Finally Home (14 page)

“Good. Maybe you should put your arm around my neck.”

“That's not—”

“Oops,” he said, and tripping, tipped her toward the floor.

She gasped and swung her arm across his shoulders.

“Sorry about that,” he said and traipsed quickly upward.

“Colt . . .” She seemed to be whispering now. The sound did something devious to his insides, but he kept his tone conversationally smooth.

“Yeah?”

“I'm serious.”

“Isn't that the truth!”

“We can't do this.”

“Do what?” he asked and tilted his lips toward hers the smallest degree.

He actually felt the breath stop in her chest. Felt his own bottle up tight in his lungs, but he rallied. Dammit, he'd been fighting this battle too long to quit now.

“Do what?”

“
This!
Us.”

“Why not?”

Her lips parted. Her fingers tightened on his neck. The change was almost imperceptible, and yet, beneath the warmth of her hand, he felt his skin tingle with desire. A desire that was reflected in her eyes. He leaned in.

“Because of the hungry horse syndrome.”

“The hungry horses.” He nodded. “Sure.”

She shifted away slightly, expression surprised. “You know what I mean?”

“Not even vaguely.”

“When horses get too hungry, they tend to eat too much.”

“Okay.”

“Then they colic because they were greedy.”

He narrowed his eyes as they reached the landing. “So you think wanting to love and be loved is greedy?”

“Well, I just . . . Not for everyone.”

“Just for you.”

“Yeah, I mean, look at everything I have.”

He didn't bother to glance at the threadbare carpet and faded walls. Instead, he let her feet slip to the floor when they reached the bathroom. She didn't step back. But her voice was breathy when she spoke.

“This ranch. The kids. The horses. It's enough for me. It's more than I deserve. I can't—”

“I can honestly tell you that that's the dumbest thing I've ever heard,” he said and kissed her. For a moment, he thought she would pull away, but she didn't. She kissed him back. Need roared between them. She pressed up against him, soft and warm and firm.

“Casie,” he said, but her name was little more than a breath. Her eyes were round and vulnerable, as deep as forever. He kissed her again and she didn't resist. She
wouldn't
resist. Not this time. Not tonight. He knew it.

But that would be a mistake. She wasn't ready.

The truth struck him like an ax. He tried to back away, but his legs, his damned legs wouldn't work. He was stuck, lost in her eyes, in the possibility that she might care. That maybe this wasn't just a moment of weakness, that maybe deep down she wanted him as desperately as he needed her.

But how would he know? If he took advantage of this miracle, how would he ever be sure that he hadn't been selfish? He tried to shift away from her again, and lo and behold, his right foot shuffled back a couple scant inches. The left followed with resentful slowness.

Her fingers slipped farther around his neck. Her lips were bright and moist. They parted. He watched them move, leaned in, then stopped himself with an amount of discipline he would have sworn he didn't possess.

“Gotta go,” he said.

“What?” She breathed the word. It almost sounded like desperation in her voice, almost looked like sadness in her eyes. He couldn't make her sad. That would be cruel. He wasn't a cruel man. But—

“Gotta get that!” he said, and realizing with tragic relief that the phone had been ringing for some time, stumbled out of the room and down the stairs.

CHAPTER 13

“H
ello?” Colt's voice sounded a little hollow to his own ears. Sex deprivation could do that to a man.

“Hello? Is this the Lazy Windmill Stables?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, relived the feel of Casie's fingers against his skin, and glanced toward the stairs. What kind of idiot was he? He had probably just blown his last opportunity with her. Because for a moment, just an isolated second in time, she had wanted him. He was sure of it.

Or was he just seeing something he wanted to see instead of something that was really . . .

“Hello?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he said, jolting back to the present. “This is the Lazy.”

“To whom am I speaking?” The woman's voice was as sleek as polished jasper and already a little peeved.

“This is Colt Dickenson.” He glanced toward the stairs again. What would happen if he dropped the receiver and bolted back to the bathroom to pick up where they had left off?

“Oh, Mr. Dickenson.” The voice on the other end of the line changed dramatically. “It's nice to finally speak to you.”

He dragged his attention from his imaginings and scowled at the phone. “What's that?”

“Are you alone?”

“What?”

She chuckled, the sound sexy and low. “I'll explain myself in a moment, Mr. Dickenson, but first you must disclose whether you're alone.”

“Yeah,” he said. Very, very alone. And whose damn fault was that? “I'm alone. Why?”

“Sophie Jaegar's not in the room?”

Something flared in his gut, some weird, feral instinct that might have been protectiveness, which was pretty damned odd, because really, Sophie needed protection about as much as a porcupine needed a shotgun.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“She's not there, is she?”

“No. Not at the moment.”

“Good.” There was a breath of a pause, almost as if she was waiting for a drumroll. “This is her mother.”

