Jillian Hart (11 page)

She wasn't ready for this—It was too soon, it was too much—but she closed her eyes and gave in to the dizzying heat of his kiss. It felt so good she wanted him to never stop. She curled her hands in the fabric of his shirt and held on.

His thumb brushed the curve of her chin, sweet and tender, the way a lover's would. She opened her eyes to see him watching her, dark shadows haunting his eyes.

"I was afraid that you might not want me, but after kissing you I know I was wrong. You are a passionate woman, Lissa Murray."

Lissa Murray. It was the first time anyone had called her that. It felt strange, as if she were a whole new person, someone who could leave the past in the grave, where it belonged. Yet she was afraid, as if letting go of Michael would erase all the happiness they had shared—when her love for him dimmed he would be gone as if he'd never lived.

"You promised me hot chocolate," he whispered in her ear, the brush of his breath meant to tickle her ear and make her shiver deep inside.

It did.

"I'll put more wood on the stove," he offered.

"Your injuries are never going to heal if you keep moving around."

"I don't want you packing wood, Lissa. It's my job now."

That was another thing. Jack's opinion of what his duties were had changed drastically since the letters he'd sent her.

"It can be your job later, as soon as those stitches come out," she argued.

"Forget it I'm getting the wood, and that's that. The man of the house has spoken," he said roughly, but his blue eyes twinkled, and she wasn't fooled.

"Well, the woman of the house says you had better watch your step, or you'll be sleeping out with the cows."

"That's where you're wrong." Dimples flashed in his cheeks as he headed for the backdoor. "I'm never sleeping anywhere but at your side for the rest of my life. You can count on it."

He strode out into the darkness, leaving her alone with the cat and the rise of Chad's voice as he played with his toy horses.

Winston hopped onto the table, hoping to find the lid to the cookie crock ajar. Lissa took a while to notice. She shooed the cat back onto the floor, but she couldn't seem to take her gaze from the door, and she couldn't breathe quite the same when Jack ambled back into the room, handily balancing several sticks of cut wood in his muscle-hewn arms.

The memory came to him in dreams.

The burning heat of a late summer Montana sun, the crisp scent of sage, baked earth, and browned bunchgrass. A rock had found its way into his boot, and it bit at the ball of his left foot every time he stepped. He kept low, running on bent knees beneath the cover of scrub brush. The rustling whisper of cottonwood leaves hid the sound of his steps.

Danger. It thinned his blood and sharpened his senses. He heard the low buzz of voices at the water's edge, the almost silent rush of a deep, flowing river, and the twitter of larks swooping low in the grass made heavy by full, dried seeds. He held a rifle in one hand and a Colt Peacemaker in the other.

"Jack." A touch to his shoulder, and he jerked upright, bounding out of the chair.

The sense of danger faded. Lamplight surrounded him, illuminating the front room of his new home. The sofa behind him bore a small, hand-worked pillow and a closed child's storybook.

"You fell asleep reading to Chad. I put him to bed." Lissa reached for the book and hugged it to her chest. Her uncertain gaze met his. "It's only nine o'clock. I think you're not doing as well as you keep pretending."

Jack rubbed his forehead. A deputy from St. Louis—that's what he was. He'd never been in Montana until now. What he'd remembered, that had been a dream, not a memory—not like Lissa.

She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the hallway. Nighttime made the cabin cozy, the dancing light from the lamps felt like a warm hug.

Home. He'd come home. That was all that mattered—not the past, not the man he had been, but the man he was now, and Lissa, who left fire everywhere she touched him, who made desire burn in his blood.

She was his wife. And he wanted her. How he wanted her.

Chapter Eight

"Look who decided to join us," Blanche greeted from her place at the James's kitchen table. "Is that your apple pie I smell?"

"The one and only." Lissa laughed, careful to keep her pie plate balanced while she accepted hugs from Maggie and Felicity. "I had to bake one for Jack and Chad so I could take this one out of the house."

"How is married life treating you?" Susan asked from her place at the table beside Blanche.

"Tell us
all
about it." Maggie lifted one brow.

"If I had a handsome man like that, I couldn't keep my hands off him," Felicity teased.

