Rose (24 page)

The hardest task of all was trying not to think of her when he slept at the ranch because he knew he couldn’t have her. It had never seemed harder than tonight. She was awake. He knew it. He could tell the difference in her breathing. He knew she was lying there, waiting.

Waiting for what?

He didn’t even want to think about it. What would any woman want from the man she loved? The one thing he couldn’t give her. Maybe his father had been able to tell women he loved them in order to secure his momentary pleasure, but George couldn’t do that. When he told Rose he loved her, he would mean it.

But he wanted her. God, how he wanted her! His whole body was rigid with aching. He had to do something. He didn’t think he could lie there for five more minutes without exploding.

Maybe if he just touched her. He wouldn’t do more than kiss her or hold her in his arms. He might be burning with unsatisfied desire, but it wasn’t so strong he would forget himself and impregnate her.

“It’s still not safe,” Rose said when George reached out to her.

“I know. I just wanted to touch you. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Rose answered.

George felt himself relax. Despite his best effort, he had been thinking about her all day. He just wanted to feel her skin under his fingertips, feel the softness of her breasts, taste the sweetness of her lips. He wouldn’t do anything else.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to spend more time with you,” he said as he let his hands move across her stomach. The thin material of her gown felt soft and warm.

“I understand,” Rose said. Her voice sounded wispy, uncertain.

“It’s not much of a way to treat a wife.”

“I haven’t complained.”

She didn’t flinch when he moved his hand over her breast. But his own body hardened with desire. He could feel her nipple firm under his touch. That inflamed him more.

“You don’t feel crowded, do you?” she asked. “I told you I never would tie you down.”

“It’s not that.”

He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to let his mind bury itself in the sensations coming through his fingertips. He wanted to think of nothing but the one thing he had forbidden himself.

“What is it then?”

“I feel guilty,” George managed to say. “More guilty than I’ve ever felt about anything.”

“Don’t.”

But he did. He felt guilty about asking her to marry him when he knew he couldn’t give her children or the kind of home she wanted. He felt guilty about her loving him when he couldn’t love her back. He felt guilty wanting to make love to her so badly every muscle in the back of his neck was stretched tight. He felt guilty because his actions were out of sequence with his emotions.

His hand slipped inside her gown. Her skin was warm and soft. His breath caught when he found her nipple. He expelled it in a long, shuddering sigh as his fingertip teased the hardened peak.

He felt her body grow tense, and the tension in his body became even worse. But he couldn’t stop. He rolled up on his elbow. He let his head sink until his lips touched her warmth.

He could feel her chest rise and fall under his hand. She was breathing faster, not as deep.

So was he.

He freed the near breast from her gown, and while he continued to explore the other with his hand, his fevered lips began to circle one nipple. He let his lips brush softly against her skin as he moved in circles around her breast. She smelled of violets again. Faintly. He liked it.

With his tongue he began to trace circles around her nipple. She tasted warm and soft. His tongue found and teased her nipple. The sharp intake of breath, the sudden stiffening, the involuntary arch against him only inflamed his desire. Taking her nipple between his teeth, he gently nibbled at it.

Her tiny gasps goaded him on.

Taking her nipple into his mouth, he suckled it, gently at first, harder as his own desire grew more engulfing. His hand cupped her other breast, drawing it toward him, burying his face between them.

Rose put her hands behind his head and drew him closer to her. George went over the edge.

Deserting her breast, he took her mouth in a searing kiss, a kiss fueled by a week of longing, a week of thinking of her at least once every five minutes, a week of nights tortured by the thought of her body, a week of winding his nerves so tight he was about to explode.

It was a long kiss, a harsh kiss, a desperate kiss. His need so inflamed his senses he was barely conscious that she kissed him back with equal desperation.

Even as he covered her neck and shoulders and breasts with torrid kisses, his hand moved down her side until it caressed her thigh. He didn’t know if the moan came from him or Rose. It hardly mattered. They were both under the sway of their overwhelming need for each other. Neither one wanted to halt the forces that were driving them to a union which had been the focal point of their thoughts for more than a week.

