Something Wild (27 page)

“That’s dangerous, Mike,” she said, when his eyes opened a fraction of an inch to peek at her reaction.

His finger swirled again, for just a second. She jerked, and the dimple deepened in the cheek she’d just shaved. “You almost done? I’m a patient man, but there’s a point where the patience runs out.”

“Are you trying to spoil my fun?”

“I want to have more fun, I just don’t want that razor in your hands while we’re playing.”

“Oh, all right!” She giggled, and as quickly— but cautiously—as possible, finished up the shave, wiping the last of the whiskers on the hand towel, then smoothing away the last of the shaving cream.

Mike’s eyes drifted open again, and one black brow rose. “Done?”

“Done.”

He bucked—hard, swift, completely out of the blue—and Charity thought for sure she’d fly right out of the tub, but Mike’s hands had already grasped her waist to keep her from going anywhere—and then he bucked again, giving her the ride of her life.

The next thrill came when his fingers went to work on her little hot button again, when she leaned forward and guided one of her nipples to his mouth, and he nipped it lightly with his teeth, then suckled.

It was maddening this joy she felt, having wave after wave of excitement pulse through her, driving her to want more—always more.

“Dance for me,” Mike begged, and while her cowboy bucked, she swirled, around and around, then gave him a few sensual and terribly naughty bumps and grinds.

And then he held her still, thrusting higher and higher until every muscle inside her clenched, and she shouted out her joy. Mike grasped her tightly within his powerful arms and she felt him shudder inside her, felt him still, at last relaxing his soft, smooth cheek against her breast.

“I love you,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head as she pressed him closer to her. She felt his fingers tighten, almost digging into her skin. He didn’t say anything, only sighed, and her fears from early morning returned. Had he just thought of Jessie again? Had he just remembered all the times Jessie had said “I love you?” Remembered the way they’d made love?

At last he stirred, leaned back and cradled her face in his hands. He was frowning, looking as if he needed to tell her something but didn’t know how. Then a slow, easy smile touched his lips. “What do you say we skip the nap?”

“Why?” she asked, worry overcoming her, fear that he’d gotten all he needed from her and suddenly needed to get away. “Do you need to go back to work?”

He shook his head and chuckled. “
I
don’t plan to work any more today, but I don’t want to sleep, either. I was thinking we could grab some lunch, bring it back up here and eat in bed. You know, you feed me, I feed you—and see what happens next.”

“Maybe you could love me?” she asked teasingly, although in her heart she was dead serious.

“Yeah,” he said, kissing her softly, “maybe I can love you.”

Charity was lying on her side, her hands tucked beneath her pillow, watching Mike attempt to sleep. But he was restless, tossing and turning for the past few hours. Finally he jerked up and plowed his fingers through his hair.

He looked down at her, and even in the dark she couldn’t miss the anguish on his face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“You should be. I tried my hardest to wear you out.”

Sitting up, she slipped her arms around his neck, feeling the chill of his skin, the sweat on his chest and back.

“Making love doesn’t wear me out. Watching you suffer does.”

“I’m not suffering. I told you before, I just don’t sleep all that well.”

“You rarely sleep at all. Maybe you should see the doctor. Get some sleeping pills. Something.”

He laughed. “I’m not sick.”

“Then what’s wrong? Please, Mike”—a tear rolled down her cheek; she brushed it away with the back off her hand—“tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing.” He threw off the covers, grabbed his jeans and shirt from the floor and pulled them on.

“How can I help you if you won’t talk to me?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He leaned over the bed and kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

And then he left their bed and their room— again.

Charity lay on the big, empty mattress, clutching Mike’s pillow against her aching heart. She tried to sleep, but instead she watched the clock, watched the minutes tick by, the hours.

At four-thirty she gave up. Mike had pushed her away and she was afraid it would happen again and again, until a wall built between them—and he’d cease to love her at all.

Slipping from bed, she tugged on jeans, heavy socks, and one of Mike’s big flannel shirts, and went down the stairs.

