True Love at Silver Creek Ranch (11 page)

“Alone?” He smiled. “When I have the widows?”

She visibly relaxed. “So you'll be with your grandma then.”

“For the afternoon. Then I hear the widows are coming to your place. I'll convince my grandma to come, too, so I can have some peace and quiet.”

“You seem to value that,” she said, putting her hand against a wooden beam.

“I do. When you've spent ten years shoulder to shoulder with other men, and you never do anything alone, even the most private . . . well, let me tell you, that log cabin is mighty peaceful.”

“I'm glad.” A sly smile curved her mouth. “Once upon a time, you never went anywhere alone, if I remember correctly.”

He grunted.

“Ah, so you can't disagree. What did you need that posse for? Proof of your popularity?”

He had no choice but to smile. “I can't deny that. It made me feel good to have guys who thought I was cool. It was something I definitely didn't get at home.”

She winced. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply—”

“Naw, it's okay,” he interrupted. “I did have a childish view of friendship then, that friends would do whatever I wanted, back me up, whatever I said. It took the Marines to show me that I was the one who had to prove I was good enough, to show that I would give my life in loyalty to my brothers.” He thought of those brothers, of Paul and Eric and Zach, and so many others who'd died because they believed he couldn't make a mistake.

She stared at him solemnly, as if sensing his troubled thoughts. “Adam?” she began uncertainly.

He waved a hand. “Sorry. Lost my train of thought. Have a good Thanksgiving, Brooke.”

T
hanksgiving had been hectic but wonderful, Brooke thought, as she finished up the last of the dishes with Josh. The day had been filled with football, turkey preparations, then a great meal. Nate and Emily had been practically glued together all day, arms around each other or holding hands, making Brooke feel happy but a little jealous. They looked into each other's eyes and saw a future together. It must be so wonderful to be a part of that.

But not right now, she reminded herself. She had to figure out some things on her own, without the complications of a romance.

Adam's grandma had come to dinner dressed as a Pilgrim, making everyone laugh. Brooke had thought that Adam was probably relieved not to be seen with her in her outlandish getup.

But that wasn't fair. He loved her and tolerated all her eccentricities. She knew Mrs. Palmer had been more a mother to him than his own.

She kept thinking about Adam as she wiped down the tables, turned out the kitchen lights, and went to her room. Nate and Emily had left, escorting the widows home, and Josh was out in his workshop. Her mom had been tired though she protested it wasn't true, so her dad had retired to their room with her.

And Brooke was left to stare out her window at the bunkhouse. The lights were on low, firelight flickering.

Had he eaten supper? During the meal, she'd thought of him just across the way, and as if reading her mind, Mrs. Palmer had told her Adam had promised he was going into town for a bite. Wistfully, Mrs. Palmer had added she hoped Adam could find some nice young people to be with.

But Brooke stared at the bunkhouse and wondered if he'd lied about going into town.

She remembered the spartan condition of the cabin when she'd bandaged Adam's face after the fire. Did he have anything in there but his clothes? And then she imagined what his Thanksgivings had been like growing up, with two parents who didn't care about him, let alone worry about making the holiday special for him. He'd gone into the Marines, where Thanksgiving was spent far from Mrs. Palmer, his only true family.

And Brooke had agreed that she didn't want him at Thanksgiving dinner. She groaned aloud at her selfishness.

Without questioning what she was doing—or why—she put together Thanksgiving leftovers, kitchen and bath towels, soap dispensers, condiments, and some snacks. She didn't feel sorry for him—he would hate that. But he'd moved onto her family's property, and it was Thanksgiving.

Bundling up, she left the house quietly and walked across the yard, carrying her bags, with only the moonlight as her guide up the lane between pastures. The wind swirled around her and stole her breath, and she was shivering even under her coat when she walked across the porch and knocked on his door.

He opened it so fast she was startled.

He let his breath out and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I heard footsteps and . . . old habits.”

