Sleepless in Montana (2 page)

So much for tenderness.
The adult
Hogan knew that he wouldn’t qualify as a husband or father— he had
that same cold streak inside him.

Hogan opened his hand on the ceiling-to-floor
window overlooking his father’s land. Nearly twelve thousand acres
and six hundred head of Hereford cows and their calves— white-face
Angus, or “baldies”— from an Angus bull, spread in front of him. He
could almost hear the winds whispering to him.

Some said an Indian or a white— whichever
they preferred— went mad on the prairie and found a haven in the
mountains; that madness was protection from Indians, who left him
alone. Then those who believed in the Celestial Virgins said they
ached for their homeland.

Across the rolling natural grass and alfalfa
fields stood the house in which he’d grown up— stark, two-story,
weathered, windows like the steel-patched holes in his heart—
another monument.

He studied his reflection in the
floor-to-ceiling windows, taking in the brutal stamp of the Kodiak
family— his coloring was different from the fair, blue-eyed family,
a reminder that he was not really one of them. He considered his
dark, deep-set, haunted eyes, soaring black eyebrows, the blunt
Kodiak nose, and harsh cheekbones. His cheeks were in shadow,
laying bare the grim line of his mouth, the angular Kodiak jaw.

The dark warlord in the glass was a man
incapable of softness and joy...
or was he?

He studied his hands— large, long, artistic
hands, but with broad flat palms that said he’d dug his share of
postholes and shoveled his share of manure. He’d found a refuge in
his talent,
but who was he?

“You’re frozen in time, Hogan,” he murmured
to himself. “You’re as unfeeling as your father.” His hand opened
near the reflection, the glass as cool and smooth as his
emotions.

His cool exterior— sophisticated, classy,
charming when necessary, lacked—
lacked what?
He’d done what
he’d set out to do, and yet he wasn’t at peace.

An image of a boy, dressed in worn jeans,
running freely through the mountain meadows, lying lazily upon the
grassy stream banks, fishing for trout, flashed across the glass—
or was that a memory of the freedom he wanted in his
soul?

Undefined need drew him back to Montana, to
the clean air and rugged mountains, to the streams and forests he’d
known and loved. After the fall frost, the buffalo berries along
the stream would be sweet, and quaking aspens would turn fiery
yellow. In the spring, serviceberry bushes would begin to bloom,
bitterroot— once dug by the Indians— would bloom in pink and white.
In the distance, the snow-capped Crazy Mountains with their lava
upthrusts, rugged beauty, and haunting winds would always call to
him.

Hogan frowned; the need in him was stronger
than he’d suspected— deeper, more troubling. His need concerned him
as a man, the essence of man, and it was elusive. Unable to sleep,
his memories prowled through his mind and blocked his creative
senses. Hogan had given himself to remodeling the house and to
familiar ranch work, hoping to cleanse away whatever drove him—

He found his hand in a fist against the
glass, a reflection of his turmoil.
Or was it because he was his
father’s son—hardened early, too cold, and too complete. But he
wasn’t, was he? Complete? What was that aching dark hole within
him? When would it fill?

Hogan ran a fingertip down the length of the
eagle’s head, turned slightly at an angle, his eyes watchful.

He inhaled sharply, the only indication that
his storms brewed tonight. He hadn’t expected or received an
invitation to Ben’s Christmas dinner table, nor had Carley returned
for the holidays. Hogan knew by her guarded telephone conversation
at Christmas that his sister was troubled.

She’d never been the same since that night
and the attempted rape; once vibrant, she’d become frumpy, quiet,
and guarded. Hogan frowned as he thought of his sister, rage
swirling deep inside him.

She screamed that night, and it had torn
through the sweet night air like a burning arrow, straight into his
heart.

Mitch had been the first to find her. She’d
been hiding in the bushes with Jemma. She and Jemma were set to
play a prank on Carley’s brothers and had separated.

But someone had gotten to Carley, held her
down, and had described vividly what he would do to her and called
her his “Celestial Virgin.”

Those moments of horror had changed carefree
Carley into an overweight, quiet shadow.

