Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (15 page)

Again and again, he plundered her mouth—and Bronte gave as good as she got. At some point, the milk jug and sack fell to the ground. She began stroking his spine, his shoulders, burrowing beneath his shirt with fingers that felt cool against his hot skin. Then, Lord help him, she tunneled beneath the stricture of his belt, cupping his bare buttocks with her palms.

Jace thought that he couldn’t get any more aroused. But his blood was raging, all of it seeming to flow toward his groin. He turned to press Bronte against the sturdy railroad tie that supported the heavy gate. When he ground against her soft hips, she broke free to laugh softly.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered.

He grinned against her. “Good.”

Her eyes were bright and sparkling with humor and passion. Jace was struck dumb. He didn’t think that he’d ever seen anything more beautiful than the radiance of her smile. Then he was kissing her again, more slowly this time, drinking deeply of her sweetness, reveling in the rush of possession and passion that swamped him as their tongues intimately tangled.

He forced himself to slow things down. Beneath his hands, she felt so small and delicate. She was still too thin—like a bird that had worn itself out after being blown off course. But there was a resiliency to her body, and an innate strength to the arms that still held him tight.

When she finally pulled away, she was breathing as hard as he was. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled.

“Maybe you should eat your cookies. They’re going to get trampled.”

“To hell with the cookies,” he said against her lips, then his mouth wandered to the spot beneath her ear and he felt her shiver against him.

“I-I worked very hard on them.”

Realizing that she might still have doubts about her ability to bake on the large scale that would be demanded at Vern’s, he traced the line of her jaw with the tip of his tongue—knowing that no dessert could equal the taste and texture of her skin. Then, reluctantly, he drew back.

“Maybe a bite, then.”

Desire flared in her gaze—and he knew that she’d interpreted him correctly. The cookies weren’t all he wanted to nibble on.

As she reached for the sack, Jace leaned his back against the gate, pulling her with him, until their limbs were intimately entwined. When she broke off a piece of the chocolate chip cookie, he didn’t release her. He merely opened his mouth.

She hesitated before slipping the bite inside. But before she could draw completely away, he caught her wrist and kept her there, sucking on the end of one finger and her thumb.

Her eyes flickered in delight and she moaned.

“You are a dangerous, dangerous man, Jace Taggart,” she whispered.

His tongue roamed over her fingers, absorbing melted chocolate and the natural saltiness of her skin. Heaven itself couldn’t have tasted any better. When she finally lowered her hand, he chewed absently on the cookie, absorbing a mixture of dark sugars, earthy walnuts, silken chocolate.

And Bronte.

How was it possible that a woman could wrap herself around his heart and mind so quickly? They’d known each other only a few weeks, but he couldn’t imagine a day without some kind of contact with her.

When his eyes drifted open, he saw an echo of his own thoughts in her eyes. Passion, wonder, and a shadow of
disbelief. As if something that had flared up this quickly would be as easily doused.

Jace leaned forward, kissing her softly, carefully, wanting to reassure her that what they were experiencing wasn’t fleeting. That it could be more—even as his mind shied away from what
more
might mean. He only knew that he wanted—
needed—
to preserve this fragile beginning. He couldn’t push too hard, too fast, or too far. Hell, Bronte had only come to terms with the dissolution of her marriage. And her kids . . .

Her kids probably hated his guts.
Or they would, if they caught even a hint of what Jace wanted to do with Bronte.

Knowing that he had to throw on the brakes while he still had the ability to do so, Jace finally drew away—slowly, reluctantly. But unable to sever the link entirely, he continued to hold her, his forehead resting against Bronte’s.

“Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

She wiggled her hips against him. “I have a fair idea.”

A sound that was half laugh, half groan pushed through his throat.

“If you keep this up, there’s no way you’ll get to the bus on time.”

She started, shoving the food into his arms. “Oh, heck.”

Jace couldn’t help laughing again. “Such colorful language.”

She glanced at her watch, and he saw the panic of a harried mother. “I wanted to talk to you about something, but I’ve got to go.”

She lifted on tiptoe to kiss him again. But what started as a quick farewell lingered and lingered until they were both breathless. Then, with a groan, Bronte broke free. Wriggling out of his arms, Bronte hurried backward toward her car. “Can I meet you again tomorrow? Maybe a little earlier so we have time to do more than”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—“you know.”

“I’d love to . . . ‘you know.’”

