Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (6 page)

The innocent rejoinder hung in the air, rife with a layer of meaning that she hadn’t intended. Clearly, the foot-in-mouth disease was contagious, because this time she’d been the one to speak too quickly.

Before she could correct herself, Jace grinned and seemed to consider his options. Her heart adopted a sluggish beat in her chest and she felt as flustered as her teenage daughter. His fingers tightened on her arm, and she thought she felt his thumb move in a phantom caress. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally said, “A man can always be tempted by the promise of . . . bacon.”

But even as she laughed, she knew full well that he’d given her the G-rated version of the answers that had popped into his head. Unaccountably, she wondered what the adult version would be.

Somehow, he must have sensed her thoughts because he dropped his hand and scooped a hat from the counter. Rather than the cowboy hat he’d had the night before, this one was a baseball-type cap with a logo for Western Seeds embroidered on the front. She’d thought that the simpler headgear would lessen the effect of his blunt bone structure. Instead, it gave him a boyishness that was at odds with the stark masculinity of his frame.

Lordy, lordy, how she loved the contrast.

“Well, I’d better get going,” Jace said.

But he didn’t move. Instead, he remained in the patch of sunlight streaming in from the door behind him. The buttery glow gilded the tips of the coffee-colored hair escaping below his hat. In the light of day, she was able to see that he was even younger than she’d first supposed—no more than his early thirties. Faint lines had only just begun to fan out from his eyes and bracket his mouth, but rather than detracting from his appearance, they made him seem that much more . . . real. Approachable.

But he was at least five or six years her junior.

Which was a shame.

Bronte’s thoughts came to a screaming halt. What in the hell was she thinking? Didn’t she have enough on her plate without adding a teenage-like crush? She wasn’t the adolescent girl who’d sneaked through the grass with her sister to catch a look at the boys next door. She was a grown woman with children and an ailing grandparent to care for, not to mention a failed marriage at her back.

Failed marriage.

Again, she was reminded of the envelope waiting in her bag. It needed to be mailed. She would not be going back to Boston or to Phillip, and by hesitating in completing the formalities, she was merely delaying the inevitable.

But not today.

She couldn’t bring herself to do it today.

Realizing that the silence had stretched out far too long, Bronte tried to remember the last thing Jace had said.

Leaving. He was leaving.

So why did she want him to stay?

She hurried to say, “Yes. Yes, I suppose you’ve got a lot to do.”

The second the words left her mouth, she could have kicked herself. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was pushing him out the door. Quite the contrary. But she didn’t want him to feel obligated to linger, either.

Damn
. She suddenly felt as awkward and socially inept as Kari.

“If I get a chance, I’ll drop by later tonight to make sure you’ve got everything you need.”

Yes!

He gestured to the fridge. “I left my phone number under that magnet there. Don’t hesitate to call if you need something.”

“Thanks.” Bronte unconsciously crossed her arms, and then uncrossed them again, when she saw the way his gaze dropped—for a second—to her breasts. Flustered, she shoved her hands into her pockets.

To her surprise, Jace grinned, clearly unabashed. Then, with a last wave, he disappeared out the door, calling for his brother.

A flurry of butterflies seemed to take up residence in Bronte’s chest as she edged closer to the window and watched as Jace and Barry climbed into the truck. What had just happened here? She was tingly and nervous—and heaven only knew that she shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not now. Not ever. She was a grown woman with two children who needed her undivided attention. She’d quit her job, left her husband, and moved cross-country to give herself some space from the male species. She’d be an idiot to allow herself to even think of . . .

Of what?

She couldn’t bring herself to put these vague, tremulous . . .
heady
sensations into words.

“Mom!”

Bronte jumped away from the window as if she were a Peeping Tom seconds before Kari stormed into the room. “McKenzie says that I’m missing field day. Field day!”

Sighing, Bronte turned away from the sight of Jace’s truck disappearing down the lane. Her role as referee, drill sergeant, and mother had officially begun for the day.

*   *   *

SEVERAL
hours later, Jace found himself whistling as he let himself into the kitchen of the Big House.
Whistling.

Wasn’t that the damnedest thing?

