Where the Heart Leads (19 page)

But what was going on with Moira? She didn't have much to say when he got back to the house, just thanked him for inviting her, told Enid she'd enjoyed the dinner and meeting her family, then drove home. Maybe she was tired, maybe it was the turkey, or maybe it was the wine his mother had fed her. She and Mom had looked pretty chummy when he came in from the barn yesterday afternoon.

He drove home, hung the wreath on the front door, and walked inside as he and walked inside. An oven buzzer sounded, indicating that Mom, who'd stayed overnight again to prepare lunch for the roundup crew, was up and about.

They'd have about ten on the scene, as far as he knew—Rocky and Travis, Omar, Jimbo Crane, two Schuler uncles from Marlin, and a couple of ranchers to the west.

He snorted. Mervin and his oldest girl were coming too. Probably trying to mend fences after that damn jailhouse interrogation. Besides, Mervin would need his help when his ranch had a roundup.

That's the way it worked—his neighbors and kinfolk helped him with his roundups, and he helped them with theirs. And with that many people involved, they should be through about six o'clock.

He hung up his jacket and headed toward the kitchen.

He'd be tired afterward, he knew, but it would feel good, and he'd already made plans for the perfect way to spend the rest of the evening. He and Moira were going to Good Times to dine on pork ribs, drink Bud Light, and dance to songs about women who did cowboys wrong. Then they'd come back to the house, and she'd spend the weekend.

Tomorrow, they'd decorate the tree together, and who knew what else might happen?

He rubbed his ring finger. It felt strange—so bare. But if everything worked out, not for long.

Moira pursed her lips and glared at the rock band playing on the Good Times stage. Omar's ribs were tender, and the beer was—well—beer, but the would-be rockers didn't cut the mustard. The lead singer's vocals were on par, although his guitar licks must be attracting every stray cat within earshot, while the bass was just enough off beat to be annoying, and the drummer looked like he was asleep at the wheel.

To top it off, the feedback from the sound system was classic fingernails on a chalkboard.

She looked at Rafe across the table. He didn't even seem to be aware of the band. As far as she could tell, he'd been brooding all evening, and from the cryptic hints he'd given her, it was about something Mervin Hruska had told him at the roundup.

What now? Was his cousin going to haul him in for another interrogation?

The band started on “Yellow Submarine.” Moira winced and took another sip of beer. “Does Omar hire rock bands very often?”

Rafe shook his head. “Only if they're related.”

“They're Schulers?”

“No way, darlin'. His wife's side of the family.”

She laughed and picked up a rib. “How's Travis doing?”

“He came to roundup, but left early. I wish we'd get the result of those damn lab tests.”

He paused and looked into his mug as if making a decision, then raised his eyes.

“Gotta tell you somethin'. Mervin had his eyes open when he drove in today, and he wants to send someone out to look at the old tree house. He thinks the shooter could have been standing up there.”

“You've got a tree house? Where?”

“In one of the big live oaks in front of the house. It's hard to see. I checked this morning and the boards my father nailed on the tree for Travis and me to use as a ladder are rotted off now, but they could have still been usable three years ago.”

He took a long swallow of beer and glanced toward the stage. “That caterwauling is driving me crazy. Let's go back to the house. We'll have a better day tomorrow. I'll chop down a cedar in the morning, and we can decorate it, then spend the evening in front of the fire.”

Moira watched with fascination as Rafe rubbed the inner layer of the cedar bark between his hands to shred it for tinder. She'd never seen anyone start a fire from scratch before.

They'd been together all day, and, just as he'd promised, he'd chopped down a nicely shaped tree for them to take back to the house. Then, after he'd finished up his ranch business this afternoon, he'd pulled out boxes of ornaments and strings of lights for them to hang on it—fragile glass balls, yards of white blinking lights, and an angel tree-topper.

And now, after a nourishing dinner of popcorn—something not even Rafe could screw up—she was lying on Enid's Navajo rug in front of the fireplace and waiting for the show to begin.

This was the thrilling moment, the birth of the universe—Rafe struck a piece of flint with a short length of steel.

The tinder flared for a second, then died, but he lit it again and blew gently on the flickers until they caught for sure, then added twigs from a canister on the hearth. As the fire grew, he fed its appetite with sticks. Finally, he added a couple of small logs on top of the grate to keep it happy.

Moira rolled over onto her stomach and watched as the flames snapped and flickered against the dark recess of the fireplace and orange and yellow arms fought each other, twisting and turning like whirling dervishes.

This is the very same fire the Neanderthals warmed their caves with, she mused, but it was a different fire—every fire was the same but different—and every fire was beautiful.