She grinned, nearly taking his breath away yet again. “Text me tonight?” she asked as she opened the van door. “I’d much rather have you call, but Kari has the hearing of
a bat, and if she heard me talking to you, she’d have her ear pressed up against the keyhole.”

That would be the stuff of nightmares considering the things Jace wanted to say to Bronte. If Kari caught wind of Jace’s hunger for her mother, he was sure he’d be struck dead by the withering glances she would throw his way. Only that morning, he’d driven past the bus stop to casually make sure the girls were safe on the lane next to the main road, and Kari must have sensed the true nature of his errand. If he’d been any closer, his hair would have caught on fire.

“I’ll get ahold of you around eleven. Or is that too late? I know you have to get up early.”

She bit her lip in that endearing manner that he was beginning to recognize whenever she faced a dilemma. “Any earlier and Kari won’t be fast asleep. I probably should be in bed by then, too, but . . .” Her expression radiated a warmth that had the ability to burrow into his chest and wrap around his heart. “I need to hear from you. Even if we can’t talk for long.” With a final wave, she climbed into her car and started the engine.

Although Jace knew he’d be cutting it close to finish his fields before the allotted time, he still found himself loath to move until she’d turned the van around and disappeared down the lane in a cloud of dust.

Finally, he scooped up the sack and the milk jug, climbed the fence, and jogged to his own vehicle. After revving the engine and executing a tight turn in the narrow lane, he hurried back to the fields.

Unfortunately, as soon as he rounded the bend, he could see that his “unauthorized break” had already been noticed. Elam’s truck was parked on the lane beside the tractor, along with the smaller pickup used by the hired men. Bodey’s rig was only a few yards behind.

“Damnit.”

Jace rolled to a stop and killed the engine. Then, grabbing the sack and the milk, he strode through the field to where his brothers stood by the tractor and their hired hands waited impatiently in their vehicle.

As soon as he got close enough, Bodey began to grin in a way that left no doubts that he was itching to give Jace a hard time.

Elam, on the other hand, tipped back the brim of his hat and offered Jace an all-knowing gaze that could only be meted out by an older brother.

“It’s about time you got back. We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes,” Elam said drily. He gestured to the sack. “Did you decide to eat rather than work?”

Jace fought the urge to flip his brother off. “Bronte dropped by with a snack.”

“Oh, ho! Bron-
tay!”
Bodey offered in a singsong voice, his smirk growing even wider.

Jace would have punched him if he were close enough.

Elam grinned with wicked enjoyment. Clearly, he wasn’t finished giving Jace shit. “Did she bring us anything?”

Jace clenched his jaw to keep from swearing aloud before offering a short, “No. She didn’t.”

“Too bad. P.D. mentioned that she’s really pleased with Bronte’s work.”

Jace mentally tucked the information away so that he could pass it on to Bronte later. Then he asked pointedly, “Why aren’t all of you hard at work?”

He’d hoped his brothers would take the hint, but they didn’t move. “You told the boys to meet you here when they needed seed.”

“And?”

“It’s in the back of your truck.”

Hell.
Jace had forgotten that the totes were stacked in the bed.

“Why didn’t you take the tractor back to the shed and grab another one?” Jace grumbled.

Bodey’s eyes twinkled. “Because you also took the keys to the 290,” he said, indicating the tractor behind him. “You also forgot to bring me the checks I was supposed to deposit in the bank.”

Shit, shit, shit.

Jace tunneled into his pocket, extracting the stud service
payments they’d received from a couple of local ranchers hoping to improve their own stables.

Bodey snatched them up, wisely staying safely out of swinging distance. But his sly laughter accompanied him all the way back to his truck.

Elam gestured to the boys waiting in the Toyota. Tyson hopped out of the passenger side and climbed into Jace’s ranch truck. Then, with the haste of a pair of teenagers with a severe case of lead foot, the two vehicles barreled down the access road to where the ranch hands had been drilling corn into the acreage below Elam’s cabin.

Elam strode toward Jace, his boots sinking into the rich loamy earth. To his credit, he didn’t razz Jace about what had clearly been more than a meeting of the minds between Bronte and him. Instead, he gestured to the corner of Jace’s mouth and murmured in a silky voice rife with amusement and innuendo, “You’ve got a little bit of chocolate smeared on your face right about here.”

Jace couldn’t help himself. His hand shot to his cheek, encountering a sticky streak.

Elam laughed and kept right on walking. Even so, Jace heard him mutter, “Maybe now we can get some work done.”

