Gayle Wilson – Remember My Touch (страница 2)

“That’s not going to happen,” he said dismissively.

“Is that a guarantee, Mac? Are you making me a promise?”

“Jenny,” he began, and then his voice faltered. There was nothing he could say that would satisfy her fear or her anger—emotions she had a right to feel, he acknowledged. Whatever he did impacted on them both. He understood that.

“It’s my job, Jenny,” he said again, stubbornly. It was his only defense and one that even he recognized wouldn’t be much comfort to a grieving widow.

Jenny’s lips flattened and she shook her head once, the motion sharp and angry. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

“I’ll never forgive you, Mac. I swear to God I’ll hate you through eternity if you let something happen to you.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” he said softly.

He lifted his hand, fitting the callused palm against the softness of her cheek. His thumb brushed across the tight-set line of her lips. When he felt the minute loosening of the muscle at the corner, encouraged by that response, he lowered his head.

His mouth found the smooth expanse of her forehead under the disordered silk of her hair, and he pressed a small kiss there. His other hand moved to her back, between her shoulder blades. With the heel of his hand, he pushed into the tension he found there, kneading gently.

“Want to make a baby?” he whispered.

“It’s not the right time.” Jenny’s voice was as tight as the muscles in her back and shoulders.

His lips skimmed down the slender line of her nose and settled with familiar expertise over her mouth. Despite her anger, she didn’t avoid their touch. She automatically tilted her head to allow the accustomed alignment of his mouth over hers.

He wondered how many times he’d kissed her, how many times she’d stood on tiptoe, her small frame stretching to accommodate his height, how often her body had arched to match the uncontrollable thrusts of his. Suddenly he wished he’d written them all down. Kept a record somewhere. Today I made love to Jenny. Each time carefully recorded so these memories could never be lost, never destroyed.

She put her hands on his shoulders. He loved Jenny’s hands. They weren’t manicured or particularly well cared for. They were working hands, a little rough and reddened from washing dishes and grubbing in the yard. Her nails were short and usually unpolished. The small, slender fingers were often scratched or stained with paint or the medicines she used in treating the animals.

But to Mac they looked exactly as a woman’s hands should look. Felt as they should feel. Whether gentling an injured horse or moving seductively over his own body in the darkness. And it seemed to Mac he had always known how they would look cradling the rounded, darkly-fuzzed head of an infant. His son or daughter.

That was all Jenny had ever asked him for. A baby. And not to get himself killed. And he couldn’t guarantee either, it seemed.

No promises, Jenny-Wren. I can’t make you any promises. Except to love you. And even if I end up dead, while you’re hating me through eternity for dying and leaving you, I’ll still be loving you. To the grave and beyond.

Mac bent slightly, slipping his left arm under Jenny’s knees. He gathered up his wife and carried her easily, cradled like a child against the solid strength of his chest, into the dark bedroom they had shared for the past five years.

Usually when he did something like this, Jenny laughingly protested, pounding on his chest or pushing against his shoulder, demanding that he let her down to get back to whatever she had been doing. Tonight she did neither.

He deposited her on the wide bed and stepped back to take off his shirt, not bothering to unbutton it, but simply tugging it out of his uniform pants and stripping it off over his head in one fluid motion, his undershirt along with it. He threw the garments toward the foot the bed. He stood balanced awkwardly on one foot and then on the other to tug off his boots. When he turned around, he realized Jenny hadn’t moved. She had simply been watching him, and whatever was in her face made him hesitate, his hand at the waistband of his uniform pants.

Her eyes slid downward, moving over the broad, muscled expanse of his chest and then to the ridged stomach. She looked up finally, her eyes too dark and wide, straining to deny the tears that he knew were still close to the surface. Tears that were silently pleading for a promise he couldn’t give. Not with any honesty.

