Heartbreak, Tennessee (21 page)

“Oh, you two,” Amber
said, reaching to rub their tummies. They rolled their heads back and forth in
pure pleasure. “So where did your master go? Are you sworn to secrecy? I know I
haven’t, ah, been totally fair to him,” she went on, “but I hope you’ll forgive
me. I have every intention of making it all up to him, if he’ll let me. Oh, I
wish you could talk.”

Rising, she scanned
the room for clues as to where he might have gone. It looked the same as it had
the other night, reading glasses still tossed on the coffee table, but
everything else carefully put away and straightened.

Then she spotted
something amiss on the mantel.

Pete’s picture. It was
missing.

Or no, there it was on
the counter. Resting flat, as though Mac had been staring at it, then tossed it
aside.

She had to find him. Giving
the dogs a last pat, she let herself out. The heat of the day enveloped her, a
faint hot breeze stirring the skirt around her legs. She paused for a minute,
concentrating, thinking of all the places in town where Mac might have had
business. She’d go door to door if she had to, covering every inch of
Heartbreak until she found him.

Suddenly she realized
exactly where Mac had to be.

Jumping in Sheryn’s
car, she was grateful for its precision engineering, the way it sailed
uncomplainingly over the rough country roads as she leaned on the gas. Slowing
when she passed little knots of houses, she took the long, solitary stretches
at a good pace. She knew the roads so well, their contours returning to her as
she crested each hill, took each turn.

There were a few more
houses along the way, not many. A few of the old landmarks were gone; a
graceful old oak felled by lightning, a once-pristine fence tilting and
peeling, an old bait shack boarded up next to its modern replacement.

The last half mile
before the lake, the road became rougher still. There was no reason to head out
to the lake unless you planned to do some serious relaxing. The occasional picnicker
or hiker or sunbather found their way to the shore, which was overgrown and
full of bracken. But mostly people came to be on the water, not next to it. To
fish for bluegill or crappie or the legendary twenty-five pound catfish that
had outfoxed several generations of sportsmen. To float in lazy circles,
dipping a hand in the water from time to time.

Amber had been out on
a number of boats with Mac, but their favorite had always been the old wooden
skiff that was left pulled up onto the bank, the oars stored underneath, left
to fend for itself in the elements until someone else felt like taking it out. It
wasn’t Mac’s. It wasn’t anybody’s, or so it seemed; lots of folks knew it was
there, and everyone always returned it to the same spot.

Amber eased to a stop
when the road deteriorated to twin ruts in the dry, cracked earth. In the
spring, when it rained, this road would have been soggy, wet mud, practically
impassible. Now it had baked in the heat, a few brave weeds choking up between
the tracks.

Amber shielded her
eyes against the sun and peered out onto the sparkling waters. Up ahead, she
could see Mac’s truck, pulled off to the side, the glossy red paint coated with
a thin layer of dust. She pulled the Mercedes off to the side and started down
the road.

After a few yards she
slipped out of her sandals, backtracked and left them sitting on the hood of
the car. No sense ruining a good pair of calfskin shoes, and besides, the lure
of going barefoot was too great to resist.

It had been a long
time. She felt the textures of the road on the soles of her feet, the rough
clods of dirt, the softer pads of matted grass, the sharpness of an occasional
twig or pebble. She’d once run here, years ago, her feet tough from a summer
outdoors, feeling nothing underfoot until she stepped into the coolness of the
water...

At the bank she had to
squint to tolerate the blinding flashes of gold cast by the shifting waters. But
there he was, out a ways, the little boat bobbing to and fro according to the
water’s whim. Was it the same boat? Were their initials still carved in the
bottom? MM & AD ALWAYS, she could see it in her mind’s eye, the fresh white
hardwood exposed by his pocketknife, gleaming against the weathered gray.

It was only his
profile, but it was Mac, of that she had no doubt. Even in profile he was
unmistakable, his chin resting contemplatively on one fist, as he stared out at
nothing at all.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

“Mac,” she called
softly. Her voice was lost in the afternoon hum of insects and birds and water
lapping on the shore.

She cupped her hands
and closed her eyes and called his name with all her strength, all her heart. After
a moment, when it seemed as if even the bugs stopped their chorus to listen,
his reply came back to her like an echo across the calm waters.

“Amber?....Amber, stay
there, I’ll come to you.”

As he approached, the
motions of the oars strong and steady, Amber began to tremble a little. When
the boat had covered the distance to shore, she could make out his features,
right down to the dark circles under his eyes.

In no time he was just
a few yards away, the boat heading into the rushes that grew at water’s edge. Mac
stepped out, his bare feet dipping into the water up to his knees, tugging the
boat behind him. He’d taken his shirt off in the sun, and his chest and
shoulders were a burnished bronze, his muscles rippling as he moved the boat.

Amber swallowed. Hard.
There was so much more to the man before her than she’d guessed when she first
spotted him in the bar that night. Inside was still the passionate boy she’d
once known, a natural lover guided by intuition. But the man he’d become was a
natural leader, an employer and friend who buried his own needs while helping
those around him. And there was a little of Tom Sawyer in him too, a swaggering
bravado that barely concealed his vulnerability.

Even as she read
relief and welcome in his eyes, Mac jutted his chin at her and indicated with
the slightest gesture that she should climb in. Amber hadn’t considered what
she would say when she found him, but words escaped her as she fought
conflicting desires: throw herself into his arms, run away as fast as she
could.

Instead, she managed a
few words in a small voice.

“May I join you?”

The corners of Mac’s
mouth worked, and then he reached out a hand for hers.