*   *   *

AS
Elam climbed into his truck, he automatically reached for his phone. Seeing Jace so . . . happy had Elam automatically thinking of P.D. He remembered those first heady days when he and P.D. had started dating. He doubted if an hour passed without his wondering when they could be together.

But even as he lifted his cell from the dash, he remembered that P.D. was in Salt Lake, picking up supplies for the restaurant. He knew from experience that the huge warehouse had horrible reception.

Pushing the text icon, he quickly typed:
Call when U can. Mis
s U.

As he dropped his phone back into the pocket of his shirt, Elam marveled at how his feelings for P.D. grew stronger every day. He supposed that, because he’d been deployed a
lot during his marriage to Annabel, and the way she’d died so suddenly, he was especially mindful of how precious love could be.

So what are you waiting for?

The thought raced through his brain. More than anything, he wanted to share his life with P.D.—all of it. Hell, they already lived like a married couple for the most part. If it weren’t for the way they traded sleeping arrangements back and forth between their houses, no one would ever know the difference.

If Elam were solely in charge, he would have taken her to Vegas, a church, or a justice of the peace by now. But even though he had no doubts about P.D.’s feelings for him, he’d known that—because of her upbringing with a pair of free-spirited, neglectful parents—P.D. had needed to come to the realization that Elam wasn’t going anywhere.

Now, it was time to nudge her into taking that last, final step.

A warmth flooded through his body at the mere thought. Hell, yeah. Let’s face it, he was an old-fashioned man. Elam wanted his ring on her finger and her name linked to his. He wanted to wake with her head on the pillow next to him for the next fifty years—even longer, God willing. He yearned to introduce her as his wife to his business associates and hoped she would enjoy doing the same. Heaven help him, he ached to stop all this moving back and forth and make a permanent home—either in his cabin or her house, he really didn’t care.

So go ahead and ask her.

In the past, the thought was enough to make him break out in a cold sweat. But right now . . . he felt nothing but peace.

It was time.

He just had to think of a romantic way to pop the question.

B
RONTE
was subdued as she left the elevator and headed down the hall to her grandmother’s hospital room. On the way to Logan, Lily’s teacher had called again. He’d tried to encourage Lily to participate in class and she’d burst into tears.

Bronte had reassured the man that her daughter was struggling with her father’s absence. But the call had merely reaffirmed her decision to get Lily some help.

“Bronte?”

Yanked from her thoughts, she looked up to see Steff Sato striding toward her.

“You’re going the wrong way,” Steff said with a smile. “They removed the ventilator from your grandmother this morning. She’s no longer in ICU. She’s sitting up in bed, alert, and asking about food.”

Relief shuddered through Bronte’s frame. With everything that had been weighing on her, she needed some good news.

Steff gestured in the opposite direction. “She’s in the south wing.”

The petite nurse led her down the hall and through a pair of double doors. Here, the colors were slightly more vibrant. Walls of windows on either side allowed the sunlight to stream in.

Steff led her to a room at the end of the corridor. Since the door was closed, Bronte hesitated before going in and touched Steff’s arm. It had suddenly occurred to her that Jace wasn’t the only friend she’d made who could help her with Lily.

“Could I ask you a question?”

Steff slid her hands into the front pockets of her scrubs. “Sure.”

“My daughter . . . Lily . . . I’ve been growing concerned about her lately. At first I thought that she was reacting to the move and the fact that her father and I have divorced. But now . . . I think she needs a pediatrician or even a counselor.”

The thought was still daunting. Although her job at Vern’s miraculously gave her some health insurance, it wouldn’t take effect until all of the paperwork was filed. Bronte would have to wait until the end of May before receiving her first paycheck and she’d been pinching pennies like a miser. After school fees and filling her tank up with gas had dented her stash, she didn’t have much left.

But she couldn’t worry about that now. Not when Lily might need more help than Bronte could give her.

Steff must have sensed some of her disquiet because she squeezed her hand. “I know two really good pediatricians who work in Bliss—and a few more here in Logan. I’ll make up a list. Any of them could recommend a counselor that will work with your insurance.”

“Thanks, Steff.”

“Come by the nurses’ station in ICU when you’re done and I’ll have the names and numbers ready for you.”

That sliver of hope increased when Bronte pushed through the door and Annie looked up, smiled widely, and held her arms out in a tremulous greeting.

Bronte willingly sank into her grandmother’s familiar embrace. Soon, at Annie’s gentle prodding, the events of the
past week, past month, past year spilled out of her mouth in what she feared would be an incoherent jumble. But once she’d finished, Annie squeezed her hand, saying, “You all must stay here in Bliss with me.”

