Chapter Eight
Sarah served a top-sirloin roast with potatoes tossed in butter and herbs, together with a garden salad and watermelon slices. For dessert, she spooned ice cream into bowls.
Joining Big Jim and Ben at the table, she listened to the men chat about the current ranch work Jim had laid out for the spring. He needed tractor parts, a new barbed wire section strung in the lower forty, plumbing fixtures for the barn.
Preoccupied, Sarah ate her meal and let the men’s shoptalk flow around her.
Under the table, the two dogs lay panting, hoping someone would drop something.
Slipping them a few bits of food, she petted their soft fur absently.
She was surprised to learn, although the signs were there in his knowledge of ranching, that Ben had grown up on a similar Texas spread.
She already knew he was a western man by his accent and clothing.
Since Ben had agreed to teach her how to handle a knife, she was eager to learn.
Surely such knowledge would relieve her of her growing phobia.
She fiddled with her ice cream spoon and slanted a glance at Ben, hoping he’d finish soon.
Apprehension warred with a desire to begin.
The apprehension lost. She wanted to get going.
At last, Ben laid his spoon aside. “Sarah, that’s the best meal I’ve had in months. Rio told me you’re a great cook and he wasn’t kidding.”
She accepted the thanks and got up. She enjoyed cooking, fixing tasty and nutritious meals for her dad. In recent years, she hadn’t been able to cook at all. Food had been her enemy. A pound here, a pound there, were death to a model’s career. She’d spent a lifetime starving herself.
No more.
Ben cleared dishes and Sarah stacked them in the dishwasher. Drying her hands, she said to him, “I’ll just get changed and meet you down at the barn.”
Big Jim wandered into the living room to watch TV, and Ben let himself out the front door.
Changing into black yoga pants and a stretchy t-shirt, she tied the shirt’s hem into a knot at her waist, leaving an inch of her slender abdomen exposed.
On her feet, she pulled on tennis shoes, then twisted her hair into a long, tight braid.
Flicking a quick glance at herself in the mirror, she saw that her eyes were wide and eager. She was ready for this.
Outside, the twilight was giving way to full dark, and she hurried along the gravel-covered trail to the barn. Lifting the wooden latch, she slid open the big barn doors. All the lights had been turned on.
A tall building, lining one wall were horse stalls, some occupied by dozing geldings and mares.
On the other side, stacks of baled hay were piled next to the tack room.
In there, neatly hung on pegs, were leather saddles, bridles, halters, and ropes.
Over in a far corner, a cardboard box held a warming light and the chirping chicks that Willie had bought for her.
Standing in the wide space next to the tack room, she found Ben Paxton waiting. He’d taken off his shirt.
Sarah stilled. He wore his jeans and boots.
That was all. Ben’s tanned bare chest had very little hair and a great many muscles.
His pectorals swelled from his chest wall, and his abdomen was impressively ribbed.
A leather belt was strapped around his hips with a silver trophy buckle depicting a steer’s horns.
Steer wrestling, she thought, trying not to be impressed.
In that rodeo event, participants were required to fling themselves off a galloping horse and wrestle a full-grown steer to the ground.
It certainly wasn’t for amateurs or wimps.
Lastly, her gaze drifted over his biceps. There was no other word for it—they bulged. His strength shouted fitness, health, and the virility of a man in the prime of his life.
Her breath soughed softly in her throat. Maybe it wasn’t just the prospect of knife fighting she’d been so eagerly anticipating.
He grinned at her. “Like what you see?”
Dammit. Caught again. “Stop saying that,” she muttered, closing the door behind her.
“I just didn’t expect to find you half naked.
” To distract herself, she glanced around the barn.
On a wooden workbench, she saw that he’d laid out his hat, two knives, a wadded-up t-shirt, and two water bottles.
Next to those, she saw an uncapped permanent black marker.