Unfortunately, he wasn’t alone. Bodey was slouched in one of the far chairs, frowning at his laptop. He glanced at Jace, looked away, then did a double take. As Jace hung his hat on the rack behind the door and shrugged out of his jacket, a slow grin slid across Bodey’s lips.

“Who is she?” he asked bluntly.

Shit
.

Jace scowled at his brother, pretending to misunderstand. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Bodey leaned back, crossing his arms and regarding Jace with narrowed eyes.

“The only time I hear you whistle is when you’ve met someone who piques your interest.”

Jace opened the refrigerator door and pretended to search inside. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Even though he wasn’t all that hungry, he grabbed an apple from the crisper and straightened, busying himself with the drawer that held the knives.

“The fact that you won’t look me in the eye is answer enough. Who is she?”

Inwardly cursing the fact that he’d come in the back door—and that his younger brother was a pain in the ass—Jace grabbed a paring knife and slammed the drawer shut again. Leaning a hip against the counter, he began to carefully remove the bright green peel. “Like I said: I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I spent some time helping Annie’s relatives, then I spent five hours drilling angle field. Had to stop at the lower east corner because of the mud.”

But Bodey wasn’t listening. “Who’s visiting Annie? A woman?”

Jace sighed, the apple peel beginning to form a spiral strip. He did his best to remain bored and pissy, but Bodey’s prodding was having the opposite effect. Hell, if it weren’t for the complications caused by her children, Bronte Cupacek would be Bodey’s type—beautiful and sweet, and with legs up to her armpits.

“You’re being an ass. Bronte is probably only here for the summer.”

“Oooo.
Bron-tay,”
Bodey responded in a singsong voice. “So you’re already on a first-name basis, huh?”

Jace might be approaching thirty-two, but there were times when Bodey could punch his buttons to the point where he felt thirteen and his instinctual response was to pound his younger brother into the ground. Growing up, Elam had been the calm one, the leader, the voice of authority among the boys. Bodey, on the other hand, liked to stir things up—and he generally hadn’t been happy unless he’d started a fight. Since Elam would rarely take the bait, Jace was Bodey’s favorite target.

But tonight, Jace refused to supply any further ammo. The last thing he wanted was for Bodey to head over to Annie’s and find out for himself how perfectly Bronte fit into his dating criteria.

The rush of possessiveness that flooded through Jace was as surprising as it was inexplicable. If there was anyone on earth with an emotional
NO TRESPASSING
sign firmly in place, it was Bronte Cupacek.

“She’s married,” he said bluntly. That seemed to shut Bodey up for a few seconds, so he added, “And she has kids. One of ’em is a teenager.”

Bam!
The gleam in Bodey’s eye disappeared. Bodey liked the ladies, there was no denying that. But he had enough sense to stick to women who were in a love-’em-and-leave-’em frame of mind. No single mothers, no emotional baggage.

“So how’s Annie?”

And that quickly Bodey dropped his Super Asshole persona, and returned his attention to his laptop.

Jace couldn’t account for the flood of relief he felt in knowing that Bodey wouldn’t be rushing to Annie’s house in the morning to check out the new visitors. The last thing Jace needed was for Bodey to be his usual charming, larger-than-life self.

Although why it should matter, he couldn’t bring himself to say. Bronte
was
most likely married. And she
did
have children. So Jace had no right feeling anything at all for her other than mild curiosity. It was absolutely no business of his why she’d come to Utah. If he found himself wondering how early he could head over there in the morning, it was only because he wanted to make sure that her car was still working and her family was settling in—

“Jace!”

“Hmm?” He looked up from his apple to find Bodey staring at him.

“Annie?” his brother prompted.

Jace scrambled to remember what Bodey had been saying, but his brain seemed intent on reviewing the events of the morning—Bronte standing in the sunshine of Annie’s
kitchen, her acceptance of Barry, her tenderness toward her youngest daughter.

But when Bodey continued to eye him expectantly, he finally managed to say, “Annie’s holding her own, but she’s still in critical condition.”

“That must be tough for the visiting relatives.”

