Dance Hall Road Page 9

  “I can hear. I hear your heart,” she whispered, promising herself she would never take her life or her son’s life for granted. She would savor every day—make the best of it. She had no right to feel sorry for herself ever again.

  Chapter Nine

  Buck thought life a funny thing, how it twisted and turned like a bucking-bronc, then, after tossing you on the ground, it could bite you on the butt. Last night he’d lain on the hard, cold floor wide awake, afraid Petra wouldn’t live through the night, feeling helpless to do anything about it. He’d never thought he needed anybody. He’d never wanted company. But last night, out of his mind with worry, he conceded that Petra, with her blue eyes and indomitable spirit, had changed his mind.

  A pale light appeared on the horizon—a new day. Holding Petra in his arms, with Gabriel hugged tight to her bosom, he didn’t try to hide his tears of relief. When she turned her face up to him, alive and smiling, he could hardly breathe. Her eyes, alight with joy, shone in the half-light before dawn like twin stars. To his touch, her skin beneath his fingers felt damp, cool, smooth as a dew-covered rose petal. Without thought or consideration, he kissed her trembling lips. Reveling in the feel of her warm body quivering in his embrace, he was grateful, so very grateful. She was alive. She could hear his voice…hear her son’s cries.

  With eyes closed, Buck savored the warmth of her. Tentatively, his mouth sampled her softness, her sweetness, tasting the tears in the crease between her lips. Her lips parted when she gasped. Taking advantage, he threw caution to the wind and inserted his tongue.

  She went rigid in his embrace, making him aware of his mistake. With both hands on her shoulders, he drew back and rose from her bed. Looking anywhere but into her eyes, he stammered, “I…I ah…I’ll go make some coffee. Must be near daybreak. You okay?”

  The faint light from the window cast linear shadows across her sweet face. Glancing at her as he backed out of the room, her eyes wide, lips parted, she looked like a startled bird caught in a cage. Assailed by a guilty conscience, he cursed his clumsiness. He shouldn’t have kissed her. He should’ve known she didn’t think of him that way—like a lover.

  With his knowledge of women, having been raised by them and having lived with them all his life, Buck knew just because a woman found herself pregnant, it didn’t make her an expert on the pleasures of the flesh. Petra had no experience. He’d bet his horse on it.

  He didn’t know much about Kurt Laski, but he could guess. The bastard used women, didn’t pleasure them. Petra had a lot to learn. Buck would’ve liked to show her the difference between raw, one-sided lust and making love, but he figured he’d gone and ruined his chances with his kiss. She wasn’t ready for it. He’d jumped the gun.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry. You’re better. That’s good…real good. I’ll get out of your room. Sorry,” he muttered, making haste to get away from her blinking eyes.

  Once downstairs, he busied himself preparing breakfast, banging pots and pans, cursing himself for getting himself in this fix.

  Above him, he heard Gabriel screaming. “Good, now she can enjoy the brat’s caterwauling too. About time. I’ve been puttin’ up with it by myself long enough. The brat’s gettin’ louder and louder every day.”

  The baby stopped crying. Buck closed his eyes, only to see Petra in his minds’ eye, with Gabriel snuggled up to her firm, ripe breast, her shoulders bare, skin soft, warm, creamy-white, begging to be touched. Shaking himself out of his trance, starting to salivate, he looked out the window. Snow continued to fall, but it appeared the wind had died down. He shivered, and nodded, satisfied to be, once again, under control.

  While the fat-back sizzled, he checked his calendar. Petra had been in his house for almost two months, and still no sign of the Laski boys. Buck didn’t know what to make of it. Maybe they were so banged up they couldn’t travel. Maybe Petra was right, they didn’t need her or her money anymore.

  Somehow, he didn’t believe any of it. Sooner or later the Laski’s would come looking for her—looking for him—looking to settle a score.

  The floorboards squawked above his head, and he listened to Petra’s soft footfalls as she moved around her room. Standing very quiet, he could hear her voice—the sound of it bringing a lump to his throat.

