The Cowboy (26 page)

She bit her lip on the admission and eyed him askance. His face was shadowed with the beard he hadn’t had time to shave—because he’d been taking care of her family. She reached up and brushed her hand across the rough bristles.

He leaned away from her and said, “Don’t.”

She laid her head against his shoulder and pressed a hand against his heart. She thought she could almost feel it beating. She closed her eyes and gave a sigh. “I’m so tired.”

She heard the automatic doors swish open, and then felt the cool night air on her face. She felt Trace shifting her as he opened the car door and then the soft leather
under her thighs as he set her down. She half-opened her eyes and smiled. She was sitting in the oversize Buick 88 convertible. “I like your wheels.”

“Thanks.”

She tried to keep her eyes open, so she could see where Trace was taking her, but they drifted closed as soon as the car got on the highway. “How far?” she murmured.

“Twenty minutes,” he said.

“I might have to take a nap.”

“You can use me for a pillow if you like.”

“All right,” she said, sliding down and laying her head on his thigh. She grasped his leg up high to have something to keep her steady and felt his thigh muscles tense.

Once again, he admonished her, “Don’t.”

“I thought you wanted to have your wicked way with me,” she said.

“I do. But I’d like you to be wide awake and willing.”

“I’m awake,” she mumbled.

He snorted. “When we get there, would you rather have a shower or a bath?”

“A bubble bath would be lovely.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose you keep bath bubbles at a hunting cabin.”

“I might be able to scrounge some up.”

“Mmmm. I hope so.”

The next thing Callie knew, Trace was shaking her shoulder.

“Wake up. We’re here.”

She dragged herself upright, stretching and yawning. There were lights on inside the cabin. Although, she doubted anyone but the Blackthornes would call the two-story wood house a cabin. It looked more like an antebellum mansion, complete with pillars holding up a
second-story porch. The house was surrounded by trees and bushes that encroached on the narrow path that led to the front door.

She followed Trace to the front door, which was odd in itself, because the front door in Texas was reserved for funerals and strangers. “How long has this ‘cabin’ been here?” she asked.

“A hundred years or so.”

“How come I’ve never seen it or heard about it?”

“Nobody’s used it since the fifties.”

She lifted a brow. “Eisenhower slept here?”

Trace smiled. “Yep. Teddy Roosevelt, too.”

Callie laughed. “Can I sleep in his bed?”

“The furniture’s all covered, except for the little bit I’ve been using. I had the plumbing and electricity fixed. Otherwise, it’s pretty rustic.”

“I thought you were staying at your parents’ house.”

“I was until Dad got out of the hospital. Once he came home, I moved in here.”

That way, he could come and go without his every move being monitored by his father, Callie realized.

“I still have supper with my parents,” he said. “When my schedule allows it.”

Callie stepped into an enormous Victorian parlor and could only imagine what the room contained, based on the outlines of the sheets that covered the furniture. Trace had uncovered a wing chair covered in maroon brocade, which was angled toward the immense fieldstone fireplace. An enormous buffalo head was mounted above it. “Nice,” she said with a cheeky grin.

“My decorator thanks you,” he quipped back. “The bathroom’s this way.”

Callie made a sound in her throat. “I just realized I don’t have anything clean with me to put on.”

“Eli helped Rosalita pick out some things for you to wear. I’ll bring them in once you’re settled in the tub.”

“It seems you’ve thought of everything.”

“I have my own reasons for wanting you rested, Callie,” he reminded her.

Callie wished he hadn’t spoken. It had been nice pretending that Trace was being so considerate because he cared for her. “I haven’t forgotten anything,” she said.

They had arrived at the bathroom, and she turned to face him. “I can take it from here.”

“All right. I’ll go get your bag.”

Callie stared at the old-fashioned, claw-footed tub. She would much rather have lain down in it and gone to sleep than fill it with water. But her back and shoulders ached with tension, and she knew a hot bath would help her to relax. She turned on the water, and the ancient pipes groaned like an old lady getting up out of her rocker.

