The Art of Love (The Windswept Saga) (34 page)

“Okay,” she replied, upping the ante.  “Fastest two
circuits there and back—no heads starts.  I want it to be a fair fight.”

“Deal,” he said, shaking her hand.  The sensation of their fingers clasping bordered on overstimulation on that point, but she couldn’t focus on that right now.  She had a race to
win.

Taylor drifted back to the present day,
glancing around the spacious interior of the truck.  Mark and Christa were in the front, with Matt snoozing happily in his secured safety seat.  His nose and lips fluttered intermittently, the only clue to what might have been going on in his small mind.  She and Chandler were in the back, with Max safeguarded in his own seat between the two of them.  He’d fallen asleep, too, a hardboard picture book resting in his lap.  The two men were discussing something about cattle and cutting enough hay to last through the winter.  Christa didn’t participate in the conversation—she kept a watchful eye on her two sons but otherwise remained quiet.

She stared out the side glass.  It was nearly summer, each day lengthening unt
il they reached the solstice.  It would still be light outside when they reached the lake, the house undoubtedly shadowed in the last vestiges of the sun’s glow.  All of her memories up there had been good ones, and she hoped history would repeat itself this weekend.

Mark’s voice startled her.  “Taylor, remember the last time we were all up here?”

“I do,” she said emphatically.  How could he have known what was bouncing around inside her mind?

“You beat Chandler across the lake and he pouted for a week.”

“I’ve never pouted in my life,” Chandler said, his contradiction gentle.  Christa scoffed wordlessly.  “I got a cramp that day.  I should’ve stretched before I dove headfirst into the water.”  His eyes met Taylor’s.  “At any rate, there was never another person I enjoyed
swimming
with more than you.”

“Pardon us while we gag,” Mark joked.  He and Christa stuck fingers in their mouths but refrained from the accompanying noise.
  Brief laughter then spilled out between the four of them, kept purposefully quiet for the kids’ sake.

They arrived at the house, with plenty of light still left outside.  Chandler and Mark carried the luggage inside without
hesitation, while Taylor volunteered to carry Max upstairs.  Christa accepted gratefully and Taylor followed her up to the nursery.  She nestled both children into their blankets and kissed them before she proceeded to unpack their clothes.

“Thank you again for your help,” she said, refolding impossibly small shirts and placing them in a drawer.  “I can manage both of
them—luckily I have strong arms—but it’s nice to have a helping hand.”

“Of course,” Taylor said, wishing she could bottle Christa’s unflappable poise and use some of it on herself.  “Could I ask you a personal question?”

“You can.”

“Are you sure?”

Christa smiled and nodded.  “Absolutely.  Anything is fair game.”

Taylor exhaled a cleansing breath and spoke in a hushed tone.  “Did you pack a bathing suit?”

Her face softened in relief.  “Is that it?”  She smiled warmly.  “I did pack a bathing suit, but I may not have the chance to wear it.  What about you?”

“I did,” she confirmed, “and Chandler has seen me in—and out—of it already.  I don’t know.  I mean, are you ever uncomfortable about your body, having gone through childbirth?”

“Daily.  But,” she continued in a lower voice, “Mark absolutely thinks I look better now than I did before the kids were born.  Go figure.  It may have something to do with him planting the proverbial seed; anyway, he never misses a chance to tell me I’m beautiful.”  She gave Taylor a look of concern.  “Is it hard for you, thinking of yourself as a mother but not having your child with you?  It must be wrenching at times.”

Taylor nodded solemnly.  “It’s just a thing,” she said.  “It’s part of the fabric of
my life.  I have the photos and mementos, the memories, the physical proof that he altered my body, but I don’t have him.  I’ve enjoyed being around your kids, though, and Alison’s—it reminded me of what I loved about being a mother.  It makes me want to try again.”   

Christa’s eyes
widened.  “Oh.  I guess I’ll have to keep up the hints.”