George’s hand slipped under the hem of her gown, past her knee, and arrived at the middle of her inner thigh. With a barely perceptible sigh, Rose relaxed her body, waiting for his entry.

But even as his own body throbbed painfully from nights of restraint, George felt himself hesitate, felt the heat cooled by a wave of ice-cold fear.

He saw a seven-year-old boy cowering before his father, a hand raised in rage descending again and again until the child
couldn’t stand up. He heard his own screams of pain and fear, saw the horror in his father’s eyes as he realized what he had done to his own child. He saw his mother, a weak woman lacking the courage or strength to defend her children, gather him into her arms, her tears of grief dropping on his face. He saw his father drunk and dangerous for days afterward. He saw the whole household moving about in fear.

And desire lay dead in his breast.

“I’m sorry,” George rasped as he erupted from the bed. He drew on his pants and shirt, snatched up his socks and boots, and was gone as quickly as a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day.

Once away from the house, George stopped to allow his pounding heart to slow to a reasonable speed. Gradually he felt some of the tautness leave his body, gradually he was able to take a deep breath. Finally, heaving a great sigh, he sat down to put on his boots.

He couldn’t go back. Not tonight or any other night until her fertile time was over. He had come to terms with his need for her, but there could be no compromise on anything else. There must be no children. Not ever.

Maybe he ought to send her back to Austin. He could visit her regularly. It wasn’t a long trip on horseback. Especially if he rode a fast horse. It might be better for her. It would certainly be easier for him.

But every time he thought he had decided to talk to Rose, he came up with another reason why he couldn’t do without her. Before long he gave up.

Even if the womenfolk of Austin had been willing to welcome Rose with open arms, George knew he couldn’t tell her to go. It would have hurt her deeply. Besides, he had gotten used to her being around. He liked it. He
needed
it. She had a hold on him he couldn’t shake. As for the danger that he would give in and sleep with her before it was safe, well, he would just have to sleep at the camp. It was worth a few nights on the ground to avoid a lifetime of regret.

But as he walked the hours of the night away, as he mulled over thoughts he had never had time to contemplate in the busy hours of daylight, he realized that not having children would be as much of a loss to him as it would be to Rose.

Something else he owed to the legacy of his father.

For several minutes Rose had lain without moving, her body rigid with desire. And pain.

Then as her muscles started to let go of the tension, the tears started. There were no heartrending sobs, there was no convulsive heaving of the chest, just a silent flow of salty tears down her cheeks, across her lips, onto her pillow.

Once again life had held out something to her, allowed her to see, to touch, to hold, to cherish, then had snatched it away just as she thought it had become her own.

She didn’t know how much more she could endure before she broke down altogether. She now understood that just as love can create, it can also destroy.

“Could you take Zac with you today?” Rose asked when George entered the kitchen. The rest of the boys were still washing up.

“He’d only be in the way.”

“I’ve got a surprise for him,” Rose explained. “Tomorrow is his birthday.”

George felt terrible. He’d gotten so caught up with the roundup and sorting out his feelings for Rose that he’d forgotten Zac’s birthday. He remembered how important birthdays had been to him as a child. It must be even more important to Zac. Just more proof he’d make a lousy father.

“He’s dying to see the roundup. You can tell him it’s his birthday treat. That way he won’t expect to go every day.”

“I’ll take him,” George said. “I’m just sorry I didn’t think of it.”

“You can’t think of everything. You’ve had a lot to worry you these last few days.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It’s more than enough. Stop blaming yourself.”

George actually looked forward to having Zac with him. For a short while at least. Before he reached the branding corral, the boy had peppered him with so many questions he was tempted to take him back. By the end of the day he wished he had.

“You make sure to wash up extra carefully tonight,” George told Zac as they dismounted that evening. “If you don’t, Rose might not let you come to the table. You’re covered with enough dirt to plant a garden.”

