Perfect Timing (32 page)

* * *

Two days later, Quincy told Ceara to put on her borrowed riding jeans and the boots Rainie had bought her at the thrift shop. While she changed clothes, he found her one of his spare jackets, a wool muffler, and a pair of old leather gloves that Sam had left behind at his house after a visit. Then he set himself to the task of preparing a spur-of-the-moment picnic lunch, which he’d tuck into a saddlebag. A blanket! He needed to find a nice wool blanket. No spring-afternoon ride with a beautiful woman could be complete without mindless sex under a pine tree.

“So what are ye thinking, Quincy?” Ceara asked as she reentered the kitchen, freshly washed jeans skimming her legs and rolled at the ankle because they were too long on her.

Making a mental note to take her shopping for some proper riding gear, Quincy grinned and swung an arm toward the windows. “Do ye not see the weather, lass?” he said, mimicking her Irish brogue for effect. “’Tis a
fine
spring day, warm as a weevil in a fresh-baked biscuit! ’Tis off for a horseback ride we go.”

She laughed, rewarding him with a dimple in both cheeks, a sight he glimpsed only when she was very pleased. “’Tis a stranger pretending to be me husband, surely. Me Quincy is American and canna speak the Irish.”

“When I mean to seduce my wife, I can speak any language necessary.” Abandoning the assorted food items and blanket on the table, he closed the distance between them, hooked an arm around her waist, and tipped her backward until her spine arched for a movie-screen
Gone with the Wind
kiss. As he came up for air, he searched her slightly unfocused but still puzzled gaze. “Did you understand
that
language, Ceara mine? It’s a beautiful day. I’ve made a picnic lunch. I want to take you riding in the wilderness area across the road and make passionate love to you in the woods.”

As he allowed her to stand erect, she swept him from boots to head with an assessing look. “Ye’re wearing no seduction outfit.”

Seduction outfits had become a popular theme with her.
Problem
. Quincy normally depended on Wranglers, dusty boots, a Stetson, and a swagger to do his seducing for him. He made sure she had her balance, held up a finger, and said, “Hold that thought,” before he raced upstairs to change clothes.

He had no boxers on hand that were fringed with ostrich feathers. Instead he took the masculine approach and donned his all-black, rarely used barfly-attractant outfit—skintight black Wranglers, a black silk Western-cut shirt, his dressy black Stetson, and his flashy belt with the huge gold championship buckle, which he’d won years ago in a nationwide cutting competition. When he examined himself in the full-length wardrobe mirror, he winked, cocked his hat just so, and whispered, “Hello, darlin’, where you been all my life?” If this didn’t make her melt into her secondhand boots, he’d find himself in the men’s section of the Erotic Parrot, trying to find something sexy enough to please her.

Recalling the night when Ceara had first introduced him to Mr. Midas, Quincy attempted to make a grand entrance into the kitchen. He swaggered into the archway, struck a pose with one hip shot, the knee of his opposite leg bent, and tipped his hat to her. “Darlin’, I don’t got no feathers or sparkles. This is the best I can do on short notice.”

Ceara, who’d been rifling through the picnic supplies, turned and gave him a solemn study, the indentation in her cheek winking at him as she worried the inside of her lip. “Ye’re drop-dead
gorgeous
,” she informed him, “but ye’ll freeze off yer arse without a jacket.”

Quincy relaxed. Going with all black had never failed him. “I’ll wear a jacket over my seduction outfit.”

She glanced down at herself. “But I am not wearing one.”

Oh, yes, she was
. Quincy liked see-through negligees trimmed with feathers. What man didn’t? But what
really
turned his crank was a woman in tight jeans and riding boots. Or a pair of chaps and nothing else. A matter to address later, he decided. Just the thought of Ceara in chaps got his juices flowing and brought Old Glory to full attention.

“You are perfect,” he told her. “Way more prime than this old horseman deserves.”

“Ye’re
not
old. In me time, a lass who is married off to a man so young and fit feels fortunate.”

Quincy figured that was another thought to be explored later. Right now, he had his mind on one thing: a romantic horseback ride into the wilderness with his wife. He’d only ever made love to her in the privacy of their bedroom. Today she would be introduced to a host of new sexual experiences.

