Firelight at Mustang Ridge (14 page)

“No wonder you fit right in here.” Shelby fake-toasted her again. “You look amazing. And I'm not just saying that because I picked out the shirt. In fact, I predict that Sam is going to swallow his tongue when he gets a load of you.”

Danny didn't know about that, but when they made their appearance at the picnic area a few minutes later, to scattered applause and a few good-natured wolf whistles, she felt like she had regained the swagger she hadn't even realized she'd been missing.

Sam stood as she approached, his eyes locking on her with a hunger that rippled through her body. She was aware of Wyatt, Nick, and Foster nearby, along with others from the Mustang Ridge crew. But her
attention was wholly focused on Sam as he caught her hands and held her away for a long up-and-down and a rumble of masculine approval. “You look incredible.”

“Thanks. And for the record, that was going to be my line.” He had lost the tool belt and changed his shirt, and had a dead-sexy stubble shadow on his jaw.

He grazed his lips across hers. “I said it first.”

“Come on, you two,” Shelby urged, being tugged along by her tween-age daughter, Lizzie, who was wearing a sparkly purple cowgirl hat and smudges of work-dirt. “We've got to get in line before the good stuff's all gone and we're stuck with lima bean casserole and fruity Jell-O.”

“Sam has dibs on the Jell-O,” called Midas, earning a guffaw from Axyl.

Danny had met the other members of Babcock Gems earlier. Now, easing out of Sam's embrace but keeping hold of his hand, she raised an eyebrow in their direction. “Do I want to know the story there?”

“It's nothing bad.” Sam folded his fingers through hers. “But I'm with Shelby. I'm jonesing for Gran's pulled pork, and it'll go fast.”

Their bodies bumped as they went through the line, where he hit the meat and potatoes and she snagged a chicken breast and a rainbow of local veggies.

“Watch out, boy.” Axyl nodded to her plate. “Next thing you know, she'll have you eating rabbit food.”

Liking the bearded prospector already—and aware that he was the closest thing Sam had left to family—she said, “No way. We have a deal—if he doesn't try to fix me, then I won't try to fix him.”

“Smart girl.” He winked at Sam. “Like I said, you'd better watch out.”

It wasn't exactly a meet-the-parents moment, but it was pretty close. Grinning, she plopped a walnut-studded brownie on her plate, then defiantly added a second. “See? I'm not a health nut. I'm just saving up my calories for the good stuff.”

“Smart girl, indeed.”

Laughing, Sam whisked her back to their table, where they were soon sandwiched in by the others, with lots of shifting around and queries of “Is this my beer or yours?” And to Danny's surprise, she didn't even mind the close quarters. The jostling didn't feel scary or suffocating. It felt . . . normal. Fun, even. And not just because she was so totally aware of the feel of Sam's body very close to hers.

The conversation was lively, bouncing from the food, to the day's work, to the plans for next week's guests at Mustang Ridge. And from there to Wyatt and Krista's wedding.

“Centerpieces,” Krista said, darting a quick look to make sure that Rose wasn't within earshot. “Seriously, who cares what's in the middle of the table?”

“So tell her you're not doing them,” Jenny said.

“I tried. It didn't work.”

“Admit it—you're a wimp when it comes to Mom.”

“I'm not!” Krista nudged Wyatt. “Tell her.”

He lifted his dessert. “Good brownies, don't you think, Sam?”

“An excellent vintage.” He studied what was left of his own. “Rich and chocolaty, with just the right bite to them. And do I detect a hint of spice in the top note?”

Krista narrowed her eyes dangerously. “Laugh it up, you two. But I've got three words for you:
sparkly pink cummerbund
.”

Sam winced. “You told her? Dude, that was classified.”

“The baby got it out of me.” Wyatt lifted Abby from her carrier and draped her over his shoulder for a little pat.

Enjoying them—all of them—Danny nudged Sam. “I think you'd look cute in sparkly pink. I've got matching fairy wings you can borrow.”

“Hey, you're supposed to be on my side!”

“Sorry.” She smiled sweetly. “Girl power.”

