Jillian Hart (13 page)

His lips danced with hers, nipping, brushing, moving away. She felt his erection against her inner thigh, sighed when he nudged against her there, where they melted together, nothing but wetness and hardness and sweet, heart-stopping sensation.

"Oh, yes." The words bubbled through her. She clung to him, to the strength in his muscled arms, to the breadth of his back. He entered her slowly, stretching, filling her so that there was only this joining, the beat of her own heart, and him, only him.

He was so much. He withdrew and filled her again. Magical, luxurious sensation rippled through her, left her gasping. Those waves of pleasure built as Jack withdrew again, then filled her completely. Sharp spirals of heat twisted through her. She could not breathe, could not even move, as Jack kept thrusting, kept making that pleasure build.

"Yes." She'd never been this overwhelmed, so at the edge of control. Jack brushed kisses across her face, down her throat, arching his back to catch one peaked nipple with his tongue. Sensation tore through her, so bright and sharp that she gritted her teeth, almost afraid of it

"Come on, Lissa." His voice shivered across her dampened nipple, breezed across her sensitized skin. He caught her mouth with his and kissed her deeply, all the while pinning her down, moving within her, driving deeper.

So deep. She lifted up to meet him, wrapped her thighs around his hips. Every muscle in her body felt strung taut, ready to break. Her abdomen clenched in a tight ball. This couldn't go on. She couldn't bear it But his thrusts deepened, quickened, drawing the hottest sweetest sensation there, where they joined.

She pulsed, her muscles clenching hard around his thickness.

And then it happened. A white-hot jolt of sensation speared through her, a bright thrilling heaviness that squeezed in every muscle, every bone. Above her, Jack stiffened. She felt his release in the steel of his arms enfolding her, felt it in the tight ripple of his back muscles and in his fast urgent thrusts. He threw back his head, throbbing inside her, spilling his seed in hot wet bursts.

Breathless, he kissed her deep and hard, but there was a greater tenderness in his touch, in his kiss, that hadn't been there before.

"You are like no other." His confession rumbled low, vibrating through every part of her.

Tears filled her eyes. She laid a hand against his face, felt the wondrous texture of his day's stubble and the strong cut of his cheek and jaw. Still joined, she felt him thicken inside her, filling her with sweetness and pleasure and a dizziness she'd never known before.

She gave herself over to his kisses. His hips moved, starting up that tight building pleasure all over again. She gave herself up to it, to him.

Jack Murray had kept his vow. He was her husband now, he and no other.

Chapter Nine

She'd left him sleeping in bed, brushed by the first shadows of dawn. He was still healing from his injuries; he needed his sleep. Yet, remembering the night spent together—in his arms, and later, sleeping cuddled against the warm, hard wall of his chest—she hadn't wanted to crawl out of that bed.

The morning's work had called to her, though. She fed her orphaned calves, cleaned their pens, and hauled water.

Now, it was already past sun-up, and Chad was out playing in his new tree house. The scents of coffee and of bacon still warm in the oven filled her kitchen. Shadows filtered through the lace curtain covering her kitchen window. The storm that threatened to blow in last night had held off. Dark clouds crowded out the sun, and the wind blew hard and gusty, knocking limbs from the hawthorn bush and the maples against the eaves.

She felt him before she heard him, as if last night's intimacy had brought a new level of awareness. Remembered heat from his touches breezed across her skin, flickered in her veins. There he was, an immovable tower of man and muscle blocking her threshold, one broad shoulder cocked against the doorframe.

"Good morning." His smile came lopsided and sexy, as if he were remembering last night, too.

How he'd touched her, what he'd given her, made her shy, but she managed a smile. "How's your headache today?"

"Not as bad as yesterday. Mornings are the worst." He rubbed his brow, the bandage long abandoned. Shocks of thick hair tumbled over his forehead and into his unblinking, far too intimate eyes.

Yes, he was remembering last night. Remembering the way he'd kissed her, touched her, and how she responded. Avoiding his gaze, she swiped her broom beneath the kitchen table. "I kept the coffee warm. I know that helps your headache."