Mike had started a fire in the living room and was sitting on the couch staring into the flames. She curled up beside him and tried to ignore the paintings that haunted her.

“You know what I wish?” she asked, weaving her fingers through his.

He squeezed them tightly. “What?”

“I wish that just once I could wake up in the morning and find you lying beside me.”

“I could stay in bed if you want,” he said, still staring at the flames, as if he were afraid to look at her, “but I’d toss and turn and keep you awake half the night.”

“That’s better than being lonely.”

He frowned when he looked at her. “Missing Vegas already?”

She shook her head, and when he stared at the fire, at the painting of Satan that hung over the mantel, she sighed, knowing any conversation she tried to bring up about his troubles would go nowhere.

Instead she drew his hand to her lips and kissed the backs of his knuckles. She didn’t want to fight. She just wanted him to love her as much as she loved him. She traced the long, jagged scar on the back of his knuckles with the tip of her tongue. “What happened here? An accident while you were stringing fence?”

He shook his head. “I tried putting my fist through a tree the night Jessie died.” Her stomach clenched as he laughed cynically. “The tree didn’t budge, but I broke four knuckles. Almost severed the nerves and tendons.”

“You loved her an awful lot, didn’t you?”

“She was my wife.”

“Did you tell her all your troubles? Did you tell her why you couldn’t sleep?”

His sigh was heavy. Distressed. “I didn’t have problems sleeping back then.”

“Is the reason you can’t sleep because you’re thinking about Jessie?”

He stole a quick, questioning glance at her, then looked back at the fire. “I told you, Charity, I don’t want to talk about it.”

She shoved up from the couch and stood between him and the flames. “And I don’t want to be the second woman in your life.”

“Damn it, Charity. You’re the only woman in my life. Haven’t I proved that again and again?”

“How can I believe that when you leave me every night?”

He pushed up from the sofa and put his arms around her. “Let’s go back to bed and I’ll show you there’s no one else.”

“Sure, let’s go to bed.” She spun out of his arms and stared at the flaming hearth. “I’ll be a nice distraction for an hour or so. We’ll wear each other out and you’ll fall asleep for two hours if you’re lucky, then you’ll think of Jessie again. You’ll remember how much you loved her. You’ll wish she was the one in bed with you again, and you’ll get up and leave me—all over again.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

She turned toward him slowly, knowing there were tears on her cheeks. “What else am I supposed to think when you won’t talk to me?”

“We talk all the time.”

“Not about this. Not about the reason why you sit down here and stare at the fire in the middle of the night.”

“I don’t want to fight. Look, Charity, let’s just go to bed.”

“You go. I’m not tired any longer.”

It was almost deathly quiet in the room, only the sound of the crackling logs and her own heavy heart. Mike’s eyes were tired. They narrowed, and she couldn’t miss his pain, but he wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t confide in her. Instead, he walked away, and went up the stairs and to their bedroom—alone.

Like a fool she’d pushed him away, the exact same thing he’d done every night of their marriage.

Jessie’s paintings glared down at her. Above her she heard Mike’s pacing, and all she wanted to do was get away, to get out of a house where she felt she didn’t belong.

It was cold outside. The moon was full and brightened the prairie. A herd of pronghorn scattered when they heard the door slam, and she heard the whinny of a horse, a horse trapped in a place where he didn’t want to be, a place he felt he didn’t belong.

Charity walked toward the corral, tired, lonely, hurt. She stood near the gate and watched Satan for the longest time. They were getting nowhere with her singing, and she just didn’t feel there was any reason to go on.

Lifting the latch, she slowly opened the gate and held it wide. “Here’s your chance, Satan. You want out of here—go.”

Satan pawed at the ground. Hesitant, as if he thought this was some kind of trap. She yelled, “Get out,” but still he stared at her.

Behind her she heard a door slam. “Shut the gate, Charity,” she heard Mike yell, but she held it wide.