“Well, I sure do like what I see,” he told her, giving her a thorough once-over. “Yoga pants? Really? Are you trying to kill me?”
When his appreciative gaze swept her body, she busied herself inspecting the table’s items. “I thought they’d be easier to move around in than jeans.
” During her entire career in modeling, she was accustomed to having every inch of her body examined, studied, judged.
But Ben’s scrutiny seemed different. His eyes were hot, intensely laser focused on her.
Suddenly self-conscious, she smoothed her palm over her t-shirt, down her flat belly and over her hip.
With rapt attention, Ben followed the movement of her hand. “Guess this won’t be a fair fight.” After a moment, he appeared to shake himself. “Ready?” He pointed at the table. “Choose your weapon.”
At the table, she looked at the blades and a chill went through her. Gingerly, she picked up the bigger knife.
“That’s a Bowie, with a crossguard and a clip point. The smaller one is also a fixed blade, and simpler in design.”
She held the weapon cautiously, a creeping dread trickling through her veins.
“A knife is just a tool, Sarah.” Ben must have sensed her unease. “A tool with many uses. It can be deadly, but not necessarily. Get used to its weight in your hand.”
She tested the weight, and with the barest touch, traced the edge with her finger. “So sharp.” She shivered. “It’s a killing tool.”
“Now, check out the other one,” he directed. “That’s my Ka-bar.”
Placing the big knife back down, she chose the smaller weapon, although it was by no means small.
“Keep going.” He nodded again toward the table.
Bewildered, she looked over the t-shirt and water bottles and couldn’t imagine he meant those. She touched the black marker. “This?”
“Yup. We’ll play a little game. You use that marker like a knife and hit me as many times as you can while I try to stop you. That’s why my shirt’s off.”
“Oh.” She inspected the marker. “I thought you just wanted me to ogle your muscles.”
He looked at her narrowly, and his gaze was still scorching. “Do you want to ogle my muscles?”
“No. Not interested, sorry.” She made the denial plain, to convince him. And herself.
“A shame,” he said, sounding regretful. “Okay, got your marker?”
She held up the pen. “I suppose it’s safer than a knife.”
“We’ll begin with some basic body skills.” He went into a slight crouch, elbows bent, hands ready to grab. “Do what I’m doing. Okay, go.”
Sarah crouched, gripping the marker in her right hand, and raised it high over her head. Planning to slash down at him, she was surprised when his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist, immobilizing her before she could strike.
He held her arm above their heads firmly, their bodies close.
“You’ve chosen a Reverse grip.” He looked down at her.
His eyes were intense, and she discovered they were flecked with an interesting green.
His bare chest was inches from hers. “At times, it can be useful. For now, I’m recommending you use a Forward Hammer Grip.
” Taking the marker from her, he placed it back into her hand with the ‘butt’ toward her stomach, and the ‘blade’ pointing up.
“Okay, I’m going to make a lunge for you. You defend.”
Immediately, Sarah saw that this grip was better, and when he shot out his hand, she struck back toward his belly. He easily evaded her, jumping to the side. She tried again and he swatted her arm away. Once again, she thrust out.
“Keep your body behind the knife,” he said, “and don’t reach out so far—it makes you vulnerable. Use short, fast strikes. You’re aiming for my stomach, throat, face, and knife hand.”
Again and again, she tried branding him with the marker, but he easily outmaneuvered her. He pretended to strike at her with his own nonexistent knife, poking her shoulder, her stomach, her neck.
“Always face your attacker,” he instructed. “Use your left arm to fend off the stabs. Imagine there’s a magnet pointing your knife to his.”
She took a sideways swipe, barely missing him.
“See how your non-dominant wrist is facing toward me? That’s wrong. Turn your arm inward so you show only the back of your hand. You don’t want to give your attacker an opportunity to slice open those critical arteries.”
“Okay.” She turned her wrist around.