Rafe lifted two more logs from the elegant rack beside the fireplace and added them to the fire, but this time the greedy flames seemed to reach out for him. He stepped back quickly and put up the screen, then turned to Moira.

“This should take care of us for the evenin'.”

She rubbed her eyes, wondering if staring at a fire was as dangerous as staring at the sun. After all, they both burned. Maybe she should focus on Rafe, her own private Prometheus.

Who was pretty damn hot in his own right.

She sat up and looked at him. “I didn't know anyone could start a fire from flint and steel—I mean for real. I thought it was either rubbing two sticks together or turning on the gas.”

She risked a quick glance at the fireplace. The fire was bigger now, fuller, and the embers under the grate glowed red as the flames above them reached up the chimney.

“Good grief, it sounds like a vacuum cleaner. I didn't realize fires made so much noise.”

Rafe laughed and flipped off the overhead so that the only light in the room was from the fireplace and the Christmas tree situated beside it. “That's what you get for living in Pasadena.”

Her own flame lit as he lay down beside her on the thick rug and looped an arm around her shoulder. Sex was in the air, and every nerve cell she possessed was reporting for active duty. There was something about being alone with Rafe in front of the blazing fire that brought out her inner cavewoman, and this woman was hungry, but not for popcorn.

His lips brushed her cheeks, and she turned over on her side to give him access to whatever he wanted, and he took possession of her mouth—a long, comfortable kiss that said he wasn't going to rush her.

Her mouth had gone dry and she was tingling all over. He backed off and ran his fingers through her hair. “You have beautiful hair, sort of a nimbus of light that, never quite settles. It's like a halo.”

“Thank you.” Her voice sounded wobbly, but it was the best she could do right now.

The fire popped and crackled behind them.

“The heat is firing off the water pockets in the big logs,” Rafe explained as his hand caressed her cheek.

God, a simple touch, and she went hot all over, all the way down to her toes.

He leaned over to nuzzle her face, settling on her mouth again, then drew back again. His hand moved up and down her arm, slowly, very slowly.

Oh God, she was about to explode, and they hadn't even gotten naked yet.

He smiled. “I like your mouth too. In fact, I like everything about you.” He kissed her again, not giving her a chance to reply. She didn't know if she could have. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders to urge him on, but he shrugged it off. “Tonight is for you, Moira. Let me make you happy.” His voice was a deep purr.

Moving in closer, he balanced on an arm while his hand moved under the sleeve of her shirt and continued stroking, coming nearer and nearer to her breast, then retreated and moved down the side of her thighs, up and down, slowly. Torturously slow.

She tossed her head and moaned, then began sliding her legs against each other, begging.

“Not yet,” he whispered.

He kissed her lips, but when she tried to give him entrance to her mouth, he moved around to the side of her face and left a trail of quick, tiny kisses across her cheek. At the same time, the tips of his fingers moved gently up and down the side of her neck.

Wave after wave of sensation shot through her. Oh God, she was going to die before this night was over!

Finally, watching her face the whole time, he released the top button of her shirt, then he smiled, an angelic smile in an angelic face. But his eyes sparkled like a demon's.

Damn, he was teasing her, and she didn't like it. But she knew that her ultimate reward would be worth it.

He slipped the second button, then the third, revealing her bra, then frowned and moved his legs to adjust himself. So—she wasn't the only one who was hungry.

His pace quickened now. There was a bit of desperation in the way he kissed her neck and the swell of her breasts, then unfastened her shirt all the way down.

She drew in a ragged breath and bent her head back as the heat suffused her like a warm blanket. He opened her shirt to unhook her bra, and deep growl erupted from his throat as he lifted off her bra and covered her breasts with his hands.

He rolled her nipples between his fingers, like he had in the museum lobby, and she closed her eyes to intensify the ecstasy. Then he then sucked at them, one after the other. The fire snapped and crackled as she moaned and arched in response.

He and he claimed her lips again and teased her mouth, then moved a hand down under the front of her jeans and palmed her mound.

She nearly came off the floor.

He unzipped her jeans and drew them off her legs, an inch at a time. Her arms felt heavy and weightless at the same time, and her brain clouded over as if she'd been drugged.

The fireplace flared suddenly, but she didn't care. She didn't care if the house burned down. All she wanted was Rafe, and she wanted him now.

She reached down to pull off her panties, but he grasped her wrist. “I'll do it, darlin'.”

Hooking a thumb under the elastic, he lowered the flimsy nylon to the tops of her legs, then bent down, spread her petals, and sipped her nectar.

She couldn't breathe, she couldn't think. It was like he was worshipping her, giving her every pleasure he could, before he sought his own. All she could do was brace her hands on the floor as the rapture began to engulf her.