Jace tossed the ringlet-like peel onto the counter and cut a slice of apple. “You’re not kidding. When I explained what had happened that first night, Bronte looked at me like I’d pushed Annie down the stairs myself.” He slipped the apple into his mouth with the tip of the knife. “I think she was already at the end of her rope and the news threw her over another cliff.”

Jace realized he should have kept his mouth shut, because the curious gleam reappeared in Bodey’s gaze. But all he said was, “No wonder you’re whistling.”

Jace instantly bristled. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Sounds like a stray in the making,” Bodey muttered.

Then, thank God, Bodey’s phone rang, giving Jace the perfect excuse to walk away. Because, sure as shit, if he didn’t leave the room right now, Jace
would
be pounding his brother into the ground.

“L
ET’S
go, Barry!”

It was a little after four that afternoon when Jace finally managed to break free from his ranch duties—all with the intent of making good on his promise to meet Bronte that evening.

He didn’t allow himself to think too much on his reasons for making it a priority. Heaven only knew that after speaking with Bodey earlier that afternoon, the Fates had conspired against him. Equipment failures, muddy fields, and running short on seed had nearly upset his plans. But, uncharacteristically, he’d delegated the remaining problems to the hired men and had hurried back home.

Jace had barely turned the key to the truck when Barry came running out of the house, his hands filled with miniature ranch toys and plastic cows and horses.

“Do you think Emily will play ranch with me?” he asked excitedly as he juggled the tiny tractors, balers, and combines so that he could open the door and clamber inside.

Again, Jace felt a shock at Barry’s use of their sister’s name. Emily had been Barry’s twin sister. She’d been killed,
along with their parents, in a horrible winter accident oh so long ago. A lifetime ago, it sometimes seemed to Jace. For years, Barry had called out for her in his sleep and it worried Jace that Barry was using her name whenever he spoke about Lily.

“I don’t know, Barry. Some girls aren’t into playing with ranch machinery, you know. They like dolls and stuff like that.”

Barry shook his head. “Emily likes to play with me.”

Jace didn’t bother to argue—didn’t want to argue. He prayed that Barry was right and Lily wouldn’t mind hanging out with a boy who towered above her and had already begun to show the beginnings of a beard. Jace had done his best to try to provide Barry with everything his brother needed. But friends couldn’t be so easily supplied. The neighbor kids were loving and accepting, but they were interested in cars and jobs and girls. Barry still wanted to get down on his knees and till the carpet with his toy tractors.

“She sure liked that swing, didn’t she?” Jace said, simply to see his brother beam.

“You ain’t a-kidding, Jace. I got her goin’ high, too!”

“But be careful, okay? You’re almost a man and men have to watch over women and keep them safe.”

“Even if they’re still girls?”

“Especially if they’re still girls.”

“Okay, Jace. I’ll take care of Emily.”

“Lily. Her name’s Lily.”

Barry blinked at him with wide blue eyes. “I know that.”

“Then why do you keep calling her Emily?”

“ ’Cause it’s the nickname I gave her. Friends gotta have a nickname. It’s what makes ’em friends.”

Jace opened his mouth to insist that Barry might want to choose a different nickname—one not associated with their late sister. But Barry was sorting his toys and it was clear that, to him, the subject was dropped.

Jace threw the truck into gear and eased onto the service road that would take him through Taggart Hollow to Annie’s fields, then over the rise to her house. As he drove, Jace tried
to convince himself that he was only helping out Annie. She was a good friend, after all.

But it was no good. He might be more than willing to drop by Annie’s to help make some repairs, but he rarely took off from work several hours early so he could shower. Shave. Throw on cologne. Brush his hat.

Damn.

“What’s-a-matter, Jace?”

Jace shook himself free from his thoughts. “What do you mean, Barry?”

“You look . . . funny.”

“Funny how?”

Barry’s brow creased in concentration. “Like you need to go to the bathroom or somethin’. Do you need to go to the bathroom, Jace?”

“No,” Jace said firmly, knowing he needed to shut down this line of talk before they arrived at Annie’s and Barry felt the need to audibly worry over it like a dog with a bone.