“Howdy, folks!” a cheery amplified voice hailed from the indoor arena. A lively fiddle tune struck up as the man said over the loudspeaker, “My name is Fiddler, and I'm going to be your caller tonight. This is your ten-minute warning, so finish up your food and get your fine selves on in here.” His voice dropped an octave. “For those of you ladies who are virgins to the square, you've got nothing to fear. I'll talk you through your first time. And don't worry. I'll be gentle.”

“Well.” Danny fanned herself with her napkin. “Sexy square dancing. I had no idea.”

A corner of Sam's mouth kicked up. “Fiddler's got a way about him.”

And so do you
. Her whole body was aware of him. Not because she was leaning on him, but because she wanted him with a deep, insistent throb that was getting stronger by the minute.

“You want to get in there, let him talk us through some patterns?”

“Lead the way!”

The next two hours were pure, unadulterated fun. Fiddler proved to be short and bowlegged, with merry eyes almost lost beneath layers of wrinkles, and feet that never seemed to stop moving as he sawed away on his fiddle and called the square dances. He coached the dancers through pattern after pattern—bowing to their corners and their partners, doing do-si-dos, swings, and promenades—starting slow and picking things up so gradually that Danny didn't really notice until suddenly she realized her hair had fallen out of its ponytail to whip around, flung by the force of Sam's spinning her at arm's length, then snapping her in close to his side to parade around the square.

He grinned down at her. “You've got this.”

“I really do!”

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” Fiddler shouted into the microphone. “Enough with the warm-up. Are you guys ready to
square dance
?”

There was a cheer from the crowd, and two new musicians appeared suddenly and stepped onto the stage—a bass guitarist and a jug blower. They joined in, adding a deeper note to the music.

“Annnd first you whistle, then you sing
 . . .
”
Fiddler called, his voice taking on a new twang that went straight through Danny and made her bounce to the beat.
“All join hands and make a ring
.
”
She followed directions, hanging on to Sam's hand and grinning up at him.
“Into the center with a whinny and a neigh
 . . .
”
Into the center they went, then out again on his call of,
“Feed 'em oats and a bale of hay
.
”
Then, grinning like a madman, Fiddler hollered, “And a one, two, one, two, three, FOUR!”

The musicians kicked it into high gear, zooming from an easy jog to a flat-out gallop in no time at all, and Fiddler started calling hard and fast, blurring his words together like an auctioneer. And Danny and Sam swung their partners, do-si-doed, centered, and cornered like crazy people, while the world spun and the dance floor got crowded.

Eventually, winded, laughing, and practically holding each other up, they stumbled back outside to grab drinks, split another brownie, and sneak several kisses in the moonlight. The music drew them back in, though, and they soon plunged into the heated, whirling crowd again. They found a square and fell into the call, trading partners around and around in a daisy chain. But no matter how far they went or how many partners they traded, they always came back to each other as if magnetized.

That was how it felt. Like Danny was elementally drawn to him—the press of his body against hers, the taste of his kiss. She couldn't get enough, didn't want it to end.

Finally, though, when she was dizzy and couldn't really feel her feet hit the ground anymore, the music softened and Fiddler leaned into the mic to rumble, “And now we're going to shift gears, folks. Gentlemen's choice, so grab your favorite lady and let's slow it down.”

Sam hooked an arm around her waist and drew her close, and even though she hadn't doubted she would be his pick, the smooth move sent a drugging warmth through her body, making her sigh as she melted against him.

“I'm guessing I don't need to ask if you're having a good time.” Sam said, his voice a sexy rumble against her temple as they swayed together.

“I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a party this much.” Maybe never. “But . . . I'm about ready to call it a night.” She turned her lips against his throat, tasted him. “How about you?”

He stiffened, his hands drifting an inch or so down from her waist. “Can I drive you home?”

“You can,” she said. Breath thinning in her lungs, she added, “Or you could take me to Windfall.”

He drew away just far enough to search her face with eyes gone suddenly hot and urgent. “Tell me you're sure.”

Her lips curved. “I'm sure. This is what I want.
You
are what I want. Not because I'm expecting you to make things better for me, but because things already
are
better. And I want to celebrate that. With you.” The decision was made, and it was delicious. “What do you say?”