He glanced at the stairs again. Was Casie in the bathtub yet? Was she the type to linger there? He earnestly hoped so.

“Monica Day-Bellaire,” she added.

He brought himself painfully back to the matter at hand. “Oh. Did you want to talk to—”

“No!” she said, then laughed again. “No. You must not tell her I called.”

“Okay.”

“I want to make it a surprise.”

The beginnings of caution were creeping into his psyche. “Make
what
a surprise?”

“I will be visiting soon.”

“Visiting . . .
here?
” he asked. It wasn't as if he and Sophie Jaegar were best buddies, but even
he
knew that the girl didn't have a real top-shelf relationship with her mother.

“Yes. It is, after all, the holidays.” Her voice was almost a little preachy now, and wasn't
that
messed up. “Time for family.”

For a moment he wondered if he should suggest that maybe she could have thought of that sometime between New Year's and Thanksgiving, but he didn't make mention. “When are you coming?” he asked instead.

“As soon as I can. I realize it's quite spontaneous. In fact, I considered simply showing up, but then I thought I had best apprise you and Ms. Carmichael of the situation.”

Well, consider him apprised. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “All right.”

“Sophie will be there, won't she?”

“As far as I know. But—” But what? But don't come because the Lazy has enough whack jobs already? Don't come because I have a sneaking suspicion your daughter despises you? Don't come because I need as much of Casie's scattered attention as I can possibly get? “But I don't think there's room here for another guest, Mrs. . . .” What the hell was her name?

“Ms.,” she corrected. “Ms. Day-Bellaire. And you don't need to concern yourself. I'm sure I'll be able to get a hotel room in the city.”

For one forgetful second he was actually relieved. Until he realized how ridiculous that statement was. “What city?”

She paused a second, then laughed. “I guess I've been gone longer than I realized. I forgot how charmingly rustic it is out there. Well, not to worry. I'm certain I can share a room with my daughter.”

He didn't bother to ask if she had ever
met
her daughter, because even though he didn't consider himself to be a social genius, he had a sneaking suspicion that might be considered rude. “With Sophie?” he asked instead.

“I'm sure she won't mind.”

Was she serious?

“It'll be like . . .” She paused. “Like going to camp.”

“Do you
like
to camp, Ms.—”

“Oh. What?” she asked, obviously addressing someone else. “Yes. Just one minute. I'm sorry,” she said, returning to him. “I'm afraid I've got to run. It was very nice talking to you, Mr. Dickenson. I'm so looking forward to meeting you in person.”

“Maybe you should talk to—” he began, but the phone went dead. He stared at the receiver, exhaled heavily, and glanced toward the steps. True, he had been intent on escaping the house while he still had the ability to control his legs, but he had the feeling all hell was about to break loose, and if he didn't inform Casie, it was likely to break loose on
him
.

Replacing the receiver, he mounted the steps very slowly, exhaled again, and rapped softly on the bathroom door.

But the water was running. There was no answer. He tried again, but no louder. Despite whatever impression he might have been trying to give, he cared about the teenage girls down the hall quite a lot and had no wish to adversely affect them, but it did seem fairly important that he speak to Casie soon. So when there was still no answer, he put his left hand over his eyes, turned the knob, and stepped inside.

There was a gasp, a splash, and the sound of a shower curtain being zipped across a rod.

“Sorry,” he said and hoped that the hand that shielded his eyes also did something to hide the grin that was trying to creep onto his face. “I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“About what?”

“About . . .” He stepped forward, stubbed his toe, and hopped a little bit. “Can I uncover my eyes?”

“No!” she hissed and shut off the water. “Is something wrong?”

He shuffled forward a couple extra inches. His earlier visit to this room had seemed strange enough, but this was stranger still. If he ever stopped to consider how many women he'd seen naked, this scenario might very well seem ludicrous. But none of those women had been Casie May Carmichael, had they? “I'm not sure,” he said.

“You're not sure if something's wrong?”

“Right.”

“Can't it wait?”

“I don't think so.”

“Okay, well, I'll get out in a minute. But you have to—”

“You need to soak,” he said. “I know you think you're not seriously injured, but sometimes people are wrong, Case.” He heard her splash, and somehow that whisper of sound sent a wave of wild images cascading through his mind. She was naked in every last one of them. The idea made him feel strangely squirmy. “Listen . . .” he said, wondering uncomfortably if she could tell how her nakedness was affecting him. “I guess this
can
wait till morning.”

“No. I'll get out.”

“How about if I blindfold myself?”

“What?”

“You must have something I can use for a cloth.”

“Are you kidding me?”

He smiled a little at her tone, but corrected himself in a moment. “A washcloth or a sock,” he said and felt around blindly with his right hand as he bumbled forward again. Feeling something against the wall, he patted downward. Surmising it was the toilet, he lowered the lid and eased himself down atop it. “A towel? A sweater? A pair of under—”

“Oh for heaven's sake, you can open your eyes.”

