Busting Loose (14 page)

“Last week.”

Jefferson laughed, shoulders shaking. “Another rousing endorsement.”

“Well, hey. If that performance can't speak for itself . . .” She shrugged. It was magnificent. Anyone could see. What more could she say? “Thank you for keeping me company, Jefferson.” As she stood, so did he. She held out a hand. “I have to go meet my brother now.”

“You give him my card when you see him. And here, one for you and for your sister. You need anything, you give me a call.” He slipped three cards, plain white with simple black lettering, into her left hand while he shook her right. And then he gave her one more assessing glance.

“I think people underestimate you, don't they?”

She blinked. “Maybe.”

“You're more than you seem, even to yourself, I'd bet.” He winked, then headed back down the aisle. She watched, mesmerized, as he stopped to talk to several people, shaking hands, clapping a few men on the back, but never fully pausing. People parted to make way for him.

Who the hell was he? Moses?

She shook off the feeling she'd missed a memo somewhere and scooted to find Trace in the back. The cards he'd handed her went into her back pocket for another time. She'd just hand them over later.

But her feet were light as she strode over the packed dirt. Her first horse contact. And she'd brought him in herself. The feeling of worth expanded in her chest.

 

Morgan blinked and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand. What the hell had woken him up at . . . three in the morning? He quietly surveyed the room, but all it was filled with was the sound of Milton snoring like a chainsaw at the foot of his bed. How could something that weighed twenty pounds be so damn loud and smell so damn foul?

And why was he in the bed? Morgan nudged the dog with his foot, but the mutt didn't budge.

“Your mother is going to kill me for letting you sleep up here.”

Milton was peacefully unaware of Morgan's predicament.

The flash of headlights in his window told him there
was
a reason he'd woken up. And it was driving up to his house now. No need to panic or worry. If there'd been an emergency, he'd have gotten a call from someone. It was likely Bea, back early from the trip and coming to pick up her precious, gassy bundle of joy.

Or maybe, she had thoughts about spending the night. The idea warmed his insides and he slid out of bed, looking for a pair of pants to slip on.

The soft, tentative knock made him smile, until the moment the brain-splitting yipping started. Not Milton, though he gave a low moan of his own. But the puppies responded with a sharp intensity that had him cringing.

He raced to the door, dancing around the wriggling fuzz-butts that were heading straight for the kitchen door to greet the newest thing in their lives. When he opened the door, he did so only a crack.

Bea stood under the weak porch light, looking confused and guilty. “I'm sorry, I didn't think before I came. I just . . .” She blinked, brows furrowing a little. “I just came.”

“It's fine. But if you're coming in, you have to be fast. I can't hold them back for long.” He opened the door only as wide as he thought he needed, then grabbed her upper arm and hauled her through before shutting it firmly behind her.

Bea's eyes widened; then her gaze dropped to the ankle biters congregating around her boots and she cooed. “Oh, sweet darlings. Look how big you've gotten!” With that, she dropped on her butt and let the dogs swarm her. Roly-poly bodies tumbled and trampled each other to be the first into her lap. She laughed and gave each some undivided attention, praising them one by one. They were so smart, so sweet, so beautiful.

Milton, predictably, stood off to the side seething and whining while waiting his turn.

Morgan watched, and soaked her in. Her hair was pulled back by an artfully folded scarf. She wore a button-down work shirt that was a little big on her, as if it might have been Trace's and she'd borrowed it. Her jeans had mud streaks on them, and her boots weren't fashionable so much as serviceable.

She was dressed like a rancher. But was it her? Or just a part she felt like playing for the weekend?

And that was uncharitable. The fact was, it didn't matter. She was there, with him, and that was what mattered.

“I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow.”

She glanced up quickly before being attacked on the side by a jealous pup. She picked the dog up and held him at eye level. “You just need to learn some manners, like my own Milton.”

At his name, the dog crept forward a step, then two. She scratched behind his ears and his stub tail wagged. With the delicate caution of a cat, he stepped between wiggling puppy bodies until he could climb up on her thighs and press his nose into her neck.

If it wouldn't have been so ridiculous, Morgan would have done the same thing. He was tired of waiting his turn.

“I know, I missed you, too,” she crooned and rocked him like a baby. “But that was definitely not a place for you. I don't think it was a place for me, either. But I showed Auntie Peyton, didn't I? Yes, I did.”

