Tallchief: The Homecoming (4 page)

Michelle threw a pillow at Silver. “It’s your fault for making country life sound so simple. I could be in my nice penthouse now in Seattle. But oh, no—‘Come see the baby,’ you said. How could I refuse to see Jasmine, the most beautiful and intelligent baby in all the galaxies?”

Silver smiled softly, and when she took away the pillow she’d been hugging against her, two dark, damp spots showed on her blouse. “I love being a wife and mother. I didn’t ever think I’d find peace after my sister passed away, but I did. The legend of the pearls was really true. Una, the Tallchiefs’ Scots ancestor, had to sell her dowry to pay for Tallchief land. The Tallchiefs of Amen Flats lost their parents when the oldest child
was only eighteen, and they decided to reclaim Una’s dowry. A legend is attached to each dowry item. Elizabeth Montclair, an Englishwoman, married Una and Tallchief’s son. His name was Liam, too. Elizabeth left the legend of the pearls…‘If he places them upon her, warmed by his flesh, and gives her a sweet kiss, the pearls will be her undoing.’ They really were my undoing. I found myself here with the Tallchiefs, and if Liam will open his heart, he’ll find peace, too. He just doesn’t know how, yet, and he’s fighting the past, just like I did.”

Her voice was soft now as Michelle came to sit by her. Silver studied her friend. “I want you to have what I’ve found. You’re strained…I can tell by the circles under your eyes, and you’re very pale as if nothing has given you peace for years. I know that haunted look. Before I met Nick, I tried to push away my problems, and bury them with work. You’re running too fast, honey. Slow down and enjoy life here—while you’re here.”

“I’m still at odds with my parents. Mother is pushing me to reconcile with Dad before too much more time passes. That’s not likely to happen. He hasn’t forgiven me for not entering business with him. They were against my divorce, wanting me to stay in a life that neither Oliver nor I wanted. Oliver was like a son to Dad, and all the pretty picture lacked was me—what I wanted. I wanted a career, and they wanted a business wife. Dad and Oliver thought I’d change my mind after the marriage—I had to fight both of them.”

Michelle shrugged. “You’ve done what you wanted—started a top perfume business. I like taking care of peoples’ lives—their retirement, health care, promotions. I’m good at what I do, fitting people into places they belong. I could fit Liam into the Tallchief family, if I wanted.”

“Such confidence. I’d almost bet you on that. Liam
isn’t going to be fitted into anything until he’s ready.” Silver began to fold the diapers in the laundry basket. “You like structure. Liam Tallchief runs on instincts, and he isn’t a man to push, or to let someone else take charge of his life. I was an outsider here once, too, and I recognize that look in Liam.”

“Whatever. I’m not much for legends, even Tallchief lore, though they are romantic. I deal in realities. All of you are letting Liam Tallchief have his way. He can’t keep that beautiful child to himself forever. You said he hasn’t visited any of you.”

“He’s picking his time. One look at him and you just know that he’s been terribly wounded and that he’s just coping the best he can. None of us would take that away from him.”

“I’m not certain that he deserves any courtesies. He’s a very…uncivilized man, but I’m betting I can do the job—fitting him into the Tallchiefs, for his son’s sake, if not for his. I’ll just take your bet and up the ante—he’ll be in that family within two weeks or I’ll do every one of Jasmine’s diapers in the last week I’m here.” Michelle studied the bolt of lightning outside the house. She’d run all her life, pushing for multiple college degrees, for a high salary job, for the perfect wedding, the perfect marriage, a stuffed bank account—Who was she? And where was she going?

Why, out there in the rain, had Liam Tallchief held her as if they were nothing but a man and a woman?

She tried to sleep later, her body exhausted but her mind running on, filled with Liam’s dark, possessive expression, the sudden clench of his body searing hers in the cold summer rain.
Sunlit witch’s silk,
he’d said, haunting her as the storm crashed around the Palladin ranch.

A practical woman, the romantic phrase snared her—
Sunlit witch’s silk.

Then she awoke, cold and sweating, a silent scream locked in her throat. The tender phrase had turned and curled around her like soft ribbons. Then with a hard tug, it flipped to a nightmare and another’s man’s voice and a coarse,
Witch. I’ll get you for this. You should have kept quiet and now you’re going to pay.
From the shadows of the twisted nightmare, the man’s expression was maniacal. Theron Oswald held a knife at her throat and damned her for exposing his past in the employment background check—

Michelle scrubbed her hands over her face, pushing away the lurking nightmare. She’d given the police all the information she could on the man stalking her, and yet he’d eluded them. When her secretary told her of a threatening call from a pay phone, she’d reread Theron’s letter in the wrecker. “I’ll get you for this….”