“Get out of here, Satan!” she shouted.

The mustang stared at the man running toward the corral, stared at the open gate, then bolted for freedom.

And then Charity heard the dog barking, heard the hobbling steps of an old man, and panic hit her. She tried to slam the gate but she was too late. Satan was halfway through.

“Gall-darn—”

It happened so fast. Rufus ran toward the stallion and Satan reared, letting out a horrid cry. Charity ran for the horse, needing to protect the collie from Satan’s sharp, powerful hooves, but Crosby got there first.

The mustang came down hard, then raced across the yard, nothing more than a streak of black and gray in the moonlight.

And Crosby lay on the ground. Motionless.

Charity was at his side in an instant. Blood coursed over his forehead, his temple, and suddenly she felt as if she’d been kicked by Satan, too.

Mike dropped down next to his friend, cautiously slipping his hand under Crosby’s head. The old man struggled for breath as Mike put a hand on the old man’s grizzled cheek.

“Got the feelin‘ I ain’t gonna make it this time,” Crosby said, his words barely a whisper.

“Don’t talk like that,” Mike said, his voice cracking. “I’ll get you to the hospital and you’ll be good as new in no time.”

Crosby clutched at Mike’s shirt. “Don’t plug me into those damn machines.”

“Quit wasting your energy with all that nonsense.”

“Ain’t nonsense. I don’t want to go on if I can’t do it on my own.” Crosby’s eyes closed, and what seemed like his last breath flowed through him.

Mike jerked around and glared at Charity. “Call Jack. Tell him it’s an emergency. Tell him the hospital will have to send a helicopter.”

She wanted to tell Mike she was sorry. Wanted to comfort him, but there wasn’t time. She ran for the house, made the phone call, then ran to their bedroom and pulled quilts from the hope chest at the end of the bed.

Mike was leaning over Crosby when she returned, keeping him alive by pumping one breath after another into his lungs.

“Let me take over for a few minutes,” Charity said, lightly touching Mike’s shoulder. “You’re exhausted.”

Mike shrugged off her touch. “Just get away, Charity. You’ve done enough already.”

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Charity ruffled Rufus’s fur as they
stood near the corral, both of them lonely. Empty.

It had been a week since the accident, a week since Crosby had been plugged into life-supporting equipment, and too many long hours since Mike had looked at her, since he’d held her, since he’d done anything besides sit next to Crosby’s hospital bed and watch his friend breathe with the help of a machine.

Satan’s hooves had kicked Crosby in the chest and glanced off his forehead, breaking a few already frail ribs, puncturing a lung, and weakening his fragile heart. Pneumonia had set in and he’d sunk into a coma, one the doctors felt he would never come out of.

Her foolishness had put the dear man in the hospital and may have cost him his life. And all she could do was stay at home and pray. It had taken her days to realize that Mike didn’t want her at the hospital. She’d tried to comfort him. She’d taken him food and changes of clothing, but all he’d say is, “You can’t do anything here, Charity. Why don’t you just go home.”

Finally she had, because she didn’t want to add to his pain.

But home felt as lonely and empty as her heart.

It was nearly five on Saturday night. Fay Atkinson had called to say she’d made a special batch of brownies she’d like to bring over, and when Charity heard the vehicle coming up the muddy road she expected to see Fay’s Lincoln. But it was Mike’s truck she saw turning into the drive.

He stopped beside the garage and climbed out, looking tired. Beaten.

Rufus raced to the truck, hoping to greet his master. He peered into the empty cab, and even though Mike patted his head, Rufus laid down by the front tire and whimpered. He wanted Crosby, no one else.

Closing the truck’s door, Mike looked toward the corral, his gaze resting on Charity for an agonizing moment, and then he headed for the house. Her heart sank, not because Mike continued to ignore her, but because she was afraid her worst fear had come to pass—that Crosby had died.

She raced toward the house and found Mike in the kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Want some?” he asked without turning around.