"You're an angel." His voice lured her.

"No, I just know how to cook," she teased, but she could not look up. She kept sweeping, but her skin tingled when he strode past her.

"A cook. An angel. It's the same to me." It was so intimate, the way the words rumbled low in his chest. She remembered being pressed hard against that chest, against him, out of control. "If you have a moment, I want to talk."

"You sound serious."

"I am." He stood, feet braced, looking every bit as dangerous as an outlaw, but uncertainty flickered in his deep blue eyes. "I want your opinion, since this is your land, too."

"You want my opinion?"

He rubbed his brow, pain evident in the wrinkle at his brow. "You've been at this ranching business longer than I have."

"Only because Michael died." She leaned the broom against the wall, her heart knocking against her ribs. "He never discussed the ranch with me." Jack reached for a hot pad, but she snatched it away from his grip.

"I want to know what you think. I want what happens on this land to be decided by both of us."

Her throat tightened. She reached for the coffeepot, and spilled some. His hand covered hers, reassuring. She saw a steady, caring light in his eyes.

"Is that all right by you?" His voice sounded tight, but his words were gentle.

"I would like that very much.'' Yes, providence had been with her the day Jack decided to propose marriage. Every day that passed made her more grateful, happier that this man was hers.

He reached for the sugar bowl. "Since we can't count on the sheriff to help us run off these rustlers, I figure we're going to need to hire some men."

"I don't have that budgeted." She watched him stir sugar into his cup—such strong hands, but capable of great tenderness. She thought of last night, of his hands and how they had touched her.

"Can I see the books?"

"Sure." She wished she could just march right up to him and lay her cheek against that broad chest of his, feel the steely comfort of his arms around her. Instead, she moved away. "I keep everything in our bedroom. I'll dig the ledger out from the bottom drawer of my bureau."

Tension ebbed away, softening his broad-legged stance. "Beneath your petticoats?"

"You peeked?"

"I was looking for clean handkerchiefs. Is that your bacon I smell?"

"Keeping warm in the oven."

The way his slow grin spread across his face made her pulse skip two beats. She felt light as the breeze as she hurried from the room. With every step away from him she could hear him, imagine how he moved through the kitchen with the athletic grace of a mountain lion—crisp, efficient, powerful.

She tugged the ledger book from the bottom drawer and caught sight of Jack's clothes folded in the left half, his white drawers touching her everyday petticoats. The sight seemed too intimate—as intimate as last night spent lying naked, spooned on their sides, the weight and heat and presence of his body hard against hers.

He wasn't in the kitchen. She found him on the top step of her sunporch, a few paces away from the spot where they'd exchanged vows. Flowers scented the air. Unfurled rose petals ruffled in the breeze. Yellowbells and bluebells danced, and a hummingbird lingered at the flowering hawthorn bush.

"I caught sight of Hans Johanson along the north property line yesterday." Jack glanced up at her, all business. The breeze tousled his dark blond locks, scattering them across his brow. "He's been having troubles, too. Lost twenty heifers some time between yesterday morning and noon. Some of his best stock."

"Hans has been recovering from a bullet wound one of those rustlers gave him." She gathered her skirts and sat down beside him. "They seem to strike a rancher when he's down."

"That means those rustlers are either spending a lot of time observing the ranchers, or they already know them well." Jack wrapped both hands around the tin coffee cup and sipped deeply. Morning light winked along its surface.

"I thought they were outsiders. I can't imagine men we know as the ones causing such heartache."

"It's a tough world, and all sorts of things are possible." Jack took another sip, facing the wind. "And you have another problem. This is a big place. A thousand acres is a lot of land to keep watch over."

"I don't know how many extra hands we can afford to hire without compromising our budget. Maybe if we sell extra hay this autumn when the cattle go to market."

Jack took the ledger she offered and flipped through the pages. "We could be worse off."

"True."

"I'm going to take a look at the new calves. Cut out a few to sell. Prices are low this time of year, but we need the cash. I think we should add a half dozen men to the payroll."

"Are you hiring guns or ranch hands?" She twisted to watch the movement of his face.