“Now, tuck in your chin. This protects your throat. Keep parrying and dodging your opponent’s striking arm.” They danced around, him poking at her, Sarah trying to find an opening. Over and over Ben hit her hand away, pivoted constantly.
Distracted by his ridged stomach and muscled arms, Sarah found the fight more difficult.
Whether she wanted him around or not, needed him to protect her or not, he had an incredible magnetism she couldn’t deny.
It called to the traitorous, womanly parts of her, the parts which hadn’t been touched in a long, long time.
As they battled, Sarah felt a certain rhythm in their dance.
Thrust. Parry. Dodge. Pivot. They moved together in a strange synchronicity.
And still, she couldn’t manage to touch him with her marker.
Each time he advanced, she barely evaded him.
Over and over, he pretended to use his phantom knife, his finger, to stab her.
Each time he hit her arm, she felt a small pain, and it made her hesitate to become more aggressive.
She needed an aide, something to help get inside his circle of defense.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the wadded t-shirt on the workbench and took sideways steps to grab it. Quickly, she wrapped it around her left hand and arm, holding it bound in her fingers.
Now emboldened by the new protection, she used her covered left arm to advance, to take his blows, now blunted by the t-shirt, and at last managed to swipe her marker across his stomach.
He halted the exercise by raising a hand. “Well done!” His eyes glittered with admiration. “And you found something in your environment to help protect you, the t-shirt. Smart thinking. Let’s take a break.”
Breathing hard, she straightened. “Okay.”
Leaning against the workbench, he relaxed. “Knife fighting isn’t really about fighting.” He handed her a water bottle. “It’s about defending yourself and surviving.”
“I can see that,” she said, taking a drink. She’d already worked up a light sweat. “I can’t imagine going after someone and trying to hack them to death. But I sure can picture myself trying to fend off an attack.”
“Another way to use a knife is as a distraction,” he said. “Just like with your firearm, you should draw your knife only if you intend to use it. And if you’re threatened, you could attempt to intimidate. To bluff.”
“Bluff?”
“Draw it and say, “This is my Ka-bar knife given to me by a Navy SEAL, my tactical knife instructor. I keep it nice and sharp. You sure you want this?”
Encouraged both by her progress and his praise, she set aside her water. “Let’s go again. I’m gonna get you this time.”
He grinned. “I like your fighting spirit.”
Again, they circled one another, and this time Sarah was able to let go of some of her fears. Knives were scary because they could be used to maim, to kill.
But around the ranch, for her entire life she’d seen her dad utilize his pocketknife for a thousand different purposes. As Ben had told her, a knife was a tool.
Managing to mark his shoulder and chest, she backed him toward the wall.
Each time she caught him, he let out a yelp, as though she were wielding a true weapon and not a simple pen.
“That hurts!” he said, clearly pretending.
“Ouch,” he cried out again, showing her that she was learning to find opportunities.
Several black ink streaks covered his flesh.
Raising her arm up high, she prepared to deliver the killing stab.
Instead, and as before, he snared her wrist with one hand.
With the other, he forced her around so instead of the wall at his back, now it was at hers.
Her shoulder blades pressed to the hard wood.
Holding her wrist over her head, he splayed his other hand over the small of her back.
Before she could think, he thrust one booted foot between her feet and brought their bodies together.
His hips aligned with hers, his chest pressed to her breasts, his mouth hovered above hers, inches away.
She breathed hard, her chest heaving.
The only things separating them were her thin t-shirt and sports bra. Their eyes locked.
“Told you,” he whispered on a low growl. “Don’t raise your arm high in the air. It leaves you vulnerable.”
“N-no ... I don’t want to be vulnerable to anyone,” she whispered, wholly unable to move. She could feel his strong heart beating against hers. Thudding in her body, her heart answered.
“Unless...” He didn’t finish.
“Unless, what?” She could barely be heard.
“Unless,” he said, “it’s to me.” He lowered his lips to hers.