“Good. ’Cause you already took too much time in the bathroom getting ready.”

In a single instant, Barry managed to bring Jace crashing back to earth. Heaven only knew that Barry was right. Jace was jittery and jumpy with anticipation—and there wasn’t a reason in the world to be that way. The woman who had occupied his thoughts for the better part of the day had to be married. M-a-r-r-i-e-d. She had kids. She was loaded up to her eyeballs with palpable stress.

So why did Jace keep thinking he had more than one way to help her relieve some of that tension?

“You got that look again, Jace.”

Hell.

“I was thinking, Barry.”

“ ’Bout what?”

“Whether or not Lily will want to play inside or outside with your equipment.”

Barry nodded as if totally satisfied with the complexity of Jace’s inner argument. But luckily, before he could comment, Annie’s house came into view and Barry saw Lily on
the rope swing beneath the tree house. As soon as she saw Barry, she waved and ran to meet him.

“Wait until the truck has rolled to a complete stop,” Jace warned his brother.

Obediently, Barry edged closer to the end of his seat, one finger poised above the belt release. But as soon as Jace put the truck in park, he was leaping free, excitedly calling out to Lily, “Come on, Emily! Let’s go play!”

The two children headed toward one of the barns and Jace watched until they settled in a spot in the old corral before he stepped out himself. As he did so, Bronte appeared at the side door.

“You have perfect timing,” she called out. “I was taking some cinnamon rolls out of the oven when I heard your truck. Come have one while I show you the list I’ve been making. I need a second opinion.”

Jace’s boots rang hollowly on the side steps as he crossed into the house. Mentally, he added putting in a concrete stoop to his own collection of ideas. But as soon as he moved through the door, he was swamped by the rich scents of baking bread, cinnamon, rich brown sugar, and coffee. When Bronte turned her back to him and bent to pull a batch of rolls from the oven, his gaze zeroed in on her butt.

Bronte Cupacek had a great butt, rounded and firm and just the right size to cup with his hands.

Shit.

He obviously needed to get out more if this was how he acted in close proximity to a woman he’d barely met. A
married
woman.

She turned and he prayed she didn’t see how far south his gaze had strayed. Thankfully, she seemed preoccupied with setting the hot pan on the stove, then grabbing plates from the cupboard overhead.

“I checked out the rooms on the ground floor, and I’m thinking that the office would probably make the best bedroom. It’s close to the bathroom and the windows look out over the yard and the creek. I think Annie would like that.”

She reached overhead again, lifting on tiptoes, and in
doing so, the hem of her shirt lifted, revealing a sliver of velvety flesh.

Jace knew he shouldn’t look, but he couldn’t help himself. Just as he couldn’t help drinking in the nipped-in spot at her waist and the sweep of her spine as—

Bronte turned, catching him red-handed. He averted his eyes, but not before twin spots of color appeared on her cheekbones, chasing away some of the worry from her eyes.

“Sorry,” Jace mumbled, knowing there was no sense denying that he’d been ogling her. “It’s been a long time since someone as pretty as you has crossed my path.”

His honesty heightened the color in her cheeks, but to her credit, she didn’t chastise him. Instead, she seemed rather pleased by the offhanded comment.

“Maybe you need to get out more,” was all she muttered as she turned away again, loaded cinnamon rolls onto two plates, then hooked two mugs through her finger.

“Coffee?” she asked.

He looked at the huge pastry on his plate. “I’d rather have milk, if you have it.”

“Sure.”

She took a gallon jug from the refrigerator and two glasses from the drainer near the sink, then snagged a small bowl of icing. After drizzling the almond-scented glaze on each roll, she took the chair diagonal from him.

“This is amazing,” he said, looking down at the treat she’d laid out in front of him. The cinnamon roll was as big as the saucer, light and fluffy and golden brown. The filling swirled in dark counterpart to the golden dough, the rich cinnamon, and brown sugar studded with raisins and chunks of walnuts.

“Don’t be too impressed. I can bake—bread, rolls, quick breads, cookies, cake—but that’s about the only talent I have for cooking. Phillip, my . . . the children’s father, mourned the fact that I could never figure out how to cook turkey tofu so that it was edible.”