Then he stood up. “My turn.”

Looking into her eyes, he stripped off his sweater and shirt, then his jeans—in slow motion again, like he was performing for her, the firelight highlighting his every move.

Then he knelt beside her on the floor and, still maintaining eye contact, moved her hand on the elastic band of his briefs. “Your turn.”

But the second she touched him, he groaned, pushed her hand away, shoved down his briefs with one quick move, and straddled her.

His hand went straight down to her navel, then below. He slipped a finger inside her and she whimpered and moved against him. She must be wet as Niagara by now.

Parting her legs, he probed for entry and pushed past her barrier of flesh to sink into the female heart of her, then kissed her mouth and began a slow, controlled rhythm.

She closed her eyes and floated into another universe, where there was no tomorrow, as her body clutched at him and spasms of desire lifted her against him.

But she wanted more. She wanted all of him. Her hips met his every stroke, urging him to completion.
Fill me. Let me hold you within me while I can.

The lights on the tree flickered in the background and Rafe's body gleamed slick with sweat.

Moira bucked up against him. Her climax was coming fast and her breath was short. He'd built her up to a combustion point, and she'd erupt into flames any second.

A second later, her toes curled and she heard herself give out a long keening sound. She was a supernova exploding in the depths of space for what seemed to be forever. A supernova that floated back to earth to rest in Rafe's arms as the tender aftershocks shook her.

He kissed the tip of her nose.

“I like goin' to bed with you, darlin', and I like wakin' up with you.” He kissed her nose again. “I love you, Moira.”

All her alarm bells went off.

Love.

Exactly what she didn't want to hear.

She sat up and started scooting away from him.

“You can't love me. I won't let you!”

She grabbed for her shirt and tried to put it back on, but one of the arms wasn't working right. Oh God, this was the worst possible thing that could happen. She turned the sleeve right side out and fastened the top button, then reached for her panties.

“You said sex only, no commitments!”

The fire crackled its anger and Rafe's deep voice roared around the room.

“You mean, I'm good enough for Colin Sanger's wife to fuck, but not good enough for her to marry?”

M
oira's mouth widened to a travesty of a smile that trembled like a mirage and then dissolved. She was scared, frightened, on the brink of tears, but when he tried to touch her, she crossed her arms across herself protectively and retreated even more.

He pulled on his jeans. Maybe she would deal with him better if he wasn't letting it all hang out.

Her voice was choking and weak. “It's—it's not like that at all.” She started shivering and he offered her his sweater. She snatched it from his hand and tied in around her shoulders.

“Tell me.” This better be a good story.

“You've—you've got it all wrong. You're ten times—a hundred times—better than Colin Sanger—a hundred times better than me.” She looked around at the Christmas tree innocently twinkling in the corner, the fire burning brightly, the tall, handsome man—the
good
man—in front of her.

God, she'd hoped she'd never have to tell him this.

“I'm—I'm damaged goods, Rafe. I let Colin do horrible things to me, and he turned me into something awful.”

“Tell me.”

She drove her fingernails into her palms and closed her eyes tight. Rafe deserved an explanation, but there was no way she wanted to see his reaction.

Taking a deep breath, she focused her eyes on the crackling fire and began, “You know that Colin always played a good guy. The dashing hero, the debonair charmer, James Bond with an overlay of Indiana Jones. And he—he cooperated with the paparazzi and had a great reputation on the set. So when he started paying attention to a nobody like me, it was a fairy tale come true. The king of stage, screen, and television wanted to date
me
.”

Rafe took a seat in one of the armchairs, but she stayed on the floor.

“But nobody knew the real Colin Sanger.” She laughed, a brittle sound even to her own ears. “Colin was sick—not with a disease that made you feel sorry for him, but with a malignancy he imposed on others. He didn't love me. I wasn't courted—I was targeted. He needed someone who was naïve enough to believe in his image and easily controllable, and I fit the bill—a minor actress with a family to support. He needed…someone he could train to…obedience.”

It took Rafe a second to catch on. “You mean…?”

She nodded. “In a black leather room in the basement of his mansion—shackles, St. Andrew's cross, the whole bit. I was his sex toy, and at first, it thrilled me that someone was interested in me as a woman rather than as a fast study.”

She shivered. The fire was still burning hot, but she was cold as ice.

“He let me have a couple of months of marital bliss, then began showing me shots of glamorous women in provocative poses—women with their hands bound above their heads, women chained up with their legs spread, women posed as furniture, you name it—and told me how much fun it was. He said that no one got hurt, that it was only make-believe, and it helped him relax.”

