Bound to Happen (14 page)

“Finished already?” he asked, leaning back in his chair as if he had nothing to do. He plainly was waiting for her opinion of the book, and she had no idea of what to say.

How could she tell him that she couldn’t carry on a decent conversation on any of the subjects he’d written about because she knew nothing about them? Because she’d never taken the time to learn. Because she hadn’t cared. How could she tell this man, who seemed so interested in the world he lived in, that she wasn’t? That she’d lived in her own orbit for so long she had no idea of what was going on outside its limited range. She was filled with self-disgust and scorn and too ashamed to admit the truth.

“It’s very interesting,” she said truthfully, unsure of anything else she honestly could add. “It must be hard to stay objective and write with so much feeling.”

“I’m not objective. I wouldn’t have chosen those subjects to write about if I were.” That made sense, too, so Leslie nodded. “I care very much, and writing about them is the only way I could think of to help. It isn’t enough, but it’s all I know.”

There was a dense silence in the cabin. Leslie was at a loss for words. She wouldn’t lie to him by agreeing with everything he said. And she didn’t know enough to ask questions—yet. But very soon, she would. She’d make sure of it. She didn’t want to feel this ignorant or insensitive ever again. No wonder her mother thought she had no feelings. When had Leslie ever given evidence that she did?

“You were right, though. It’s very involved reading,” she told Joe, not able to look him directly in the eye. “Do you happen to have anything a bit lighter?”

A flash of something … disappointment, maybe, crossed Joe’s features, but he didn’t speak his thoughts. Instead he stood and went to another set of shelves where three or four dozen paperback books were lined neatly in a row. “These don’t usually appeal to women, but other than reference books, they’re all I’ve got.”

Leslie took the book he held out to her and turned it over in her hands. It was a Max Darkwood novel. She was very familiar with the author’s name. He was her father’s favorite. For more years than she could remember, her father had passed his leisure hours with his nose stuck in a Max Darkwood western. Leslie’s taste leaned toward biographies, family sagas, or travel books, but if this was her alternative …

While Joe went back to his latest project, Leslie dove into the world of Max Darkwood. Written in the first person, with the hero never addressed as anything but “stranger,” the reader soon sensed that the writer and the hero were, indeed, one and the same. He was a no-nonsense kind of hombre with a cold stare and a deadly six shooter. He wasn’t lookin’ for no trouble, but he didn’t take any guff off nobody neither. His dog’s name was Spit and both were deadly to have as enemies.

In this particular story, an evil rancher was driving homesteaders off their land. The railroad was on its way through, and land values were going up. There was a farmer’s daughter with real spirit who kept imperiling herself with the evil rancher. She was really a very foolish girl, to Leslie’s way of thinking. She should have let the men handle the rancher. The girl was constantly making a mess of things and having to be rescued by Max. At one point she was caught in a cave, alone with the rancher. He was advancing, intending to do her bodily harm. Her heart was racing like a locomotive. …

“I’m going to bed.”

Leslie looked up from her reclining position on the couch to find Joe standing above her, his arms full of bed linens. “Oh. Already? What time is it?”

“After ten,” he said, frowning as he watched her. “You didn’t have any trouble getting into Max Darkwood. Do you like him?”

“More than I thought I would.” She got to her feet and took the linens and blankets from Joe. “I might read a little longer, if it’s okay.” Joe was being so quiet and guarded with his thoughts, she wasn’t sure of his mood.

“Turn the lamp off before you go to sleep. Good night.”

His impersonal words, softly spoken though they were, seemed a rather abrupt and unsatisfactory ending to a day neither one of them was likely to forget. There were words that needed to be spoken but they were both reluctant to say them. Instead they chose to suffer through an awkward moment of cowardice.

“Good night,” Leslie finally answered, refusing to break eye contact with him for a long time.

“Enjoy your story,” Joe said, even though the expression on his face was saying something quite different. Then he turned and went to the side of the bed.