“I got to pour the milk,” Zac protested.

“I’ll pour it. I’d rather do that than have to smell you all night long. Of course, if you get done in a hurry, you can still pour it.”

Zac was little, but he wasn’t stupid. He took twice as much time as he needed. Everyone had a chance to get to the kitchen before he did.

When he bounded in the door, he saw a cake with seven flaming candles and a stack of presents at his place. His eyes grew as big as saucers.

“Is it all for me?” he asked, looking from George to Rose.

“Every bit of it,” Rose assured him. “I don’t know of anybody else who has a birthday.”

“Wow!” Zac exclaimed. “I never got presents before. Or a cake.”

George knew he couldn’t have done anything about the birthdays Zac had missed, but it made him feel worse than ever. Even if he’d remembered Zac’s birthday, he’d never have thought of getting the child a present or of asking Rose to make a cake.

Yet she had thought of everything. But then she always did. It seemed to come naturally with her. And not just big things like birthdays. Hardly a day passed without her doing something. Even for Jeff.

She would be a perfect mother. The look of pleasure on her face as she watched Zac’s happiness made George feel good
that she was enjoying herself, bad that her marriage to him was preventing her from having children.

“Chaps!” Zac shrieked when he unwrapped a very long brown package. “My own chaps.”

Zac threw himself on his big brother and hugged him until he nearly broke his neck.

“How did you know I wanted chaps more than anything else in the world?” he asked, his eyes shining with happiness. “I never told anybody.”

George opened his mouth to deny he had had anything to do with this wonderful surprise, but Rose shook her head ever so slightly. George realized that Zac would give her credit for the cake, but only a big brother could think of anything as wonderful as chaps. Rose wanted him to take the credit because Zac would like it better that way.

George swallowed his pride.

“What else could a man want when he has to ride through the brush?”

“But you won’t let me. Can I now?”

“If you don’t mind having Rose pick the thorns out of your hide.”

“She doesn’t pick out your thorns,” Zac pointed out. “She doesn’t pick out Hen’s and Monty’s either.”

“We don’t want her to see us cry,” George said.

“You don’t cry,” Zac said, laughing because he was sharing a joke with his big brother. “You don’t make a sound at all. It’s Monty who makes all the noise.”

“Rat on me, will you?” Monty said, making a playful grab for his little brother. Zac wisely hid himself in George’s arms.

“You and Tyler hold George down while I rip the little rascal apart,” Monty said to Hen. Hen and Tyler pretended to try to break George’s hold on Zac while Monty tickled every part of the little boy he could reach.

Zac shrieked with laughter.

After the older boys tired of their play and turned back to their dinner, Zac ventured from the safety of his brother’s
arms to open his other presents. A shirt and a belt were cause for happy laughter, but a new pair of boots sent him jumping into George’s arms again.

“You’ll have to thank Rose this time,” George said, determined not to take any more credit no matter what Zac or Rose wanted. “She picked them out especially for you.”

It struck George all at once that Rose had been responsible for the happiest moments he’d enjoyed since he reached home. His brothers, too. He couldn’t remember when they’d laughed so much. Even Tyler.

More guilt that he didn’t love her. More guilt he couldn’t give her children.

George forced his mind from those thoughts. He and Rose had crossed that bridge with their eyes open.

No, she didn’t. You never told her you didn’t love her. And you didn’t tell her until after you were married that you didn’t want any children.

But she knew I didn’t love her.

That doesn’t make any difference. Many people who don’t love each other have families.

George wanted to run away. The weight of shame over the way he’d treated Rose, his obligation to his family, the responsibility for the ranch were beginning to pile up on him.

He hadn’t come even close to solving the problem with Rose. His family, either. He didn’t know whether he was doing the right thing with the ranch. They could lose the entire herd on a drive to St. Louis. He wasn’t sure that any of them except Monty were cut out to be ranchers.

This must have been how his father had felt when things started to fall apart. George had never felt any sympathy for his father, only rage. Now he understood, and it scared him.