Aspen Gold (48 page)

He was equally quick to pull the lace bra down around her waist without bothering to unfasten its hook, but the instant his hands touched the bareness of her breasts, their impatience was gone. Teasingly, tantalizingly, he rubbed the centers of his palms over the tips of her nipples. She pushed his jacket open, then pulled at the front of his shirt, ripping the snaps apart and sliding her hands inside to rake her nails across the muscled flatness of his chest.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he inhaled sharply, his hands closing on her breasts as she'd wanted them to do, then staying to fondle and pluck, stroke and incite, while she ran her lips over his chest.

She could feel his heart, almost taste it, as its beat grew quick and heavy against her lips.

His right hand traveled down her stomach to the waistband of her ski pants, getting rid of the bra along the way. She felt them give. His hand slid onto her hipbone, onto her belly, into the pale curls of her mound, and her knees buckled. His arm was there to catch her as he turned and lowered her to the cot.

But he didn't follow her down. Instead, he rocked back, shrugged out of his jacket and shirt and grabbed hold of her ski boot, tugging first the right one off, then the left. Then he gripped the hem of her ski pants and pulled. The material caught at her hips and his tugging lifted her bottom off the cot. Kit squealed with laughter as he shook her out of her pants and dumped her onto the soft afghan.

"That was rude and unromantic," she declared with feigned indignation, wiggling out of her panties as Bannon pulled off his own boots.

"It got the job done, didn't it?" he challenged, an impish glint in his eyes as he peeled off his pants and jockey shorts. He sank onto the cot beside her, his hand gliding onto her body, his expression growing serious, his eyes languid. "Besides--with you, I don't need a striptease to turn me on. Being near you is enough. It always will be."

"For me, too," she whispered. "Always."

He found her mouth and dived into it. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled him onto her, wanting him, needing him, loving him with a completeness that had her burning and shivering at the same time. She lifted her hips, inviting and meeting the mating plunge of his. When their passion shattered, then reformed, they were still wrapped together.

After a time, he kissed her hair. "I think the stove went out."

"I think you're right." She snuggled more closely against him, ignoring the chill.

He chuckled, his chest rumbling with the sound.

"Come on. We'd better get dressed and start back."

Kit sighed because she knew he was right, and reluctantly sat up. Without the heat of his body, the room's full chill danced over her skin. She needed no second urging to don her clothes.

Sondra swung the midnight blue Range Rover into the ranch yard. As Aspen-chic as the vehicle was, she loathed driving it. She much preferred the sleek luxury of her Mercedes.

But the weather and the roads in the mountains dictated otherwise in the winter.

Pulling up in front of the massive log house, she stole a glance at the dashboard clock. Her timing should be perfect. Laura wouldn't be home from school for another hour at least. Old Tom could be a problem, but he usually made himself scarce whenever she came.

She stepped out of the Range Rover and paused to scan the ranch yard. All was quiet, no sign of activity. She spotted Bannon's pickup, confirming the information she'd obtained from Agnes that he was spending the day at the ranch.

Salt crystals crunched underfoot as she climbed the stone steps to the porch. Her glance ran over the stout logs, weathered to a dark color over time. She could well understand why Diana had loathed this house. There was only so much rustic anyone could stand day after day.

Not bothering to knock, Sondra walked in.

"Hello? Anyone home?" she called in a mild, questioning voice.

The thud of feet hitting the floor drew her glance to a corner of the living room as Old Tom levered himself out of a leather chair that looked as old and faded as he did.

"Sondra." He rubbed his face like a man just waking up and crossed the room at a stiff-jointed walk. "I didn't hear you knock."

"I'm sorry if I disturbed you, Tom. I came to see Bannon."

"He isn't here."

"His truck is here. Is he with the cattle?" She half turned back toward the door. "It's important I talk to him."

"Nope. He and Kit went skiing."

She went still, the light flaring of her nostrils the only hint of the rage that swept through her at the mere mention of that name. Slowly, she turned back. "Kit Masters?" Her voice dripped ice.