“Don’t be mad, Jenny-Wren,” he said softly, lowering his big body onto the bed beside her. His lips nuzzled along the skin under her jawline. He could feel the lifeblood pumping steadily beneath its satin surface. He caressed that small, pulsing movement with his tongue, for the first time forced to think about the precious stability of their lives, to think about how lucky they were.

He had never worried about anything happening to either of them. He supposed men didn’t think that way, never anticipating, as women apparently did, some terrible thing happening to the ones they loved. He had just accepted that this was their life and that they would go on this way forever, loving each other.

Loving each other. Until finally they would be old and beyond these needs, beyond the endless desire that sometimes woke him, his body hard and achingly lonely for the feel of Jenny’s, even if he had made love to her only a few hours before.

Jenny’s hand found his chin, and she pushed his head away from hers so she could look into his eyes. “Anything but that, Mac,” she whispered, and the truth of it was in her eyes. “I could bear anything but losing you.”

He smiled at her, the slow movement of his lips an invitation, and reassurance, he hoped. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’ll ask Chase for advice. I’ll call in the feds, I swear. Will that make you happy?”

“It would make me happy if you just got out. We could run cows again. Or sheep. Raise spinach if we have to.”

He laughed, but he knew from the quick pain in her eyes that it had been a mistake. She hadn’t been joking. Jenny was scared, and he hated himself for making her afraid. This was why he hadn’t told her before. She didn’t need this to worry about.

“At least it’s safe,” she argued.

“This isn’t the movies, Jenny. Or TV. You know nothing ever happens here. It’s not going to now. They’re just putting out feelers. Somebody will bite, and they’ll pass this county up like they always have before. They’re not going to try anything where the law has bowed its back against them. There’s no need. There are too many folks more than willing to cooperate with them for the kind of money they’re offering. I’ll put out the word that the feds are moving in and nothing will happen.”

“You swear you’ll get some help?” she asked. “You’re not just saying that to pacify me?”

“I promise, Jenny. First thing tomorrow. Chase can tell me exactly who to call.”

Again she held his eyes, trying to read what was in them, he guessed. He had nothing to hide. He would do what he’d said. He would never break his word to Jenny.

Finally, she nodded. Her hand moved, following the line of his jaw. Her fingers touched the softness of his mustache and then traced up the high cheekbone, thumb brushing across the long, dark lashes, feeling them move as his blue eyes closed in response to her touch.

Her fingers spread, threading into the slightly curling, sun-touched hair at his temple. They cupped the back of his head, pulling his mouth downward to hers, which opened to the caress of his tongue.

His mouth was warm and sweet. So dearly familiar. His tongue teased across her lips and then invaded them, suddenly demanding. Hot and hard. Evoking memories of his body moving above hers in the darkness.

Waking her from sleep. Or coming up behind her to cup his hands under her breasts and trail wet, pulling kisses down her throat as she stood at the kitchen sink, up to her elbows in dirty dishwater. Pushing his arousal into the softness of her bottom. Once Mac had pulled her panties off and simply unzipped his jeans, thrusting into her as she lay where he had placed her on his grandmother’s kitchen table.

Making love to her because that was what he wanted to do. Whenever he wanted to do it. Unthinking. Unplanned and unstudied. Sometimes quick and sometimes endlessly, heartbreakingly slow. This was what their lovemaking had once been. And in her demands for a baby, they had lost this gift.

Perhaps sensing her stillness, Mac lifted his head. His blue eyes were luminous in the darkness. Questioning.

“Make love to me,” she invited softly.

“What the hell do you think I’m doin’, Jenny-Wren?” Mac asked. The soft humor she loved was back in his deep voice.

Please, dear God, she prayed. Don’t let anything happen to Mac. Please, God, keep him safe.

Her eyes burned again, but she blinked, determined not to let him see her cry. He was right. It was his job, and he wouldn’t be the man she had married, the man she loved, if he didn’t do it. At least he had promised to let someone know what was happening. And Chase was home. Chase wouldn’t let anything happen to his brother.