Michelle shuddered briefly, then she thought of another man—one with a hard face and smoky gray eyes and wild, windswept black hair. She thought of him laughing up at her, challenging her to leap to him from his wrecker. Suddenly, she wasn’t cold anymore, her temper rising as she planned on how to deal with him.

“B
ackground checks. I’m good at them. You failed, Tallchief,” Michelle stated crisply. The rhythmic sound of paper slapped against flesh drew Liam’s eyes up to the long, tanned, bare legs above him. Liam’s palm ached to slide up that smooth length—Only one woman in Amen would wear a diamond ankle chain with her expensive running shoes. The ankle chain matched the simple diamond bracelet on her wrist. Michelle Farrell’s legs looked even more enticing than the night before, sheathed in a wet skirt, torn nylons and one shoe. From the pit beneath the car, where he had been changing oil and installing a new muffler in Lyle Eubank’s old pickup, he watched the high-priced running shoe tap on the service station’s not-so-clean cement floor. Liam glanced at J.T., who was sleeping on his cot, cuddling his favorite toy truck; he didn’t want his son to hear an argument with the woman poking through his past.

Liam usually stopped what he was doing immediately to wait on customers, but the Farrell woman could set him off. He continued to work, tightening the brackets for the new muffler. She could unnerve him, he brooded, and twisted a bolt too tight. He preferred the shadows, not the gleam of rain dancing on warm, soft lips. He knew the shadows, walked in them, except for the moments he enjoyed his son. He couldn’t trust that happy little zing shooting through him when Michelle ignited. In the rain last night those wide green eyes had devoured him, and her delicate fingers had gripped his shoulders. She was stronger than she looked, less fragile in his arms—more a willowy strength that could bend rather than break. That strand of silky, damp hair had locked him in place, tantalizing him; the soft nudge of her breast against his chest and the sight of her curves nestled against him had sent a white-hot jolt down to his lower belly.

He wasn’t a sensual man. He’d loved his wife in a gentle way, careful of hurting her with his greater size. He’d brooded all night, unprepared for the instant, hard slam of lust. Other men spoke of it, but Liam had never experienced the hard rule of his body over his mind—until he’d had Michelle in his arms.

Her hurry-hurry, push-push made him want to slow her down, and there wasn’t one reason he should want to taste those sassy lips, to grip her chin in his hand and take—

He tossed his wrench into the tool kit with his erotic thoughts about Michelle and methodically wiped his hands, taking his time before looking at her. He glanced unwillingly at those long, smooth legs above him and punched the lift button to raise the car on the rack. As it rose, Liam vaulted out of the pit easily and Michelle,
suddenly startled, backed away, her backside hitting his work shelf.

Dressed in an expensive cream T-shirt and khaki shorts, a tiny gold chain around her slender throat, Michelle glared at him and wiped her bottom with her free hand. It came away smudged with grease and she looked at it in disdain. Her other hand held a rolled computer printout like a tightly gripped club. Propped high on top of her head, that fascinating blond hair seemed alive and glowing, shooting off sparks. Tendrils circled her face and spiraled down the back of her neck. The designer sunglasses perched on top of her head remained firmly in place as he suspected Michelle would tolerate nothing less.

Liam fought to suppress a smile as she brushed back a tendril of that fabulous, willful hair and left a dark smudge along her cheek. Clearly Michelle Farrell had never touched grease. A courteous man—as Liam usually was—would have shown her the heavy cleaning soap and given her a towel. This morning, with the Wyoming sun gleaming on his son’s new tricycle outside the garage’s repair bay, Liam didn’t feel like giving her favors.

“An innocent man doesn’t change his name, like you did a year ago,” she launched at him.

She’d been prowling—a woman like her, tied to cellular phones and computers would want answers. He hadn’t expected her determination or interest. Most people took note of his Hands Off signs, but then he hadn’t exactly—The truth slammed into him: he’d locked her body to his, out there in the storm, and he’d wanted to carry her off.

Oil and water, he thought. Class and breeding were elements he didn’t trust. A woman like Michelle was nothing but trouble. Her green eyes narrowed up at him
as she waited. Working for Reuben, Liam hadn’t had time for dating, until Karen in his last year of high school. She was shy and sweet and he’d wanted to protect her. It was a quiet loving and she soothed him, her softness filling the empty hole in his heart.

