Sleepless in Montana (34 page)

“Hogan,” he said in an aside as they sat
brushing their teeth and watching her, “there’s not a trout in that
little creek. Bait fish, maybe.”

“I know.” Hogan stood up, feeling good enough
to grin at her. “But she looks so fine when she’s casting.”

“Ah, the artist speaks.” Aaron’s tone was
that of a man understanding another’s admiration of women’s
bodies.

“Uh-huh. Something like that.” Hogan stood
back as Jemma tromped past him, her shoes squishing. He had the odd
sense that he needed her to hold him, to soothe him, past the
sensual need of their bodies, and that thought terrified him.

“Oh, man, she’s tromping over our camp and
calling us pigs... takes me back, but I really hate being called a
pig. I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.” Aaron’s expression was a
Western one that said he wasn’t staying anywhere near Jemma and her
current mood.

He grinned at Hogan. “She’s tracked you down
like a dog, man. You’ve already been bagged and don’t know it
yet.”

“We’re just sorting out the rules,” Hogan
began carefully, wary about his brother reading him so well.

“She doesn’t have ‘em,” Aaron returned
cheerfully. “You’re just wide-open for the kill.”

Hogan studied the tiny weathered cabin, the
distant snowcapped mountains and the stream and the woman. “I’ll
take care of her.”

“Never a doubt in my mind,” Aaron said,
swinging up onto his saddled horse. “I’ll tell Joe Blue Sky you’ll
be wanting to talk with him.”

*** ***

Killing the old man was so easy, the murderer
thought as he tucked Joe Blue Sky’s heart medicine pills back into
the dead man’s pocket.

It had been so easy to fake car trouble on
the country road that Joe took to visit his cousins. Once Joe
stopped, the killer had only to excite the old man and keep the
pills from him. While Joe was gasping for life, his heart bursting
into pieces, the killer told him what he would do to Carley and the
Kodiak family—just to enjoy the panic in the old man’s cloudy,
pain-racked eyes.

Joe Blue Sky’s killer patted the old man’s
flannel pocket, the medicine bottle safely inside where it would be
found.

“It will be ruled a natural death, Joe. Too
bad you couldn’t get your medicine when you needed it. But the
Kodiaks will know. They’ll know that Carley is mine and that I am
displeased. They’ll take this as a warning.

He studied Hogan Kodiak’s house, outlined
against the bright Montana sky, big windows catching the sun and
hurling a challenge at him.

Hogan was the worst— not read easily, wary
enough to stand back and separate himself from his emotions.

Then there was Aaron, a smooth-talking
ladies’ man. He’d always had everything: charm, talent, looks, an
all-American golden boy.

Mitch.
He dared to take Carley into
his arms, to touch her virgin body. Dared to look at her beautiful
pure blue eyes. With his Chicago street and gang background, his
death could easily look like the result of his interference as a
social worker....

Jealousy rose and flamed within the murderer,
his fists clenching as he stared at the remodeled contemporary
house.

Hogan was too talented, rising from nothing,
a bastard making a fortune without half trying. Women clustered to
his dark brooding looks, and Carley loved him. He was too strong,
too complete, and not vulnerable.

But he wasn’t, not really, not when a
superior intelligence wanted to defeat him, hurt him. Hogan had
come back to make a statement to Ben and Hogan’s house was a
monument stuck in his father’s face.

The killer knew he had time on his side;
sooner or later,
he’d have Carley.

He returned to his pickup, slipped the coil
wire back onto the distributor cap and closed the hood. He wiped
his grease-covered hands on a rag, tossed it into the brush, and
briefly saluted Joe Blue Sky’s body.

*** ***

Chapter Thirteen

“Hold still.” Hogan tried to work free the
lure tangled in Jemma’s hair, pushed up onto the top of her
head.

She squirmed, twisting the horsehair lure
deeper into the thick, fiery strands. Hogan couldn’t resist the
pleasure of running his thumb over the warm sleek strand, a vivid
contrast to his dark skin. Holding the lure safely away from her
face and scalp, he worked it from her hair. The pleasant bumping of
her body against his was an added bonus.

