Sleepless in Montana (45 page)

A wave of pure rage burned through him, his
fist hitting the steering wheel. Carley was meant for him. She
should have kept herself pure for him, not opening her body for
that foreign-looking Chicago tough.

He could have offered her so much more. With
him, she would have everything.... But now she’d have to pay— if
she was defiled....

He spotted a rabbit, feeding in the middle of
the road, and because hatred ruled him, he accelerated, killing
it.

Just as he would kill anyone who kept him
from Carley.

*** ***

Aaron flipped the old tarp on the ground, a
distance away from the house. The earth was fragrant with the
gentle mist that had passed, bowing the heavy heads of the grazing
grass. He lay down on the tarp and folded his arms behind his head,
letting Montana, sweet and gentle, flow upon his mind. He’d missed
this, the lonely hours, filling himself with Montana, drawing her
strength into him.

He’d wanted Savanna on selfish terms, and he
hadn’t considered her softer needs. She’d shamed him into
considering his life. When he’d looked back, it was nothing but the
empty picture of a man in motion— flashy status jewelry, expensive
clothing and jaded, uncaring women.

Hogan had moved into the circle of life, no
longer an observer. Aaron smiled softly. Jemma had dragged Hogan
into life; she’d been good for him.

A shadow fell between Aaron and the silvery
moon. “Hi, Mom. Welcome to my parlor.”

Dinah settled onto the tarp, and together
they watched the moon. “We used to do this when you were a baby—
your dad and I. It was like we were so filled, so complete, and
then Carley came along and everything was that much better. We’re
getting married again— when Carley is safe.”

“I expected that. Dad has always loved
you.”

Aaron enjoyed the sight of his mother
blushing. She ran her hand over his hair, as she used to do,
soothing him when he was a little boy. “This is really our first
time to talk in months. How are you? Really?”

He was ashamed of himself for avoiding her,
for resenting how she’d left Ben. “Are you going to forgive me,
Mom?”

Her hand stopped moving on his hair and then
began again. “What for, Aaron?”

“For coming back here, leaving you.”

“You came because your heart told you to. You
were a twelve-year-old boy missing his father and the rural life
and animals. How could I resent that?”

The answer was so simple that Aaron closed
his eyes, his chest tight with emotion. “I just dug in. Once I’d
latched onto the idea that you’d left Dad when he needed you—”

Dinah pointed to a horse with two riders.
“There goes Hogan with Jemma. He loves riding with her at night.
They seem so complete, a single unit, her arms wrapped around him.
Sometimes they just ride to a knoll and sit, outlined against the
moon. They ride bareback without reins, and he guides the horse
with his knees— Hogan was always good with animals, and you are
too. You were so special and bright, eager for life, while he held
back... Ben and I made bad mistakes. We hurt you children with our
pride. It was our mistake, Aaron. Not yours.”

“I want something more, Mom. I’ve changed
since I came back. Everything is so full here, more meaningful. I
don’t think I’m going back to that rat race based on an hourly
schedule and high-performance appraisals, company mergers, and
stock tender deals.”

“And Savanna?”

Aaron thought of Savanna, not in the fast
heat he usually craved with her, but in a softer, tender way as
though she were locked in his heart. “She’s the best game ever,
Mom. Better than chasing a big client with a fat bonus. She keeps
me on my toes. A real bona fide challenge and the mother of your
future grandchildren. Right now, I’m not looking too appealing to
her.”

Dinah winked at him. “Try the old-fashioned,
romantic courting scheme, like Ben did with me. Hasn’t failed yet.
There isn’t anything that appeals to a woman’s heart like taming
the playboy type into husband material. Try some of Hogan’s
patience. Let her come to you. You keep jumping her and not letting
her have a chance to breathe, and she won’t come around. Give her
some thinking room and romance.”

Aaron rested there under the stars, the soft
touch of his mother’s hand soothing him. He knew that he’d been
telling Savanna what filled his heart all along, but with his body.
“I’m good at learning new skills. She hasn’t a chance.”

*** ***

The hot July morning told of a hotter
afternoon and in another week, Jemma was set to woo the television
producer into a series.

