Chapter Twenty-Six
T he only reason he could be here, Logan realized, was because David Carhart had never set foot in the place. He couldn’t even imagine being in the home they’d had together. He didn’t even know where it had been, and he didn’t want to know.
For a moment his resolve wavered. How did you battle someone who no longer existed? A ghost? Especially knowing he’d been a man who could give his wife everything any woman could want. Not just wealth—he knew Tris wasn’t impressed with that from the stories Jackson had told of how she kept his success from going to his head—but brains, class, and the respect of an entire community.
He managed—barely—not to stare at the photograph on the far wall that had been one of the first things he’d noticed. Tris looked much the same now, although with that shadow that darkened her eyes now and then. Carhart had been older but looked enraptured in the picture. Who wouldn’t be, about to have that woman as his wife?
He quickly shifted his focus to the other large picture, the one of Jackson and Jeremy, and his late wife. A lot of tragedy in a single family. Was that worse than having had no family at all?
His ricocheting thoughts next hit the image hanging in his workshop, of him and Bud. He’d always thought because he hadn’t had a family like other people he’d escaped the kind of grief Tris had felt, twice in her life. But now, standing here, he caught himself wondering if—
“What? What is it you’re thinking right now?”
Her voice was gentle, but urgent. When he looked at her, when he looked into those eyes, he couldn’t not answer. “I…was back on Tennyson.”
“Would you really rather see a bare wall? Because there was nobody you ever loved to remember? Not even Bud?”
How did she do that? How did she know where his mind had gone? Was he that obvious, or was she just a mind reader?
“No. No. It was worth the pain of losing him to have had him in my life.”
“Especially since he was the only one who ever really gave a damn about you? In the way family does?” She grimaced. “Sorry. Or should,” she amended.
“You don’t have to apologize. It doesn’t matter that much anymore. It stays where it belongs, buried, most of the time.”
She reached out and laid a hand on his forearm. She did it gently, almost caressingly, yet it sent a jolt of sensation through him that nearly left him breathless.
“I’m glad.”
He took another swallow of coffee, not knowing what to do or say to that. He glanced around again, unable to deny he was curious about this place she lived, yet didn’t seem to like all that much. Another screech and a loud adult response from next door made him look back at her. She shrugged and gave an eye-roll, as if to say “See what I mean?”
The coffee maker hissed, and she went over to turn it off. He found himself watching her every move, because he couldn’t seem to help himself. When she turned to come back, he immediately turned his head, to avoid being caught staring at her. Again.
But when he did he saw the photograph on the counter beside the coffee maker, propped against the wall. He recognized the location immediately, and started to smile at the image of the tiny horse trying to navigate a leap that seemed too much for it.
The expression froze on his face when he realized that was him in the image, crouched beside the little bronze creature, his hand resting on the withers. He remembered the moment, when he’d felt that urge to reach out and reassure the foal, even in this inanimate form. He’d felt a little silly, but wrote it off to the consummate skill of the brilliant artist. He’d never realized she’d been watching him. Certainly never realized she’d taken a photo.
And even if he had, he would never have expected her to have it here, in plain sight, where she would see it…every day.
His gaze shot back to her. She’d clearly seen where he was looking. He thought he saw a slight tinge of color in her cheeks, but maybe he was imagining it.
“I had such a good time that day,” she said, her voice soft and holding an undertone he couldn’t name but that sent a ripple of heat through him.
“So did I.” He barely got out the words. All he could think was if she had a good time that day, then maybe he wasn’t as crazy as he’d thought to show up to ask her what he had in mind.
She tilted her head in that way she had that seemed both curious and assessing. She hesitated for a moment, then said, “What was it you wanted to talk about?”
He hesitated, then went for it. “Remember that book we picked up at the museum at Fort Sam Houston?” He waited, more tensely than the question ordinarily would deserve.
“The one about the Revolution?” He nodded. “I do remember. It was fascinating, with some angles I’d never thought of before. And he mentioned Last Stand, so I was sold,” she said, with a wide smile.
He took a breath, and then let loose the words he’d actually practiced before coming here. “The author’s going to be speaking at the bookstore in town this Saturday afternoon. I thought… wondered if…maybe you’d like to go.” The rest, the truly important part, came out in a rush. “And we could have dinner after.”
For a too-long moment she just stared at him. He was about to give up hope when a slow, sweet smile curved her mouth—that mouth—and she almost seemed to light up. “I would like that. Very much. Especially the dinner part.”