She lifted her eyes to the angel on top of the tree. It represented everything good, and there was nothing good about the story she was about to tell. “He flogged me, used a crop on me, put a dog collar on me, tied me up with ropes and chains and belts—whatever he wanted to do, then took photos and taped them on the wall to show me what I'd become. He called them games, but they weren't.”

She risked a quick glance at Rafe. He was staring at her like he'd never seen her before—and in a way, he hadn't. Maybe she should shade the truth, but now that she'd started talking, she couldn't stop. She'd had everything bottled up far too long. “Do you know what the worst part of it was? I cooperated.” Her mouth twisted. “Maybe if he'd forced me, I might have some self-respect, but I went along with everything at first, and then I was in too deep to get out.”

“Why did you do it at all?”

She shrugged. “I loved him and wanted to make him happy. And I thought he loved me.” Her smile was bitter. “Even in real life, he was a great actor.”

“I'm surprised you didn't leave him.”

The fireplace flames leaped and crackled like evil sprites, but the tree lights, uncaring, blinked on an off in a regular pattern. “At first, because I thought that I could heal him. Later, I was too ashamed of what I had become. Toward the end, I was so dehumanized that I wouldn't have walked out the door even if it had been left open—which none of them ever were.”

“I even liked it at first—pain and sexual arousal are first cousins, you know. It was forbidden fruit—sophisticated and naughty—and I was curious. There were other things going on too, of course. Obedience was very important to him and he made a list of rules I had to follow, like what I could and couldn't eat. And if I objected or didn't follow the rules to the letter—or if he just felt like it—he'd leash me up to a hitching post and wind my hair around my mouth so I couldn't scream—I had long hair then—then leave me alone in the black room with all the lights out for what seemed like days.”

“The nightmare.”

She nodded. “I never knew how long I'd be there, and I was so grateful when he'd come back and untie me that I'd do whatever he wanted.”

The fire popped again, but she ignored it.

“Do you want to know why I got upset when you touched the scar on my arm? It's where I had a tattoo removed. Colin's signature of ownership—two crossed whips.”

Her face twisted, and the tears rolled down her cheek. “It was all so awful. That's why I don't want you to love me, why I can't marry you. I'm…dirty.”

Rafe reached out and drew her into his arms. His jaw was as rigid and set as Quanah Parker's.

“No, Moira. You went through fire and came out steel. You are the strongest, bravest woman I've ever known, and I love you even more now that I know what you survived.”

Moira woke up alone.

Rafe's side of the bed was empty, and the doors to his office, closet, and bathroom were open. He must be downstairs, trying to figure out how to dump her as tactfully—and quickly—as possible. He'd probably say something about how busy he was with the ranch and renovating the Hauco Theater.

She leaned back against her pillow and replayed every minute of the scene last night from the second Rafe had said he loved her to when they trailed upstairs to the bedroom and she finally fell asleep. It must have disgusted him to hear what she'd allowed Colin to do to her, to realize how—how
tainted
she was. He'd put on a good front, of course, and kept insisting that said he loved her even more because of what she'd been through, but in the bright light of day, he'd be having second thoughts.

She looked around at the room. She would never forget it—the white, white walls, the window wall, the balcony. And she'd always remember Rafe too—and how much, despite herself, she loved him.

Yes, she loved him. She could admit it now, but only to herself.

Maybe she should pack up and leave Bosque Bend right now, but where would she go—and how would she earn her daily bread? There weren't that many well-paying civic theater director jobs lying around, and the places she applied to would want to know why she skipped out on Bosque Bend. Leaving town right now would be hard on Astrid too. Dr. Sjoberg was talking to her about A&M's veterinary program, and she was spending her evenings with Aaron, who was home for holiday break.

She could hear Rafe coming down the hall.

It was going to be hard to make her farewell speech while she was lying naked in his bed, but she had to do it now, while she was still thinking rationally. And after she'd had her say, she'd wrap the sheet around herself and, with as much dignity as she could muster, walk across the room to the closet and slide the door shut to dress.

Rafe came into the room with a smile on his face and a tray in his hands.

“How about some breakfast? Eggs and toast, fresh from the skillet of Chef McAllister.”

Moira's jaw muscles sagged.

“You want to
feed
me?”

His eyes glittered at her. “I want to do a lot more than that to you, darlin', but let's start with breakfast.”

She gave him his cue. “Don't you want to tell me how busy you are and that you don't have time for a relationship right now?”

He put the tray on the bedside table and sat down beside her. “Moira, I have all the time in the world for you, and what you told me last night made me love you even more.” He kissed her fly-away hair.