Life with Jemma when she had a project
churning wasn’t a predictable experience. Hogan had decided to sink
into his own projects and try to forget that Jemma would be
spending time with another man.

Hogan smoothed his newly purchased mare’s
spotted rump, letting her know the feel of his hands. He absorbed
the strong, fluid shift of her muscles beneath the mottled hide, a
concept circling him.

In his mind, he saw the mare running with
other horses, molded spots blending above the stream, their
reflections riding through it. Designs and colors shifted within
the gleaming, sunlit spots, waiting for him to discover them.

The breeze caught the mare’s mane, and the
coarse strands laid out another image, blending with trees. Rose
turned to look at him, her eyes liquid and reflecting his image,
the man who owned her, who she must accept and who respected
her.

He traced the proud arc of her neck and found
it artistically meshing with the rolling foothills, another design
within a concept, intricate, appealing, challenging.

Restlessly seeking the creative needs within
him, Hogan knew that his days for producing commercial designs were
ending. Where once he’d wanted metal and stone, now he wanted color
and movement and life.

Jared had yelled when Hogan told him the
necklace was his last, that he wanted to stop all marketing plans.
“Hogan, you’re tossing away a fortune. Simone said the design will
outsell anything we’ve got.”

Simone hadn’t liked Hogan’s order not to call
him, until he’d resolved the roadblocks of his life. A complicated,
sophisticated woman, Simone had known instantly that Hogan was in
love. He’d told her that he would make the necklace for Jemma, his
Fire Woman.

He smiled at Rose. “I think you’ll like her.
Jemma is demanding and tough, but fair. Then there’s that softer
side, and she’ll be there when you foal. Jemma doesn’t run from
trouble— she meets it.”

He smoothed Rose’s mottled rump again,
feeling the creative images swirl around him in the clear Montana
morning; they blended, colors and motion moving within a central
theme.

One look at Carley’s dark expression as she
rode toward him told him that peace was over.

Riding beside her, Mitch’s face was grim. She
swung down from the saddle and charged right into her mission.
“Hogan, you’ve got to do something. I just called that producer guy
and—”

She scanned his house and surrounding grounds
warily.

“Jemma is in the chicken house,” Hogan said,
still amazed that she would place her hand beneath the hens to draw
out not-so-clean eggs. Of course, the bucket of soapy water she
prepared prior to collecting the eggs helped.

“That guy Parkins is after her body. He as
much as told me so. He’s no more interested in doing a show with
her than— than Mitch is. Parkins likes the long, slim, active
kind.”

Hogan fought the instant rise of anger, the
bitter clench of his stomach. He wouldn’t say anything; he wouldn’t
interfere. Jemma had to make her own decisions.

“Leave me out of this,” Mitch grumbled. He
looked apologetically at Hogan. “Carley wants to protect Jemma. The
proverbial shoe is on the other foot.”

Hogan realized his fist was tight in Rose’s
mane. While he trusted Jemma, he knew exactly how a man could use a
small space like her van—

Carley’s fist shot out to punch his arm. “Do
something, Hogan. That guy has been playing her along. He’s even
slicker than she is, and that’s going some. When she had to, Jemma
has used flirtation to help her business deals, but this guy is out
to get her. He makes my stalker look like a plotless fool. Which he
is. He’s going to be here next week—”

“Who?” Both men asked together.

“That TV guy, not the stalker,” Carley
clarified impatiently. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Jemma makes up her own mind.” Hogan would
remember that statement when he met Les Parkins the next week.

*** ***

Driving a low red sports car and wearing
mirrorlike sunglasses, Les wore his shirt open to reveal a heavy
gold chain.

At midmorning, he sprawled on Hogan’s front
porch, drinking very fine wine with the air of a beer guzzler. “So
you two are living together, hmm?” he asked, eyeing Jemma’s tight,
leggy jeans as she settled with her cup of herbal tea.

Jemma caught Hogan’s dark, hot look, quickly
shielded, and knew that she had to get Les to safety. Hogan’s mouth
was too set, and he hadn’t said anything about her plans for the
television show. He’d adopted that cold, stoic cloak again.

But at night, his hunger was wild, erotic,
and almost desperate. Jemma sensed that Hogan was very close to
picking Les up and shaking him— especially when Les eyed her yellow
blouse, knotted at her midriff.