He swept her into his arms, into a kiss, and said against her lips, “I say let's round up your dog and get the heck out of here.”

I
t wasn't until he led Danny past Wolf Rock, with Whiz zigzagging around with his nose down and his tail whipping, that it hit Sam just how few women he'd brought home. Two, maybe three, and he'd known them pretty well by the time he invited them to Windfall. It wasn't a rule, hadn't even really been intentional. B and Bs were simply easier, more romantic. He wanted Danny here, though, wanted her in his bed.

He paused with his hand on the kitchen door. “I warned you that it's really a bachelor pad hiding inside a much bigger house, right?”

Her lips curved. “Does your bedroom have a window?”

“Lots of 'em. Even sliders to a deck.”

“Then we're good.”

It really was that simple with her, he realized. She didn't care about the big house or the money. She'd rather help rebuild a stranger's barn than go out to a fancy dinner, liked treasure hunting more than she did the actual gems. And how cool was that?

Moved, he turned and kissed her, feasting on her mouth as they stood there together at his kitchen door,
like a couple of teens who weren't ready to say good night. The embers that had sparked again and again on the dance floor fanned suddenly to flames, along with the triumph of knowing he didn't have to hold himself back now, didn't have to stop. They were alone.

Blood pounding in his veins, he cupped her breasts, shaping their soft, feminine weight and swallowing her moan. “Inside,” he said. “Bedroom.” That was as far as he could think.

She twined her fingers through his. “Lead the way.”

*   *   *

Sam's kitchen said
non-slob bachelor
with its stack of local menus, two mismatched towels and a lack of decorations to offset the austere angles of granite and steel. The sitting room had been turned into a home gym, with a flat screen over the carved fireplace mantel and exercise equipment instead of furniture. Stairs curved around an atrium with expensive-looking woodwork and bare walls. A long hallway opened to many doors—a bathroom, several closed panels, a game room that looked like something out of a sci-fi movie. And then the bedroom.

Finally, the bedroom. Where it felt like they had been headed all night. Or longer, because even when she had thought they were done with each other, she had still wanted him, still wondered what it would be like—the sizzle of his kiss when he turned to her in the doorway and pressed her against the frame like he couldn't wait any longer; the glide of her palms beneath his shirt; the way his voice rasped when he broke the kiss to say, “My beautiful, brave Danny.”

Then he swept her in his arms, and carried her to the
bed, and need coiled inside her. She wanted to know, wanted to feel. Wanted
him
.

She was peripherally aware of a plush rug, a framed mountain landscape, a few photographs on the bureau, and the big glass doors looking out on the night sky. But rather than focusing on their surroundings, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as he lowered her to the bed. Then, as he came down beside her, she drew him in closer, above her. There was no fear, no suffocation. There was only Sam's good, solid weight and the sparks of color that reflected from his eyes, gone silver with desire as they kissed and kissed again.

She popped the snap studs on his shirt and curled around to kiss his throat, his collarbone, and lower. A groan rattled in his chest as he tugged on her shirt, slipping it up and over her head, then tossed it aside. He cupped her breasts, captured her lips in a deep, dark kiss, and moved against her with inciting friction. He skimmed his lips over her belly, the point of her hip, and slid the clingy black pants down and off, along with her boots, then dealt with his own.

Desire flared, restless and urgent, as she watched him strip, uncovering the rugged, no-nonsense musculature of a guy who worked with his hands and his back, and spent more time with a pick and shovel than with the weight bench in the front room. His broad shoulders angled to narrow hips, and the lean muscles of his thighs made her want to cruise her lips along the path of those indentations, then up to the hard flesh they framed.

He caught her look, and his eyes darkened with lust.
A quick trip to the bedside table—then a low curse and a longer trip across the hall to the bathroom—yielded a box of condoms. It warmed her that he hadn't known quite where they were, and the flames fanned higher when the mattress dipped beneath his weight and he kissed his way back up her body.

She welcomed him, curled her arms around him, and kissed him as he settled between her legs, the blunt head of him nudging her slick opening. She stretched against him, inviting him in. He joined them together with a powerful surge that stole her breath with pleasure. She gasped and clutched at him, arching her body to take more of the delicious fullness.

