A Silver Lining (8 page)

"Don't even think about getting involved with her, Duke,” Tristan's voice rang through the early morning, making her stop in midstride.

Heather had been on her way for their morning ride, but Tristan's warning halted her on the other side of the stable door, out of sight.

"And why is that, Tristan? Jealous?"

"Don't be ridiculous,” Tristan said dismissively in an angry tone. “She's not the type of girl you get jealous over."

"What does that mean?"

"It's not like she's gonna stick around here forever. All we have to do is wait until she's bored out of her mind, and then she'll go running back to the bright lights of the big city."

"Harsh, dude."

Their voices faded away. A moment later Duke walked out, not noticing her as he marched away. Heather went inside, her heart pounding furiously. The calmness she had been feeling the past couple of days had vanished. Her fists lay clenched at her sides, and it was an effort not to swing them at the handsome cowboy who looked at her over the mare he was saddling.

"Mornin', Heather,” he mumbled.

"I'm not going riding with you,” she said with a bite in her voice.

Tristan frowned. His eyes flickered to the stable door and then back to her.

"Yes,” she answered the unspoken question. “I heard your sterling opinion of me."

He sighed, shoulders dropping a bit. “Listen, you don't understand—"

"No, you don't understand. I had started to think of you as a friend, Tristan. But clearly you're a fucking hypocrite."

She spun around, ignoring his call, and marched her way back to the house. She felt Mabel look at her but ignored her. Today she was going to sulk.

Heather didn't come down for dinner that evening.

Tristan watched the stairs and played with his food, missing the looks that Jim and Tony shot one another.

She had completely misunderstood what he had been saying to Duke. Missed the point, really.

Yes, he was jealous anytime Duke came near her.

Yes, he wanted to take her to bed and keep her there until they were both too sore to walk.

Fuck. What was he going to do?

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The next day brought rain. Heather stood on the porch, under the wide veranda, watching the storm, chain-smoking. A half-empty water bottle had become a graveyard for the butts.

Dark clouds obscured much of the sun, making everything seem murky and depressing, just like her mood. She'd been watching the damn rain for almost an hour.

The door opened behind her, and Mabel came out with a broom. She gave Heather a surprised look before turning to sweep the porch. For the most part Heather ignored her, as she always did. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Mabel or thought since she was the housekeeper, she was beneath her. They had nothing in common. Heather hadn't the foggiest notion of cooking or caring for an invalid, so she didn't try to force communication.

"What're you doing out here?” Mabel asked.

"Apparently watching the grass grow,” Heather let out a stream of smoke and then popped the finished cigarette in her bottle, “since the television reception seems to be reliant on the forecast."

"We have Internet. No reason to have cable when there's DSL."

"True.” Heather shrugged. “I don't know. I don't really feel like vegging in front of the computer."

"Restless? The ranch too quiet for you?"

Heather shot her a suspicious look. “You working against me too, Mabel?"

"Don't really know you well enough to be for you or against you, Heather Hart."

"But you don't really care for me, do you?"

"I care about Lincoln, and he cares about you. Is that answer enough?"

"Does he? Care about me?"

Mabel stopped sweeping and leaned against the end of the broom. Her appraisal made Heather feel as if she were on an auction block. Whatever Mabel saw must have been all right, because she gave a nod and gestured toward the house. “Go upstairs. Last door on the right."

"What's in there?"

"See for yourself."

Heather shoved her cigarettes and lighter in her back pocket, then tentatively walked back into the house, the darkness of the stormy day deepening the shadows that seemed to fester in the corners. The decor was stuck somewhere between the seventies and the eighties, with a plastic cover on the crushed velour couch. The television, one of those that weighed about a thousand pounds and sat housed in a wooden frame, only added to the decrepit air.

The stairs emptied to a landing that circled around, giving access to the four bedrooms. The last bedroom, she remembered, had belonged to her Uncle Avery. She marched up to it and opened the door.

The room was dark because of the drapes completely covering the window. The air was slightly musky, with a hint of leather. She flipped the light switch and froze at the sight before her.