She adjusted the water temperature and stripped off her clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor next to her boots. She looked through the medicine cabinet for something to make bubbles, but found only shampoo and cream rinse—which she took out and set on the floor beside the tub—Trace’s razor and shaving cream, toothpaste, aspirin, and a pine-scented aftershave. No bubble bath.

She didn’t wait for the tub to fill, just stepped in and sat down. Then she realized she didn’t have soap or a washcloth. She stood up just as Trace walked back into the room. She grappled for a shower curtain to cover herself, but there wasn’t one.

“I’ve seen you naked before, Callie.”

But at the time, she hadn’t borne two children. Callie laid one hand across her belly, where she knew two silver stretch marks remained, and the other across her breasts, which weren’t nearly as perky now as they’d been eleven years ago.

“Sit down, Callie. I’ve brought your bubbles.”

Callie couldn’t move. She was caught by the lambent look in Trace’s eyes. He reached toward her tentatively, as though to touch her. “Don’t,” she said.

He withdrew his hand and poured a powdered substance into the tub, which quickly filled the room with the pungent scent of apples and the tub with foaming bubbles. She sank into the water. “Oh. That’s my favorite. How did you know?”

“I asked Eli.”

“And he knew?” she asked, looking up at Trace.

“No. He thought you liked the lavender. Hannah told me to take the apple.”

“That’s her favorite, too,” Callie said with a smile. She realized she was no longer self-conscious about her nudity. But she wasn’t precisely relaxed, either. “I usually don’t do this with an audience,” she said, as she lifted a handful of bubbles to cover her nipples, which had peaked beneath Trace’s steady gaze.

“Go ahead and wet your hair,” he said.

“What?”

He bent over and picked up the shampoo. “Wet your hair, and I’ll wash it for you.”

Callie slid down in the tub until her hair was in the water, grateful for the blanket of bubbles that hid her from Trace’s penetrating gaze. When she came up, the water
sluiced off all the bubbles, and her slick, wet body was exposed to Trace’s gaze. The avid look in his eyes made her blood sing.

She turned her back to him and said, “Shampoo away.”

He dribbled cold shampoo onto her scalp, but his hands quickly warmed it. She leaned her head back as his strong, callused hands massaged her scalp.

“That feels wonderful,” she said with a groan of pleasure.

“Lean forward.” He angled her head forward as his fingers worked out the tension in her neck and shoulders. His tender ministrations soothed the ache inside her. She shivered as his touch slowed. She was being seduced, but she didn’t care. She wanted him. She felt the need rise inside her to be touched in all the places he hadn’t yet touched.

“You can stop that in about fifty years,” she murmured.

“Rinse,” he said abruptly.

Her eyes flickered open, and she turned to look at him over her shoulder. “Rinse?”

His blue eyes were heavy-lidded, his lips rigid and full. She recognized the signs of arousal.

“Rinse your hair,” he said in a husky voice. “Then I can wash the rest of you.”

Callie gulped and looked at the soap and washcloth that lay on the toilet seat. “Where did those come from?”

“There’s a basket of soaps and towels at the other end of the tub.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Rinse,” he ordered.

Callie slid into the lukewarm water and rinsed her hair.

And remembered the deal she had made with Trace. Sex for money. Trace didn’t really want her. Well, he did. But only for one purpose, and it had nothing to do with love.

She rose out of the water, hair slicked back, arms crossed over her breasts, and announced, “I can wash myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he said. “But I want to do it.”

“Give me one good reason why I should let you.”

“Because I never got to do it eleven years ago.”

Callie understood his regret because she felt it so keenly herself. “All right,” she said at last. “Go ahead.”

He wet the cloth in the tub, then soaped it. He stared at her for so long, Callie finally asked, “What’s the problem?”

He grinned and admitted, “I can’t decide where to start.”

She laughed and raised her arms. “I usually start under here.”

He chuckled and swiped at her underarms with the soapy rag. It didn’t take him long to get to her breasts. They must have been just filthy, Callie thought, because it took him forever to wipe them clean. Her breath was coming in shallow pants by the time he worked his way down her ribs to her belly.

He hesitated, and she felt a soapy fingertip trace its way across her flesh.

