Authors: Tracy Sumner
As he stood there feeling like an ogre, she went to each group, squeezing shoulders and giving encouraging pats on the back. Women rolled up the dried posters and gently folded the others, gathering spare fabric and cans of stain, all the while throwing looks his way. Ones he wasn't at all used to.
They were downright hostile.
"This is part of the deal, you know." He trailed after Savannah like a pup, feeling the insane need to explain as she shook out brushes and dropped them into a rusted bucket. She gave him nothing but a cold look and silence, the most frustrating combination known to man.
"I can't help who I am in this town, Irish, or that people come to me to clean up messes. Settle disputes. Law is law, after all." He defied the impulse to touch her on the arm or hand to show he wasn't really as angry as all that. "I can't give in even if I want to, don't you see? I don't have an official reason to, and I don't want to shed any more nosy parker light on me and, well, you."
She stilled, a paintbrush slipping from her fingers. Her hand lowered, sinking into the tall stalks of grass, grasping them. Her eyes were wide and very green when they met his. "Even if..." Her lips lifted in a soft, awfully agreeable smile. "You mean you don't want to run us out of here?"
"Well, no." He flapped his hand around, indicating the women and the mess. "How can a little paint on faded calico harm anybody? What are a few signs in the scheme of things? But I can't let you and this exhibition of liberty stay here. Festus has every right to order you from his land. And every right to ask me to see that it happens."
Really, she had a remarkable smile when it was sincere. "But you're not enjoying it." She placed the remaining brushes in the bucket and rose to her feet, shaking out her pretty blue skirt.
Enjoy it
? Hell, this reminded him of fighting with Noah and Caleb when they were boys, guilt leading him to the general store for taffy and chewing gum an hour later. And Hannah? He hadn't ever fought with her that he could recall. "Why would I enjoy
this
?"
She turned but not quickly enough to hide the anxious look, the frightening memory spilling into her eyes. A chill raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Fury at a faceless person rendered him speechless for a moment. "Who enjoyed it, Irish?" he finally asked, blood thumping in his temples, his face heating like it did when someone threatened his family or he saw a puppy being kicked.
Ignoring him, she walked to a group of stragglers standing in the shade of a large pine tree. Obviously, they awaited further instruction. "Ladies, Constable Garrett has so kindly offered his yard for us to conclude our poster project." She smiled, a smug one versus the sincere kind he preferred, her earlier distress evident only in the faint paleness of her cheeks. She must have known he wouldn't call her on it. Besides, it did return the familiar expressions to everyone's face.
He found he favored those over the hostile glares.
Savannah extended her hand. "Deal, Constable?"
He cursed beneath his breath, not about to shake her hand in front of twenty gawking women. Stalking halfway to the street, he spun around to find her watching him from the edge of her regiment. Rory had saddled up next to her, drops of paint covering his face, shirt, and short trousers.
"Yes, yes, use the blamed yard. Take my son while you're at it and let him join the fight." She had him over the proverbial barrel this time.
He would return the favor tonight.
* * *
Zach arrived at the coach house early.
Impatience had him dropping off Rory with Caroline an hour before he told her he would. Under the guise of a night patrol, he'd promised to return when he could, telling Caroline it would take at least three hours or so. Maybe four. Rory had run into the house with a succinct goodbye, his friend Justin's new cast iron truck already filling his mind. Caroline had told Zach to let the boy stay the night if it came to that, saying two were about as easy as one. As a father of a trying six-year-old, he sure didn't believe that.
However, all night staring into those lovely green eyes, kissing those incredible lips, and sliding inside that extraordinary body?
Damn, it was a tempting notion.
As he lit a row of candles sitting on the window ledge, he realized he had no idea what the night might hold, no idea how far Savannah planned to go with this game. He blew the match out before it burned his fingers, and headed to the kitchen, in search of a corkscrew. Jesus, he hoped Noah had one or he was in trouble.
Bring wine
, the paint-spattered note tacked to his bedroom door had said. No signature. No teasing banter to strengthen his resolve. He'd never purchased wine in the past, mostly ale, and if Christabel had found his abrupt request strange, knocking on her office door in the middle of the afternoon, she'd kept it to herself.