What the hell?

“Why, on earth, would you want to eat turkey tofu in the first place?”

His question seemed to please her, because she beamed.

Needing to shield himself from the power of that smile, Jace used a fork to cut off a bite of his roll. As the flavors rolled over his tongue, he was immediately inundated with memories of his mother. At the first snow of the season, she’d always made a cinnamon coffee cake, and this was just as good, if not better. There was a hint of another flavor, one he couldn’t pinpoint. A spice that seemed to deepen the flavor of the spiral filling.

“What’s in this? There’s something besides cinnamon, something . . .”

“Cardamom. It’s in the candied nuts.”

“You’ll have to let P.D. taste one of these.” His voice emerged much too husky and he quickly cleared his throat. At Bronte’s questioning look, he explained, “My older brother’s girlfriend owns a restaurant in town. She’s always looking for new recipes.”

Again, Bronte’s cheeks turned pink and Jace wondered how long it had been since someone had offered her a compliment. Not recently enough, apparently.

Unbidden, his gaze skipped to the hand circling her glass. She had beautiful, delicate hands with neatly trimmed nails painted in pale pink. But they weren’t pampered hands. Nicks and faint scars testified that she was accustomed to hard work. Even more telling, there was a faint ribbon of paler skin around her ring finger rather than a wedding band.

She shifted beneath his gaze, drawing her hand into her lap. Then she changed her mind, setting her palm flat on the table.

“I’m not with my husband . . . my ex-husband . . .” She sighed. “My husband and I are divorced for the most part . . .”

Jace’s brows rose. “For the most part?” he echoed. For some reason, his pulse had begun to drum in his ears. “Exactly how does that work?”

She sighed, beginning to trace the pattern of the tablecloth with her finger. “The formalities were all tied up months ago. All I have to do is sign a form acknowledging that I received the last set of papers.”

“You don’t want to sign them?” Jace asked gently,
wondering why the answer was so important. It wasn’t as if he planned to stake his claim on Bronte Cupacek—hell, they’d barely known each other twenty-four hours. Even if she were “all-the-way” divorced, getting himself tangled up with a newly single mother was a bad, bad idea. For both of them.

“No, I want to sign them,” she said quickly. Then more slowly, “I
need
to sign them. I . . .” She took a deep breath, then glanced out the window. Kari had climbed into the doorway of the tree house and was madly tapping at her iPod, while Lily and Barry were still on their knees pushing Barry’s toys through the dirt. “I’m worried how my children will react. But even more . . . I guess I’ve been afraid to sever that last tie to the woman I used to be.”

The words throbbed with undercurrents, but Jace knew better than to ask for an explanation. Instead, he said, “You’ll know when the time is right.”

His remark seemed to surprise Bronte, and he supposed that she’d been bombarded with advice from well-meaning friends and family members. He’d bet all of them had urged her to sign the papers as quickly as she could and be done with it.

He knew what that could be like. When he’d first announced that he would be the one to assume Barry’s care, there had been more than one person who’d told Jace that he simply wasn’t equipped for the job. Whether he’d wanted their opinion or not, he’d received more than his share of unsolicited advice from people who honestly wanted to help—everything from putting Barry into a group home to experimental treatments, diets, and drugs. He’d even been told to have Barry’s eyeballs read by a soothsayer living on the edge of town—which had been a raging WTF moment during those stressful days. Over and over, he’d been warned he could never completely fulfill the roles of his mother and father where Barry was concerned—and that much was true. But in time, he’d begun to see that Barry didn’t need Jace to be his mother. He needed him to be his big brother. Yeah, Barry might be lacking in a few of the social graces that a female figure might have inspired. But in Jace’s opinion, he’d grown into a pretty great kid.

Sensing that Bronte had shared more about her personal life than she’d ever thought she would, Jace changed the subject.

“How’s Annie?” he asked, filling both of their glasses with milk.

Bronte looked relieved at the new topic. “According to the nurse, her vital signs are a little better. She woke up a couple of times while I was in the room, but I don’t know if she knew I was there. I would have stayed longer, but my kids were getting restless.”