“Hints?”

She blushed, undoubtedly embarrassed by her slip.  “I’ve been telling Chandler, whenever we have an extra second of sibling time, that he should take the next step.”

Taylor bristled at the i
nsinuation.  “Don’t pressure him.  I know he’s committed to me.”

“That’s the strange dichotomy of Chandler,” Christa surmised, reaching to adjust Matt’s blanket with an indescribably small movement of her fingers.  “Of the three of us, he’s the most level-
headed and practical.  Physically he can do anything—Dad taught him how to do everything from delivering a calf to breaking a horse, and he took to it like a duck to water.”  She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.  “And yet he’s also the most emotional.  CJ loves to whoop and holler, and I’ve been known to cry from time to time.  Chandler, though—he feels everything to the bone,” she finished, her voice taking on a worried tone.  “I think you have both the patience and the resilience to love him.  He can be a hard case at times.”

“So can I,” Taylor admitted
with a shrug.  Christa nodded understandingly.

“Are you ready to eat?”

“I am.  Is Mark cooking?”

“No,” Christa reassured her, “and you should count yourself lucky.  He was born to do a lot of things, and do
them well, but that’s not one of them.”

***
      

Taylor turned her head to the side and laid it atop his chest.  She felt the rhythmic beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest, beneath the hard delineation of muscle.  His fingers plaited
her hair, the tips brushing her neck and back.  She trembled at the slightest touch, the nearness of him.

“I’m a little embarrassed,” she said in a soft voice.

He chuckled, the sound echoing through his ribcage and into her ear.  “Why?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

“Well, we just made love in a house full of people.”

His fingertips danced along her spine, sending a frisson of heat through each of them.  “Believe me, Mark and Christa were doing the exact same thing at the other end of the hallway.  This place has that effect on people—makes them want to get romantic.”

She smiled at his understat
ement and turned her head in the opposite direction.  Through the panes of the French doors, past the deck, she could see the sliver of moonlight reflected on the lake, its water black as obsidian around the white fragment.  The water was still and immobile, as though it had been turned into a solid surface.  He was right, as usual—this place was full of magic.  She turned her face toward him and placed a kiss atop his chest.  She found his eyes in the darkness, noticed them upturned in the corners—he was smiling.

“You’re always right, you
know,” she said sardonically. 

“It’s my second-best quality,” he jested.

She leaned her face above his, eye-to-eye now.  “What’s number one?”  His mouth pressed to hers, his lips fueled with ardor, was all the answer she needed.

***

Around noon the next day, Chandler and Mark were sunning themselves on the end of the dock, Max seated quietly between them.  The conversation was sparse—mainly father and son skipping stones while Chandler watched the water ripple, observed the leaves shimmering in sunlight, or listened for the occasional call of an animal.

Fresh out of pebbles,
Mark leaned back on his elbows, the skin protected from the weathered wood by a thick towel.  “This is the most relaxed I have been since—well, since I can’t remember.”  He reached up to tousle Max’s hair.  “What about you, cowboy?  You like being up at the lake?”  He nodded briskly.  “Next time we’ll bring some fishing poles.”

“Uncle Chandler, do you know how to fish?”  His gaze swiveled away from the lake and he found Max looking up at him expectantly. 

“Sure do, champ.  Learned when I was just about your age—me and your dad both did.  Every man’s gotta learn how to bait a hook.”

“I’ve been teaching him how to cinch up his saddle,” Mark said in an affectionate tone.  His thumb brushed an imaginary speck of dust away from his bare stomach.  “He’s pretty da—, darn good at it,” Mark self-corrected. 
His eyes travelled to the glass doors at the back of the house, where Christa stood waiting.  “Looks like your mom wants you for lunch, chief.  You ready to eat?”

“I’m hungry, Daddy!” he responded, drawing laughter from his father and uncle. 