“Let me get these guys outside for a break and then we can talk.” Morgan grabbed the pile of leashes and started clipping leads to collars. They all got tangled up and generally made a mess of it, but they were all secured. He wouldn't lose anyone. Milton never strayed far enough from his side to need a leash. Not out at his house.

Bea watched while he guided the flopping, easily excited batch of puppies outside in hopes they would take the hint and do their business outside. Milton aided in the efforts by providing a good example, watering a bush like a pro. Two puppies took the hint and pottied outside, receiving copious praise and a treat. The rest just played.

Morgan sighed and brought them back up the stairs. Bea was still sitting on the floor, and they swarmed her once more. She scratched bellies, rubbed heads, and gave each one some love before shooing them back into their makeshift pen. When Morgan turned the kitchen lights off, they almost immediately took the hint and fell into sleep. Puppies had two speeds . . . on and off.

Bea scooped Milton up and carried him over her shoulder to the bedroom. Morgan found her struggling to toe off the boots with a curse.

“Damn boots. This is why I wear heels. They're practical.” When he laughed, she scowled at him before sitting down to take them off. Milton scampered to the middle of the bed, circled three times, and burrowed into the warm blanket. Clearly, she was making herself comfortable. Morgan stripped off his jeans and let them land back on the floor before sitting on the bed beside her.

“I thought you weren't coming back until tomorrow.”

Bea let her second boot fall with a thud and turned to look at him. “I wasn't going to but—” She narrowed her eyes, then sighed and reached for his glasses. Polishing the lenses on the corner of her shirt, she said, “You really need to carry some sort of rag with you.”

“You're probably right,” he murmured when she slipped them back on. First time he'd seen clearly in two days. “But then I couldn't do this.” He reached through her arms to kiss her unexpectedly. She laughed and pushed him back.

“I wasn't going to come back, that wasn't the plan. But Trace was dying to see Seth. Though, as I reminded him, the kid was sleeping.”

“Just Trace being a good daddy.” He kissed her again, and she pulled him in this time. Her hands crept up his bare chest and looped around his neck. “Will you stay tonight?”

The tip of one finger traced down his jaw, dipping into the cleft of his chin before following the line of his throat and over one shoulder. He shivered a little. She smiled, a knowing, sensual smile.

“I think I can be persuaded.”

M
organ knew in that moment, with the way Bea looked at him, he would have given her the world if she'd just asked for it. Climbed mountains, swum oceans, any other physical cliché he could have thought and mentally mocked himself for later. But when she smiled that siren smile at him, he was completely lost.

“But first, I need to shower.” Bea grimaced and stared at her hands. “I'm not feeling quite clean enough for sex.”

“So we can have dirty sex.” He kissed her before she could complain. “And then we can have clean sex. Variety.”

She laughed, but pushed against him and walked to the bathroom.

Morgan followed, helpless to do anything else. When Milton started to weave between his feet, he pointed to the folded blankets in the corner. “Bed.”

The dog glared, but did as he was told. Thank God.

He found her staring at her reflection in the mirror, a little horrified, a little amused. She brushed one hand through her hair, then stared at her fingers.

“I used to have pretty hands.”

“You still do.” He grabbed them and laced his fingers through hers. “Feel this?”

She winced when he rubbed a thumb over a small, nearly imperceptible callous on the tip of her finger.

“That's strength. You're strong. Strong is sexy. Weak is for fools. I would never want a weak woman the way I want you, Bea.” He kissed the side of her neck. She smelled a little dusty, a little like she'd spent the day in a horse barn—which, of course, she had. And he found the scent just as appealing and arousing on her as her expensive perfumes and lotions and sprays. Which only meant one thing . . . her. She was what aroused him, in any state.

He reached down and pulled her shirt up and over her head, tossing it into the bedroom. His fingers brushed against her long, lean torso, from just under the bottom of her bra to the top of her jeans. His hands were just long enough, if he spread his fingers wide, for his thumb and pinky to cover the space. He watched in the mirror, and the possessiveness of his hands on her flesh, holding her to him, shocked him.

Bea's eyes closed a little and she leaned back.

“So tired.”

“I know, baby. Let me help.”

He unbuttoned her jeans and pushed them down. She stepped out of them, almost automatically, as if in a daze now. As if now that her weekend was officially over, her brain had shut down to reboot and would be back online later.

