Reckless Promise (8 page)

But she either had to spend the rest of the
day in bed or get out of Dodge before anyone saw her. She decided
to stop in the kitchen for some sandwiches and then hike up into
the hills. No one would be able to find her. She'd stay out of
sight until she knew Tom was around, and this evening she'd stay so
busy with him that she couldn't get into trouble with Mac.

Chickie approved a hike and zoomed around the
big kitchen, efficiently slapping together sandwiches, cookies, and
a couple of sodas while her mouth went nine miles to the minute.
"Good idea, honey," she told Poppy. "Get a little time for
yourself. Get used to the country. Never could understand why folks
come all the way out here and then spend all their time in each
other's pockets. Might as well stay in the Motel Six in their
hometowns, some of them. You're a smart one, all right. Why, I
could tell that you were goin' to take to this ranch like..."

Poppy grabbed her lunch and headed for the
hills.

She climbed along a little stream, swearing
breathlessly when she had to scramble over boulders or unhitch
thorny fingers of some scrawny bush from her shirt. She couldn't
imagine why someone hadn't paved a little path along here. Boston
Common was much more civilized.

In the shade of a pine, she stopped to catch
her breath and saw that she'd climbed high enough to have a
bird's-eye view of the ranch. A big bird—a hawk?—circled endlessly
over one of the pastures, soaring on the breeze that murmured
through the pines and brought a welcome touch of coolness. She put
out a hand and leaned against the rough, pineapple-smelling bark of
the tree. Maybe, just maybe, she could learn to like Montana after
all.

The sun stood high overhead by the time she
reached a curve in the stream and found a sheltered pool of smooth
green water surrounded by boulders. Sweat dripped from her temples
and ran down her backbone and between her breasts. Right now,
nothing in the world could be more enticing than the prospect of
that cool water embracing her hot, sticky body. She didn't see
anything but trees and rocks, didn't hear anything except birds and
the burble of water over stone. A delicious sense of naughtiness
possessed her. And this time it wouldn't get her into trouble.

Without another second of hesitation, she
stripped off her sweat-soaked shirt, pulled off her boots, the hot,
heavy jeans, and her underwear. After spreading the clothes out on
a rock to dry, she plunged into the sparkling water.

The shock hit her skin like blades of ice.
She surfaced, gasping for breath, and struck out across the pool.
By the time she reached the other side, the water felt glorious.
She ducked under again, stroking smoothly underwater amidst the
sparkles of sunlight that glittered around her like crystal, and
swooshing up into the warm air like a sleek water creature.

The cool, silky water against every
millimeter of her skin, the absolute freedom of being here, being
alive, being naked in this wilderness...yes! She'd never been so
alive.

On the heels of that insight, she realized
she was freezing. She pulled herself up onto a sun-warmed rock and
stretched out, trying to soak up as much heat as possible. The sun
touched her, all of her, with the gentleness of a lover. Touched
places that had never seen the sun, much less a lover's hand. She
snorted. Neither of her two fumbling attempts to decipher the
mysteries of man-and-woman had been half as exciting as this.

Surely sex had to be better than what she'd
experienced. Poppy's eyelashes fluttered against the sun, the
weight of its light and heat pressing on her skin, bringing every
nerve alive in a way that she'd never felt before. Surely a lover
should make a woman feel like this, the way she did in dreams.

Languidly she rolled her shoulders up and
back, and felt the weight of her breasts following the movement.
The fingers of sunlight brushed her eyelids, her breasts, brushed
her nipples, until they stood upright and demanding. She lay back,
the sun hot on her skin, and trailed her fingers down her sides,
arching upward to the almost physical touch of sun beating on her
breasts, her stomach, her thighs.

Light as down, her fingers followed the sun
on her body down her sides, along her legs. She let her hands fall
limp and relaxed against the warmed stone. Sunlight feathered
across the ardently red curls that foamed between her thighs like a
torch, each hair quivering beneath the caress. Her whole being
pulsed upward.

* * *

Mac pulled his horse to a skidding stop and
stared down the hill and across the stream. Holy Christmas in a
bucket. That was Poppy, stark naked on a rock, stretched out like
an offering to the gods right out where anyone could see her.