Michelle Farrell wasn’t shy or sweet and needed no one to protect her. She was spoiled, expensive and highly volatile, and after his reaction to her, he intended to keep his distance.

“I can tow your car to the franchised dealer for repair. I’m not working on it,” he said carefully. He wanted her away from him, from his life. Michelle had dug in; she’d probably ride his backside until the car was repaired, and he didn’t trust himself with her.

Those dark brown eyebrows lifted, her expression imperial. “You’d rather not work on my car. Isn’t that nice…a garage and a mechanic who can choose his customers.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I didn’t say
rather.
I said I’m not.” Liam took his time, preparing his thoughts and washing the heavy grime from his hands. He dried very carefully, aware that Michelle’s grease-stained palm was still hovering, away from that taut curved body—the woman’s body he’d held in his arms last night, an unexpected sensual fever sweeping through him.

He’d wondered then, out there in the raging summer storm, how that soft pale flesh would feel against his darker skin—with nothing but rain between them. Pushing down an uncustomary curse, he slammed a drawer of assorted bolts closed with unnecessary force.

“Why not? Why not work on my car?” Her sharp tone told him that she wanted to take him apart—the lady demanding and expecting her rights. She wouldn’t take less than her due.

“Don’t want to,” he said. He’d skipped the preliminaries, the warranty that would be invalidated if mechanics other than those trained in the high-priced brand worked on the car. He wished he hadn’t turned—with just that jolt of excitement—to see if he could set her off….

“Well. How nice, Mr. Tallchief. I suppose you’ve got a waiting list, preferred customers and all that. You pump gas and order repair parts and once in a while hook your little wrecker and tow in a dead car. I don’t see any exactly special or selective services in any of that. Just why don’t I qualify as a customer?” Her dirty hand slashed the air, the wildly waving strands on the top of her head shimmering in the garage’s shadowy light. The grease mark on her cheek gleamed against golden skin too soft for the scars and calluses of his hands.

“You can buy gas—when you’ve got a car that runs,” he offered, wondering why he was enjoying the sight of this classy woman angry with him.

She glanced at J.T. to find him sleeping, before she tore into Liam, a courtesy he appreciated. She lowered her voice. “You’ve changed your name and your son’s to Tallchief. I want to know why. You were born Liam Cartwright.”

“It’s my business.” He hated the darkness from the past, the bitterness lashing at him. Mary, the woman he’d thought was his mother, had insisted on his name, linking him to his rightful inheritance—and he loved her for giving him that much. The judge who legally changed Liam and J.T.’s name understood his need to give his son more. No one else had a right to his past.

Liam wasn’t ready to explore his past, shifting from one identity to another had been difficult enough. He
knew himself well, and when he was ready, he would open the letters in the chest and face his past.

“No, I’ve made you my business. I won’t let you hurt my friend or the family she loves. The Tallchiefs didn’t question your motives—I do.” The grease-stained hand reached to thrust against his chest, leaving the imprint of her small, graceful hand. Liam studied the black stain of a woman who wasn’t likely to give up easily. He almost admired her, a woman who would fight for those she loved, but he couldn’t have her dragging the past into J.T.’s life.

He crossed his arms and glanced at the ten-speed bicycle propped against the bay’s doorway. “Why don’t you just hop on that thing and leave me alone?”

She stood her ground, long gleaming legs locked on the cement floor. “Two things, Mr. Tallchief. One, I want to know why I don’t qualify as a customer—there are legal recourses, you know. And two, you are going to accept an invitation to the Tallchiefs. You are going to bring your son to Tallchief house for the dinner they are giving in my honor. That’s Friday night. Be there.”

“You’re telling me what to do, and if I don’t cooperate you’re going to give that information in your hand to them, right? That’s blackmail, isn’t it?” Liam inhaled slowly, his usual immense patience stretched by the sensual needs he hadn’t expected…and by another woman—Elspeth Tallchief Petrovna. The Tallchiefs had all visited his gas station in the past six months, but one look at Elspeth’s quiet gray eyes—what did he sense as their gazes met and locked? Why did the hair on his nape lift as big warning lights blazed in his mind?

“Let’s just say I like having my way. You’ve been avoiding the Tallchiefs, and now you can’t. If you’re an imposter, they’ll know. That’s why, isn’t it?” Her smirk
knocked the breath from him, irritated him and entranced him at the same time.

