Sleepless in Montana (36 page)

She’d torn away his shadows, refusing to let
go, challenging him when he would have turned away. When they made
love, each time was more giving and taking, the pleasure
sweeter.

Jackson Reeves would have had her that day, a
little girl lost against his brutality. Jackson was a definite
possibility for Carley’s attacker.

Hogan forced thoughts of Jackson away. He
stroked Jemma’s wrist, and found her slow, sleeping pulse and
pulled peace into him.
Willow. Her name was Willow.

Images and shapes moved softly within him,
and he knew that Jemma had torn at his shadows. He listened to his
heart, to the life within it, all the pieces filled with life.
Colors came moving into shapes, concepts blending with the flow of
horses and the land, with rocks, hidden and yet so clear, an
insight into nature and man, given to him from his mother.

*** ***

Jemma awoke to the scent of wildflowers
scattered across her sleeping bag and Hogan stripping away his
jeans. He stood in the shaft of moonlight piercing the open roof, a
tall shadowy man with broad shoulders, lean body, and long,
powerful legs. His gleaming eyes found hers and instinctively, she
knew of his desperation, that need to lock his body to hers as he
had during the day. The excitement of Hogan’s primitive need tore
away sleep and fatigue, tore away her own drained emotions.

He had taken her gently, soothing her and
giving her pleasure without the wild storms, but now they rode him.
He’d called her from sleep to ride with him there in his shadows,
matching him. She had to meet Hogan, a fierce and gentle lover, on
equal terms, not letting him take her easily.

The flowers were symbolic, a man giving a
present to a woman he wanted, picked by moonlight as a lover would
do.... Jemma gripped a mountain daisy in her hand as she pushed
away the sleeping bag and stood, wearing only his T-shirt and her
briefs.

Earlier, they’d been tender lovers, soothing
the dark rivers within them, but now came the fierce cleansing they
both needed. She faced Hogan, unafraid of walking into his storms
and shadows. Bracing herself, Jemma knew that words weren’t needed.
Hogan had come to her, and she’d take him on her terms.

Taking care, she wove the long daisy stalk
into Hogan’s hair, fashioning a small braid along his face.

Hogan studied her face, swept her hair back
from it. Then his other hand found the elastic in her briefs,
traced it around her leg and stroked her gently, that deep dark
moist feminine softness. Jemma thought her legs would give way; she
gripped the small ring resting on his chest binding him to her, her
fist upon the hard proud beat of his heart.

To keep herself from melting into the
wonderful stroking of his hand, Jemma gripped his arm, took
strength from the rippling hard muscles; she locked her gaze with
Hogan’s dark, heated one. His features were harsh in that shaft of
moonlight, his eyes glowing in the deep-set shadows. She inhaled
sharply as his fist wrapped in the fine cloth and tore it slowly,
as he watched her reaction. He was testing her to see if she could
meet his challenge and his need— the testing of a woman by the man
who had sought her.

The silky wad of her briefs sailed into the
smoldering fire, sparks igniting and ashes floating upward with the
smoke. Through the elemental pounding of her desire, Jemma
understood the ceremony. Hogan would do more than make love with
her, he wanted her to know that she was a part of him, deep down
where no one else had reached.

Jemma gloried in that, lifted her head, and
sucked in her breath when he edged the hem of the T-shirt slowly
upward, then lifted it away.

Hogan wanted nothing between them, no
shadows, no memories, just the night and each other. She wanted the
same, proud of the desire in his expression as he looked down her
body, that honed, taut masculine look she loved—
or did she love
the man?

In her heart, she knew whatever happened now
would be binding to them both, forging them together in a way not
easily broken....

His large hands smoothed her body, following
the curves and indentations, the softness of her belly, the soft
fragrant nest of reddish curls between her legs. Hogan inhaled
shakily, nostrils flaring as his hands flowed to her breasts,
covering them. His heavy arousal jutted against her, demanding to
fill her. Heat poured from Hogan, flowing into her body, as he
smoothed her back, caressed her bottom, his body gently nudging the
entrance to hers.

