New Way to Fly (16 page)

“I can't think of anything I'd like more. I sure do need the help, Amanda. And I'll keep that promise I made.”

“Good. In the morning, then? Is ten o'clock all right with you?”

“Sure. Alvin knows it's you on the phone,” Brock reported, his voice warm with laughter. “He's lying here on his back, licking the cord.”

Amanda laughed and hung up, hurrying into her bedroom, shrugging out of her coat as she ran. Her face was alight with happiness, and she was humming as she turned back the covers on her bed, then
went into the kitchen to make herself a mug of hot chocolate.

 

“Y
OU KNOW
,
I don't think I've ever tasted beef stew this delicious,” Amanda said cheerfully a few days later, putting her granny glasses back on and frowning at the kitchen floor plan she was sketching onto graph paper. “Brock, do you think we could find room for a pantry here in the corner if we cut down the size of the cabinet by the fridge?”

Brock wiped his hands on a red gingham towel and moved over to look down at her sketch. “Sure,” he said after a moment's thoughtful consideration. “That's a real good idea, Amanda. I could even build one of those round things in it, you know, the things that turn?” He whirled his hand in the air.

Amanda smiled, setting down her ruler and spooning up the last of the thick dark gravy. “A lazy Susan,” she told him.

“Yeah, that's right.” Brock grinned at her. “So you like my stew?”

“It's wonderful. I'm so full I can hardly move.”

“You and Alvin,” Brock said, indicating the lump who lounged in sated bliss at Amanda's feet. Alvin's round belly protruded alarmingly, his eyes were half-closed and his ears twitched with drowsy contentment.

Amanda smiled up at Brock over her gold-framed
glasses, then bent to pat the sleepy dog. “Alvin and I just happen to enjoy our meals,” she said. “There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Yeah,” Brock said with a grin, lifting plates from the table and carrying them to the sink. “It'll sure be nice to have a built-in dishwasher,” he said wistfully. “I can hardly wait. I'm buying the lumber this week and starting those cabinets right away.”

“When will you be done?” Amanda felt a sudden chill.

Brock frowned. “Well, it's not a real busy time right now. The calves are sold, the bulls are in and the feeder stock is still out on grass, so I should be able to work pretty steady. It's awful slow work, making cabinets. But I think I can probably have it all done, even the windows, by the end of next month.”

Amanda toyed with her pencil and drew a few more lines of shading into the walls on her blueprint. “I wonder if I'll still be here,” she said. “I'd love to see how it turns out.”

He paused by the sink and looked at her sharply. “Are you going away, Amanda?”

She nodded, removing her glasses and looking directly at him. “I'm going back to New York. Edward's offered me the most wonderful job, and I think I'm going to accept.”

“What about your business?”

Amanda shrugged and gripped her pencil in nervous fingers. “It's been so hard, trying to get this business going. I'm really getting tired of it. And it's so…so
scary
all the time. You know what I mean?”

“Life is scary, Amanda,” Brock said quietly, running hot water over the dishes stacked in the sink.

“I thought your business was picking up lately,” he added, his voice casual.

“It is. But it's still so insecure, and this job of Edward's is just terrific. I'd be traveling, seeing the world, meeting exciting famous people, having all kinds of responsibility….”

“And living with him again?” Brock asked in the same offhand tone.

“I lived with him for four years,” Amanda said calmly. “He's familiar to me, Brock. We know each other well, and he feels so…safe.”

“Well, safety is important, I guess. Especially nowadays. I think I'll just leave these dishes to soak,” Brock added abruptly. “I have to drive out and start the pump on the windmill, Amanda. Want to ride along?”

“Is it far?”

“Just a mile or so up the pasture,” Brock said.

“All right. Is Alvin coming?”

At the mention of his name, Alvin lifted his head and opened one eye, then sighed and dropped his muzzle heavily back onto the rug.

“I think Alvin needs to spend a little more time sleeping off his lunch,” Brock said with an attempt at a smile. “Come on, Amanda. You probably won't need your jacket. The sun's real warm today.”

Amanda followed him outside and climbed into the big truck, sniffing pleasurably at the mingled scents of hay, sagebrush and damp earth that drifted in through the open window.

“I can't believe how quickly everything dried up after that heavy rain,” she said, gazing out at the rolling autumn fields as they bumped along a pasture track leading up a hillside covered with tangled mesquite.

“It doesn't take long. This limestone's so porous. Seems like my whole ranch is just one big sponge, sucking up the rain as soon as it falls.”

“It's lovely,” Amanda said. “Do you have hired hands, Brock?” she added, looking over at him curiously. “Anybody who works for you?”

“Not this time of year. I usually hire somebody in the spring when things get real busy. Of course, when I follow through on a few more of my plans, enlarge and diversify my operation, I'm definitely going to need full-time help. Look at the view, Amanda,” he added. “I like to come up here, just to look around.”

Amanda leaned forward, peering at the vista beyond them—a sea of rolling green hills shading to
deep blue, then to misty violet, finally lost in the shrouded distant horizon. “Oh, Brock,” she breathed in wonder, “look how far you can see!”

“Pretty, isn't it?” he said briefly, stopping the truck on the hilltop and getting out to open her door. “The bulls are down by the windmill,” he added, “and that big Brangus can be a mite feisty when he feels like it. I think I'll just leave you up here, and walk down to start the pump.”

“Will you…will you be all right?” she asked anxiously, peering down at the largest of the half dozen bulls in the field, a massive black animal who bellowed and pawed ominously near the fence enclosing the windmill.

“Sure,” Brock said. “Don't worry, girl, I raised that ol' boy from a baby. He knows better than to mess with me.”

Amanda nodded dubiously as Brock reached into the back of the truck and withdrew a couple of soft colorful Navaho saddle blankets, shook them out and spread them on the sun-warmed grass near a stand of oak trees.