Time to evaluate. Was she even capable of going further? Was he an ass to push for more? Should he just turn on the shower, finish helping her undress, and leave her to it?

Bea answered the silent debate by reaching around and molding her hand over his cock through his pants. And hello . . . game on.

Morgan pushed at her panties while she turned in his arms and latched her mouth onto his. She nibbled and bit and licked while he managed, barely, to get both of them as naked as possible. Okay, yeah, so her bra was sort of hanging off one arm, and her panties were draped around one ankle. But he was about to be a beggar, so he wasn't going to be choosy.

Bea hopped up onto the counter, just beside the sink, and pulled him in between her knees. Perfect fit. Morgan grabbed a condom from the pack he'd bought and stuffed in the drawer earlier in the week—with the intention of replenishing the nearly empty stash in his nightstand at some point. Lucky for him, he hadn't quite yet.

And then he was in bliss, moving inside Bea, listening to her gasps and moans and whispers of his name. She made him feel like a god. Or, not quite, but pretty damn close.

It was over almost before it started, and he would have been embarrassed if she hadn't been coming alongside him. Her back arched away, her head rested on the mirror, and he thought she was the most glorious thing he'd ever seen in his life.

Her hand slipped off his sweat-coated shoulder and landed on the faucet, turning it on full blast and splashing them with cold water.

“Shit!” He jumped, pulling her off the counter with him and setting her down on her feet on the warm bathmat. She leaned against the shower wall and laughed.

Clean up, clean up. He didn't want to clean up while she was still standing there, mostly naked and laughing like a sleep-deprived loon. What to do . . . He snatched the hand towel from the ring on the wall and laid it over the puddle on the counter. Good enough.

“You, get in the shower.”

She saluted him, still chuckling, and turned on the water hot enough to steam the small bathroom in under a minute. He winced at the thought of boiled skin, but she only sighed in pleasure when she stepped under the spray. He watched, transfixed, as her silhouette moved behind the shower curtain in a graceful, feminine sort of dance.

It felt almost intrusive, and he broke his gaze away to clean up the bathroom more efficiently, so when she was ready to step out, he waited with a towel.

“I can do that,” she said and held out a hand.

But he ignored her and dried her off himself. She didn't put up a fight, only let him gently buff her skin until she was dry enough for bed. Then he picked her up and edged out of the bathroom to the bedroom, where he laid her on the bed naked.

She snuggled down and sighed like she'd never felt a real bed before. “Oh, mattress. How I've taken you for granted.”

“Horse trailer not to your liking?” He turned the lights off and climbed in next to her, pleased when she rolled into him to cuddle.

“Absolutely not. I'm glad I did it, so I can neener-neener Peyton for being wrong. But oh, I don't wish that life on anyone.”

“It wasn't exactly a third-world country, Bea.”

“Close enough.” Her voice was quieter, and he could feel her body growing more lax.

“Are you glad you went?” he asked.

“Yes.”

In the dark, he smiled while listening to her breathing.

She mumbled something, and he cocked his head to hear better. “What?”

“You called me strong,” she said on a sigh, and fell asleep.

 

Bea opened her car door and waited for Milton to hop in. He settled himself in the shotgun seat like a dignified passenger.

“Get in the back, bucko.”

He stared straight ahead.

Selective hearing. The ailment of men. She sighed and slid in behind the wheel. Morgan leaned over, one arm draped over the door, the other propped on top of the car.

“I'll see you over there.”

“I know how to get to my own house. You really don't have to follow me there.” The thought made her nervous. This was why she avoided spending the night. Because the next morning was always more awkward than leaving in the dark and forgetting your bra or lipstick.

“I want to make sure you get home. And besides, maybe I wanna see Trace, or hang out with Red for a bit.” He kissed her before she could argue, then closed her door for her. She wanted to roll down the window and argue some more, but he was already climbing into his own pickup.

With a reluctant sigh, she did some contortionist moves to toss Milton in the backseat and set up the guard to keep him there, put the car in REVERSE, and headed down the short dirt path that was his driveway, onto the main road that would take her to the M-Star entrance in about five minutes.

The puppies were gone, which was a relief—given their penchant for getting up every three hours for a potty break—but also a little sad. Darn things were so cute. And Milton was saddened by their departure, too. He'd sat by the kitchen door and whined for almost an hour after their foster mother had dropped by to grab the rascals early in the morning. Apparently they were charming everyone, even their temporary caretaker, as she'd already picked one out to keep when they were ready to start being adopted.