He certainly
could...see...every...inch...of...her and he gaped like a teenager
witnessing his first woman.

Desire slammed through him like a charging
bull, and his blood surged into an instant erection so fast it left
him light headed and dizzy. He gulped air as if he'd run ten
miles.

He had to get his hands on her.

Without consciously willing the movements, he
lifted the reins and nudged the horse into a walk, imagining how it
would be to cross the stream, icy water splashing up from the
horse's hooves, his gaze fixed on Poppy, waiting there for him.
He'd step down from the saddle, be up on that rock beside her in
two strides, have all that creamy, tantalizing woman under him—

Before the horse had taken half a dozen
steps, high, happy voices drifted up the canyon and she leaped for
her clothes. He stopped under a tall pine just as a flicker of
movement up the hill to the right caught his eye. Without moving,
he swept his gaze across the hill just in time to catch the flash
of light from a pair of binoculars. He focused on the shadowy
figure and recognized the horse. Pulled his own field glasses out
of a saddlebag and looked to be sure. Yep. The same horse he'd seen
Brad Farwell ride out on this morning. Brad Farwell, with his eyes
practically falling out of his head as he watched Poppy scramble
into her clothes.

The image of Poppy sprawled on that rock
haunted Mac for the rest of the day. While he unsaddled and curried
his horse, while he went over bills, with each stroke of
paint-loaded brush over the new tool shed, she filled his mind.
Hell, that image would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He worried some over what to do about Brad,
but he couldn't blame the kid. Mac might be ten years older and
about a million years wiser but he sure hadn't turned away when
he'd seen her on that rock. So as long as the dumb ass didn't act
on what Mac one-hundred-per-cent knew he felt, everything would be
fine. But now Mac had one more reason to stick close to her. He'd
be her bodyguard as long as Brad was around. Tough job, but he
could do it. He didn't even try to stop the smile.

Poppy didn't come swinging down the hill
until nearly suppertime. She disappeared into her cabin and Mac
dumped the paintbrush and went after her. But when he reached
Poppy's cabin, there stood Tom, leaning in the doorway. Again. The
sight of him reminded Mac that they'd never had that little
talk.

He wanted, he needed an innocent explanation
for Tom's presence, so he could concentrate on Poppy. But you
couldn't always get what you wanted. Besides Poppy, he wanted
Alice’s happiness, but it looked like his sister's husband might be
about to jump the fence.

"Hey, you guys." That sounded casual enough.
"What's up?"

"Uh, Poppy saw a mouse in her cabin," Tom
said. "I'm going to set a trap."

Right. He believed that. But if the excuse
worked for Tom, it would work even better for him. "I can do that.
I'll walk up with you and get it right now, in fact. If you're all
done here." He all but shouldered Tom off the porch. "Back in a
minute," he said over his shoulder, and hauled Tom up the path.

"After dinner," she called after him. "I'm
starving. It's been a busy day."

She sure had been busy, what with taking off
her clothes and all. He set a scorching pace up the path, too mad
at Tom for getting between him and his thoughts of Poppy to
talk.

"Mind telling me what's got your tail in such
a twist?" Tom said.

Mac's anger fizzed up and he swung around to
block the path. "You stupid so-and-so."

"Possibly. But it's not illegal, and you've
never objected before."

"Cute. Real cute. I'm talking about Poppy,
you miserable jerk. Poppy, who is so not your wife."

"Well, I know that."

"Since when do you hit on paying guests?"

"I'm not."

"Get real. I've seen you."

"You don't understand."

"I understand you've got Alice tied in knots
and—"

"And she went running to Big Brother to keep
me in line." Tom grimaced. "Perfect. Just perfect." He socked one
fist into the other hand. "Butt out, MacLean. Butt the hell
out."

"I'm not going to stand by and watch
you—"

"You're going to stand by and watch me do
whatever I do. Alice may be your sister, but she's my wife, and
what's between us is private. Even from you. Even if my dear wife
goes whining to you. Although God knows what she's got to whine
about—" He broke off and pushed past Mac, his great plunging
strides eating the distance and anger hovering over him in an
almost visible haze.