She tried again. “You deserve someone so much better than I am. Someone fresh and clean.”

He took her hand. “I'll bide my time, but you're the one I want.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “Now, get your cute little fanny into some jeans and we'll take a ride. I want to be sure the panther isn't still hangin' around before we move the bulls in there.”

Sarge exhaled a long, low snort as they skirted the edge of the river, and Rafe rested his hand on the stock of his shotgun.

Moira rode up beside him. “What's going on?”

“Sarge smells panther. We'll quarantine this pasture right now, and maybe Travis will feel well enough next week to help me go after him. That cat's a big boy, and I want backup with a big gun.”

He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked toward the sun. “But we'd better be headin' back to the house now. It's about time for Delilah to get home.”

His mother seemed to have accepted the relationship he had with Moira, but he wasn't ready to introduce Moira into his Delilah's everyday world yet. Delilah liked Moira, but he wouldn't want his daughter to fall in love with her like he had, then go through the same anguish he'd go through if Moira left him.

He glanced over at her. If Moira wanted to drive him off, she'd made a big mistake by telling him about Colin. Hearing what she'd survived had only intensified his feelings her. She was more than the delight of his heart—she was someone he admired and respected. There was no way he was going to cut and run.

Moira sat down beside Carmen, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes for a second of meditation as Vashti ran the chorus through “Love Triumphant.”

She liked Carmen. She was easy to talk to. There was a sense of peace, a contentment, about her that she needed to tap into right now. Nine days till the show opened, and Billie Joe was still moving the wrong way in the mob scene, Rafe's police helmet had gotten lost in shipment, one of the flats had had to be redone, two children had dropped out with pinkeye, and the light crew couldn't get the spotlight to stay on track.

On the other hand, the second act was really shaping up well.

She nudged Carmen. “Hey, violin lady, how did you get off the hook? You've got a counterpoint on this song.”

Carmen laughed. “I'm getting stale so Mother's gave me time off.”

The song ended on an exultant note, the curtain was drawn on the chorus, and Rafe was left alone on the stage.

His final song was vital, not only to give the story closure, but to ensure each member of the audience walked out smiling. That was the attraction of musicals. People had way too many problems in their everyday lives, and plays like
Gift of the Magi
sent them out the door with a warm glow in their hearts and the hope that their own troubles would merely be the prelude to their own happy endings.

Like maybe hers would be. Rafe had insisted on visiting the jewelry shop under his office this afternoon. He wasn't pushing, but he was nudging.

“Rafe is perfect as the policeman,” Carmen commented as Rafe began swinging his truncheon in his hand. “I'm glad you two are together. How are things at the C Bar M? I haven't been out there for ages.”

“I love that ranch. Maybe I was a cowgirl in a past life.”

She froze.
Oh crap, had she said the wrong thing?
Rocky had told her how much Beth hated the C Bar M, and here she was extolling it to Carmen, Beth's best friend. She tried for a quick save. “On the other hand, most women would want to live closer to town, especially if they have children. And then there's the weaning. And the roundups. I can understand why Beth didn't want to stay on the ranch.”

Carmen eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “Moira, Beth stayed with her parents when the calves were weaned because their bawling upset her, but she understood that it was necessary, just like banding the little bulls. But she loved the ranch just like you do, and she loved Rafe too. If they were having problems, I would have heard about it.” She gave Moira searching look. “Whoever told you she wanted to leave Rafe? Was it Rocky?”

Moira didn't answer—it would be telling—but Carmen nodded her understanding. “Rocky and I used to be friends, but she dropped me when I wasn't of any more use to her. It hurt me at the time, but was a blessing in disguise. That woman is toxic.”

Moira watched Rafe finish his song with four more thumps of the truncheon.

Even allowing for a bit of bias on Carmen's part—no one likes to be dropped—that was a strong indictment of the laughing girl. Maybe she'd better steer clear of Rocky for a while.

Not that she'd have much time for her right now. The final dress rehearsal was looming. Then would come opening night, and if Boyd Yancey didn't show up by curtain time, she was home free.

Moira wiggled herself into the most sophisticated dress she had in her wardrobe, a moss-green velveteen with fitted sleeves and a low-cut scalloped neckline, slipped on heels that lifted her to heights unknown, put Gram's long jade earrings through her earlobes, and sprayed herself with perfume. She knew how a director should present herself.

Her plan was to arrive at the museum an hour before the performance so she could make sure everything was in working order, then meet and greet every audience member she could. She was the public face of the Bosque Bend Theater Guild, and it was important that she be available and approachable—and besides, with this being opening night, she'd generated a major adrenaline rush she had to use up before she started running around, flapping her arms, and trying to fly.