* * *

Instead of sex under a pine tree, they got a snowstorm. Quincy, who’d grown up in central Oregon, knew that only a fool or a newcomer trusted in a weather forecast, but he was still disgruntled by what he recognized as snow clouds moving in to turn the sky gray in spots. Ceara, fascinated with the landscape, didn’t seem to notice the forthcoming change in weather, and chattered like a magpie.

“’Tis so lovely here, Quincy! Even here in the trees, I can see yer beautiful mountain peaks. What is the name of the mountain range again?” After Quincy told her it was called the Cascades, she beamed a glowing smile. “’Tis so different from me Ireland. I ne’er thought to find anyplace but home so breathtaking. I shall like living here for always, with all the green fields stretching out from your house and these gorgeous forests looming behind them. At home, we have hills all covered with green, but our trees are mostly smaller, and we do na have anything so grand as yer mountain peaks.” She laughed and added, “I also quite like yer coffee and tea. At home, Mum made tea from roots and such, but ne’er did it taste so good.”

Absentmindedly, Quincy answered her endless questions about the flora and fauna they saw in the forest. Soon Ceara could tell the difference between ponderosa and lodgepole pines by counting the needle clusters, and she was an equally fast study at learning the names of the various bushes.

Quincy was far more focused on the threat of a storm. First, the sunshine blinked out. Then the wind kicked up, cold enough to slice chilled butter. He couldn’t believe it when the first snowflakes struck his cheeks.

“We need to turn back.” He wheeled Beethoven around. Ceara, who’d been following him, rode Elvis, a nine-year-old sorrel gelding that was so gentle and well-mannered that Quincy would have trusted him with any inexperienced rider. “We’ll have to enjoy our picnic at home.”

Ceara nodded and hunched her shoulders inside the oversize, lined denim jacket. Her cheeks had already turned apple red above the folds of the gray wool muffler. “’Tis so
cold
! I canna believe how quickly it came on.” She squinted at the sky, which had gone steel blue and spit a haze of snow. Then she looked at Quincy. “Yer jacket, ’tis too thin. Ye’ll catch yer death riding back in this.”

Before Quincy realized what she intended, she flapped her hand and the snow stopped falling. An instant later, the sun burst forth.

“Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have done that.”

“The ecological balance, I ken.” She grinned. “As soon as we’re to home, I’ll turn the snow back on, making it even heavier. Yer ecological balance willna be harmed.”

Somehow she looked different suddenly. Quincy studied her face, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what had changed. “Okay, but only just this once, and not because I’m going to catch my death. I’m more worried about you catching yours.”

“’Tis fine I am.”

Quincy nudged Beethoven around Elvis to take the lead, then stopped the horse and shifted on the saddle to make sure Ceara could rein her mount around on the narrow trail. She managed the turn with an expertise that amazed him.

“You are incredible.”

She smiled faintly. “Ye should try sidesaddle in long skirts. This is easy.”

Quincy nudged his stallion into a fast pace, wanting to get back to the ranch as quickly as possible. As much as he detested snow after what had seemed an endlessly long winter, it bothered him when Ceara messed with the weather. He knew the ecological balance wouldn’t undergo a severe shift simply because she’d turned off the white stuff for a few minutes, but it still wasn’t nature’s plan, and over time, he hoped that she would come to understand that.

They made record time getting back to the ranch. After they drew their horses to a stop outside the arena, they both dismounted. Ceara cast a yearning glance at the bright blue sky, then swung her hand, making it turn gunmetal gray again. The snowfall resumed instantly, heavier than before, just as she’d promised. Quincy saw Pierce in one of the paddocks. The thin young man stood with his hands on his hips, his freckled face crinkled in a perplexed frown.

“What the Sam Hill?” he shouted. “I’ve seen crazy weather, but if this don’t beat all.”

Quincy waved and turned to smile at his wife. His lips froze in a half curve. Ceara’s face had gone as white as chalk, and she was leaning against Elvis’s shoulder as if her legs wouldn’t hold her up. Quincy tossed Beethoven’s reins over the pommel and circled the horse to grasp Ceara’s shoulders.

“Sweetheart, what is it?”

She swayed on her feet and pressed against him for support. “Weak. ’Tis as if all me blood has drained away. ’Twill pass.”