Bronte offered her grandmother a sheepish glance. “I was hoping you would say that. We’ve been high-handed about getting things ready for your homecoming so the house will be easier for you to maneuver. The girls and I have commandeered your spare bedrooms. Once you’re on your own feet, we’ll find a place—”

“No,” Annie inserted firmly. “You’ll stay here with me. For as long as you like. Make yourself to home.” Her eyes sparkled briefly with tears. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it will be to have you all to myself for a while.”

After that, Annie insisted on hearing more about the girls. Bronte soon had her laughing about Kari’s latest attempts to get Tyson’s attention. When she confessed that Lily had not taken the news of the divorce well, Annie reassured her with, “Give her time. No need to worry yet.”

Less than an hour had passed before Bronte saw that Annie’s energy was flagging. Leaning down to kiss her cheek, she promised to bring the children on the weekend and stay for a longer visit. Even so, by the time Bronte had gathered her things, Annie was asleep.

One last time, Bronte leaned down to squeeze her grandmother’s hand and kiss her on the forehead. Then she was hurrying back to her car.

As she headed over the mountain pass into the valley again, she couldn’t account for the way her pulse adopted an uneven bossa nova. A glance at the clock showed her that, because her visit to the hospital had been briefer than usual, she had several hours before the children’s bus would arrive.

Impulsively, she turned into the parking lot at Vern’s. She’d brought a loose-leaf with her favorite recipes so that P.D. would have a better idea of her current baking repertoire. If she hurried, she might have time to grab another treat to take to Jace.

But as soon as she stepped into the busy kitchen, P.D. waved to her from the far side of the room.

“I was thinking about you,” she called. “Have you got a minute?”

“Sure.”

“Go on through to my office. I’ll be right there.”

Bronte nervously headed through the large swinging doors to the corridor beyond, then walked through to P.D.’s office. Slightly nervous, she perched on the edge of a leather chair, taking in the antiques that filled the room—a battered partner’s desk, wooden filing cabinets, and an old swooning couch. Somehow, P.D.’s deft hand made the pieces look elegant. Bronte wasn’t sure she could have carried off the same effect. In Boston, the brownstone had been decorated with ultramodern furniture with sharp edges and clean lines. Bronte had been so young when she’d married that she’d allowed Phillip to take the lead, and he’d insisted that their home be a showplace—until he’d begun to pawn the pieces one by one to support his habit.

Bronte realized that if she were asked to furnish a house now, she wouldn’t even know what she wanted.

No. That wasn’t true. She’d lived too long in the museum-like atmosphere of the brownstone to do that again. Instead, she would decorate for comfort with soft couches and over-sized pillows—and thickly carpeted floors to encourage bare feet.

“Sorry about that,” P.D. said, hurrying inside and taking her place behind the desk. “It’s been crazy busy today”—she held up her hands—“not that I’m complaining!” Grinning, she reached into her desk drawer and took out an envelope, pushing it across the blotter. “I meant to give you this before you left, but I didn’t catch you in time.”

Curious, Bronte picked it up. “What is it?”

“Your check for the last two weeks. I know I told you that payroll is done the end of the month, but I decided to pay you twice in May. I’m sure you’ve got some expenses with the move and traveling to Logan every day. In June, I’ll put you on the same schedule as everyone else.”

Bronte glanced at the amount of the check and gasped. “But this is too much!”

P.D. shook her head. “Remember, I told you that there would be a bonus if your baked goods were sold in take-out orders or catering jobs. That’s your share. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. We’re running out of the cookies by midafternoon, so I’d like you to double the batches, if you can. Same with the banana blueberry loaf. I’ve also got a couple of catering jobs coming up next month for some school events and a Ladies’ Civic Club tea. I was hoping you’d be able to help me there.”

“Absolutely!”

“Great. I’ll get the particulars written out for you so that you can let me know what supplies to order. If you need help with the catering jobs, we can probably spare someone from the line early in the afternoon. Let me know.”

Since it was clear P.D. was finished, Bronte stood, still slightly dazed. She was at the door before she remembered the recipes.

“Do you still need the binder I brought? I, uh . . .” She paused, clearing her throat and trying to offer as casually as possible. “I’m meeting Jace and I thought I’d bring him some cookies or something.”

P.D. grinned. “Atta girl,” she said.

Bronte’s cheeks flamed. “No, I, uh . . .”