It wasn't that the room had been turned into a shrine. No, her grandfather had been too manly for such sentimentality. Instead, the room had been filled with a little bit of everything. All the furniture remained from Avery's room, plus a few extra pieces that Heather remembered belonging to her grandmother, Gloria. Boxes were stacked everywhere, and a saddle peeked out from under the bed. As she looked over the room, a bit of mirror on a vanity caught her attention.

Her jaw dropped a fraction, and she moved through the cramped room toward it. Her heart started to pound as she came to recognize the vanity that had been in her room when she had last visited. She heaved boxes off the top of it until the mirror was fully exposed.

The glass had a sky with big, white fluffy clouds lined in silver painted on and the words “Every Cloud Has A Silver Lining” right above them.

"You found the memory closet,” Tristan said from the door.

Heather turned her head toward him, all feelings of anger temporarily forgotten. “Memory closet?"

"When Avery died, your grandfather packed everything of value here and shut the door."

"This vanity isn't worth anything,” she whispered.

Tristan shrugged and followed her path toward her side. He put his hands in his pockets and looked around. “To your grandfather it is."

"I painted it,” she admitted, clearing her throat. “I did that when I was last here."

Tristan looked at the small mural. “It's pretty good."

"I used to love to paint.” She could feel his gaze on her, but she couldn't look away from the mirror. “I used to love to do a lot of stuff."

A wealth of bitterness clawed from her heart, threatening to choke her.

"You don't anymore?"

"A lot of things changed after that summer,” she replied, turning away from the vanity mirror. He watched her like a hawk eyeing his prey, and a shiver ran down her spine.

"What happened to you? Was it your parents splitting up? Oh yes, I know,” he said at her surprised look. “After my leg healed, Avery hired me full time. I ate dinner every night in that kitchen, and Lincoln would talk."

A surge of panic shot through her heart, making it stutter at the unexpected surge of adrenaline. “What else did he tell you?"

Tristan cocked his head, studying her. “Your father abandoned you and your mom, making her ask Lincoln for money to survive. She died not too long after that."

"Breast cancer at forty-three. My dad couldn't even be bothered to come to the funeral,” she replied with a tinge of sadness echoing through her words. She allowed herself one moment to think of her mother before she cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “She belongs with this room of forgotten memories."

He reached out and took her hand. “It's okay to remember, Heather. Everything needs to be grieved."

She yanked her hand back, fury filling her, choking her. “When my grandfather dies, I'm going to take everything in this room and burn it."

Tristan stiffened, the tenderness in his face and body disappearing in an instant. “Why do ya gotta be like this? Every time someone shows you a bit of kindness or friendship, you throw a wall up."

"What does it matter if I have a wall up or not? We're not exactly friends, Tristan."

He sighed. “I want to be your friend, Heather."

She crossed her arms. “I'll be your lover. I'll be your sex kitten and play all kinds of dirty little games. But don't ask me to be your friend."

Tristan stared at her for a minute, and she could see a thousand different emotions sweeping across his face. Everything from pity to hate to acceptance all blended together, and she knew in that instant he would accept her proposal, though he may not have known it yet himself. He wanted her. She could feel it every time he approached her. And she wanted him too. Tristan had always been in the back of her mind, a teenage fantasy, and here they were, twenty years older and able to act on those old feelings.

She dropped her arms and stepped closer to him, sliding her hands up his chest and over his shoulders, pushing her breasts against his hard chest. The flame that always existed between them leaped to life. She heard his breath quicken. Beneath her palms, she felt his chest rise and fall quickly as his heart hammered. He grabbed her arms, halting her, staring at her with an equal mixture of lust and hate. She wet her lips with her tongue. That little gesture made him capitulate. He groaned low in his throat and hauled her into his body. One hand curved around the back of her head, holding her steady as he dominated her mouth with his. The kiss wasn't soft; it gave no quarter. It demanded, it took. Desire swept over her, wiping out everything. Her world narrowed to focus on him, his rage and his appetite.