“Those are stretch marks,” she said, her hands tightly gripping the edges of the tub to keep from shoving his hand away. “I got them when I was pregnant with Eli.”

“I figured that,” he said quietly. He looked into her
eyes. “I wish …” His bare hand slid beneath the water to cover her womb. “I wish my child had been growing here.”

Callie shoved his hand away and scrambled to her feet, nearly falling as she slipped on the slick tub. “Don’t you have a damned towel around here?” she asked, as she looked around for something to cover her nakedness.

Calmly, he stood and retrieved a towel from a shelf behind her. He opened it up and held it for her, forcing her to step out of the tub and into his arms. He wrapped her tightly in the towel, then lifted her in his arms and carried her down the hall.

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

“To bed.”

She began to struggle. “Put me down. I’m not going to sleep with you, Trace. I’ll find some other way to pay my father’s estate taxes. I don’t want to do this. We can’t recapture the past. It’s useless to try. I—”

He leaned over and pulled down the coverlet on a standard-size sleigh bed, then dropped her on the sheets and snatched away the towel. She scrambled under the covers and pulled them up to her neck. “Where are my clothes?”

“You don’t need any.” Snaps popped as he pulled his Western shirt open from breastbone to navel and dragged it out of his jeans. He yanked off his boots, then unbuckled his belt, unzipped his jeans and stripped them off, along with his briefs, and joined her in bed.

“I won’t be able to sleep with you in this bed,” Callie complained. “It’s too small. There’s no room for both of us.”

“There’s plenty of room in the middle,” he said, as his
hand curved around her waist. He dragged her back against him, spooning her hips into his. She could feel the heat of him down the length of her back, and the undeniable proof of his arousal against her thigh. She struggled against his hold, but without success.

“Go to sleep, Callie. I’m not going to touch you.”

“You’re touching me everywhere!”

“I’m not going to make love to you,” he corrected.

“What is it you want from me?” Callie said. “I have to tell you the suspense is killing me.”

“I want you to close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“That’s all?”

“For now.”

A breath shuddered out of her, and she relaxed her body against him.
For now.
That meant there would be other demands later. If she was smart, she’d get some sleep, so she’d have the energy to argue her way out of trouble when the time came.

His skin felt warm, and the masculine hairs on his arms and legs made her tingle where they brushed against her. He laid his bristly cheek against her shoulder, then caressed it with his lips.

She stiffened. “You said—”

“It’s only a kiss, Callie. Go to sleep.”

Callie closed her eyes. When she opened them again, it was morning. And Trace still held her in his arms.

She looked out the bedroom window at the pastel sky and realized it was not quite dawn, the time she normally woke up. But she still felt tired. Apparently one night of sleep didn’t make up for weeks of nights when she’d lain awake and worried. Callie was glad she didn’t have to get
out of bed to do the myriad tasks that were her responsibility at Three Oaks.

She carefully rolled over so she was facing Trace, who was still asleep. Or maybe not, she realized, when a callused hand began snaking its way up her leg.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Making up for lost time,” he replied.

A moment later, she was flat on her back, and Trace was on top of her. His knee came up to force her legs apart, so his aroused body fit hot and hard in the cradle of her thighs.

“Oh,” she said.

“Oh, indeed,” he said with a smile.

She reached up to caress the dark stubble on his cheek. This time he didn’t stop her. He leaned his cheek against her hand, rubbing himself against her like a sleek cat.

She ran her hand down his throat and over his shoulder, threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest, brushed the crest of his nipple, then traced each rib. Her hand followed the curve and play of muscle and bone all the way down his flank and then around to his buttocks. “I love to touch you,” she said.

“I love the way you touch,” he replied as his mouth closed over a budding nipple.

Callie’s body arched, and she moaned with pleasure. She tugged on his hair, forcing his head up, leaning down greedily to find his mouth.

They were both ravenous. They had spent too many years without each other, and their previous encounter had only whetted their appetites. There was no need for foreplay. No desire to prolong the merging of their two
bodies. Trace slid his hands beneath her and joined them with a single thrust.