Quincy gathered her close. She felt so tiny in his arms—so very fragile, like a miniature figurine of blown glass. Love for her swept over him in a wave, concern following swiftly in its wake. “What caused it, messing with the weather?”

She nodded, the movement of her chin barely discernible. It seemed to Quincy that she leaned against him for at least a full minute. When she finally drew away, he saw that some color had returned to her cheeks.

“Using me powers now makes me feel weak. ’Tis me guess that restarting the snow and making it come down heavier after may have been too much for me.”

“Then stop using your gifts. What’s the point if it exhausts you so?”

She smiled and straightened her shoulders. “’Tis better I am now.” She looked deeply into his eyes, snowflakes frosting her auburn lashes. “I know ye canna understand about me gifts, Quincy. How easily could ye stop using yer eyes to see or yer voice to speak?”

Quincy couldn’t argue the point, but that didn’t stop him from wishing she would quit using her powers.

Her smile deepened. “I have had me gifts always. Me mum says that directly after me birth, I screeched indignantly at the coldness of the air, and the wind picked up in accordance with me temper until a terrible gale and driving rain pummeled the keep. The instant I was swaddled and felt happier, the storm stopped.” She shrugged, conveying with the gesture that the story of her birth said it all. “Using me gifts is natural to me. I canna stop simply because ye ask it of me.”

Quincy told Pierce to care for their mounts and took Ceara straight to the house, hoping a hefty portion of the picnic lunch that he had prepared would restore her energy. To his dismay, she opened the kale wraps, peered dubiously at the filling, and then sat back on the chair. He quickly realized that any departure from her omnivore diet didn’t appeal to her appetite.

“How about eggs and bacon?” he asked. “Or I can grill us some burgers and make homemade fries.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Burgers and fries?”

Quincy couldn’t help but chuckle. “Ah, another culinary adventure, coming up.”

As he put ground beef into the microwave on defrost, he tried to tally the number of times over the last weeks that he’d consumed high-fat foods. So many times that he’d lost track. Farewell to healthful eating. His wife wanted no part of green smoothies, organically grown chicken, or weird vegetables.

“You’re obliterating my plan to eat right,” he said over his shoulder. “At this rate, I’ll probably croak before I hit seventy.”

Her laughter tinkled behind him like dainty wind chimes in a soft breeze. “’Tis silly to avoid good food. At home, the bounty is great, but nothing on our table compares to the delights of yer time.”

She got a croissant from the bread keeper, slathered it with butter, and took a huge bite, grinning impishly at him as she chewed. An hour later, she smeared at least two heaping tablespoons of mayonnaise on her bun. When she tasted her first French fry, dipped in the Harrigan family goop—half mayo and half ketchup—she moaned and closed her eyes.

“Ach, Quincy, ’tis better even than burned popcorn.”

He chuckled, as he enjoyed watching her wolf down fries, and promised himself he’d soon have her upstairs, moaning and closing her eyes over something a whole lot better than fat-saturated potato wedges.

Forty minutes and twenty-five seconds later, Quincy was the one moaning in delight as he kissed jam from his wife’s lips. For dessert, she’d eaten it straight from the jar with a spoon. Never had strawberries tasted quite as good.

Chapter Thirteen

Q
uincy couldn’t remember ever having been quite so happy. Ceara had become a favorite of the family. Frank called her his “pretty little fire hydrant,” in reference to her dark red hair. The hens included her in every get-together, sometimes to Quincy’s dismay, because they gave his wife all kinds of strange ideas, everything from shower sex to phone sex, the latter of which interrupted more than one of Quincy’s workdays. How in the hell was he supposed to train a horse when his wife talked dirty to him on her cell? Well, not dirty, really—it
was
Ceara, after all—but all Quincy needed to put his mind in the gutter was a whisper in his ear that she wished he were nibbling on her neck. The woman definitely knew how to jerk his leash. Once she embraced an idea, it was no-holds-barred.

His brothers ribbed him unmercifully about being henpecked. They also razzed him more than once about forgetting to drop the criminal charges against his wife, a slip of the mind that Quincy doubted he would ever live down. He gave back as good as he got, and bore in mind that it was all in good fun. So what if he had fallen madly in love with his wife? There wasn’t an adult male in the entire Harrigan clan who wasn’t totally devoted to his spouse, and Quincy thought it felt damned good to be in the same boat.