“Okay, then,” he said with a warm smile.  He helped Max to his feet.  “Head on up the dock slow now,” he cautioned.  “Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Daddy.”  Max moved leisurely up the dock, taking deliberate steps, and Mark’s eyes never left him until he was safely ensconced in the
house.  When his eyes met Chandler’s, they shared a meaningful look.  Mark looked away quickly, his mouth twitching in discomfiture.

“I hope I’m that good with my kids someday,” Chandler said hopefully.  “Someday,” he repeated.

Mark glanced around again, made sure no one was within earshot.  He returned his gaze to the water and exhaled a loud breath.  “So you looked at the ring, put it on hold, even dragged me down there to have a look at it.  Are you any closer to buying it?”

“Maybe.”  He felt
warmth—either from the sun’s glare or Mark’s wary eyes.  Perhaps both.

“That’s a nice, noncommittal answer,” Mark said in an easy drawl.  “My feelings toward Max didn’t come easy—you know that better
than anybody.  Things in life have always come easily to you—school, ranching, art, too many other talents to list.  You’re a great brother, son, and friend.  Your main hang-up has been in the love department.  You’ve struggled to give your heart away, because when you do, you want it to be for the long haul.”

“I’m an amateur at romance,” he surmised.  “I suck at it.”

“Would you like a handkerchief?” Mark offered in a sarcastic tone.  “Wait a minute, I forgot to stuff one in my trunks.”  He smiled sharply.  “Sending a woman flowers, taking her for a horseback ride, bringing her up to the lake—all horrible things.  We’ll stone you later, bud.”

“Point taken.”  Chandler listened to the wind rustle through the cottonwood leaves.
  “Sometimes I exaggerate my problems.”

“This is how we know you’re human, Chandler.  The
fact that love makes you just as nervous as the rest of us.  Do you know that there are still times I look at your sister and have no earthly idea what to say to her?  We have two kids, man, and she still makes my palms sweat and my mouth go dry.”

Chandler
found himself taken aback by Mark’s candor, which was odd—he couldn’t think of any secrets he’d ever kept from Mark, although there were certain boundaries within their friendship.   “That’s how you know, huh?”

“Hmm?” Mark asked with a smile.

“That you’re in love.”

He nodded.  “Yeah, Chandler.  That’s definitely one way you know.”  They settled into silence for a few minutes, listening for the sounds of a chirping bird or a fish splashing around in the water.  Their quiet peace was
upended when Taylor made her way out of the house and down the dock, a sarong tied around the lower half of her bathing suit.

“Mark,” she asked unexpectedly, “would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with my boyfriend?”

“Not at all, ma’am.”  He got to his feet and stretched out his arm muscles.  “I have a beautiful wife waiting on me to come in and eat lunch.  I’ll see you two lovebirds later.”

Taylor slid in behind Chandler, wrapping both arms around his shoulders.  The warmth of his skin trickled into her
, filling her veins with heat.  “I missed you,” she said after a silent minute.

Her breath was hot on the back of his neck.  “Same here,” he answered.  “Did you have fun with the kids?”

She laughed agreeably.  “Those two are balls of energy.  Your sister must be in amazing shape.”

“She says that a lifetime of wrangling horses was good preparation for those two.”  He gripped her hands and pulled her chest tighter to his back.  “Nah, I’m just kidding.  She said that, but was only joking.  She definitely takes after Mom.”

Taylor moved her face close to his, balancing her chin against his shoulder muscle.  “Chandler?”

“Hmm?”

“I think I’d like to be a mother again.”

He met her gaze with one eye, their faces practically touching.  “I could help you with that, you know.  Just say the
word.”

Her expression faltered, turning from flirty to wistful.  “Someday,” she revised.  “Not right now.”

“Oh,” he replied.  His face went tight, but he didn’t relinquish her fingers from his.  “How would you like to swim a few laps before lunch?”

“I’d lo
ve to,” she said.  She was in the lake before he could even draw another breath, slicing through the aqua water with ease.

***