He swatted her bottom lightly, not to hurt or
remind her to stand still, but because the playful familiarity
pleased him. Wanting more of that light feeling, he bent suddenly
to growl and nuzzle her throat, and grinned when she squealed in
surprise. The play was a first for Hogan and he’d stunned
himself—and her. He loved stunning the woman who had pushed him
into desperation.

“You rat. I’ve got to learn how to do this,
and it’s impossible when you’re standing there grinning,” she said
for the tenth time, temper quivering in the sunlit morning air.

“Shh.” He ran his fingers down the taut cords
on her nape, and massaged lightly, expertly. She relaxed
momentarily, issuing a long sigh of pleasure, then pulled away.
“Don’t try that on me. I’m not turning into a pool of jelly before
I’ve told you just what I think of you, and I’m getting that list
in order now.”

Hogan tossed the nymph lure and line away and
Jemma grabbed his wrist, turning his damaged palm up to her
inspection. Almost pale as silver in the dappled sunlight, her eyes
shot to his. She frowned, her voice husky. “How did you do
this?”

Before Aaron had come, Hogan had wanted to
see where his mother had lived and been happy. He’d hoped for a
glimpse of her, and there was none. He glanced at the tiny cabin,
the brush torn away, new timber replacing the old. His brother had
worked easily at his side, as he’d always done, complaining
occasionally about his posh office and missing the sweet young
things that supplied his morning coffee.

But Aaron had stayed and they’d cut trees the
old way, taking turns, chopping a big wedge from the trunk. After
hacking away the branches, they’d each taken an end, hefting the
log to their shoulders and carried it to the cabin.

“You and Aaron, I suppose,” Jemma said. “I’ll
have to talk to him. He can’t just—Swaggering... concrete heads....
Come on. I brought a first-aid kit, and you’re going to let me take
care of those hands. Hogan, you’re a talented artist and you’ve
abused your hands. This family really needs me.”

Careless of her expensive equipment, Jemma
tossed it to a grassy bank and grabbed Hogan’s jeans waistband,
tugging him toward the small camp.

He looked down at the slender, efficient
hand, the knuckles brushing his bare stomach. He didn’t like
comparison of himself to a fish being reeled in as the catch.

His instincts told him that he should be in
control, but with Jemma, the balance of female-male roles never
seemed safe. “Let go. Jemma, let go. Don’t you have better things
to do? Run down some potential backer and put a few more thousand
in your piggy bank?”

She turned to him, hands on hips, eyes
flashing. “I always do what has to be done, the same as you. Why
would you expect less from me? I’m here for the duration,
chum.”

Hogan caught the glitter of tears on her
lashes before she turned from him. He turned her gently to him,
lifting her chin with his fingertip. “What’s wrong?”

She shoved his hand away, then caught it,
turning the abused palm upward. “That’s what’s wrong. You hold
everything in—”

She sucked in her breath when he bent to
brush his lips across hers. “Oh, no. Not that. You want to distract
me, and you’re not doing it. You just let me put some salve on
those hands—”

“You’re relentless.” But Hogan wanted her
touch, he needed that warmth and vibrant life wrapped around
him.

“The cabin doesn’t have a door or a roof,”
she noted, cleansing his hands carefully, her hair gleaming in the
shadows. “You came up here to brood and it seems my lot to take
care of you, because no one else will bother to tell me anything
about fishing. They just look scared and pale and hurry away to
hide.”

“Now I wonder why they would do that.... The
hardware for the door and shutters is still there.” Hogan watched
Jemma squeeze ointment onto his torn hands, carefully working it in
with her fingertips. “Why are you doing this?”

When they lifted to his, her eyes were
bright. “Because I know your hands aren’t the only shredded places
in you now. You’ve always stood beside everyone else, Hogan. Don’t
you think it’s time you let us stand by you?”

He swallowed the emotion clogging his throat,
and looked away to his mother’s grave, the weeds torn away.

Her hands gentle upon his face, Jemma turned
him back to her. She traced his eyebrows with her thumbs and her
touch reached inside him, soothing that black churning torment.
“Let me help, Hogan. I want to.”

“You’re not going to stop anyway,” he said,
feeling condemned and not quite so alone. A painful emotional fist
slammed into his midsection as he looked at the cabin Ben and
Willow had shared.

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek.
“You just sit down here.”