Well, shoot. That hadn't gone according to
plan. Mac rubbed a hand across his face and trudged toward the
house to suggest once more that Alice deal with this problem
herself.

Much as he hated to admit it, Tom had a
point.

He forced himself to face Alice on the way to
the dining room and gave her a carefully edited version of his
encounter with Tom. When her face went white, he put an arm around
her. "He's right, you know. It's not my business. The two of you
have to work this out."

"I know." She blinked away tears. "I know
it's not her fault, either. It's my fault." Her face contorted and
she bolted from the room, leaving him wondering what had happened
to his calm, sensible sister.

He went in to the dining room prepared for
her absence, and for Tom's, or for anything from frosty politeness
to open warfare if they both showed up. To his surprise, Alice
apparently had chosen to believe the mouse story. And hell, maybe
it was even the truth.

Choosing to believe it sounded like a good
way to go.

He let his mind fill with Poppy. The way
she'd looked on that rock swam through his mind for the ten
thousandth time since that afternoon, and his heart rate bumped
up.

After dinner, Tom caught his eye and gestured
toward the office. Resigned to more emotional scenes, he
followed.

"Owe you an apology," Tom said. "Should have
known Alice didn't go running to you. She's a little sensitive
about Poppy. Damned if I know why." The lie hovered in his eyes and
he shifted his gaze to the corner of the desk.

A guilty look if Mac had ever seen one. "I'd
say that the way you look at Poppy gives her some reason."

"Her own fault."

He sighed and wished it were easier to tell
where helping stopped and meddling began. "I can't stand by and let
you hurt Alice," he said.

"Any hurt that's getting dealt, I'm not the
dealer. Your sister—"

"Maybe you didn't start it, but you're giving
back some pretty heavy stuff. Like the way you looked at Poppy when
you met. And the way you keep cozying up to her. I'd say maybe
you're just escalating things."

"Yeah, well, that's the way it's going to be
until Alice—"

Mac waited, but Tom didn't continue. "Not my
business, right?"

Tom walked across the room and paused in the
doorway. "Right," he said, and left.

So much for discussion. Mac stared out the
window at the mountains purpling with the end of the day. Part of
him agreed with Tom—someone else's marriage wasn't any of his
business. Except he'd been taking care of Alice too long to stop
now.

When he reached the Great Room, Tom stood
talking to—surprise, surprise—Poppy. Mac walked up in time to hear
her ask, "About that mousetrap—"

She stood much closer to Tom than Mac
considered necessary. The innocuous words were at odds with the way
she put a hand on Tom's arm and tilted her head to look up at him.
Tom covered it with his and smiled down at her. Out of the corner
of his eye Mac saw scarlet stain Alice's cheekbones. From where she
watched, it had to look like Poppy hitting on Tom, but from right
beside them, Mac got a great big nothing. No tension, no pulsating,
no yearning, nothing.

"I said I'd take care of the mouse." He edged
between Tom and Poppy. "I assumed it wouldn't be out of line to
have dinner first. Or was that just an excuse to get rid of
me?"

Poppy stepped back, preventing an undignified
shoving match. She ignored his question. "It's only a tiny mouse.
If Tom sets the trap tomorrow, that'll be fine."

"You have some reason for not wanting me to
do it?" Even he could hear the dangerous edge to his voice.

Poppy and Tom glanced at each other, and his
scalp tightened at this sign of closeness between them.

"Sure, Mac, go ahead," Tom said.

At the same time Poppy said, "Why don't you
do it now?"

"Fine." He stalked from the room. A fast walk
to the tool shed for the traps might cool his temper enough that he
didn't punch his brother-in-law or wring Poppy's flirty little
neck.

He came back through the kitchen to grab some
peanut butter for bait and went back to get her. If she thought
she'd send him off to do handyman work while she popped corn with
Tom, she had another think coming.

His gaze homed in on her, like a compass
seeking true north. She perched on the arm of a chair, talking to a
kid, little Mikey Hamilton, and his mother. Tom had vanished. Mac
marched across the room. "Ready?"