“No thanks.”

She reached out to touch his shoulder but drew her hand back, afraid to touch him. The last few times she’d tried he’d pulled away. It was like someone had shoved a poker through her heart. She loved him desperately, but she feared that she’d lost him.

Swallowing her hurt, her worry, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out a roasted turkey breast. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”

“Thanks.”

Was this the way it would be between them from now on? No touching? No holding? An uncomfortable silence?

He stared out the kitchen window as he drank his coffee, standing only inches away from her as she carved the meat.

“How’s Crosby?” she asked.

“Alive.”

“How are you?”

“Tired.” He downed another swallow of coffee, dumped the rest down the drain, and set the mug on the counter.

“I’m going up to bed. See if I can sleep for an hour or two.”

“What about the sandwich?”

“I’ll eat later. I can’t go back to the hospital until I’ve put a sermon together for tomorrow.”

“No one’s expecting you to be there. John Atkinson said he’d lead the services.”

“I was gone last Sunday. I can’t shirk my duties forever.”

His anguish—hell, his brooding—was driving her crazy. He could ignore her all he wanted. God knows, she deserved it. But he couldn’t go on like this. It wasn’t healthy.

She blocked his way when he headed for the stairs. “When did being a minister become a duty?”

“When I ceased to care about much of anything.”

“Does that include me?”

At last she saw some kind of spark in his eyes. It was anger. But at least it was life. “That’s what you seem to think.”

“What am I supposed to think when you won’t talk to me?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“That you forgive me for letting Satan go. That you forgive me for what happened to Crosby.”

He gripped her shoulders. “There’s nothing to forgive. Crosby was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you wouldn’t have let Satan go if you hadn’t been mad.”

“I was mad because you pushed me away. Damn it, Mike, you’ve been pushing me away since the night we got married. You’ve pushed me away every time you’ve had a nightmare, every time you’ve gotten out of bed to leave me.”

“I don’t want to have this discussion again. It’s the same one we had a week ago, and the only place it’ll lead is toward more anger.”

“This discussion and your blasted nightmares are going to put a wall between us until you talk to me.”

“I told you before. I can’t sleep, that’s why I get out of bed.”

“That’s right, you can’t sleep because you dream about Jessie. Then you leave me and go downstairs so you can be surrounded by her pictures.”

He shook his head and leaned against the door jamb to stare blankly across the kitchen. “I knew it was a mistake coming home. I should have stayed at the hospital.”

“You’ve been there for a week. You plugged Crosby into those blasted machines he didn’t want to be plugged into, and you pushed me away. You told me to go home, that you didn’t need me around. So I came here, Mike. I’ve been here for days, with a lot of time to wonder if you wanted me to come
here
, to this house, or if you meant for me to go back to Vegas.”

Mike’s jaw tightened and when the phone rang, she watched his fists clench and his head jerk toward the living room. Then he rushed to the phone.

Fear ripped through Charity at the thought that it might be the doctor telling Mike to get back to the hospital now. Or worse, to tell him that Crosby had died.

It seemed like hours rather than seconds before he stepped into the kitchen and stared at her, the phone hanging loosely in his fingers. His eyes were rimmed with red. He was exhausted and as much as she hated to think it, he looked defeated. As if his entire world had just come to an end.

He held the phone out to her. “It’s Duane. He wants to talk to you about the lead in his show.” Mike dragged in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Looks like he decided not to take your no for an answer.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Looks like you can still have the job if you want it.”

Slowly she walked across the room and took the phone from her husband, from the man she loved with all her heart.

“Hello.”

“The job’s still yours,” Duane said. “But I need you here in two days.”

Charity barely heard Duane’s words. Instead she heard her husband’s boot heels on the hardwood floor and the front door closing softly behind him. She went to the window and parted the curtains, ignoring Duane’s droning voice, and watched Mike head for his truck. A moment later, he drove away.

Mike hadn’t pushed her away this time. He’d merely walked away, without looking back.