She sat on the couch, meticulously keeping her eyes averted, all the while listening attentively to the muffled noises coming from across the room. There was the distinctive ping of Joe’s belt buckle hitting the floor and the rustle of sheets being drawn back and the squeak of the bed springs as Joe laid his weight upon it. And then there was silence, except in Leslie’s mind. Over and over again it replayed the feel of Joe’s hands on her body, his kiss, the pressure of his body against hers, and the gentleness with which he’d dried her tears.

A quick glance at the quilt covered lump in the bed reminded her that Joe had made no further overtures toward her sincerely or in jest. He’d said he wanted her, but maybe his was a purely take-it-or-leave-it attitude. Perhaps he wasn’t having the difficulty with his emotions that she was. He might not want to get to know her any better than he already did. He probably knew more about her by now than he ever really wanted to. And he most likely wasn’t crazy about any of it.

With a despondent sigh through pursed lips, feeling alone and lonely, she picked up the Max Darkwood novel. The evil rancher ripped the farm girl’s bodice away from her body and was about to commit the vilest of all acts upon her, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, Max was there to slit the rancher’s throat with his jagged-edged hunting knife. The farm girl was upset, but Max calmed her with soft words and gentle kisses.

They left the cave. Max wrapped the girl in his blanket and they began the long journey home. But before they got there, the girl’s beauty overwhelmed poor Max, and she was so grateful for his assistance that she threw herself at him. Max was forced to make wild, passionate, explicit love to her there on the desert floor under the grinning moon. In the last chapter, Max tipped his hat at the girl when he left her at her father’s farm. Then he rode off to Yuma in search of his son, the boy borne by the beautiful Indian princess Glowing Moon some eight years earlier.

Late to bed and early to rise didn’t agree well with Leslie. She even had to forfeit her dozing time, as Joe was already at his computer when she woke up.

He couldn’t have missed the sounds of her getting up and sitting with her feet on the floor and her head in her hands, but he apparently chose to ignore them. She stretched and yawned dramatically, trying to get his attention. The least he could do was say good morning, before he blocked her out of his world.

Giving up, she felt not the slightest need to be modest as she walked to the chest of drawers for a towel and clean clothes, wearing nothing but Joe’s pajama top. It covered all the basics—just barely—and Joe wasn’t likely to notice anyway.

Gratifyingly, as she walked into Joe’s field of vision, the computer keys slowed to a stop, and she smiled slyly. She wanted to turn and see the expression on his face but didn’t want to appear too interested. So she added a little extra sway to her walk and moved on to the dresser. She could catch his expression on her way back across the room.

She never considered herself a person with an overabundance of feminine wiles, but she sure had a bad case of them now. She ran her fingers through her hair in a very absent manner to detangle and fluff it up a little. She was careful to hold her clean laundry in one hand rather than up close to her body. She wanted to make sure Joe saw all there was to see, and she wanted it to hold his attention.

The typing had started again, but the rhythm was erratic and he didn’t seem to have his usual light touch. His fingers came to a slow, faltering stop when she turned to face him. She saw his lips part and watched his throat muscles move as he took a hard swallow. Her temperature rose by several degrees as his ravaging gaze slipped over her body from top to toe and back again. She was more than satisfied with his reaction.

“Good morning. You’re starting early today,” she said, pretending not to notice that he was staring at her rudely. His gaze dropped to her chest, and she felt her breasts swell and harden. There was a slight nod of his head as he agreed with her statement … or was he agreeing with what he saw? Either way, Leslie was enjoying being in the center of his limelight and wanted to prolong it. “Don’t let me disturb you. I’d like a bath, but I can wait till you’re at a good place to stop.”

She moseyed over to the stove and took her time pouring herself a cup of coffee. She sat down at the table and crossed her legs, knowing that the night shirt was covering much less of her at this point. “Do you happen to remember which Max Darkwood novel told the story about the Indian princess Glowing Moon?” she asked casually.

Again Joe simply nodded his head and, moving like a zombie, got up to retrieve it from the shelf. When she rose and stepped forward to take it from his outstretched hand, she was startled when his other hand grabbed her by the wrist. She looked up into his intense and perceptive eyes and suddenly felt she was in great danger. But she wasn’t afraid. She welcomed the sensation of fear, beckoned to it without flinching. When Joe spoke, his voice was thick and deeper than usual. “Watch your step, Leslie. I’m not a patient man. Nor am I a virtuous one. I suggest you think twice before you start playing games you know nothing about.”