“Danny,” he rasped, his breath hot on her cheek. “My brave, brave Danny.”

Then he paused, waiting until she opened her eyes.

Their gazes locked, his lips curved, and he began to move—slowly at first, but quickly picking up speed as she moved against him, meeting his thrusts and urging him on. Her fingers dug into the bunch and flow of the muscles on either side of his spine and she bowed against him, glorying in the slide of his flesh within her.

The end, when it came for her, was hard and sudden, almost brutal in its intensity, yet at the same time gentle and joyous. She coiled and whispered his name as her inner muscles contracted around his hard length, and a moment later he shuddered and followed her over.

She stretched out around him, feeling like she was free-falling without a chute, cartwheeling through the air without wings, flying free.

Then, slowly, coming back down to earth.

The room took shape around her—the big bed, with its no-nonsense blue sheets and striped down comforter; the painting, which reminded her of Blessing Valley; the big doors looking out on the night; the dog curled up on a fallen blanket, carefully not looking at them.

And the wonderful press of Sam's body on hers.

He propped up on his elbows to ease some of his weight, his beard stubble grazing her temple as his breathing slowly came back to normal. “Sweet Danny,” he said, voice low and husky. His lips touched where his jaw had rested, then her cheek, her nose. Her lips.

She savored the kiss, and the pleasure pang that shuddered through her body when he disengaged from her, then rolled onto his back and gathered her against him. Splaying a hand over his heart, she pillowed her cheek on his chest and let herself drift while he stroked her back, his hand cruising from her shoulder to her buttocks and up again.

After a long, delicious while, he stirred. “Can I get you anything? Snack? Drink? Whole-body massage?”

That last one sounded good, but his voice was sleep-slurred.

“I'm good,” she said with a sleepy smile. “Wouldn't change a thing.” And it was wonderfully true. In the heavy lassitude of the aftermath, her brain was quiet and the chatter stilled. “It's been a heck of a day, hasn't it? When I woke up this morning, I never in a million years would've guessed I'd be spending the night in your bed.”

He tightened his arm around her. “The first of many, if I have anything to say about it. Because I wouldn't
change a thing, either.” He kissed the top of her head and fell silent, his chest rising and falling beneath her, hypnotic in its rhythm. Rising and falling. Rising and falling. Rising and . . .

Danny slept. And the dreams stayed far away.

*   *   *

The next morning Danny awakened, momentarily disoriented by the bright light and cloud-soft mattress. But a gentle snore coming from beside her and the heavy weight of a man's arm across her hip quickly oriented her.

She was in Sam's house, Sam's bed. And she had zero regrets.

Exactly the opposite, in fact. Her skin carried their mingled scents, and her body tugged with lovely aches from taking him inside her twice more during the night, making them well and truly lovers. She should have been exhausted, worn out, but instead she was suddenly wide-awake and ready to face a new day. A new reality, even, because becoming Sam's lover might not have changed her, but it definitely changed things.

Stretching, she eased out from under his arm and to the side of the bed, not wanting to wake him. It didn't seem like she needed to worry, though—he stayed deeply asleep, moving only to breathe and looking ever so slightly stern, even while conked out. She smiled at him, feeling tender, grateful, and darn pleased with herself as she found the thick rug with her feet and stood.

In the light of day, the room turned out to be a big square space with white walls and elegantly carved
wood trim. With a bureau and a clothing-loaded bookcase taking the place of a closet, and the bathroom across the hall, it likely hadn't been intended as a bedroom. They were probably upstairs. But the space suited Sam—there was a heck of a mountain view through the glass doors, and the rest was bare-bones and practical. The only exception to that was one level of the shelving unit, which held a jumble of stones and fossils, and three pictures.

Pulling on her clothes, Danny studied the collection. There was a snapshot of a pretty blonde wearing dated clothes and kneeling in a freshly turned garden with her arms around a tousle-haired toddler, the both of them mugging for the camera. The other two pictures showed an older version of that same kid with a dark-haired man who had his smile. In one, they held up arrowheads and wore nearly identical expressions of
Look what I found!
In the other, they stood on the pinnacle of Wolf Rock, running an American flag up the pole. The sight tugged at Danny, reminded her of seeing him standing up there alone, waiting for her.