"We know." Maggie rolled her eyes, making everyone laugh.

"Being newly wed means being short of sleep," Sophie Johanson added.

"She looks well rested to me," Blanche observed.

Why, they all thought—Lissa blushed. Her friends assumed she and Jack had consummated their marriage.

"Let me take that pie off your hands," Maggie offered. She stole the plate and scurried off to the kitchen counter. Delicious treats sat on pretty plates awaiting consumption.

"I guess we're all here." Felicity pulled out the chair at the head of the table. "Let the Sweetwater Gulch Ladies' Club meeting begin."

Susan Russell produced a new box of playing cards. Maggie circled the table with a teapot and a coffeepot, one in each hand. Cups were filled, sugar and cream stirred, and the desserts distributed, all while the shopkeeper's wife dealt.

"Five card stud, aces wild," she called. As always, at the end of the game, all winnings would be donated to the club's latest cause.

Lissa reached into her reticule and pulled out her bulging coin purse. She emptied shiny coins onto the crisp, lace tablecloth.

"You haven't said one word about your new husband." Sophie peered up from behind her hand of cards.

"Lots of good sex can leave a woman speechless." Blanche counted out her pennies.

"Embarrassment can do the same." Lissa couldn't help laughing. "Really, Jack is an injured man. He needs his rest."

"I bet he likes you nursing him." Maggie winked.

Lissa studied her hand of cards, blushing harder. She remembered the hard planes of his body, so masculine and fascinating, how she felt her own blood heat whenever he touched her, remembered the tingling sparks of his kiss. Physical intimacy—it was something she'd been dreading since she agreed to Jack's handwritten proposal. Yet there could be benefits, too.

"I wouldn't let that man rest too long, if I were you," Susan advised before she made her bet.

Lissa knew darned well what her friend meant, but she took a sip of coffee instead of commenting. "He's been having bad headaches, but he refuses to admit it. He's building Chad a tree house up in the maple out back."

"What a man." Maggie sighed. "Does Chad like him?"

"Chad adores him." Lissa's heart glowed. "Jack has promised him a puppy next."

"I'm glad you found such a wonderful man." Blanche tossed ten cents into the pile. "After all you have been through, you deserve it, Lissa."

She tried to smile. Then the dealer called and the cards were laid down. Maggie won with a squeal, and Felicity took the cards and shuffled.

"How I miss that part of marriage." Elise Pickering tossed three pennies into the center of the table. "My Harry has been gone three long years, and the nights seem longer."

Lissa missed that part of marriage, too. Yes, there were benefits to be had: Comfort. Pleasure. Maybe a new baby.

"Lissa, your bet."

Susan's words brought her back. She studied her cards, trying to decide, but there Jack was—still at the back of her mind, with his sexy, lopsided grin and sparkling gaze.

Well, the hand she'd been dealt wasn't bad, not bad at all. She would make the best of it, both of her new life and her pair of tens. She tossed a nickel onto the growing pile of coins. Her thoughts returned to Jack, to the way her skin heated at his touch, and how her heart drummed when he was near.

She did miss that part of marriage.

"Here comes Mama!" Chad dashed through the house, bare feet pounding on the wood floor. His little fist gripped the spray of wildflowers they had picked together from the meadow.

"Quick. In here." Jack knelt to hold the cup.

Water sloshed as Chad dumped the flowers, stems first, into the offered tin. "She's gonna like these."

"I think so, too. Let's put them right in the middle of the table."

"Oh, Winston." Chad laughed at the smug cat already sitting directly in the center of the table. Winston pulled back one guilty paw and pretended she wasn't trying to knock the lid off the cookie jar.

"Get down, silly kitty."

The feline obliged, eyes eagerly watching the boy's hands. Chad snatched a cookie and dropped to the floor, ready to share.

Well, Jack figured, one cookie couldn't spoil the boy's appetite. He set the cup of flowers right in the table's center and admired his work—not bad. Maybe the forks and knives weren't in the right places, but the plates, the napkins, and the cups sure were.

"I see Winston's been hunting again." Lissa stood on the back porch, surrounded by light, lit from behind by the brilliant green world. "Not every cat is so good at catching cookies."