"Yup. If you ask me, it's about time those two got back together again." He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. If he'd been wearing suspenders he would have snapped them, so blatant was the delight he took in telling her that.

Kit and Bannon. Back together. No. He was lying. She didn't believe him. Old Tom hated her. He'd always hated her. He'd say anything to hurt her. Two could play at that game.

"You said you needed to see Bannon about something important?"

"Yes. He's been talking to me about selling the ranch," she replied smoothly and nearly smiled when she saw the mottling in his face.

"That's a lie!"

"Why? Because he hasn't said anything to you about it?" she mocked.

"Bannon would never sell Stone Creek,"

he stated emphatically.

"Not while you're alive, he won't,"

Sondra said with sudden and absolute conviction.

"You're the only thing that's stopping him. You and all your talk about your precious land. You've bound him and gagged him with it until he's sick of it."

"That's not true," he shouted. "Bannon loves this land as much as I do."

"You don't believe that, do you?" She lashed out, not bothering to hide the contempt she felt. "You stupid old man. He hates this place. He hates this drafty old house. He always has."

The sight of his face growing redder and redder spurred her on. "He can hardly wait until you're dead and gone so he can sell it and move into town. He wants to practice law, not chase a bunch of stupid cattle around. That's what he's always wanted."

"You scheming, two-faced little--" He broke it off, his voice vibrating like the rest of him.

"Out! Get out of my house!"

"Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you, Old Tom?

You'd like it even better if I got out of Bannon's life, wouldn't you? You've always hated me. You've tried over and over to poison Bannon against me. But it hasn't worked, has it? It will never work. Because it's you he hates. You and this ranch, this stupid land!"

"Out! Out of my house, I tell you!"

Purpling, he took a threatening step toward her and thrust out a big hand, pointing to the door, shaking like a giant timber. "Get out of my house before I throw you out! I--" He gasped suddenly, his mouth and his eyes opening wide as he staggered, clutching a hand to his chest.

She saw the glazing of pain in his eyes and moved in. "Can't your heart take the truth?

Is it giving out, Old Tom? Are you finally going to die? We've been waiting for it. Waiting so we can sell this place."

He staggered away from her, the sound of his breathing a horrible rasp. She realized he was trying to get to the phone. She made it to the table ahead of him and snatched it out of his reach. His legs buckled out from under him and he crumbled to the floor.

Sondra sat down in a chair and watched him until there was no more movement. One minute.

Five minutes. She didn't know.

At last she went over to him and crouched down, touching his neck and feeling for a pulse. Nothing.

She smiled.

The front door opened. Whirling to face it, she stood up, briefly panicking. But it wasn't Bannon. It was one of the ranch hands.

He stood motionless for an instant, staring at Sondra and the body of Old Tom on the floor beside her.

"I found him lying on the floor," she said hurriedly. "I think he's had a heart attack. I can't find a pulse."

"Hank!" The cowboy shouted at somebody outside, then swiftly crossed to the old man.

"Call an ambulance," he told Sondra.

She went to the phone and dialed the emergency number. As it rang the first time, the second cowboy burst into the house.

"Get your rifle and signal Bannon," the first one ordered. "It's Old Tom."

"Shit," the man cursed as he wheeled and went back out.

Sondra watched the first cowboy open Old Tom's shirt and start CPR. A voice came on the line. "Yes, this is Sondra Hudson.

I'm at Stone Creek Ranch. The Bannon place. It's Tom Bannon. We think he's had a heart attack. We found him lying on the floor. Send an ambulance right away."

He was dead. She was sure he was dead.

A rifle cracked once, twice, three times, the loud report of it reverberating across the mountain valley.

The rifle shots, then later the wail of an ambulance siren--a thousand thoughts raced through Bannon's mind as he slithered and twisted through the trees, making a mad dash for home, with Kit right behind him. But only one surfaced when he glimpsed the ambulance parked at the house, not by the barns or corrals. His father.

When he broke out of the trees onto the level ground of the valley floor, Hank Gibbs roared out with the stock truck to meet him. Bannon threw their skis and poles in the back, pushed Kit into the cab, and climbed in after her.