“Here, you just relax and enjoy the view,” Brock said. “I'll be right back.”

She watched as he strode off into the sunlight, his tall lean form surrounded with a nimbus of pure gold that made him shimmer and dance before her eyes.

Amanda's heart was in her mouth when he ap
proached the big angry bull. But Brock paused, made an impatient threatening gesture and moved through the gate into the enclosure, leaving the animal backing up and glaring balefully at him through the rails.

She saw Brock's wide shoulders straining near the windmill, heard the rhythmic hum of a motor and the sudden gush and splash of a stream of water at the big trough. The bulls shoved and crowded around the trough, emitting strangled bellows that started low in their heavy throats and turned into shrieks, then sobbed into trembling silence in the rich autumn sunlight.

Amanda relaxed into the softness of the thick blankets, smiling drowsily at the beauty all around her. Something nagged at her memory, something about this sun-warmed hillside, starred with tiny yellow autumn flowers. There was a familiar feeling to this scene, a sense that she'd been here before, enjoyed moments of overwhelming happiness in a setting just like this.

But she couldn't seem to isolate the memory, and she felt too sleepy to try. She closed her eyes in contentment.

“You look so pretty up on this hilltop, Amanda. Just like a little Texas wildflower.”

Amanda opened her eyes at the husky note in Brock's voice. She moved over to make room for him on the blanket. “I don't feel very flowerlike
these days,” she said. “I feel more like a…a weed, or something, Brock. Some poor plant that gets blown all over the place, can't find its proper setting and doesn't really know where or how it should grow.”

“Plants should grow where they do the best,” Brock told her soberly, leaning up on one elbow and looking down at her with a dark intent glance. “Where the light and temperature and soil conditions are just right for them.”

“What if there isn't any such place?”

“There's a right place for every plant,” Brock said firmly. “And every person, if it comes to that. It just takes some looking, that's all.”

“And how do you ever know if you've found it?” Amanda waited for his answer, surprised by how anxious she was to hear his reply.

He lay back with his hands laced behind his head and gazed up at the drifting clouds. “I don't know,” he said finally. “I guess you just feel right, and your roots start to go down deep and strong, and you grow and bear fruit…that's how you know.”

“Do you feel that way? Here on this ranch, do you feel as if you're planted in absolutely the right place?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I feel more at home here than I ever could anywhere else in the world. I really
need this place, Amanda. This air and light and these fields around me…I need them to breathe right.”

“You're so lucky, you know that?” Amanda rolled her head and looked directly at him as they lay side by side in the sunlight. “It must be wonderful to know you're in just the right place.” She paused. “You know, Brock, I don't think I've ever felt that way in my whole life.”

“Oh, girl…” Brock reached out a gentle hand to touch her cheek. “My poor sweet girl,” he whispered in that same husky voice. “Did you ever think maybe you've been looking for happiness in the wrong place all these years?”

She shivered at his touch and tried to dismiss his words and the tumult of feeling they caused in her heart.

She moved closer, nestling against him, so bereft all at once that she was afraid she might burst into tears if he didn't take her in his arms and hold her.

She felt his body grow tense and start to edge away, heard him murmuring in anguish against her hair. “I can't do this, girl. Don't tempt me like this. I promised I wouldn't touch you again.”

Amanda reached over and covered his lips softly with her hand. She leaned up on one elbow, removed her fingers and gazed steadily down into his eyes, then bent to press her mouth to his.

All her repressed passion went into that kiss, all
the lonely nights filled with self-doubts and mounting sexual hunger, all the anguish and despair that came from feeling so lost and without focus.

She pressed her body onto his, poured herself into the fiery sweetness of their kiss with a kind of desperate intensity, hardly conscious that her face was wet with tears.

“Sweetheart,” Brock whispered haltingly against her mouth. “Oh, sweetheart…you feel so good….”

After another endless, blinding kiss, he unbuttoned her shirt and snapped the catch on her bra, then leaned up to kiss her breasts while she moved above him, her tear-streaked face raised to the sunlight, her eyes closed in helpless ecstasy.

She shuddered at the feel of his hands and lips on her bare flesh, the crispness of his dark hair against her breasts, the gentle pressure as he unzipped her slacks and rolled them down over her hips, then ran his hand under the soft elastic of her panties.

“Tell me,” he pleaded in a husky whisper. “Tell me if this isn't what you want, girl. God knows I can't bear to hurt you. You're the most special, wonderful woman in all the world. Tell me what you want.”

Lost in the richness of sensation, Amanda heard nothing of his plea except that he considered her to be special and wonderful. For a fleeting moment part of her mind wondered if Edward had ever considered
her special, but she couldn't seem to hold on to any thoughts of Edward. There was nothing left in her world but sunshine and caressing breezes and the body of this man who lay with her.

“Don't talk,” she whispered urgently into the warm skin of his neck. “Don't talk.”

She reached down to flip the buckle on his tooled leather belt and tugged at his zipper, feeling a rising tide of excitement when she encountered his bulge of maleness.

“Oh, wonderful,” she murmured shamelessly, lost in desire. “Oh, Brock, please. Please…”

But she didn't have to plead with him. Brock, too, had clearly abandoned his reservations and given himself up to sensation, to the tide of feeling that washed and pounded over both of them like a thundering tidal wave.

He stood and stripped off his jeans and shorts rapidly, tossed them away and knelt beside Amanda. “Sweetheart,” he whispered, running his hands over her hips and thighs, trailing his fingers across her abdomen and up to her breasts, teasing the nipples and bending to kiss the pulse at her throat, then her lips, her cheeks and earlobes, her eyelids. “I wish you could see yourself now,” he murmured against her hair. “I wish you could see how you look here in the sunlight.”