He felt a rush of relief. And sent a silent thank you to her brother for giving him the nerve to even try.
Now he had nearly two days to steel himself. Not just to tidy himself up as he had today to ask her, but to work himself up to where he could be at least coherent on Saturday, maybe even interesting. Both of those he could and had managed.
He just hadn’t done it sitting across a table from Tris Carhart.
As it turned out it wasn’t a matter of steeling himself, it was a matter of stopping himself from backing out of the whole thing. On Saturday morning he found himself backtracking in time, remembering that day he’d encountered her shortly before her husband’s death. He’d never formally met her then, but everyone in Last Stand knew who she was. And the pain in those eyes of hers had been so deep, so harrowing, it sliced through his shields. So he had said the only thing he could think of. And it had meant something to her. Enough that she remembered it even now, all this time later.
Another thought hit him then. That had been seven years ago. So technically, he’d known her for that long. And now it was seven weeks since the day they’d collided in the barn at the Baylor ranch, which he now sort of thought of as when this—whatever it was—had started. That seemed significant somehow.
He got ready as best he could. Choosing what to wear wasn’t difficult—he only had so much that wasn’t worn or singed. So he went with the black jeans and the gray shirt with the pearl snaps that the clerk at Yippee Ki Yay had told him went with his hat. He’d made reservations for later at Valencia’s, the best Tex-Mex restaurant in town, and had been lucky enough to have Elena Highwater answer the phone. The woman was kind, understanding, and above all tactful. She seemed to guess it was a special occasion, and suggested a table in the alcove, set somewhat away from the usual Saturday night crowd.
When he arrived at Tris’s place it took him a moment or two to work up the nerve to even get out of the truck. Long enough that she opened the front door and stepped out before he even got completely up the three steps to the porch. And he almost fell right back down them when he saw her. That black dress she had on was simple, nothing fancy, but it flowed over her in a way that made him need to quash parts of him as they surged to full interest, as they did every time he even thought of her.
He yanked his hat off, belatedly. “You look…amazing.” He barely got it out, and he had to clamp his jaw shut before he said something unforgivably stupid.
She smiled, widely. “As do you. I do love that shirt. And don’t think I missed the polite hat removal.”
He started to breathe normally—well, as much as he ever did around her—again. He was surprised when she suggested they walk. His first gut reaction was that she didn’t want to ride in his truck—and he thought, not for the first time, that maybe he needed a second, non-work vehicle—but when they started out into the early evening air and she looked up at the sky and drew in a deep breath, he knew that wasn’t it. She just liked looking at the sky.
And she loved looking at the night sky. From your deck.
Steady again, he walked alongside her, adjusting his stride to stay even with her.
“We should stop by Yippee Ki Yay on the way to the restaurant,” she said. “I heard one of Rylan’s belts with your buckle is already in the window.”
He blinked. “It is? I only dropped the first two off yesterday.”
She looked up at his face and gave him a smile that nearly knocked the breath out of him. “And he loved them, just as I knew he would. Couldn’t wait to get them out there.”
She spoke with such confidence, such certainty. His work had been the one thing in his life he had few doubts about, but he did have them. While Tris apparently did not. And she valued his work, as mundane as most people thought it was.
The book signing was interesting, because the author obviously knew his stuff, and the question-and-answer session after the brief talk was fascinating in itself. Tris had no hesitation in asking questions, and when she did it became almost a conversation between the two of them. It took Logan a bit to realize the twinge he was feeling was a bit of possessiveness. And he gave into it a little when the session ended, walking by to shake the author’s hand mainly because he was about Tris’s height, meaning a half-foot shorter than him.
They did pause at the window display of the western wear shop. He couldn’t quite describe how it felt to see his work there, attached to Rylan Rafferty’s brilliance.
“I didn’t think anything could add more to Ry’s brilliant work, but you did it.” Her words were like a blow to his chest, driving the air out of him. “Maybe you should try some of your own someday.”
He would have laughed at the idea, if he’d had the breath to do it.
He gave a sharp shake of his head, finally sucked in some air, and they moved on. He liked the fact that she didn’t try to fill every moment with talk but seemed content to just walk along in silence. It reminded him of how she’d been so content to just sit on his deck and watch the sky, not needing constant conversation there, either.
