It wasn’t until he finished that he realized the others had all fallen silent, that they’d heard what he’d said. But as he looked around at them and shrugged a little, suddenly uncomfortable, he caught Patience giving him a thumbs up. Then Jox. Then Strike and a few of the others. And that made it okay, somehow. Better than okay, even.
It made it right, finally.
“Well,” Dez said into the silence. “I think this calls for the newly traditional Cardinal Day feast . . . Who’s up for some football, beer and wings?”
A laughing, ragged cheer rose up from the group, gaining ground and volume as it went, and the others dispersed to grab the coolers and other essentials from the winikin’s hall.
When Rabbit started to follow them, though, Myr tugged him back. “Not so fast, buster.”
“Wait, what? Did I do something wrong?”
Her flashing eyes softened. “No, baby, you did something very right.” She pressed her hand over his heart, which thudded double-time when she leaned in and kissed him softly. “I’m so proud of you.” She kissed him a little harder. “I love you.”
This time when she kissed him, he closed his hands on her hips and took it deep, whispering through their new bond, Thank you, and, I love you, too, and Gods, I’m so glad you’re mine.
Heat rose as the kiss continued, tightening his skin and making him think they should slip away for a half hour or so and nobody would notice. But when he started to urge her off toward the shadows, she twisted away, shot him a sidelong look and headed for one of the coolers to snag a couple of beers, then skipped toward where a game of touch football was forming up, cocking a “come hither” finger at him as she went.
He laughed aloud and followed, joining her in the huddle, grabbing his beer and letting his body bump against hers, amping the anticipation that was growing steadily between them.
The night was young, after all, and they didn’t need to rush. There was a whole world of trouble for them to get into . . . and they were going to have a lifetime together to do it.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A series of childhood trips to the Yucatan left Jessica Andersen with an enduring love of Mayan myths and legends. Since leaving academic science for a career as a novelist, she has written more than twenty science- based romantic suspense novels. Now she’s thrilled to bring her research background to bear on one of her earliest fascinations, the Mayan 2012 doomsday. Jessica is a lifelong New Englander; she and her critters currently live in eastern Connecticut, on the border where Yankee country intersects with Red Sox nation (go, Sox!).
Connect Online
www.jessicaandersen.com
facebook.com/docjess
Don’t miss the brand-new contemporary series by Jessica Andersen, writing as Jesse Hayworth, beginning with
Summer at Mustang Ridge
Available in summer 2013 from Signet Eclipse!
Read on for a special preview.
Foster grinned as he led Brutus in from the geldings’ pen, where a dozen or so mustangs were munching hay and snoozing in the sun.
The chestnut snaked his head around, feinting for a nip.
“Quit that.” He nudged the horse out of his space, reminding him how the pecking order went: without Brutus at the top, despite his delusions of grandeur. The mustang had been at the ranch since last fall’s gather and had been under saddle for nearly six months. He’d been in the working string for only a few weeks, though, and was still reserved for the wranglers’ use because his better-than-average smarts were paired with an unpredictable streak wider than the stripe running down his nose. He wasn’t dangerous, but Foster wouldn’t exactly call him reliable, either. And given his quick mind, big feet and smooth gaits, he was worth putting some time into.
Annoyed that his nap had been interrupted, the gelding rolled an eye back at Foster.
“Yeah, yeah, life’s tough. You think this is hard work, try being a real cow horse. Compared to them, you’re just a glorified trail pony.”
Then again, what did that make him? Head trail-pony wrangler? Executive greenhorn herder? Overlord of make-sure-the-dudes-don’t-kill-themselves?
It made him employed—that was what. And saving for better days.
He gave the gelding a nudge as they reached the barn, where the bright sun turned to murky shadows at the doorway and a nervous horse—or one with a questionable sense of humor—could spook. “Don’t even think about it,” he warned conversationally. “This is supposed to be my day off, and I’m not in the mood to deal with your—”
Movement flashed in his peripheral vision as they stepped from light into dark, and Brutus gave a sudden elephant snort and exploded in a spook that was part pent-up energy, part Aieeeee, mountain lion! The big gelding’s shoes struck sparks on the cement as he tried to wheel and bolt, dragging Foster around with a thousand pounds of momentum and a cement-strong neck. Vader got in front of him and splayed all four feet, barking, trying to head off the runaway.
Foster hauled back on the lead. “Whoa, dang it! And, Vader, git!”
As the dog scurried out the back, Foster caught a flash of brown hair and wide, scared hazel eyes in a triangular face. He had only a split second to think Oh crap at the realization that the little girl was about to get flattened. Then Brutus swung his haunches around and bumped her hard, and she went flying across the aisle.
She hit the wall and went down in a pink-and-denim heap.
Oh crap turned into an inner nine-one-one, but Foster’s body kept reacting, using thirty-some years of experience to juggle the gelding away from the kid and down to the other end of the aisle.
“Knock it off!” he growled, getting right up near one of Brutus’s white-rimmed eyes. Where normally he would’ve soothed, now he muscled the blockheaded chestnut under some semblance of control, then kicked open a nearby stall and sent him into it still wearing his halter. “Don’t you dare get tangled in that lead,” he ordered, then ran the door shut and latched it tight.
He spun back, expecting to find the little girl still down. She wasn’t, though. She was on her feet, plastered in the corner where the tack stall jutted out a few feet into the aisle. Her pink T-shirt and jeans were streaked with dust, her face sheet white. All arms and legs, with a long torso and those big hazel eyes, she reminded him of a long yearling in the middle of a growth spurt, when all the pieces didn’t go together quite right.
She hadn’t made a sound, wasn’t crying now, just stood there staring at him.
“You okay?” When she didn’t say anything, he took a step toward her and reached out a hand. “Are you hurt?”
“Lizzie!”
Foster’s head whipped around as a dark-haired woman in a ridiculous black pantsuit raced into the barn wearing the same sort of look he’d seen before in a half-wild heifer’s eyes when he’d made the mistake of getting between her and her newborn calf. The kind of look that said she didn’t care what happened to her or anything around her as long as she got up close and personal with the little one, pronto.
He did what he should’ve done back then, which would have saved him a whole bunch of black-and-blues. He got the heck out of the way.