  He’d thought, really thought, she would be dead by morning. He’d thought she would die and leave him with the job of raising Gabriel. Lying there on the floor in the cold and the dark, he’d tried to visualize himself with a boy to raise. Although it scared the hell out of him, the notion had taken root.

  But Petra was alive, and his kiss—and her reaction—had spoken volumes. She didn’t want him. He wouldn’t force himself on her. The sooner he could get her out of his house, the better for both of them. But the question of where to take her remained. Where would she be safe? If they left today, he’d have to go with her, wherever they headed. He sure as hell couldn’t leave her alone to fend for herself, not now, not after that damn kiss.

  Her soft footfalls on the stairs sent him to the stove to turn the bacon. Feeling like a damn fool coward, he kept his head down as she came into the room. The soft rustle of her skirt brought with it the warm, clean scent of soap as she walked by. Looking up beneath his brows, he watched her lay the baby down in his cradle.

  “He certainly is loud.” She turned her head in his direction, a smile on her lips. “I had no idea,” she said, tucking a blanket in around the babe.

  “I reckon he’ll grow up to be an auctioneer, or maybe a hog caller,” he said, forgetting she could hear as he removed bacon from the pan.

  Her soft giggle took him by surprise. Somehow she’d snuck up on him. Standing right beside him, she studied him like she’d done yesterday, the day he’d shaved. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice. I’ve wondered what you sounded like.”

  Unable to look away from her beaming face, his throat locked up. She’d combed and braided her hair and changed into one of his old, faded, dust-colored chamois shirts. Her blue eyes were bright with hope this morning. She looked so damned full of life, he thought he might bust out bawling.

  Quickly, he turned his gaze away from her shining face. “I sound like an old bullfrog.”

  “No, no you don’t,” she said, laying her hand on his arm.

  Pulling his shoulders back, he made himself look her straight in the eye. “If I frightened you up there, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

  Her eyes twinkling mischievously, she gave a little shake of her head, setting her braid rippling down over her bosom.

  Like the bacon in the frying pan, his resolve shriveled up in the heat of her nearness. Drawing on all of his willpower, he stopped himself from taking her in his arms and carrying her over to his bed.

  With her cheek lightly resting on his upper arm, she gazed up into his face. “You took me by surprise, is all.”

  Blushing, she cleared her throat and looked down to the plate of bacon. “I…I would like to try it again. Please. I’m ready now,” she said, turning her face up to him, her eyes the color of twilight.

  Buck felt like a cornered animal. What did she think he should do, perform for her on command? It didn’t work that way. Not for him, it sure as hell didn’t.

  Ruthlessly, he brushed her hand off his sleeve. “What do you mean, you’re ready now? I’m a grumpy, worthless…”

  The bacon grease popped and splattered. Buck pushed her away from the stove, then shoved the fry-pan to the back. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’.” He shook the hand that had taken the worst of the spray. “You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me,” he said, evaluating the red blisters beginning to form on his wrist.

  Moving her out of the way, he headed for the table with the plate of bacon. “It’s better if we keep it that way. You’re leavin’, and I’m stayin’.” Flapping his arms out to his side he said, “I got carried away.”

  Turning around, he gave her a little bow. “I’m beggin’ your pardon. It won’t hap
pen again.”

  Standing there, looking at him with her lips parted, her eyes big and blue, hell, he knew she really didn’t understand where he’d wanted his kiss to lead. “I made a mistake—that kiss. It…we…it won’t work.”

  Taking a step back, she folded her arms tightly across her middle, like she’d taken a punch to her gut.

  “Oh, hell.” He fervently wished they could start the day over, take back the kiss, take back everything he’d said. Shit.

  Her chin going up, and her eyes flashing with something akin to defiance, she primly said, “Yes, yes, of course. Perhaps you’re right. I don’t know anything about you…really.” She tilted her head to the side, her eyes downcast. “It was the storm, I suppose. Living out here, it made me think we were the only two people left on earth. How silly of me. I thought you… I thought you liked me,” she said to the floor, her chin quivering.

  The sad, kicked-dog look in her eyes made Buck feel like a slimy, stinky piece of scum.