With a brazenness she never dreamed she had, she smiled at him, heedlessly shook loose of his grip and stood defiantly before him. In that moment it was as if she’d found the magic key that fit the beautiful box that was handed down by every grandmother to mother to daughter. She’d been in possession of the box since birth. Always there but never opened, Leslie had paid little attention to it—until now.

Gem encrusted, it was the contents of the box that held the real value. For within lay all the precious secrets women had used for generations to attract, ensnare, and eventually capture the men they wanted. She did know the rules to the games men and women played. And much, much more. All along she’d known. They were as innately part of her as her ability to be logical and organized. She simply had never chosen to play the games Joe was talking about before. And why did she want so badly to play now? The answer to that was simple and logical. She’d never wanted anyone before now, never wanted anyone before Joe Bonner.

Joe’s eyes narrowed, and he studied her cautiously and with great trepidation. He sensed a difference in her and wasn’t sure of what to do. But not being patient and having no virtues didn’t mean he wasn’t prudent. He went outside to get the bathtub for Leslie.

The noonday sun was hot. Leslie had removed the flannel shirt hours ago, and still she could feel beads of perspiration rolling down between her breasts. The T-shirt clung to her damp skin, and strands of hair matted themselves to the sides of her face. Artistic farming was hard work. She couldn’t help but wonder if it might not have been easier just to do it the conventional way. She shook her head. The expression on Joe’s face when he discovered what she’d done would be worth all the work, even if she wasn’t there to see it. She’d have wonderful dreams about it though.

She’d planted two rows of carrots diagonally from corner to corner to form an X. Radishes would form a circle around the X. Lettuce patches were placed at each loose end of the X, and there would be cucumber and squash vines coming up where he least expected them. The peas were a problem she planned to save for later.

She sat on the ground and wiped her forehead with the back of her arm while she surveyed her efforts. She’d rather sleep with a bear than admit it to anyone, but she’d enjoyed the morning tremendously. Not because of what she done to Joe’s garden, but because there was something real about the dirt under her nails and the healthy ache in her back. The birds had sung to her all morning, and sometimes a gentle breeze brought to her one of the sweetest odors she’d ever smelled, a scent finer than any perfume she was familiar with. She hadn’t the slightest intention of becoming an outdoor person, but she had enjoyed the change of pace.

“Looks as if you’ve done quite a bit out here.” Joe’s voice made Leslie jump, and she turned to find him lounging against the corner of the cabin. “Ready for lunch?”

“Yes. I’m starving,” she said, her heart lurching at the sight of him. She stood to dust the soil off her jeans and follow him in. But after taking a few steps, she saw that he wasn’t moving. His eyes were focused on her clinging T-shirt. She was only too aware that the tips of her breasts were hard and pressed tightly against the damp cotton material. Her first instinct was to cover herself, but she boldly refused to do so.

All night long she’d dreamed of Joe. The tender, gentle Joe she knew he could be. He’d held her, touched her, kissed her. He’d taken her to Eden and had brought her back safe and contented. She wanted him, and she wasn’t above flaunting herself to get him. She was obsessed with the idea of Joe being a soft, considerate lover. She wanted Joe to be her lover. No, she hesitated briefly, it was more than that. She wanted Joe to love her, to teach her what love felt like, and she longed to share with him the secrets of the box.

It made sense to Leslie. After all, Joe had already made her feel so many emotions she normally refused to acknowledge, why couldn’t he make her feel love as well?

Again she had to strain her imagination to pretend that she didn’t know what Joe was doing or thinking. She bent over to pick up her discarded shirt and continued to amble toward the cabin. She almost fell over when his voice boomed out in anger, echoing through the trees. “Where the hell did you get that? And who the hell gave you permission to use it?”

“What?” This time Leslie truly was scared. Joe wasn’t just testy or mocking in his ire. He was outraged.