He pushed her against the wall as his lips trailed down her neck. He pushed her shirt up, his fingertips brushing lightly over her skin, traveling upward until he reached her breasts. She hissed and arched her back, thrusting more into his hands. He moved the bra up to expose her, his thumb flicking lightly over her nipples. When he tried to move his mouth to them, her clothing got in the way. Impatiently, he swept the shirt and bra over her head, throwing them carelessly on the floor somewhere behind them.

"You drive me crazy,” he muttered, just before his mouth fastened on her right nipple. His right hand started kneading her left breast, his fingers rolling the taut nipple. Heather threw her head back, her body tensing at the unbelievable sensations radiating up from her groin.

Tristan was a man possessed. His other hand moved to her legs, pushing them wide to fit his body between them. His hand swiped over her overly sensitive pussy, causing her to jump in surprise from the friction of the rough material pushing back.

Impatiently he unzipped her jeans, pushing them down her legs before picking up her naked body to hold against his. Heather felt her juices start to run as one hand slid between them, a finger sliding deep within. In and out he finger fucked her, finding the fleshy nub of her pleasure spot and rubbing it over and over as he bit and licked her neck and mouth.

She splintered. Stars popped into her eyes. The world tilted on its axis. She was only vaguely aware of him moving his own clothing aside.

There, against the wall, he pushed his hard cock into her. He gave her no mercy, no finesse, only the most fulfilling moment of her life as he finally took possession of her body.

"Oh!” she cried, the euphoria returning as he filled her.

He pulled back only slightly, making sure she was okay, until she flexed her inner muscles and squeezed him. His eyes rolled back, and he thrust again, into her, going deeper.

Heather met his thrusts with sharp jabs of her pelvis, up and down. Sweat poured from their bodies. Their breathing turned harsh. His thrusts got deeper, harder as he pushed his cock in and out. Heather moaned as his onslaught propelled her up and down in a blur, causing his hands to hold on to her hips to keep her steady.

"Fuck me, Tristan,” she said through her teeth, the sing of her orgasm sweeping through her. “Oh God! Yes, yes!"

She fell first. She mewled as the dam burst and her cream ran. Her inner muscles once again flexed, milking the hard cock rooted deep inside her. Tristan let out his own harsh groan as he climaxed with her, pouring himself deep inside.

"Shit,” he whispered a moment later, his head resting against her naked shoulder. Through his open shirt she felt his heart racing. “I didn't use protection."

The sensible words snapped her out of her sensual haze. She stiffened in his arms and pulled back far enough to force him to look at her.

"Don't worry, I'm on birth control, and I'm clean. I get tested regularly,” she told him in a bland tone.

He frowned. “Regularly? How regularly?"

"Every couple of months. What about you? Something I should know?"

He shook his head. She wasn't quite sure if he was answering her, or if he simply had to clear his postclimactic brain.

"Tristan? Are you clean?"

"Yes."

"Good.” She stepped away from him and proceeded to put her clothes on, ignoring the juice that ran down her thigh. In a matter of moments, she had re-dressed. “So, you wouldn't fuck me outside, but you'd fuck me three doors from his. So much for caring about Grandpa's sensibilities."

And picking up the pieces of her fractured pride, she held her head up as she walked out of the memory closet.

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"He hasn't talked to me in three days."

"Is that the reason you've been reading me that damn book?” Lincoln demanded.

Heather waved the copy of
The Picture of Dorian Gray
in front of his face. “This is literature."

"It's boring. I don't understand a word of it."

"Look past the words, old man,” she said. “It's about a man who doesn't want to grow old. It's my favorite novel."

"Bah. Gimme Zane Grey."

"I'm going to read you this damn book, so shut the hell up!"

Lincoln raised his eyebrows at her. “I thought you wanted to talk about Tristan."

She huffed and crumpled a bit as the wind exited her sails. The book thumped back on her lap. “He hasn't talked to me in three days,” she repeated.