“I insist,” he said.

Her eyes locked on his
and she was barely aware of moving towards him. Her hand was wrapped in his
strong one and she was lifting her skirt and stepping into the lake, the water
bracing, wakening her senses. Mac released her hand only to circle his arm
around her waist, steadying her as she stepped carefully into the boat and sat
down on the seat.

Mac sat across from
her, their knees touching, and gave the shore one tremendous shove with the
oar, and then they were gliding out on the water towards the middle of the
lake.

“I’m not engaged,”
Amber said abruptly. “That ring—the man who left it made a mistake, and I’ve
already sent it back to him.”

Mac stopped rowing for
a moment, the paddle dripping cool water into the boat as he searched her face,
his expression wary.

“It
was
an engagement ring, though.”

“Yes...” Amber sighed,
trying to remember why she had ever dated Dean in the first place. “He’s a good
man. You might even have liked him. We just were never right for each other.”

“And what about us,
Amber?” Mac prodded softly. “Are we right for each other?”

Amber felt blood surge
into her face, the guileless question calling her bluff.

“I—hope so.”

“I think you could be
right for me. I
know
it. Being around
you these few days has already changed me, made me feel like I could really
start living again.”

“That’s—really?”
Hope sent energy coursing through her veins. “It’s strange, that’s almost how I
would describe being around you. It’s as though I’ve been adding layer upon
layer of protection all these years, and then slowly it all started to smother
me and I didn’t know how to get out. But when I’m with you—”

“You’re like I
remember,” Mac said. “You’re in there, Amber. It doesn’t matter what you wear,
or how you cut your hair—you’ll always be you. Always be the only woman I
can love.”

He loved her
.

He’d just said so. Amber’s
mouth parted as she tried to reply, but her heart felt as though it would
burst.

“You love me too,” he
said gently, an ironic upturn at the corners of his mouth.

“Yes,” she gasped. “I
do.”

“Breath in and out,”
Mac whispered, taking one of her hands and pressing it to his lips. He kissed
each knuckle in turn, his eyes never leaving her face. “Just keep breathing and
you’ll be all right. Now come here.”

Finding that her body
still remembered how to move in a boat, placing her feet with care so the
little craft barely rocked, Amber crossed over to Mac. He steadied her with
strong hands on her hips as she turned and slipped into his lap. He slid his
body backward so there was room for both of them to sit on the narrow bench,
though she had to wedge tightly in the vee of his legs to stay balanced.

The boat floated,
turning lazy slow circles in the middle of the lake.

As hard as the bench
was, as precarious their balance, it felt right. So wonderfully, completely
right.

Mac’s chin rested on
top of her head, and she could feel the muscles in his arms flexing as he
settled back on the wooden bench, then wrapped his body around hers. Amber
gazed up into the cloud-dotted sky, listening to nature’s serenade, and let her
eyes slide half way shut in the contentment that came from feeling so safe, so
protected in Mac’s arms.

After a moment Mac
kissed her hair gently, tentatively. The gesture might have almost been chaste,
if it weren’t for the tension in his thighs against hers, for his growing
arousal against the small of her back.

Mac kissed her again,
and pushing her hair aside, moved slowly down to where her hairline met the
nape of her neck. She felt his lips brush and then nuzzle, felt his breath on
her neck, and delicious sensations played down her nerves deep into her core. She
didn’t want him to stop, prayed he wouldn’t stop.

“We need to talk,” he
whispered coarsely, his breath hot. Amber let her chin drop as she shrugged her
shoulders into the rough planes of his face, the day’s growth of beard scraping
deliciously along the sensitive skin.

“I know,” she moaned. “But
if you want to talk now, I need to go back to my own seat, and—oh...”

His hand had slid
under her breast, cupping it and then thumbing the nipple gently as she tried
to respond. Now he had renewed his kisses, his tongue flicking down the bumps
of her spine.

Mac’s other hand slid
down her stomach, stopping to press her even closer to him, illustrating his
desire unmistakably throbbing below her. Then he was reaching between her legs
and she was straining to accommodate his searching hand, her thighs pressing
against his.

“Mac,” she begged, “please,
make love with me now, and talk later.”

Mac swiftly,
wordlessly eased out from under her and placed the floatation cushions on the
floor of the boat to form a makeshift bed. While he worked Amber tried to
remember exactly how they’d navigated in the small boat so long ago. The space
seemed much too small to accommodate them.

Then Mac knelt before
her, drawing Amber to her knees to face him. The space was small, and their
bodies melded together to fit, knees scissored together.

Their movements were
tempered by the motion of the boat. Instinctively their bodies knew the limits;
too much in any direction and the boat would dip to the side. Novices could not
have managed the challenge, but Mac had never left the water, and Amber felt as
though she were returning home.

Amber moaned as Mac
kissed her again and again, her eyes, nose, skipping her parted lips to nip and
inflame the sensitive skin of her jaw and neck. She arched against him,
constrained even with the narrow skirt pushed up around her thighs, aching to
press his body against her own, to feel the swell of his desire fitted to the
cleft of her own passion.

His body, carefully balancing
as he supported his weight by gripping the boat with one hand, was maddeningly
just out of reach, and Amber bit her lip to keep from crying out in
frustration. She ran her hands down his smooth torso, shifting slightly and
leaning in to press her face against the warm skin of his shoulders, the hard
line of his collarbone. Mac groaned and held her shoulders, and she could feel
him trembling. She flicked a tongue out on his skin, and the earthy salt taste
of him roused her senses even further.