single-word answers. “No. Uh-huh. You sure? Okay.”

He hung up.

Boy, he did not seem thrilled that she would be around a few days longer. What was he thinking about? Thanks to Lucy, her thoughts were consumed with the various colors that made up his impressive anatomy. The sun-darkened tan on his arms and shoulders, the silvery-white of the occasional scar, the pale of his ass. And
there
. There it was darker, ruddy, and when he got excited...

He was excited now. That much was clear from his thick, jutting length. But also maybe irritated, though she couldn’t get a read on his hard expression.

She searched for a crack in his face, for some insight to guide her way. “I hope I’m not putting you out, staying here. I know you didn’t invite me over or anything, and now you’re stuck with me.”

He didn’t stop until his chest was to her nose, until his dark eyes stared broodily into hers, until the smell of clean, sleep-mellowed man turned her insides to mush. “He called you Tally.”

“How much did you hear?”

“Not much,” he said blandly. “I mean just now, when he was warning me away from you.”

She almost sighed with relief. “He’s a little protective.”

“Do you like him?”

Jealousy, perhaps? “I like
you
.”

“Good answer,” he murmured, and then he fit his mouth over hers.

Sexual heat arced between them, sudden and electric. Possessive, probing, his kiss seemed to promise a hundred things and deliver more. It promised pleasure, and stirred a sweet throbbing at her core. Relief came in the form of the long brand of his thigh pressed between hers. His kiss promised forever, and so it was, going on and on, a sweet eternity passing over the course of their lips.

The sheet fell away, replaced by his hands and his body. Her modesty went with it, overcome by her desire to feel him against her. She felt sexy and wanton, naked in the living room. The sun streamed through the windows, lit the dust in the air, and illuminated every angle of his body—and every curve of hers. But she didn’t have to worry about the effects of gravity or the occasional breakfast donut, not when he was drinking her in, soaking her in as if he were parched and she was water.

It hadn’t been like this before, this urgency, this eagerness. Almost as if their renewed isolation opened up the floodgates of their passion. Even in the barn and his room, the uncertainty had muted her enjoyment. It could end at any minute, and then...

But now she had two days in which to enjoy him, to luxuriate in this sexual obsession, to live a lifetime while the clock was stopped.

As if by mutual agreement, they both gentled their embrace, the kiss dwindling to a shared breath. He rested his forehead against hers, his voice husky and rueful. “I have to check on a few things from the storm. It banged up the barn pretty bad, and I’m still worried about the irrigation overflow.”

She heard the unspoken follow-up.
But when I’m done
,
we’re going to have sex.
Oral sex.

Mmm, maybe that last bit was her own contribution to their tacit little pact to screw like bunnies. But she didn’t really have a preference. With him, even missionary was incredibly erotic. She remembered the thick slide of him inside her, how amazing it had felt with nothing between them...but that couldn’t happen again.

“Okay, but we have to remember condoms from now on.”

He winced. “I’m sorry. Listen, you need to know that I’m clean. And if anything were to happen—”

“I’m not blaming you.” She cut him off, not wanting to hear promises to provide for her after he left. “I could have stopped you.”

He raised his eyebrow, dubious.

“I’m saying we have to keep our heads. You make me a little crazy, and I don’t think I’m flattering myself to say I have the same effect on you.”

There was his sexy smile, so rare and so slight, like rays of sunshine peeking through heavy clouds. “You make me a lot of things, Miss Natalie Bouchard, but crazy ain’t one of them. I got there without your help.”

She snorted. “Well, it’s a little crazy to be out working when it’s practically flooding.”

“Got to. The water’s pooling in the fields. If I let it get much worse...”

“Then what?”

His lips tightened, as if he had said too much. Then he shrugged, walked over to the window. “Then it won’t be possible to fix it in time.”

Her heart beat faster to hear him talk about keeping the farm. She picked up the sheet and draped herself with it. “I thought you weren’t sure about that.”

“I’m not.” He looked at her sideways. “But a little birdy is making me reconsider.”

“You’ll make it. I know you will.”

“Such confidence,” he drawled. “If you say so, it must be true.”

She didn’t like his mocking tone or the defeated set to his shoulders before he’d even begun. She felt frustrated, at them for trying to take his land, at him for not caring enough to fight for it, at herself for caring at all.

“You can,” she said, unwilling to let him wish-wash his way out of this. “You’re a SEAL, for crying out loud. That’s the closest thing to a real-life superhero, so I’m pretty sure you can manage to be a farmer, like everyone else here has done, like your father did.”

Something in her words pierced him. Doubt flickered in his eyes, uncertainty. Then he firmed. His scornful gaze flickered over the flat landscape, but she felt it along her body instead.

“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just not interested in being one.”

* * *

The storm had broken for a temporary reprieve. Like everything else in Texas, its storms were big, expansive. As the pressure system moved over their area, they were treated to heavy bouts of rain and thunder, then bright sunshine and back again. But the utilities and roads were already haywire after the initial storm front, and she knew from experience they wouldn’t be fully restored until the entire system had passed and repair crews could fix them properly.

Power had returned, at least temporarily, along with the phone lines, so Natalie took a shower while her clothes washed and tumbled dry. Her hair smelled of his shampoo, her skin was extra smooth from his razor. Refreshed and restored, she ventured out of the house in search of fresh air and a glimpse of a certain pair of abs. If Sawyer insisted on working shirtless, the least she could do was admire him.

She spotted him in the distance, sitting atop the ancient blue tractor, bump-bump-bumping along in the mud. It should have pleased her to see him working the land, but that thing was older than she was. It couldn’t be safe, or particularly effective. Maybe she could convince him to donate it to the Dearling Farm Museum.

He needed a new tractor. He needed a horse. Hell, he needed five men working beside him full-time to get the planting done in time for a healthy harvest. Her family may not have owned a farm, but she had been a country girl and listened to the farmers discuss their work at the diner long enough to understand. This was a setup for failure, but maybe that was the point. Then he could lose the farm he never wanted and pretend it wasn’t his fault.

He could leave
her
and pretend it wasn’t his fault. No, it was hers.
If this is all we have together
,
I
can be okay with that.

Ugh.

A sharp spice tickled her nose, and she turned the corner of the house. A mass of overgrown vegetation huddled against the house. On first glance it looked like a honeysuckle gone rogue, but at the bottom, old wood peeked through. This had been more than decorative. From the size and shape of the base, this had been a vegetable garden.

Almost every house around here had one, and in its heyday, this would have been glorious. Right now, it just seemed sad. It wasn’t only the disarray, the neglect. Long branches slung over the sides, as though protecting plants long dead, like a mother mourning an empty womb.

She poked through the net of vines, peering into the darkness. Her nose twitched, like it did when she cut into fresh jalapeños from her own patio garden.

I
wonder
...

She couldn’t see a thing, blocked at every angle by thick bands of growth. She’d need to cut through to see inside. Sawyer wasn’t in sight anymore to ask permission, the branches parting to reveal a broad, naked expanse of land. Well, who could complain about a little courtesy trimming?

The barn should have some tools, even if they were as old as that tractor. In the yellow light of day, the barn looked dusty. Not at all sexy without Sawyer there. She sighed. Would it always be that way for her, everything lackluster without the jolt of heady masculinity he brought? She’d had her share of relationships, but there wasn’t a huge dating pool in a town of three hundred people.