Carley’s plea later that night echoed in the
firelit room as Hogan’s eyes flicked around the massive, stark room
filled with his large paintings and sculptures. “Don’t tell Mom and
Dad! Please don’t! Mom won’t let me come back to Montana. I’ve been
coming here since they were divorced and she’ll blame Dad and
they’ll fight— oh, please don’t—”

And no one ever told Ben, or Dinah.

Hogan inhaled sharply, Carley’s scream
echoing around him, tearing at him....

He preferred working with metal and stones,
because inevitably when he painted, he’d find an image of Carley’s
sheet-white face, her eyes huge and filled with horror. Her
attacker was never identified, and she’d been trapped in an
unending nightmare without closure.

Closure.
Hogan needed that now, more
than he needed sleep— to finish whatever drove him back to Montana
and Kodiak land. Miles from the Kodiak Bar K was a town named for
the first Kodiak— Hogan wondered again why the land of his
ancestors called to him.

The ranch he’d purchased was small and neat;
the newly remodeled house contained an airy studio and a business
center. He might get a few horses and beef cattle, because the
sight of them grazing on the lush pastures seemed eternal, and
pleased him visually. Although he had hated working for Ben, Hogan
wanted to tend his own land and livestock— to replenish himself,
rather than to profit.

After all, Hogan’s land had once been Ben’s,
sold to protect the major portion of the Bar K. The outsiders with
California tans and soft hands had left— rather ran from Montana’s
harsh weather— and now the land was Hogan’s.
The bastard’s land,
cast off to preserve the rest.

Hogan braced his hand against the gray,
smooth river stone of the fireplace and studied the flickering fire
within the huge open grate. A fireplace insert would have been more
practical, but Hogan wanted the color and flow of fire, the arc of
sparks. He frowned and followed his darker thoughts: He’d come
home, and he ached for something that had always eluded him. He
would find it—here, where he belonged.

Headlights speared his windows, forcing his
thoughts back to Jemma Delaney. Used to years of Jemma’s pushy
demands, he sighed wearily. But he tolerated her because of her
unwavering love and absolute devotion to Carley.
What did Jemma
want of him now?

Through the years, she’d never missed a
chance to make money. She intended to marry money and get more
money. She’d been everything from a bartender to a nurse’s aid, and
she knew how to hustle, to promote. Carley had said that Jemma’s
family was poor, but that was all that Hogan knew of Jemma’s young
life.
He didn’t care to know more. He didn’t want to understand
her.

He dreaded her visit, the brisk familiarity,
the verbal jabs. Jemma was illogical, self-centered, and maddening—
except when it came to Carley. And Carley had badly needed her
during those summer and holiday visits.

At five-foot-eight, Jemma wasn’t intimidated
by the tall Kodiaks, but sailed right into the midst of them for
Carley’s sake. Vivid and fierce, she’d rip into anyone who pushed
Carley about laying the past aside and creating a new life as a
woman. Jemma had a call-it-as-I-see-it personality and a sharp,
protective tongue when Carley was challenged.

She wasn’t afraid to pit herself against Ben,
and he liked her, often laughing at her sassy mouth. Hogan frowned;
that sassy, fast mouth had taken strips off him, digging at him,
when they were younger.

Now, headlights lasered into the shadows of
his home and died as quickly as they appeared. A car door slammed
outside his house and with a slow, painful sigh Hogan opened his
front door.

“Nice,” he said, noting the black
four-wheeler.

“Rented,” Jemma returned in the years of
clipped conversation that suited their relationship. Leggy and
lithe, and bundled in a bulky hot pink jacket and tight jeans
splattered with sunflowers, Jemma sailed by him to stand before the
blazing fireplace— her muddied, knee-high yellow boots stood on the
long, soft, Egyptian cotton rug.

He stared at those boots long enough to let
her know his displeasure, not that she’d care. Hogan preferred to
lie naked upon that rug to watch the fire’s designs. It was typical
of Jemma to tear into his home and destroy his simple, ordered
peace.

She lifted her hand to her ponytail and
tugged the yellow ruffled band from it. A river of dark red waves
spilled into the firelight. Cut in layers, the tips of her hair
seemed to ignite, a fiery halo gleaming around her head as she
stood in front of the fire. She shook her head and pushed her hands
through the thick mass. The feminine gesture caught Hogan, forced
the air from his lungs.