How had Savannah found his bedroom? Rory must have shown her. That, or she'd poked around while the others were outside painting. Either way, the image of her sitting on his bed and touching his clothing, sweeping her hand across his pillow and maybe sniffing the sheets, flustered and excited him.
He could have sworn her scent lingered.
Locating a scarred opener in a drawer crowded with utensils, he worked the rusted spiral end into the cork and gave it a good tug.
He had never even been with a woman in his bedroom. The one he shared with Hannah during their marriage was on the second floor. Noah and Elle used that room now, when they came into town. Or guests, the rare times he and Caleb had any. It was better that way. Part of the past put firmly into the past. It had helped with the nightmares, too. Besides, the third floor was basically an attic, quiet and dark. It fit his mood most of the time.
Or had until recently.
He liked the privacy the steep staircase provided, and the far-reaching view from the window over the roofs of nearby houses. In the distance, if he squinted, he could see blue-black waves with frothy edging rolling into shore. Rory wasn't allowed up there alone, a bone-breaking tumble down the stairs or out the window not what Zach had in mind.
Maybe he could take Savannah up there some day. Zach smiled, brushing a sliver of cork from the counter. Sneak her in the back door or have her skinny up the trellis.
It had shaken Zach to see her with Rory this afternoon. His son and—he hoped—his soon-to-be-lover. Pouring a measure of wine, he took a fast sip. Both of them had been covered in paint and sunshine, a gusty sea breeze ruffling their hair and clothes. They had looked like a picture, squatting there in the grass, pleased smiles on their faces. His chest tightened, knowing Rory would never have another mother when the boy clearly longed for one. If Zach was capable of making that significant a commitment again, he would.
Even without love, for his son's sake.
He would if he could.
God knew it; he had been told during many a prayer. Zach had pledged his life to his family and this town. He would do anything to help a person in need, do anything to improve his son's life. Noah, Caleb or Elle's life.
But he would not marry again. Could not bring himself to even
imagine
it. When he thought about marriage for more than a minute or two, as he did now, he started to feel physically sick. The burden of guilt and sorrow, weighing his shoulders down as surely as a three-foot-thick plank from the hull of a ship, amounted to more than even capable Zachariah Garrett, leader, life-saver, brother, and father, could endure.
Draining the glass, he held off pouring another. He didn't want drink, regret about the past, or fear of the future to ruin this night or cloud his reasoning. Better to keep a clear head when dealing with a woman like Savannah. Flat out, in any confrontation, she would stand toe to toe with him, as bold as a man.
Grabbing the bottle and an extra glass, he carried them into the main room. Even with the leather chair and the small settee, you couldn't exactly call it a parlor. The massive desk sitting in one corner and Noah's maps and charts tacked to every bit of available space made sure of that. Not to mention the bottles and metal instruments lining the shelves, the stacks of books crowding the floor.
Stretching out on the settee, Zach kicked his boots off and let his feet dangle over the scrolled edge. Stacking his hands behind his head, he stretched, yawned. Would she show? He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, smelling spiced candle wax and something fishy from one of Noah's specimen bottles.
He hoped like hell she would.
* * *
Savannah approached with hushed steps until she stood over him.
He lay sprawled on the settee, one arm folded beneath his head, the other hanging to the floor, his long, slender fingers curled as if he held something in the palm of his hand. Candlelight cast flickering shadows across his face, highlighting the moist sheen on his cheeks and brow. A bottle of wine sat nearby. Two glasses, next to it.
The sound of chirping crickets drifted in the open window, mixing with his whispery breaths. His lids fluttered, and he murmured softly, his fingers drawing into a fist. Slipping her boots off, she went to her knees beside him, her gaze wandering down his body. The chance to study him while he slept provided too great a temptation.
Zachariah Garrett was a beautiful man. More beautiful, she thought, because he didn't seem to know it.