She eagerly met his demanding, seeking mouth,
shivered as he lifted her easily, suckling one breast and then the
other. The laving of his tongue and the gentle bites jolted her
lower body, tightening it, and then Hogan eased her down to their
bedroll.

His hands were trembling now, flowing over
her as hers were smoothing his body. Muscles surged in his thighs,
his breath harsh and unsteady as it swept across her breasts, his
lips open and hot upon her. She found him with her thighs parted,
and allowed him entrance.

He filled her instantly, withdrawing only to
return, his hands going under her hips, lifting her. Jemma’s arms
tightened around him. Pleasure tempered with hunger and primitive
needs drove them deeper, skin against damp skin, kisses so hot they
branded, heartbeats racing against the ultimate pleasure, fingers
digging deep, locking them together in the flow toward fire—

She cried out and Hogan’s rough shout echoed
in the small moonlit cabin. Pleasure riveted them on that edge,
bodies becoming one, burning away all else.

When Jemma surfaced, there amid the flowers
he’d given her, she gathered Hogan closer. She knew they’d love
again and from his taut, still-throbbing body, she knew it would be
soon. They’d found not only heat within each other, but another
part of the whole.

Lying beneath Hogan’s pleasant weight,
stroked lazily by his hands, his uneven breath upon her damp skin,
Jemma knew she’d never be the same. She knew that her life centered
on this man, and, whatever else happened, he would be true to this
moment.

The second time, he loved her tenderly and
slowly, and when finally he drew her to his side, to rest upon his
shoulder, bodies entwined, Jemma drifted pleasantly. She’d come
home—

“What’s that sound?” she whispered drowsily,
aware that Hogan’s body had tensed around hers, his hand had
stopped sifting through her hair.

Then his fingers found her scalp, soothing
her. “Only an owl. Just an owl in the night. Go to sleep.”

“What was that Old Joe Blue Sky used to say
about the owl hooting like that?”

“Just an old superstition. Shh....
Sleep.”

As he gathered her closer, she wondered about
the incredible sadness in his voice. “Hogan, tell me what Old Joe
said about the owl.”

Hogan inhaled slowly. “He said someone would
die— that the owl was coming for an earth spirit.”

*** ***

Chapter Fourteen

June lay softly upon the Montana morning, the
Crazy Mountains rising over the pastures and the foothills.

Old Joe Blue Sky had been found along the
road, his heart given out, and Hogan would miss him. Hogan knew now
why Joe’s stares at him seemed so familiar. His uncle— Willow’s
half brother— would never tell him about her.

Hogan had found ease with Jemma, and though
he’d miss Joe and always wonder about his mother, life with Jemma
didn’t allow much time for grieving. The peaceful scene matched
Hogan’s emotions as he sat outside on his front porch, overlooking
Ben Kodiak’s ranch.

Jared Morgan, Hogan’s second-in-command, was
on the speaker phone in New York.

“Get those very expensive Italian loafers off
my desk, Jared,” Hogan said, smiling as he heard the rustle of
papers.

“Your sixth sense is uncanny,” Jared grumbled
as a chair creaked. “These sketches aren’t your usual. The Fire
Feathers pieces will require the right woman to wear them— a
special woman. That vibrant style will overpower a good percentage
of our regular buyers. It’s very— primitive, like...”

“Like fire and wind riffling a passionate
woman with red hair?” Hogan asked, and grinned when Jared let out a
low whistle.

“A pagan goddess. I’ve been looking for a
woman like that all my life. You find one, and you let me
know.”

Hogan chuckled and realized that the happy
sound ran clear through him. He rolled his shoulders and stretched,
contented for the first time in years.

“Fat chance. She’s mine and she’s certified,
one-hundred-percent pagan goddess. Go ahead with the
marketing—”

“Can’t tear yourself away from Montana? You
usually like to be in the middle of things.”

“I am.” Hogan knew at any moment the Kodiaks
could explode, and it would be hell pulling them back together— but
they would, to defend Carley.

The attacker was taking his time, and Carley
was certain to find that Ben was in perfect health. For her plan to
keep Carley safe, Jemma might lose a friend she loved.

“Just fax me the discussion from marketing.
I’ll input from here. I’m considering a citrine pendant for Fire
Feathers, but it’s only a thought now.”