"We were hungry, Mama." Chad laughed, caught red-handed.

"I couldn't say no," Jack tried to defend himself, but knew from Lissa's glittering eyes that she wasn't angry.

She lifted her skirts with one hand, the other balancing her pie plate, and swept into the house. She brought the sunshine with her. Desire wrapped around his spine, leaving him weak.

"Any of that dessert left?" Some appetites he could satisfy.

"Enough for tonight's dessert." Lissa breezed close to him. "You're lucky Blanche brought her dark chocolate cake, or there wouldn't be one slice left for your sweet tooth."

"Then I owe Blanche a great debt." Jack ached to brush those curls out of Lissa's eyes. He yearned to just touch her. "How was your meeting?"

"Productive. We're raising funds for a lending library." She laid her slim fingers on his forearm, her silken skin hot against his. Flecks sparkled in her big, luminous eyes.

Every inch of his body responded. "And just how are these funds raised?"

A mysterious smile touched her lips. "We're hosting the annual harvest dance, as always."

She passed by him, and the tiny hairs on his arms stood up. The surface of his skin prickled. He felt like the air right before a thunderstorm—charged and strung tight.

"What have you done?" She looked around. Her reticule thunked to the floor.

He knelt to retrieve the drawstring sack that looked suspiciously lighter than before she left for her meeting. "I thought Chad and I would make supper so you wouldn't have to."

"You even set the table. Look at the flowers."

"We thought you would like those, too." He straightened and laid the reticule on the counter.

"I do." She beamed, her eyes aglow. "You thought of this. You did this, Jack. I can't remember the last time I didn't have to get supper."

"Just trying to satisfy you, ma'am."

"Well, it's working." Her smile pleased him, all sweet curves and luscious softness. "I can't believe you can cook."

"It's an undiscovered talent." The breeze through the windows carried her scent—sunshine and sweetness all wrapped up with spice. "I'd do anything for you. Anything at all. Even peel potatoes."

"My kind of man."

"I hope so." He didn't know where these feelings came from, but he wanted Lissa like no other woman. He didn't need his memory to know this. He only needed his heart.

* * *

Jack's voice rumbled low through the house, blending with a contentment she hadn't known in a long while. Even though it was night and darkness shadowed the corners and the parts of the house not brushed by lamplight, Lissa had never felt so safe.

An owl hooted outside and coyotes called in the distance. She wasn't startled—not even when the night wind drove a low branch from the tall hawthorn bush up against the side of the house.

Lissa set down her embroidery. The wooden hoop clacked against the low table. The low timbre of his voice drew her down the short hallway, to outside Chad's room. With every step closer, she listened as he read about one of Tom Sawyer's exploits. Jack's voice rose and fell with the excitement of the story, and she nearly missed a step, just savoring the sound of him, all substance and heart.

Her throat ached. She tilted her head to peer around the half open door. Jack sat in a chair, the book held open in both hands, his head bent. Low lamplight brushed across his face, burnished his hair, and gleamed off the surface of the pages.

Chad turned on his side, finally asleep.

Jack closed the book and stood. His gaze swept up to hers, and he looked surprised. He hadn't heard her approach. The glitter in his eyes let her know he was glad to see her. "I was just thinking about you."

"Not about Tom Sawyer?" She held out her hand.

He gave her the book. "Tom Sawyer isn't as beautiful as you."

She bowed her head. Golden curls, cascading like sunlight, fell over her shoulder and hid her breasts. Jack thought about what it would be like to brush those curls away. His fingers ached. His whole body ached.

Then she moved away, and his opportunity was gone.

Her skirts whispered, and her shoes gave a light tap against the wood floor as she stepped into their room. She walked in the darkness, drawing him. Starlight silvered the shadows and painted her in hues of gray.

She set the book on the shelf among a half-dozen others. "It means a lot to Chad that you've kept your promises to him."

"It's the least I can do. He's a nice boy. I'm proud to be his stepfather. He's smart as a whip. He learned to hammer nails, straight as you please, in no time. He's building that tree house as much as I am."

"It means a lot to me, too. Not many men would do what you've done. Even reading Chad to sleep every night."