He had unbuttoned his shirt for relief from the heat, exposing a light dusting of springy curls she wanted to feel against her skin. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, leaving his muscles forearms bare. She brushed her finger over a protruding bone in his wrist, down the vein to his middle finger. A sprinkling of black hair, neatly trimmed nails, a ragged cuticle. Her finger moved to his stomach, trailing lightly over the flat plane, pausing. Her hand, spotted with furniture stain she hadn't been able to scrub off, contrasted sharply with his white cotton shirt. She released an unsteady breath and let her eyes drift past his belt.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand twitched.
"Touch me, Irish," he whispered, his arm rising, hand covering hers and tugging gently.
Startled, she glanced up. Thankfully, his eyes were closed, his lips pressed in a tight line. She watched a line of perspiration trickle down his neck and into his shirt collar before returning her gaze to his face.
She was curious. Frightened but curious. Healthy, curiosity was healthy. And natural. Completely natural. She remembered that much from the books. Relaxing her shoulders, she gave the silent signal and let Zach guide her.
Hard.
He was hard and long beneath his wash-worn trousers. "My," she breathed, impressed despite her trepidation. This wasn't a child's toy or soft... like a banana. No, my, no. Resting against the side of the settee, she examined the shape, tracing and squeezing gently, feeling it twitch and grow.
Amazing
.
He groaned, a sound unlike any she had ever heard. Primal and quite gratifying. His hips lifted, a slight shift. She shot a quick glance at his face, not sure what to do, what he wanted. His lids fluttered, his pupils so large and round they seemed to spill over. "I'm going to kiss you, then...." Sliding the hand holding hers behind her back, he pulled her atop him. Her hair fluttered down, sheltering them like a curtain.
"Then?" She arched as he kissed his way from the open collar of her shirtwaist to her jaw.
He framed her face with his hands, his gaze drilling into her, giving her a chance to say no, to back out. He had no idea, she marveled, that she desired their union as much as he? She licked her lips, heart thumping hard enough for him to hear, she felt certain. "Then, Constable Garrett?"
A lazy smile curved his mouth, his eyes half closing as he drew her lips to his. He tasted of wine, mint, and smoke. "Then, Miss Connor... I'm going to do
everything
else."
She loved the feel of his mouth on hers, had loved it from the first. Soft yet firm, insistent yet gentle. However, this kiss was different than the others. Lying prone on a hard, flat body while being lured deeper and deeper into a blissful dream seemed akin to throwing rubbing alcohol on an already raging fire. Feeling his arousal lodged between her thighs only increased her need.
She feared not the act but losing herself in it.
He was proficient at lovemaking.
As colors burst behind her lids, a rush of pleasure made her scalp prickle. She moaned softly against his lips, willing to revise her verdict. Gifted. Steady. Deliberate. Measured, when she wanted to rip his clothes off, tug at his hair and will him to go faster.
Move to my breasts, my nipples
, she wanted to scream.
And please God, ease the ache between my thighs
.
How, after all these years without, could he maintain such endurance?
The competent leader held her hands just above her head with one of his while the paternal caregiver murmured gentle words in her ear. The covert lover unbuttoned her shirtwaist with an ease born from experience while the considerate friend stroked her shoulders and back in a calming rhythm.
She squirmed, pushing off the end of the settee with her toes and sliding up his body. She thought she might like to feel his mouth on her nipples, doing all the things he did so well to her lips.
He laughed softly and gripped her waist to still her advance. "Now why would I imagine you'd be patient?"
Through the flickering shadows, she watched his amusement build, felt her irritation follow. "After twenty-five years of wondering, to hell with patience. For you, it's been some time. Don't you, aren't you...." Her words drifted away, her face heating.
Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, he pressed a kiss to her throat. "I've missed this more than you can imagine. Mostly the simple, basic beauty of it that people take for granted. The smell of flowers on a woman's skin. Something sweet. Something a man would never smell like. The softness, the dips and hollows. The differences, I guess that's what intrigues a man. Slim wrists and ankles, fine bones, and delicateness. Long hair and the way it shines in the candlelight. Yours is the finest I've ever seen." He sighed, a contented release, his fingers skimming her back in resolute circles. "So as long as I can hold on, I'm going to. There's so much I want, too much to pack into one night. I hope you agree. I don't plan on this being a one-night event, me and you."