She stared at him, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. Behind him, he had a roaring fire going in the stone hearth.

“Can I come in?” she finally asked.

He backed up, and once she was inside, shut the door. He looked down at the bags. “Going somewhere?”

“Here.” She kicked off her boots and carried the bags to the kitchen table.

He followed her. “I don't understand.”

“You didn't go anywhere for supper, like you promised your grandma, did you?” she asked, throwing her coat on the back of a chair and beginning to unpack.

His silence was an answer.

She glanced at him. “You didn't want to see your grandma as a Pilgrim?”

He winced, a smile beginning to curve his lips. “Oh believe me, I saw.”

“You must have been traumatized. So I brought you some leftovers. And . . . other stuff.”

He glanced at the bags, then said with amusement, “Housewarming gifts?”

“Oh, please.” She turned her back and started unpacking, and felt vindicated when he picked up one of the plastic containers.

“Leftovers, huh?” he said. He loaded up a plate with turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing, corn, and peas. After heating it in the microwave, he plopped a healthy scoop of cranberry sauce on the side. “Can't eat any of it without cranberry sauce,” he said, his tone very serious.

“Oh, I agree.”

She wasn't going to sit and watch him eat; it just seemed too . . . intimate. She put away the towels and condiments, noticing the bare refrigerator—except for a six-pack of beer, of course, and a carton of orange juice. Oh, he had food stacked on the counter—beef jerky, packaged cakes, and donuts.

“I just moved in,” he called from the table. “That's what I could get at the gas station. I'm going to the grocery store tomorrow. I just didn't want to deal with the holiday crowd yesterday.”

She wasn't certain she believed him. “They even sell fruit at gas stations, you know.”

“Not all of them. I love those little packaged donuts. Hard to get overseas. And thanks for the towels. Grandma Palmer left me a bag of them, and I forgot to bring them. So I just grabbed one from the barn.”

She shuddered. “That's disgusting!”

“They'd been washed,” he protested mildly.

With nothing left to put away, Brooke sat down opposite him at the table. “I admit I was surprised when your grandma didn't drag you to our house tonight.”

“She tried. I finally told her to go work her wiles on the other vets in town. She keeps talking about those houses they're renovating. She knows I'm not interested.”

“She just wants you to stay,” Brooke said quietly. She knew that the old woman was using every trick in the book to make that happen.

He glanced at her briefly before closing his eyes in bliss over a bite of stuffing. Eventually, he said, “I'm here now, and that's what matters.” His look sobered. “I've been keeping an eye on her. I actually talked to old Doc Ericson, who told me she's fit as a fiddle.”

That lessened the guilt Brooke was feeling about hiding her suspicions. At least Adam knew his grandma was healthy.

“Now, did she make Doc tell me that?” he continued. “Who knows? But I'm here and willing to help. All I can do is trust that she'll come to me when she needs me.” He swallowed a bit of stuffing with his eyes closed. “So how did your mother handle the hectic holiday?”

“We didn't let her do too much, and after all these years, she knows not to push herself. But . . . I found myself watching her a lot, you know? Trying to enjoy each moment.” She looked away, her face hot. “God, that sounds morbid.”

“It sounds smart,” he said.

When he put his hand on hers, she pulled away and gave him a polite smile.

“Let's find the pumpkin pie,” she said. “I need seconds.”

She brought out the pie, and his eyes went wide.

“It's a whole pie,” he said almost reverently.

“Blame my mother. She insisted we make far too many. I snuck this one.”

“I love pumpkin pie for breakfast. To hell with donuts.”

She couldn't help laughing as she cut two slices and plated them. Holding up a can of whipped cream, she gestured with her hand for his approval.

“What more do you want of me?” he demanded. “I'm already salivating.”

After squirting way too much whipped cream on her slice, she carried the can and her pie over to the worn couch in front of the fire and sank into it. Adam followed and sat beside her.

“Are you keeping this to yourself?” he asked, grabbing the can to use it.

“No, I share. I just might need more.”