Dinner was one of the best he’d ever had. Not only because the food was delicious, as it always was at Valencia’s. He was surprised, as he had been from the beginning, at how easy she was to talk to. Not just about the history they both loved, but…anything, it seemed. And when his brain made one of those jumps he’d always been told was weird, like from the explosion of bluebonnets in the spring to the endless sweep of the Milky Way across the sky, she went right along with him, until they ended up in an esoteric sort of discussion he’d never really had with anyone before.
They finished the meal of flavorful, sizzling fajitas far too soon for him; he could have sat there with her for hours. And when they started the four-block walk back to her place, he found himself walking slowly, pausing here and there to look at something that didn’t really interest him, just to draw this out.
He didn’t want to let her go.
He didn’t think he ever would.
When they reached her place, he didn’t even look at his truck. Didn’t want to acknowledge it was there, and that he’d be in it shortly, driving home. Alone. After some fumbling, awkward goodbye that would likely be the best he could do. Leaving her here, to—
“Will you come in?”
Her soft, quiet question caught him completely off guard. He stared at her in the glow of her porch light. Realized she’d already opened the door.
“I…I’m not sure that would be a good idea.”
“Why?” That same soft, tempting voice.
“Because,” he grated out, “if I come in, I’m not going to want to leave.”
“Time enough to talk about that in the morning.”
She didn’t give him time to even react to the shock of her words before she stretched up and kissed him.
He felt like he’d fallen headfirst into his forge at the highest heat. It seared through him, arrowing to every part of him from where her lips were pressed against his. It blew apart his defenses, and he let all his caution fly away with them. He took over the kiss, barely aware they were inside now until he realized he’d pushed the door shut behind them.
He tasted, savored, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. He had to have more. She was pressed full length against him now, and it still wasn’t enough. He wanted her under him, on top of him, any position he could think of, as long as she was naked and willing.
Willing.
The words came out hoarsely, but he knew he had to say them, had to give her the chance. “This is really what you want?”
“No,” she said.
A chill swept over him, so abrupt and sharp it made his gut churn. He should have known, he should have—
“What I wanted was for our first time to be at your place.” He stared at her, unable to quite believe this. Any of this. But even he couldn’t deny what he saw in her eyes, what he felt in her touch when she cupped his face. “But as long as it happens, I realized it doesn’t matter where. Because what I want more than anything is you, Logan.”
The words sent a shudder through him, as if every muscle in his body had tensed at that simple statement. The primitive, violently aroused part of his brain screamed at him to give in to the sudden, fierce demand of his body.
Take it, don’t be a fool!
But another, saner part of him shouted not to be like whoever his father had been, heedless, careless…
“Tris, I’m not…prepared for this.”
To his shock, she laughed. “Don’t worry. I am. Nic saw to that, when she realized which way the wind was blowing. Although I’m not sure one box of condoms will be enough.”
Nic had known…they’d end up here? He couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.
“I think,” Tris said softly, yet again as if she’d read him and understood, “she saw it because she’d just been there herself.”
“You’re right,” he said hoarsely, pulling her tight against him. “One box might not be enough.”
He hadn’t known it could be like this. But every move, every touch, simply trumpeted how cool, how uninvolved any of his previous encounters had been. Because everything Tris did, running her hands over him, kissing him, only sent that fire rocketing through him again.
They’d been half undressed—and he wasn’t sure who had done who—before the old warning clanged in the back of his mind. He pulled back, feeling he needed to warn her.
“I’ve got…some scars, Tris. More than this.” He indicated the scar across the left side of his jaw, and then the one on his ribs on his left side, from when he’d first been learning and he’d fumbled a glowing chunk of iron.
She didn’t speak. In answer she simply leaned over and kissed the mark. Then she straightened and finished slipping that slinky black dress off her shoulders, letting it slide to the floor.
The sight of her in nothing but a sleek black bra and panties about did him in right there. And thoughts of anything else faded away as he picked her up in his arms and headed for the door she indicated. He’d never been in her bedroom, and he didn’t much care at the moment what it looked like. All that mattered was that the bed was big enough, and he took them both down to it in a rush. He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten out of the rest of his clothes, he only cared that they both be naked, fast.
And it was fast. Only the fact that she urged him on as if she was in as big a hurry as he was let him keep moving as he wanted to. He’d never been hotter, never been harder, never wanted so much.
And when she opened herself to him, when she reached between them to urge him into her, he thought he was going to explode right then and there. Her heat, her slickness, her eagerness undid him, and when he felt the first clenching of her body around him, when he heard her gasp out his name and clutch at him, he let go completely, utterly, for the first time in his life.