“Relax, Bronte,” P.D. said, still smiling. “I’m not implying anything. I’m simply glad someone is looking out for him.” She gestured toward the kitchen. “I’d bet money the man hasn’t eaten yet—and I doubt you have either. Why don’t you get some to-go boxes. Grab a couple of specials and some of your cookies. That way, you can show off what you’ve been doing here.”

Bronte couldn’t prevent the smile that slid over her features. “Thanks, P.D. I’ll do that.” She lifted the envelope. “Thanks for this, too.”

Twenty minutes later, she had gathered the food and cashed her check at the bank. Then, just as she’d done the past few days, she pulled over long enough to call Jace.

“Hi. Are you anywhere close?”

“Yeah. I’m heading down the canal road. I need to pick up a couple of seed totes at the yard and some checks from my office.”

She was quickly beginning to learn some of the jargon used on the ranch. A “tote” was a huge two-thousand-pound bag of seed. The “yard” was the work area behind the Big House. The “barn” held the stables, paddocks, and smaller feed pens, but the “shed” was the enormous metal building used to house the larger equipment—tractors, swathers, balers—as well as a welding station for making repairs. Near the large rolling door was the “man cave”—an area that had been taken over by the hired men. There were several old couches and reclining chairs, a couple of pop machines they’d bought at a flea market and stocked with soda from the grocery store, and a pair of battle-scarred tables. Jace had told her that, during the summer months when watering turns required around-the-clock attention, the hired men used the shed as a place to catch a few hours of sleep or a quick bite to eat. She’d even learned that Tyson’s hat with its
FRIENDS DON’T LET FRIENDS D
RIVE GREEN
slogan was a tongue-in-cheek reference to the friendly rivalry that existed between those who used Case machinery, which was predominantly red, and those who used John Deere equipment, which was green.

“Are you in a hurry?” she asked, her heart stuttering in anticipation.

“No,” he drawled. “Not really. What have you got in mind?”

His voice seemed to drop an octave, bringing all sorts of ideas to the forefront. She vainly tried to push them away.

“If I bring you some lunch from Vern’s, could you spare me some time?” Against her will, the query was tinged with the same intimacy that had invaded his. Probably because she was wondering how long she should wait before launching herself into his arms.

“I’d be happy to give you whatever time you need, with or without the lunch.”

A delicious shiver chased up her spine, and she had to clear her throat in order to speak coherently.

“Where should I meet you?”

“Have a seat on the back porch of the Big House. I’m almost there.”

Bronte had just set the sack with the containers of food on a round picnic table under the Big House portico when she heard Jace’s truck pull into the yard. He drove past her in a cloud of dust, parked, then jumped from the cab.

A frisson of excitement shot into her extremities when she realized he wasn’t even going to bother with his errand. Instead, he strode toward her, his long legs eating up the distance, his hat pulled low. He tugged at a pair of leather work gloves, stuffing the tips into his back pocket, then smiled.

“Hello, beautiful,” he murmured.

By this time, Bronte had already come down the steps to meet him. Without any more fanfare, he wrapped his arms around her waist. Since she stood on the last tread, their faces were about even, and he took advantage of that fact, swooping in for a kiss.

Bronte’s body responded to him immediately—a fact that still had the power to astound her. He only had to touch her and she flashed hot and cold, every inch of her skin tingling to life.

Slipping her arms around his neck, she opened her mouth, allowing his tongue to sweep inside, closing her eyes so that she could hungrily absorb the heat of his body, the firmly muscled shoulders and strong back.

And his mouth . . . heavens, what he could do to her with little nips and sucks. He broke away from her lips to explore her temples, her cheekbones, her jaw. He softly nipped her earlobe, causing her to gasp, then moved lower to trail a string of kisses along her neck.

“Mmm. You smell good,” he whispered. “Like chocolate. What were you baking today?”

“Cherry chocolate jumbles and mint brownies,” she gasped, barely able to say the words. “I brought you some.”

His lips moved against her in a smile. “I’d rather taste you right now.”

Lordy, lordy, what this man did to her.
With a few whispered words, he managed to make her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

“I brought sand . . . sandwiches,” she gasped as he explored lower, moving to the hollow between her collarbones, then down, down.

“Uh, huh.”

“And . . . and . . .”

But his tongue was slipping into the valley between her breasts, and she didn’t give a damn what was in the sack—or if they even ate. This was what she had come for, and she wasn’t fooling either one of them. She’d been counting the hours, the minutes, until she could be this close to him again.