  Continuing to torture him, her voice soft and sweet, sounding, oh, so logical, she proceeded to agree with him, “Yes, I see how it is. We simply got caught up in the moment, nothing more. I can hear again, that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

  Her blue eyes, swimming in tears, broke his heart. He reached out, then dropped his arm to his side.

  Her eyes looking everywhere but at him, she went around the table—he thought on purpose to avoid coming too close to him. He stood there, feeling wretched, watching. When she plopped down on his bed and began to rock the cradle with her toe, he groaned in sheer agony. She couldn’t know how she affected him. On his damn bed, right where he wanted her, she still didn’t have a clue as to what she did to him.

  Cursing to himself, he went back to his stove, where he stood for a moment or two, working the situation over in his mind. He poured himself a cup of coffee and assured himself he was right, and he meant to keep his word—he would leave her alone. After pouring out another cupful for Petra, he convinced himself he needed some fresh air.

  With the back of her hand, she brushed away her tears, then took the cup of coffee he offered without giving him a glance.

  On the way back to his stove, he gulped down the contents of his cup in less than a half-dozen swallows. It burned the roof of his mouth, boiled his tongue, and scorched his throat. His eyes watered. “I got to get out to the barn, check on the animals.” Without looking in her direction, he got his coat and jammed his hat on his head.

  Her tear-filled, stoic voice followed him across the room, “Oh, yes, of course.”

  With his hand on the curtained threshold to his room, Buck stopped, wishing Petra was something she was not—a woman with experience. He found it decidedly ironic that he, the proprietor of a bordello, couldn’t take advantage of her, ignore her innocence and satisfy his lust. She should thank him for being noble.

  His arrogant sentiments sickened him. Noble? He knew himself for a rutting pig—no getting around it.

  “I’ll make some biscuits for us,” she said, her breath falling on his right ear.

  She’d snuck up on him again, standing right behind him. He could feel the heat of her body, smell her soap. He didn’t dare look at her.

  “Thank you for the coffee and for…for helping me yesterday. I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened, or felt so helpless.”

  Her hand lay on his back, right between his shoulder blades, and he almost gave in to the need to hold her…kiss the daylights out of her.

  “I thought I would die,” she said, her voice soft and seductive. “I’m grateful to you for all you’ve done for me… and for Gabriel.”

  Gratitude. He didn’t want her gratitude. Grumbling to himself, taking big strides, he made it to the front door, then said over his shoulder, “Don’t think nothin’ of it. Just did what had to be done.”

  Yanking the door shut behind him, Buck stood on his porch with his eyes squeezed shut. The cold air slapped him in the face, stung his ears and bit his nose. He felt his punishment all the way across the yard. And by the time he opened the barn door and stepped inside, thoroughly chagrined and depressed, he called himself two times a fool, a coward, and a lecherous old man.

  Well, maybe not so old, but certainly lecherous.

  »»•««

  The shock of her body’s response to Mr. Hoyt’s lips frightened her. Petra thought she knew all about passion—it hurt and it wasn’t gentle, ever. She’d always thought she had something wrong with her. But the way her body had tingled, warmed and vibrated during that one brief—too brief—kiss, started her to wondering. It could be possible that passion, real, warm, true passion might be one more thing she knew nothing about and had never experienced.

  His lips were light, warm and firm, not demanding or hard. He caressed her. Kurt had never caressed her, held her tenderly—treated her with care. He’d never held her at all. He took. He’d never shown her tenderness. His needs had come first, and fast.

  The rush of desire she’d experienced, so unexpected, so foreign, had unsettled her, confused her. Little wonder Mr. Hoyt had mistaken her surprise, her confusion, for rejection. Far from being repulsed, she wanted more. She’d always wanted more. She’d thought she’d found what she craved with Kurt, but she’d only found betrayal and pain. Her father had given her material things, her aunt had given her instruction and rules, when all she really wanted was affection, attention and tenderness.