They ate the first few bites in reverent silence.

“Maybe you won't visit me anymore,” Adam said at last, setting down his plate, “but I feel you deserve the truth.”

She eyed him. “What truth?”

“I had many fantasies when I was overseas about the things I could do to a woman with whipped cream.”

She swallowed heavily and just stared at him. “I can't believe you're telling me this. What balls. I might never come back.”

And then they both dove for the can. She got her hands on it first, laughing in triumph, but with impressive strength, he flung her back on the couch and straddled her to get the can back. He loomed over her, and she was breathless from laughing and trying to hold his arms away from her.

He squirted a dot on each cheek, then examined her face as if he were a painter. “Very nice.”

She groaned, and when she tried to wipe off the cream, he dropped the can and gripped her arms at the wrists, slowly raising them over her head.

Her smile died, and all of her amusement seemed to combust inside her, morphing into the powerful desire for him that was never far from her thoughts. She lost her breath as he leaned over her, then shuddered when he licked the whipped cream off each of her cheeks.

“You taste good,” he whispered.

“That's not me, it's the cream, you idiot,” she said, her protest lacking any firmness.

She couldn't move beneath him although she tried to get her hands free. It was the strangest, most erotic thing that had ever happened to her. She was used to being in control, even on dates. But with Adam, she was helpless . . . helpless to resist even though she should. She should tell him to stop—and he would.

With his weight on her hips, and his hands holding on to hers, she was arched beneath him, and she saw his gaze go to her chest. It sent a rush of hot pleasure surging through her.

And then he kissed her, and she opened her mouth with a groan as he invaded her. Since he still straddled her, she could feel his erection hard against her stomach, and she arched up to feel even more.

“Let me go,” she whispered, as he kissed his way down her throat.

He did immediately. “I shouldn't have—”

“I didn't say to stop kissing me!”

She grabbed him and pulled him back down on her. Now she could put her arms around him, her hands deep in his wavy hair as she held him to her.

“God, you smell so good,” he said, taking little nips at the skin down her neck. “Every time I get near you, I think of hot nights on an island somewhere, torchlight in the distance, you and me in the sand.”

“Wow, soldier,” she said with a hoarse chuckle, as the image flooded through her, heating her. “I didn't know you had such an imagination.” She moaned aloud as he moved down her body, kissing his way to each button of her shirt and undoing them.

“Every time you wear one of these Western shirts,” he said against her stomach, “I think of doing this.” Then he spread the shirt wide. “Pretty underwear, just like you promised.”

Her bra was pink and lacy, but she didn't wear it for long. Soon he pulled her to the end of the couch and knelt between her thighs. She was naked above the waist, and he was still fully clothed. He stared at her breasts, and when she arched her back, offering them, he went still.

“Are we really doing this?” he asked hoarsely. “Stop me now if you have to, but not later.”

“It's just sex,” was her answer. “We're not getting all serious, and no one is going to find out. Can you live with that, soldier?”

He put his hands on her bare waist, and she swayed forward, until the tips of her breasts brushed his t-shirt.

He groaned. “I can live with it. Can you?”

“I'm the one with my clothes half-off.” She pulled his t-shirt up over his head and admired the curve of his muscles, the scattering of light brown hair, the flat of his stomach with the sexy ripple of abs leading down into the waistband of his jeans.

They came together, hot skin to hot skin, and kissed with long and deliberate intent. She wasn't going to change her mind. She locked her legs about his hips and rubbed herself against him. When he bent her over the arm of the couch, she felt deliciously abandoned. The first kiss on her nipple made her cry out, and he took it at a slow pace, teasing her until she was squirming, until at last he opened his mouth on her breast and took much of it inside.

She moaned his name. Never had she felt this hot for a man. She didn't know if it was because he seemed so forbidden to her, or she attached no meaning to their relationship, so therefore no pressure. Whatever it was, it made her feel free to enjoy herself without thinking, without judging, things she didn't often do.