Her vision blurring, she turned her attention to the other items on the curio shelf. The stones were an odd mix of beautifully prepared crystal clusters, perfectly preserved fossils, and a jumble of knapped arrowheads, rough gemstones, and plain rocks of unclear significance. She smiled as she drew her fingers along one of the arrowheads, imagining him as a boy, discovering the cache. And smiling wider when she saw the small piece of flawed pink quartz he had found at Blessing Valley.

A soft “whuff” drew her attention to the corner, where Whiz had spent the night. He cocked his head, as if to say,
Well?

“Okay, come on. I'll let you out.” She hadn't needed to think about that too much in camp, but Krista had been right about his training. She let the dog out, gave him a few minutes, and then called him in, still leery of leaving him alone for too long. Then, hoping for a spare toothbrush, she headed back up the hallway and pushed through the door to the bathroom.

Only it wasn't the bathroom.

Danny froze as motion-activated lights flipped on, illuminating a huge, echoing garage that was big enough to hold a couple of school buses but housed only a single motorcycle. “Whoops. Wrong door.” She started to pull the panel shut, but then paused, her blood chilling as she realized what she was looking at.

Not just a motorcycle. A wrecked Harley.

Black and mean-looking, it might have just rolled off the showroom floor if it hadn't been for the mangled front wheel and fork, the deep furrows and staved-in pannier, and the replacement parts that had been stacked nearby, as if the repairs were a work in progress. Except that it all wore a thick layer of dust, and the calendar hanging on the wall nearby was seven years out-of-date.

“Oh,” she said, connecting the dots. Flushing at the knowledge that this was private and she was accidentally snooping, she backed up—

Right into a warm, solid body.

“Oh!”
She jumped and spun. “I'm sorry. I . . .”

Sam stood behind her. And he didn't look happy.

*   *   *

Damn it,
Sam thought hollowly.
Just damn it.
But seeing her dismay, he said, “It's okay. Not your fault.” And it wasn't her fault, of course. But it also wasn't okay.

Not when seeing the V-Rod's black-and-chrome gleam reminded him of going into the bike store that day with money to burn, talking his dad into the bigger, faster bike . . . and, a few days later, the officer's voice on the phone, saying, “I'm sorry, son . . .”

He swallowed hard.
Should have locked the damn door
. Waking up, slow and satisfied, he had thought only of finding breakfast and talking Danny back into bed, and not necessarily in that order. Now his appetite was gone and the bedroom seemed miles away compared to the crumpled mess of metal in the garage and the hash he had made of fixing it up.

Well, not a hash, exactly. The work he had done was good and the parts were all there. He just hadn't seen the point in finishing. He wasn't going to sell it, and he sure as hell wasn't going to ride it. And after the first couple of weeks, he'd stopped seeing his father's silhouette in the doorway and hearing the echoes of his voice . . . until one day he had just put down the socket wrench he'd been using, wiped his hands on a rag, and walked out.

“Truly.” She crossed to him and gripped his arm. “I'm sorry. Let's just close the door and forget about it.”

And she would, too, or at least put it out of her mind, because she understood privacy and wasn't looking to fix him. “Yeah, that'd probably be best.” He reached past her and pulled the panel shut, knowing it would take longer to erase the afterburn on his retinas. “Thank you.”

“Hey.” She went up on her toes and brushed her lips across his. “Being lovers doesn't mean we stop being ourselves.”

“That's . . .”

“Too cheesy?” She grinned up at him, trying to get him to play along, lighten the mood, as if she knew that sometimes when the big stuff was bothering you, the best thing to do was pretend everything was okay. Until, eventually, you weren't pretending anymore.

Then again, she did know that. Heck, she was living it. And, looking down at her and seeing everything that was in her eyes—the shadows, the softness, and a sadness that was more fellowship than pity—something shifted in his chest, telling him that this moment was important. She was important. And he'd better not screw this up.