And now here she was, with a tagalong for Sunday brunch. Because, of course, the second anyone from the family realized he was on the property, it wouldn't be possible for them to hole up in her apartment. Nope. The family would insist she bring him up to the big house for a meal.

And so what? She glanced back at Milton.

“Could you at least fake a little concern for my predicament?” she grumbled.

Milton licked his nose.

“Yeah. Just like a man.” She huffed out a breath. “Though I don't know why I expect you to care. You don't even have balls. It's not like you're getting any. You can't really relate to the situation.”

Bowing to the inevitable, she turned three minutes later toward the main house rather than her apartment, parking next to Peyton's Jeep. Morgan pulled up a minute later, his truck completing the interesting lineup. Four work vehicles, and then her and Jo's more sporty cars. Because really, when would she or Jo ever be hauling bags of feed?

Bea waited for Milton to hop down, then closed the door and followed the dog up to the porch. Morgan hovered by the hood of her car, as if unsure.

She held out a hand to him, pulling him with her. “Come on. Emma's probably got some sort of amazing meal in there that will make me gain twenty pounds just looking at it.”

Morgan slapped a hand lightly on the outside of her hip, jolting her. She looked up into his grinning face. “I doubt that's true. But even if it was, you would be stunning anyway.”

She snorted, but bit the inside of her lip to keep from smiling. There was a change from California. A man who wouldn't mind her being something other than her size two.

Okay, four.

And a half.

Morgan stepped into the warm smells of home. He'd always been welcome around the Muldoon property as a child, hanging out with Trace in the barn or dogging one of the hands or Trace's father and shadowing their every move with the horses. Curious boys and livestock, a classic combination.

But the big house had never been especially tempting to him. His friend, the young Trace, rarely wanted to be in there. Rarely wanted to eat lunch with his family, insisting they do so with Morgan's parents at his house. Or that they sneak food out and eat in the hayloft. Morgan remembered more than once wondering why he was never allowed in the house.

And then he'd met Sylvia. The woman had the natural maternal instincts of a dirty sock.

She'd scared the crap out of Morgan, simply from the hard-edged look she'd carried. The snarl just waiting to pounce on her lips. The fact that she seemed ready to kick when someone was down rather than hold out a hand to help them up. The exasperated glances that said kids were the most horrifying creatures ever to exist. Trace had escaped outside with his father and the hands. Peyton had followed.

But Bea . . . Bea, he remembered, had stayed in. By choice, or by design? Had she disliked her upbringing, or had she been glad to have her mother's sole attention, despite the woman's lack of caring?

It might have been wrong to think ill of a dead woman, and one who had met her end in such an abrupt, tragic way. Nobody wished that kind of a car wreck on anyone. But he couldn't help wonder how being with her day after day had influenced Bea and her views on relationships, and life. And he wanted to go back and rescue that little girl, whether she thought she needed it or not. Wanted so badly to have insisted they drag her outside to roll around in the dirt, to have changed her life back then, rather than waiting until now.

“We're here!” Bea shouted as they stepped into the front door, using the bootjack like a pro to wiggle off her boots into a pile by the door with the rest. “I brought company.”

Milton sprinted in ahead of them, tags jingling, darting straight for the dining room. The dog rarely left Bea's side, except for one thing. Food. Specifically, bad-for-him people food. For food scraps, he would abandon all pride and beg.

He heard Seth's squeal of happiness at seeing one of the dogs inside the house. A rarity, if he recalled. Dogs were for working, and stayed in the barn. Having a dog inside would have been against Emma's rules of the house. One of the few things Emma and the aforementioned Sylvia would have agreed on.

Bea waited for him to remove his own shoes before walking with him into the dining room. “It's just Morgan.”

“Just Morgan,” Emma scoffed as she settled a platter of what looked like French toast on the table. Morgan's mouth watered as Emma put her hands on her hips and surveyed him. “Eaten breakfast yet?”

“No, ma'am. I'd be grateful if you'd include me. That smells heavenly.” He shot her his best, boyish
pity me, I'm a bachelor
look. Which was true, but still mostly bullshit since he could cop a meal off his own mother any day of the week.

Either it worked, or she was already intending to let him stay. “Sit down and eat a piece. You can have her share. She won't eat any of it.” Emma tilted her chin at Bea, who was already sitting down and reaching for the juice pitcher.