"It's Old Tom, Bannon." Hank took off without waiting for him to get the door shut.

"What happened? How bad is it?" He hated the question; he hated saying it; he didn't want to hear the answer. He'd always known this day would come. His father was old; he couldn't live forever.

He thought he'd prepared himself for this. He hadn't. You can't prepare for death, not your own or your loved ones'.

"It's bad. Your sister-in-law found him on the living-room floor. Somebody said there wasn't no pulse. When I saw you coming and left to get you, them ambulance guys had zapped him, but ... I don't know."

Jaws clenched tight in silent protest, Bannon said nothing.

The truck pulled into the yard. Bannon was out of it before it came to a full stop. Sondra rushed toward him.

"Bannon. Thank God, you're here--"

He brushed past her, not really seeing or hearing her. His eyes were on the front door.

Then Hec Rawlins was in his path, blocking him.

"They're bringing him out, Bannon." The front door opened, confirming his statement. He saw the ambulance medics in jacket-covered whites, the gurney, a body on it.

"Is ... is he alive?" He had to push the question out.

The affirming nod was hesitant. "They want to get him to the hospital where the doctors can work on him." Hec paused, then added, "That old man's tough, Bannon. As tough as they come.

If anyone can make it, he can."

They had the gurney down the steps. As they rolled it quickly toward the ambulance, Bannon fell in beside it, keeping pace, his gaze riveted on his father's face, seeing the closed eyes, the strange pallor beneath that seared and weathered skin, the slack muscles, the oxygen mask over the nose and mouth--the shell.

"Dad." It was a choked sound, barely audible.

When they reached the ambulance, Bannon stepped back, out of the way. A hand pressed on his arm, demanding his attention.

"Ride with me, Bannon," Sondra urged.

"We'll be at the hospital when they get there."

He shook his head. "I'm riding with Dad."

"Then I'll meet you there."

"No." He turned, some rational part of his mind finally working again, forcing back all the feelings that crowded him. "Laura. Pick Laura up from school. Take her home with you. I'll call as soon as I know anything."

"But you'll need someone with you," she protested.

"Laura will need you more."

"I'll bring her to the hospit--"

"No, I don't want to put her through that.

Take her home. You got that?" he demanded harshly.

She drew her head back, her expression stiff. "Yes. I'll take her home."

They had his father loaded in the ambulance.

Bannon scrambled in after them.

"Sorry," the medic said to someone behind him.

"There's only room for one."

Thinking it was Sondra, Bannon looked back and saw Kit.

"I'll bring the truck," she told him as the ambulance doors closed.

Agitated, anxious, Sondra paced from the telephone in the darkened living room to the expanse of glass that gave her a view of the driveway of her Red Mountain house. Darkness.

Nothing but darkness. No flash of headlights to indicate a vehicle traveling over the twisting, climbing road to her house. There was only the sprawl of Aspen's lights and the enamel black of the sky overhead aglitter with stars.

Where was he? Why didn't Bannon come?

Arms crossed, fingers digging into her flesh, she pivoted and walked back to the phone, staring at it, willing it to ring. Silence. She turned sharply and stopped.

Three hours. It had been three hours since Bannon had called. To tell her what? That there had been no change, no improvement, and--no, his father hadn't regained consciousness.

But what if he did? What if he talked?

What if he told Bannon the things she'd said?

If she was there, she could convince Bannon not to listen to his crazy ramblings, she could convince him he had her mixed up with Diana.

But Kit was there instead. She'd make Bannon believe anything that stupid old man said. She had to be stopped. That old bastard had to die before he ruined everything.

"Emily. Emily!" She swept through the darkened room toward the kitchen and the maid's quarters beyond it.

Sondra reached the kitchen as the Englishwoman walked out of her room, hurriedly tying the sash to her house robe. "Yes, mum. What is it?"

"I'm going to the hospital. Laura is in her room asleep. Listen for her in case she wakes up."

"Yes, mum."

As Sondra turned to leave, the phone rang.

She grabbed the kitchen extension before it could ring a second time. "Hello?" she said expectantly, a tension knotting through her nerves.