On another woman, he might have thought the
action was erotic and sensual. But he knew Jemma too well— she had
a mind like a full-steam-ahead locomotive, deterred by nothing when
she wanted something.
And she always wanted something.

“So this is the cave where you hide from the
world— I heard that pained sigh. It sounds like Aaron’s and
Mitch’s, like you’d like to avoid me and can’t. It’s a doomed sigh.
I’ve had years of dealing with all you male Kodiaks, and none of
you are going to escape me. Shut the door, the heat is getting
out,” she said, just as Hogan was closing the door.

He paused, then pushed the door closed,
making it click on his terms, not hers. He turned slowly to her and
her gray eyes ripped down his body, clad in a black silk shirt and
loose flowing slacks, his feet bare on the smooth cool wood. “Ben
would hate that outfit. You probably wear it just because you know
it gets to him when you dress like an artist. Or an Indian. You
knew very well that long braid you wore as a teen drove him
nuts.”

Hogan closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and
withdrew into his control. Jemma was right, of course, but he
didn’t like people seeing past his walls. He liked quiet people and
a smooth, uncomplicated life. He liked harmony, quiet, soothing
colors, and Jemma tore into all of them.

His sister’s friend knew how to irritate and
dig, but she was devoted to Carley. If Carley needed attention,
Jemma was the first to notice and she didn’t hesitate to call
anyone to tell them what they could do for Carley.

She’d never left Carley after the attempted
rape, sleeping with her when the nightmares tore his sister apart.
They’d become women, and still that bond held true. For that, Hogan
tolerated Jemma Delaney.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

Hogan studied her face, the bone structure
that would serve her well as she aged. He could almost feel that
pale, fine skin, a contrast to the living flame of her hair. The
bones beneath her skin were delicate, fascinating, and he wondered
what her face would feel like beneath his hands, those cheekbones
beneath his thumbs—

He tossed that idea into the fire.

“You look awful. From the shadows under your
eyes, you’re not sleeping. Missing Mama?” She referred to Simone
D’Arcy, Hogan’s Paris lover of years ago and now his friend.

Jemma ripped off her hot pink coat, sailed it
to a cream-colored angular couch with matching throw pillows, and
glanced around the room. She tugged up the sleeves of her bulky
pink sweater, the soft cowl neckline framing her pale face. Her
tight, flower-decked jeans slid down long legs into those high
yellow boots. As always, Jemma’s color choices raked Hogan’s need
for visual harmony; so did her reference to Simone D’Arcy.

Ignoring her taunt, he settled into the
shadows. He studied Jemma, who was a chameleon, adjusting to the
role that suited her at the time. In Seattle he’d seen her
elegantly dressed for the theater and in a tailored, gray suit for
business. She could be flirtatious to a potential male backer, and
in the next instant suck profit from him and stroll away without a
backward glance.

But now she was free, the real Jemma, who hid
nothing from the Kodiaks, including her love of vivid, irrational
clothes. For years, she’d twisted through their lives like the
myriad facets of sunlit citrine in a dark, shadowy room. In
business, she shielded her expressions, but with the Kodiaks, that
oval, honed face changed expressions within a heartbeat— a lift of
an eyebrow, the tilt of her head, all easily read.

In her power-woman role, alive with color,
she had a reason for coming to Hogan, and he probably wasn’t going
to like it.

She wasn’t a creature of whimsy, but had
dedicated herself to earning millions— and pasting the Kodiaks
together for Carley’s sake. And she knew how to get what she
wanted—

Hogan frowned. He braced himself for Jemma’s
pleas to make peace with Ben, to make life easier for Carley. Hogan
resented the woman striding into his shadows, slashing at the
Kodiaks with the freedom no one else dared. Not even his
family.

The firelight caught on her wild dark red
mane, and she impatiently pushed it back from that angular
fascinating face, the expression that ran through her like a
tumbling stream. Her hair had always reminded Hogan of a rich
carnelian stone with varying shades. The tendrils and waves fell
below her shoulders, a living mass of color that clashed with her
vivid clothing.

She scanned his uncluttered, peaceful living
room and tore into its harmony. “It’s big and too dark. Needs
plants and a few color cushions. Think about pink and rust. Where’s
the kitchen?”