“Do I or my son look like Tallchief imposters?” He didn’t want to enter a conversation with her, but he had and he wasn’t backing up. Liam Tallchief had had enough of threats in his life. Without thinking, Liam captured her wrist, and while she was dealing with that, he tugged her toward the sink, rubbed soap compound into her hand and scrubbed it, shaken by the delicate feel of her fingers within his. He dried her hand briskly with a towel and resented cupping her chin in his hand to scrub clean that smudge on her cheek.

Her skin was just as soft as he suspected, contrasting with his darker skin, running smoothly beneath his calluses and scars. He couldn’t afford the need to stroke that willful silky hair, to grip it in his fists and hold her still as he took that lush mouth, parted in surprise.

He tossed the towel aside, disgusted with his unstable emotions. “Get out,” he said as quietly as he could, not understanding his need to reach out and tug that lean curved body against his. One look down at her T-shirt, which tightened across her breasts as she breathed deeply, caused desire to rake at him.

“Tell me why I don’t qualify as a customer. Give me one good reason. I’ve never been turned down before—for anything. My credit rating is good. I have not written one bad check in my lifetime.” She aimed a narrowed, determined look at him. “You handled me like a child. I resent that. And the next time you decide to haul me after you, you’re going to end up on your back—on the floor.”

The image of her tossing him, a woman much smaller and lighter than himself, caused a smile to flirt within
him. It died when J.T. stirred drowsily on his cot, sitting up to rub his eyes with his small fists.

Liam inhaled roughly. J.T. had heard enough arguments before Reuben passed away. Explaining a sick and dying man’s bitterness to a child wasn’t easy, because Reuben had been selfish and a bully. Liam had kept Reuben from J.T., because the dying man would be left alone, if he struck out at the boy. “It’s all right, J.T. Miss Farrell was just leaving.”

“No, I wasn’t,” she said brightly, and smiled at the little boy. She looked up at Liam, the warmth in her smile dying. “I’d like a date with your son. You’re obviously busy, and I’d like to take him for a walk to look at toys and then to the city park playground. Is that okay with you?” she asked, a challenge ringing in her tone. “I’m not running away with him, and you can check out my character with Silver and Nick if you want.”

J.T. usually kept his distance from strangers, but the toy offer was too delicious. “Daddy, please?” he asked, tugging on the hammer loop sewn into Liam’s carpenter pants.

Michelle was quick to take in the child’s familiar grasp on the denim loop. “I wondered,” she said. “Men around here usually wear jeans.”

“Could be.” Liam hefted J.T. up and held him close for a kiss. Still drowsy, J.T. placed his head on Liam’s shoulder and cuddled to him. “He doesn’t usually take to strangers,” he said, holding his son tighter.

J.T. had given him more than he had taken. A child’s love and trust reminded Liam of Karen—no qualifications, stipulations or rules—just the simplicity of trust and love.

The woman in front of Liam was a fighter and clearly
used to setting terms. “I’ll take very good care of him. We’ll only be gone about an hour, and it’s time.”

It’s time.
Her statement said he’d kept his son too close, protected him too much and that now it was time for him to— “You’ve dug in, haven’t you?” Liam asked, and disliked sharing his son, though the time would come someday.

As if on cue, J.T. squirmed and pushed away from Liam, who placed him on the floor. J.T. slid his hand into Michelle’s free one and stood looking up at his father anxiously. “One hour,” Liam heard himself say, his heart tearing slightly. “Back in time for lunch.”

“I’ll say ‘yes’ and ‘please,’ Daddy,” J.T. said solemnly, and Liam wished for just a moment that his son was a baby again and he could hold him close and protect him—

Michelle lifted her finger to tip her sunglasses down from the top of her head. They landed neatly on her nose; the gesture was perfected, the silver lenses gleaming up at Liam. She tossed the computer printout of his life onto the work table. “I can always get another copy. See you later, pops,” she said with a flashing victorious grin that caused his heart to flip-flop.

“You didn’t blackmail me into this,” he stated evenly, setting up his defenses.

“No. You’re a pushover when it comes to J.T., and he wants to go. But don’t try me on the Tallchief matter. I intend to win.”

“You’re not playing the do-gooder in our lives. Get that straight.”

“If I want to do good, Tallchief, I’ll do it with this little man.” She rubbed J.T.’s glossy hair. “Ready, champ?”

As Liam watched her walk away, the grease mark on
her soft bottom swaying gently, he wondered what had happened. Usually solemn, J.T. was chattering away and showing off his toy truck, and her delighted laughter floated back to Liam. The ache in his heart was for his son, no longer a baby and needing friends. But Liam didn’t know how to provide that for J.T., how to blend him with other children, because he’d missed that experience in his own boyhood—