  What had he said? “I got carried away. I made a mistake.” No, she couldn’t believe his kiss to be a mistake. He’d been so careful, his lips light as a feather and his tongue…oh—my goodness—his tongue…

  The dear man had taken care of her, slept on the floor at her bedside. His lips, his kiss, spoke to her, told her of his regard, his need for her. She was sorry she hadn’t been prepared for the jolt of desire his kiss had awakened in her.

  She scooped flour into the mixing bowl, and made up her mind—she wanted another kiss, needed another kiss to discover what else she’d been denied.

  She asked herself, Is this another one of my willful, childish whims, an experiment to satisfy my curiosity, fulfill my desire? No, she didn’t think she had any expectations, no hopes, no dreams, no delusions left. Her father and society would label her, a fallen woman, therefore doomed to a life of shame. She had nothing more to lose, did she?

  No, Mr. Hoyt couldn’t take back that kiss. She wouldn’t let him.

  Humming to herself, she smiled, finding joy in the sound of her own voice. She giggled when the wooden spoon clinked against the side of the bowl. The oven door squawked in protest as she slipped the pan of biscuits onto the baking rack. The fire chamber snapped and popped when she added more kindling. She savored every sound as a miracle, a reminder of the truly important things in life.

  When Mr. Hoyt returned, all sour-faced and grumbling to himself, Petra had to snicker. Ignoring his protest as nothing more than silly male insecurity, she threw her arms over his shoulders and began to kiss his neck, his cold cheeks, her lips not satisfied until they found his.

  His hands, cold as ice on her arms, at first resisted, then tightened to keep her at a distance. He stayed rigid as a statue, his lips firmly pressed together, his eyes tightly closed against her attack, until her fingers traced his jaw and found his cold ears. Then he sagged in surrender and hung his head, his lips becoming pliable, returning her hunger.

  With her hands on either side of his face, she made her case, “Mr. Hoyt, you don’t want to resist me.”

  With his forehead resting against hers, she went on to say, “And I don’t believe we’re making a mistake.”

  Pulling away, she wanted to look into his eyes. “I know what I feel from you is tenderness. This morning, you’ll have to forgive me for not instantly recognizing what you were offering. And it’s no use pretending we don’t care for one another. We’ll only make ourselves miserable.”

  Snarling like a dog, his hands covered hers, removing them from his jaw, drawing them down to he
r side. “Damned if we do and damned if we don’t; is that the way you see the situation?”

  Before she could respond, he shook his head at her. “Either way, we lose. I can see that, even if you can’t. I’m trying to do the right thing by you, and leave you alone, Petra. Can’t you see that? Let’s just let this go.”

  Laying her hands on his chest, her gaze settled on the buttons on his coat. “What if I don’t want to? What if I want you to kiss me…hold me? What if I want…more?”

  Her chin coming up, her eyes searched his for his reaction. “If I want more, and you want more, then why shouldn’t we?”

  “Stop it, Petra.”

  His bark caused her to blink. “Perhaps I’m pushing too hard. I do that, it’s one of my many faults.”

  Taking a deep breath, she decided to regroup, fall back. “Very well, I’ll stop. For now.” Moistening her lips, she gave his chest a little patronizing pat.

  The comforting smell of her biscuits baking, reminded her she should check on them if she didn’t want them to burn.

  Going through the motions, she rescued the biscuits from the oven, and set the honey and butter on the table, staying clear of Mr. Hoyt, who had planted himself in the middle of the room.

  His gaze followed her every move. It pleased her to think him wary of her sudden surrender—and well he should be. She fried up three eggs, two over-easy, the way he liked them, and hers scrambled. She stifled a naughty giggle when he finally crossed the room and hung up his coat and hat.

  They ate in an uneasy truce—he vigilant—she smug.

  “Mr. Hoyt,” she said, rising to clear away their plates, “what’s your real name?”

  He muttered a few choice curses. She pressed her lips together—he’d apparently forgotten she could hear now.

  “Buck,” he answered.

  Standing before him with her hands on her hips, she made the observation, “You don’t look like a Buck.” Tilting her head from side to side, she deliberated. “You look like a John…no, maybe a Charles or a George.”