"Ranch hands. I'm not looking for trouble. And I don't think it will come to that. Besides, Will is handy with a gun. That's good enough for now."

She took a breath, considering. Jack snapped the ledger book shut and set it on the porch behind him. His big fingers dwarfed the tin mug as he drained it. She watched the column of his throat work, saw the vulnerable underside of his jaw. She wanted to kiss him there, to know again the softer side of this man of courage and steel.

"Come with me." He gave a single nod toward the barn, scattering the brazen gold of his hair against his collar. "We need to discuss your calves."

"My calves? You think you're going to sell mine instead of cutting them from the herd?" She kept stride with him across the hard-packed earth. Heated sage and ripe grass scented the air.

"I don't think so. I
know
so. Those orphans are going to be the easiest to sell. They're tame."

"Yes, but I've become attached to them." She followed him into the dimness of the barn. Straw crackled beneath her shoes.

"Attached?" He quirked a skeptical brow.

"Attached." She reached out to rub the first eager calf nose that popped over the pen rail. A long pink tongue darted out and pulled her fingers into its mouth. Chocolate brown eyes gazed tip at her.

"I would be more attached to six ranch hands." Jack winked.

"Three calves, no more," she decided.

"Five." He laid one hand on her shoulder, both tender and commanding, as his touch had been last night.

"Four." She turned and saw only him—his mesmerizing eyes, his notched chin, his mouth growing closer that made her heart stop and her breath catch. He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, sought the shelter of his broad chest and strong arms.

The kiss had been sweet, just a brush of his lips to hers, but the effect pounded in his heart, drummed in his veins long after—even as he rode the north property line beneath a cloud-filled sky, watching for anything amiss.

This ranch had a lot of problems. He was well enough to start solving them, to start fighting back against the men taking their cattle. Jack swiped his forearm across his brow, considering where to start. There had been no more visits from the rustlers—yet—but his instincts told him it was only a matter of time.

"Pa, I'm getting hungry." Chad wrapped both hands around the saddle horn.

"I suppose it's time to be headin' home." He knuckled back his hat. For as far as he could see rolling green meadows and groves of gigantic timber stretched toward the mountain-framed horizon. The restless heat of the wind puffed against his face.

"Mama was gonna make cinnamon rolls."

"The ones with the icing?"

A solemn nod.

"I'm awfully partial to those rolls." Jack couldn't believe his luck. A ranch like this, a nice boy to call his own, and a passionate woman who could bake. He had it all. The wind rumbled south, bending tall tips of grass and thistle. It felt restless, and called to something in his heart.

The crack of a branch split the air, and the gelding shied. Jack circled the horse around, the call of the wind forgotten, his senses alert

"Sit here and don't move, Chad. Promise me."

"I promise." Small hands gripped the saddle horn more tightly.

Jack swung down and quickly tethered one rein to the thick rung of the fence. Listening hard, he unsnapped his holster. The walnut-handled Colt felt right in his hand, cold and powerful.

A shadow moved in the copse of pines—a single man riding a silver roan. "Is that you, Johanson?"

"Don't shoot me, Murray," a familiar voice called out, then branches gave way as the rugged man rode out into the heady wind. "Glad to know you're on the mend. I heard you were fixin' to sell a few of Lissa's calves."

"You heard right." Jack holstered his gun.

"The question is, do you have Lissa's permission to sell them? She raises the best breeding stock around."

"And she's proud of it."
And ought to be.
"What will you offer me for four of her hand-raised heifer calves?"

"Come on over to the house and we'll talk. Say this afternoon?"

"I'll be there after dinner." Jack looked over his shoulder to check on his son. The boy was busy kicking the gelding in the sides, pretending to ride. "At the wedding, you mentioned puppies. Still have a few?"

"A few? Hell, I got a whole litter of them. Just eight-weeks-old today, and ready to leave their mama." Hans's gaze traveled to the young boy, who gave an Indian whoop into the wind. "I'll wager Chad would like one."

"We'll pick one out." Jack tipped his hat. He wondered what his beautiful wife would think about having a puppy in the house.