Huh. “You sure?”

“Yes.” Her voice was as quiet as his.

He removed his hand slowly. She was, after all, like the sun. But unfortunately, the day was overcast with a high probability of storms; the curtain remained closed. Still, just the knowledge that she was naked only inches away did upsetting things to his equilibrium. And how sad was that?

“Colt?” she asked from behind the curtain.

“Yeah?”

“What's wrong?”

For a second he had actually forgotten why he was there. He shook his head at such a pathetic situation. It wasn't as if he was a pubescent hayseed. “I just . . .” He grinned, finding a fair amount of humor in the situation. “I gotta tell you, I'm having a little trouble concentrating when you're naked in there.”

No response.

“You
are
naked, aren't you?” he asked.

“Of course I'm . . .” she began, then stopped herself. “I meant why are you here? Is something wrong at the bunkhouse?”

“As far as I know, your guests are fine.”

He
was the one having heart palpitations.

“Is it the horses?” Was she beginning to talk to him like he was mentally handicapped?

“They seemed okay, too, last I checked.”

“The cattle—”

“All the livestock's fine,” he said. “But I . . .” he began and sniffed. It smelled like apricots, he realized, and spied the peach-colored bottle perched on the edge of the tub. “Do you always take baths?”

“What?”

“I was just curious if you prefer them to showers.”

“Why are you here, Dickenson?”

Judging from her prissy tone, he had to assume she had gotten over her breathlessness of a few minutes before. For reasons entirely unknown even to him, he found that mildly amusing.

“Sophie's mom's coming tomorrow.”

“What?”
she rasped and snapped the shower curtain open a couple scant inches.

He stared, breath held, which was just ridiculous, because seriously, all he could see was her head, part of her shoulders and about two inches of back, but all those inches were naked. And he couldn't help zeroing in on that fact.

“You
are
naked,” he said.

“She's coming here?”

“Shh,” he said, and shrugged. Holy crap, she had pretty skin, all creamy smooth and rosy from the heat of the water.

“She's coming
here?
” she repeated, voice low now.

“That's what she said.”

“Why?”

“Because it's Christmas. Time for family.”

“Are you serious?”

“I wasn't the one who said it.”

“She actually
said
that?”

“Yeah.”

“No,” she breathed and dropped her head against the shower wall. This new and improved position offered him an extra couple inches of viewing pleasure. “Sophie's going to have a cow.”

She'd put her hair on top of her head, but a few wispy tendrils had come loose and curled now with gentle adoration against the soft scroll of her ear. Her skin looked dewy soft and could really use a kiss. Right there where—

“Colt?”

“Yeah?” he asked and zipped his attention to her face.

“Do you think we should wait till morning to tell her?”

“Tell who?”

“Sophie,” she hissed. “When should we tell her?”

“Oh. We
can't
tell her.”

“What?”
Her eyes had gone wide. She grasped the shower curtain in one soapy hand. The sight of those fingers, slim and wet and strong, did something terrible to his already uncertain innards. Maybe it was the fact that she was naked. Or maybe . . . “Colt!” she said.

He tried not to jump. “I agreed to keep it a secret.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

Good question. “Because Sophie needs a mother.”

“Well, I just . . .” She huffed a laugh and shrugged. For reasons not readily apparent, that motion seemed to interfere with the rhythm of his heart. “Maybe the woman should have realized that before the middle of December.”

“True, but better late than never, right?”

“I don't know,” she said earnestly, and rolling her head sideways, stared at the far wall. Her left foot rose in unison. He could just see it and one delectable ankle past the opposite end of the curtain. Water dripped from her heel as tiny, exuberant bubbles glistened against her skin. “I'm worried she might do more damage than good.”

Her toes were small and very pink. The nails were painted red, a deep scarlet hue that surprised him. The thought of the oh-so-sensible Casie Carmichael polishing her toenails cranked up his considerable attention.

“Aren't you?”

He dragged his gaze from her toes. It was not a simple task, which was somewhat disturbing. They were, after all, just toes. And yet . . . He felt his attention being pulled in that direction again.

“Colt?”

He snapped his gaze back to her face. “What?”

“Aren't you scared?”

Yes, he was. If the sight of her bare toes created this kind of havoc, what would the rest of her body do to him? She had a rocking—

“Colt!”

“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty scared.”

“I mean . . .” She shook her head. The cords in her neck stood out in sharp relief against her pretty throat. The hollow between her collarbones was a deep, soft dell just waiting to be explored. “I know Sophie wants a mother. I know she feels neglected and abandoned. I'm just afraid . . .” She winced. “What if she has some kind of bomb to drop?”