She’d wanted to appear country, yet
knowledgeable. Hogan’s citrine and carnelian earrings, bangle
bracelets, and a casual hairstyle added to her simple cotton blouse
and faded jeans. She’d taken care with her makeup, enhancing her
eyes and contour-shading her cheeks, to demonstrate to Les how good
she would look in front of the camera.

Hogan had taken one look at the makeup she
rarely used when she was with him and had snorted, walking out to
his horses.

That snort did not bode well for Les, nor the
flaring of Hogan’s nostrils now as he caught her perfume. He
withdrew his hand from hers as she attempted to soothe him.

The informal business meeting was not going
well, and she had a fortune invested in the project.

Carley had washed her hands of the whole
thing, saying Jemma “should know better than to tempt a sick
creep.”

Jemma had counted on Hogan, but with each of
Les’s leers, that support had withered. She had to warn Les that he
shouldn’t upset Hogan. Hogan was really very delicate.

Life with an emotional, delicate man was not
easy.

“I’ve been thinking we might refocus the
project. Montana has so much more to offer than fly-fishing. I’ve
got some ideas in my van— I’ll just go get them.”

“I’ll come with you,” Les offered,
immediately strolling off the porch and to the van.

She glanced at Hogan, who was looking like a
thundercloud. “You’re not going to interfere, are you? I spent a
fortune on this—”

Hogan didn’t answer, but rose slowly, coldly
and walked inside the house. So much for a discussion, she
thought.

Jemma hurried after Les. She’d managed tight
business situations before; she could again. If she could survive
the brooding, stormy Kodiaks and Carley’s new over-the-edge
independence, she could—

“Oh, hi, Les,” she managed, stepping into the
van to find him nude and searching through the cabinets. Jemma shut
the van’s door; she knew that if Hogan were to see him— “Les,
you’ve got the wrong idea.”

When he leered and lunged at her, Jemma
sidestepped him. “Don’t make me hurt you, Les,” she said
cheerfully. “Get dressed and we’ll forget this happened. We’ll both
profit by my ideas.”

Hogan sat in his studio, moccasins up on his
sketch table. If Jemma wanted to carry on her career as a
wheeler-dealer, that was fine. If she wanted a television series
bad enough to—

Restless now, he rose to peer out at the van,
which was now rocking. “I’m not going to interfere. She knows what
she wants.... I am not going to interfere.... The hell I’m
not.”

*** ***

Sitting at the sewing machine, Jemma tore the
old clothing from Mrs. Coleman’s box. Mending for the thrift shop
would help her unstable nerves.

Hogan had gone into his cave again. He had
shocked himself, unprepared for his temper, and now he was brooding
in his studio.

He’d jerked open the van’s door with enough
force to almost tear it away. He stepped into the van and
immediately the whole room seemed much smaller, quivering with the
violence within Hogan.

“Get your pants on,” he’d ordered Les.

He took one scalding look at Jemma’s torn
sleeve and the fishing net she’d just slammed over Les’s head.
“Having trouble, dear?” he’d asked in a terrifying cold, evil, dark
way.

“None at all,” she’d replied brightly,
fearing for Les’s body parts as Hogan towered over him. “I can
handle it.”

“Out.” Hogan’s simple command, directed at
Les, had sent him hopping out of the van, one leg in his pants and
the other trying.

Hogan had slammed the door, enclosing Jemma
with him. He had leaned back against the counter and crossed his
arms over his chest, studying her. “Are you going to marry me or
what?”

Now, automatically checking the pockets of
Mrs. Coleman’s discarded garments, Jemma frowned as she found the
envelope in the old raincoat.
Are you going to marry me or
what?
wasn’t exactly a romantic proposal, and Hogan hadn’t been
looking sweet and dreamy.

She’d tramped after him into the house,
opened her mouth to burn him, and Hogan had wrapped his arms around
her. He’d pulled her down on top of him. They’d made love on the
floor, there in the bald square of sunlight on his varnished floor.
Shaking in the aftermath of Hogan’s hungry lovemaking and the
ignition of her own wildfire passion for him, she had floated back
up into reality and found his expression tender.