Man From Tennessee

Kern turned her beneath him, straddling now the front of her thighs. The tenderness in his eyes was touched with despair, a pain she could hardly bear to see, and there was anger in his voice she knew graveled over that pain. “You’re lying to yourself, Tish, not to me! I can just look at you-there’s need in your eyes right now, desire. Your pulse is racing like white-water rapids; your flesh gives in my hands; your breasts are already swollen and I haven’t even touched them…”

Gently her fingertips stroked his chest, soothing. “I love you, Kern,” she said softly. “I love it when you touch me. I always did. The only reason I left was because I thought you didn’t want me!”

He leaned over with his lips parted to say something, but she pressed her fingertip to his mouth to stop him, shaking her head, the barest sheen of moisture in her eyes. “I knew you wanted me-in bed. That didn’t mean you wanted me as a wife again, Kern, someone to share your time and your problems and, yes, our old dreams. If you’d asked me here, perhaps I would have read it all differently, but you didn’t ask. I was just forced on you because of your mother. So you wanted to make love to me-and, God, I wanted you to-and we did, Kern, and then I asked you. You said you’d never ask me to stay again-”

“I was trying to tell you that I said it all when I married you, Tish.” Kern almost growled as he leaned over her. “That that was a commitment for all time as far as I was concerned, but that I would never, never force or rush you into anything again. The choice had to be yours. I couldn’t ever again live with forcing you into something you weren’t ready for or didn’t want.”

“But I thought it had to come from you,” she whispered, “because I was the one who failed you before.”

His eyes clouded, his palms cupping her face. “Tish, you never failed me in anything,” he said softly. “You were just young. I could have done it differently…”

“I never wanted you different and I never blamed you, Kern…” Like the waste of the fire, she felt the waste of so many years without him, so many years she could have loved him, been loved. She wound her arms around his neck and pulled him to her. Fiercely their lips met, an odd trembling in his body that communicated to her own, was matched in her own. If she had finally lost inhibitions with him at the waterfall, it was still nothing like now.

She reached for him in joy, caressing his neck and chest and back. It was all such riches-the way his heartbeat surged beneath her fingertips, the way his body was so beautifully male, his hard-muscled thighs no less arousing than the grainy skin of his tanned neck. A new rhythm kept beating inside, building; she didn’t want to give in to it yet. She wanted to savor the sensual sweetness of just freely loving him, and there was no part of him she didn’t want to touch, to learn all over again in loving…

He understood so well, loving her body with the same wonder that she loved his. But it was not the same. She could touch so easily, but not be touched so easily-there was a spot in the V of her throat where she could not bear the stroking caress of his lips. Her breasts had swelled before he touched them, but the languid lick of his tongue made her senses feel like velvet. Her back arched for closeness, rhythm inside beginning to sound in her ears, blocking out day and place and sunlight. The brush of his beard in the hollow of her stomach, and-

“No more, Kern, please…”

Sensations swarmed her senses. His lips covered the pleading in her throat, but he would not give in yet. His palm smoothed its way down her throat and breast and navel, to the silky down between her thighs until the rhythm was the only thing in her bloodstream, a surging love that craved completion.

“I love you, Tish, I love you, I love you…”

Her voice echoed the chorus, the song in her heart, the rhythm of passion rich in her blood and in her skin. When he moved over her, she felt his love, his cherishing in every motion he made. He took her with such sweet fierceness that she lost Tish completely, became part of Kern, their limbs and minds inseparable.

“Kern?”

Lazily Kern opened his eyes, inches from her own. They shared the same pillow, lying face-to-face, and Kern’s arm was draped over her shoulder. “I keep thinking about the fire,” she murmured. “I keep thinking of you close to it, if it had been our land, if…”

Gently she was tugged closer, sheltered next to his chest. “It started high, that was the problem,” he said quietly. “The sparks shot down, starting dozens of little fires. Anyone who could run, walk or crawl came to help, Tish, but not to play hero or try to do the firemen’s job. The area’s been so dry, and more sparks could have fallen. People were working as lookouts, to make sure that when one fire was out it stayed out.”

“And that was what you were doing? You weren’t any closer than that?”

“Mmm.” His eyes closed again, and Trisha rose up on one elbow, tugging at his beard. His lashes shuttered open again in response, but there was a deliberate effort not to meet her eyes. His gaze fell instead on the bare flesh in front of him. “The beard has to go,” he murmured as he rose up to kiss the tender hollow between her breasts. And it was tender, roughed from his love-play. “We can’t have you bruised, bright eyes…”

“You were in the thick of it, weren’t you?” she asked suspiciously.

“No one was hurt beyond the two in the beginning. Oh, cuts and scrapes, of course. The destruction could have been much worse.” He sounded as interested in talking fires as he would have about shuttling to the moon. She shivered all over when one finger stroked the hollow in her throat, and he looked up at her with a wicked smile. “You just can’t stand that, can you?” He leaned up to kiss the spot, one, two, three soft kisses, and then arched back, watching the goose bumps with satisfaction. “You’ve got one or two other little spots that seem to make you forget all about…”

“Kern!” Her flush made him chuckle, and she curled closer to him, slowly stroking the flat of his stomach that was just as susceptible to her touch. “I’ll find out,” she promised, as she nipped tiny bites into his shoulder. “Maybe not from you, Kern. Sooner or later you’ll have to unlock that door…”

“But not now.” He leaned over her, pinning her gently to the pillow, his eyes glinting devil-fire mischief on hers. “We need rest. We’ve both been up for more than two days straight with only a few hours’ sleep in between.”

“Rest,” she repeated innocently. “And that’s why you insisted on a day in bed, Kern?”

“It certainly is.”

“For another minute and a half,” she suggested as she ran her fingers gently down the slope of his back, urging him to her with the promise in her eyes.

“For thirty seconds,” he amended as his lips came down on hers.

Chapter Ten

Five women were gathered in the living room: Trisha and Rhea, a woman named Lotto, who was one of the ranger’s wives, and two local women with the soft twang of Tennessee in their speech. The quilting frame had all but temporarily destroyed the living room’s decor, but the pattern was nearly done. It was Trisha’s design and she called it “night song.” The colors in the quilt were the colors of the mountains-vibrant greens and dark browns, the lemon of sun and the clear blue of a summer sky.

The shop Trisha had wanted was more than a possibility. The shop space she’d found to rent was ideal in location, and she’d spent weeks searching out local women who might be interested in selling their wonderful quilts and rugs and needlework. But this one quilt was hers, and the laughter and joy that had already gone into it was reflected in the clear sapphire brightness of her eyes, in the smile that never seemed to leave her these days.

“Patricia!”

Her head jerked up from the needle at the surprising virulence in Kern’s tone. Her giant stood in the doorway with the flap of an envelope in his hand, glowering directly at her.

“Would you mind coming here for a moment?”

“Whoops. I’d tread lightly,” Rhea whispered teasingly next to her.

Trisha chuckled, divesting herself of threads and needles and patches and chair legs. The smock she wore was pale pink, loose and cool for the late August day, and open to show the creamy smoothness of her throat. Kern was already stalking back to his office, expecting her to follow, which she did, curious, more alert than annoyed at his unusually domineering attitude.

When she entered his quiet study, he pushed at the door behind her, all but slamming it closed. “I got a letter from my mother today,” he started out heavily. “Enclosed was a letter for you, which I mistook as a letter for me-”