“Wow. That will be a necklace for a
goddess-type with enough color and personality to carry it. Do you
want Simone sent a copy of this? You usually do. She’s been asking
about you.”

“No. I’ll tend to Simone myself. On second
thought, send her a copy.”

Hogan wanted his former lover and long-term
friend to be prepared for his call; she’d know by his new work that
his life had changed. They would remain friends, but he didn’t want
Jemma upset by Simone’s careless endearments. He wanted no doubt in
Jemma’s mind that he was taking his vow to be true to her
seriously.

He clicked off the line, took a satisfying
sip of his morning peppermint tea, and placed the mug beside
Jemma’s. He liked the look of the two pottery cups sitting
together, as if they were meant to be and would be every morning of
their lives.

However, if his brothers discovered he was
having morning peppermint tea—preparing and serving it to
Jemma—he’d never recover from their teasing.

With a sigh, Hogan picked up his old tackle
box; Jemma had destroyed its neat order. Lures, leaders, sinkers,
and line were one colorful tangle. He began to work free the mess
and thought about how she looked, casting her line and
grumbling—and how she’d thrown down her pole and how he’d thrown
down his.

After a toe-to-toe argument about nymphs, wet
and dry flies and women who were too pushy and impatient, Jemma had
stalked off. Hogan had tackled her in a bed of wildflowers and—

They had a date for Saturday night. Asking a
woman for a date had been a novelty for Hogan, leaving him excited.
Jemma had flushed, looking away, because she knew that he was
taking their relationship to another level. Just an old-fashioned
date— taking his best girl to dinner and a dance— and he was
looking forward to courting her.

In the two weeks since he’d learned about his
mother and Jemma had met him in that cabin, Hogan knew another
woman would never touch him inside like that— never fit his body so
perfectly. He ran his hand over the small ring on his chest. For
the first time in Hogan’s life, he had a sense of place and home,
as if he belonged.

Across the small valley, beyond the pastures
of grazing cattle and horses, Ben was helping Dinah carry
groceries; from the stance of their bodies, they were arguing.
Their arguments had a different tempo now, not the hard, biting
slashing, but more the sorting out of a couple who had just found
each other. Hogan suspected that Ben liked to balk, just to get
Dinah’s full attention.

Aaron had been working a yearling in the
corral, and when Savanna left the house after a visit with Maxi, he
stopped.

With one hand, he vaulted over the gate. A
twirl of his lasso caught Savanna, and Aaron slowly pulled her to
him. He kissed her, and she stepped back, freeing herself of the
lasso. She shoved her hands against his chest and stalked toward
her compact car.

When it shot away from the ranch yard, Aaron
threw down his Western hat and swung up on the bare back of a good,
fast quarter horse mare. The mare sailed over the fence and by
taking the pasture route, Aaron would catch Savanna before she hit
the main highway.

“Aaron, you’d better step back and give the
lady time to think.” Hogan knew that with Jemma, he wouldn’t follow
his own advice; he intended to build a stable relationship with a
fast-moving, fast-talking, volatile woman.

He placed all the mangled lures in a neat
row, shaking his head at the bent hackles. Jemma didn’t take time
to replace them in the small protective sections of his tackle box.
His office looked like a tornado had hit it, and somewhere in the
house was a pair of lost shorts, rolled into a ball in his haste to
bed her.

Jemma was using his office this morning,
bargaining with a florist chain over specialty rocks cut with the
names of herbs. The great modesty-panel blouse war still raged. The
manufacturer had upped the price tag, and as a middleman—woman,
Hogan corrected, still a little off-balance from lovemaking on the
kitchen table— Jemma didn’t want her cut lowered.

Hogan planned to take her riding that
afternoon, just to watch her backside bounce in the saddle, that
shimmering flow to her breasts and the high color on her cheeks. He
grinned and wondered if he remembered how to trick ride and show
off a bit—

Jemma crashed out the front door and stalked
the length of the porch, tangling her bare feet in the line Hogan
had let drop beside his chair. She hopped free on one foot and
glared at him. “Don’t just sit there grinning. I’m having a bad
day.”