Jemma eased him down beside a tree and
settled behind him. She wrapped her arms around his back and her
legs around his thighs, placing her cheek on his bare back. She
turned to kiss his back occasionally, then replaced her cheek
against him.

Hogan sucked in his breath as she began to
rock him gently, and unused to being held, asked cautiously, “Are
you trying to cuddle me? Is this something you got in a therapy
class?”

“Yep. I always wanted to, but you were always
so big and tough and cold-looking. I knew you were hurting, Hogan,
but you never failed Aaron or Carley. If Carley hadn’t had you back
then, proving that men could be gentle and honest and safe, I don’t
know what would have happened to her. Ben didn’t show that
softness, the way you did. He wouldn’t have a cat in the house, and
you smuggled in a kitten for her every night, and put it out in the
morning before Ben knew. You’ve been there through the years for
everyone, seeing after them, worrying about their lives, when you
need now to look after whatever troubles you—”

“I’m a little bit big to cuddle.” Hogan
closed his eyes and gave himself to Jemma’s gentle rocking, her
body enfolding his. He caressed her ankles, and, for once, the
orange shoes in his lap didn’t jar his esthetic sense. “You’re
going to want something major for this, aren’t you?”

She lightly circled his temples with her
fingertips. “Yes, I am. I want you to sit still and enjoy the birds
chirping and the stream gurgling—”

“And then what? An examination of my
relationship to Ben?” he asked, wary of her.

“Nope. Just this.” She smoothed his hair back
from his face, toyed with it, and Hogan fought a sigh of pleasure.
Just as he was settling into the softness of her breasts, easing
his back against her, she asked, “Better?”

When he nodded, wondering how this woman
could charge into his shadows and ease his pain, Jemma squirmed
free and hurried to her bedroll. She brought it back and placed it
carefully in front of him, unrolling it. When Hogan could tear his
gaze away from the shifting feminine flesh surging over the yellow
tube top, he hooked a finger into the crevice between her breasts
and tugged lightly. “Is this an invitation?”

He wanted her desperately, to soothe his
tangled emotions, to bury himself so deep in her that—

“Hardly. Stop that now, Hogan... you’re
leering. Wait until you see what Ben sent. I wanted you in the
right mood before—”

With her expression alight, Jemma handed
Hogan battered, old sketchbooks. “They were hers. He wanted you to
have them. They were up in the attic all the time. I picked that
camelback trunk’s lock when I was fifteen and asked Ben who drew
the pictures. He said his ‘first sweetheart,’ and I asked for them
now. I thought you’d want to—”

Jemma studied Hogan and eased to sit by him,
her arm looped around his shoulders, leaning close to him.

The pages were yellowed with age, but Ben’s
face was there: younger, softer, and definitely a boy in love.
Willow had sketched him as a leggy, happy youth, showing off for
his girl with his lariat, jumping in and out of the loop. Another
sketch was that of a girl, dressed in a fringed shift, standing
beside Ben in a shaft of moonlight, their hands linked.

Hogan forced air into his lungs, his chest
filling with pain.
His mother.

He studied the sketches of mountains and
flowers, and the camas meadow, filled with flowers— and the small
gold ring that lay in Jemma’s open palm. “This was hers, a gift
from Ben. For their wedding, she made him a doeskin shirt, and he
wants you to have that, too. It’s beaded and— Oh, Hogan, you look
so—”

Overcome, he rubbed his face, memories of Ben
carrying him on his shoulders, rocking him in the night, slashing
at him.

Jemma took his hand and placed the small ring
on the tip of his little finger and stroked his hair. “In their
hearts, they were married. He knew how he treated you was wrong,
but he didn’t know how to— He was just a boy, Hogan, and faced with
survival and a newborn son. I think for a time, he blamed you for
taking her life....”

She caught Hogan’s arm as he started to rise.
“Oh, no you’re not. You’re not running away now, not after you’ve
come so far. He said you were named after your great-grandfather on
Ben’s mother’s side, an Irishman named Hogan. When Ben was only a
boy, his mother died of overwork and Aaron’s harshness. He wanted
you to have a part of her and the sunlight old Aaron couldn’t
spare. That old camelback trunk has more of your mother’s things.
Ben said that he always wanted to go to Ireland to seek her
relatives, but he never did. He said you’d probably ‘get the job
done.’”