A Bravo's Honour. Christine Rimmer
started thinking how some things only got more powerful the more you denied them. And that maybe Caleb was right. In the end, the feud had nothing to do with their generation.
Luke saw her drive up. He told Paco to bring Candyman into his stall for her. “And ask her to stop in at the house when she’s done.”
At Paco’s nod, he went out a side door, Lollie at his heels. He moved swiftly across the back lawns to the same service entrance he’d used that night a week before. In the house, he sent the dog to her bed in the corner of the kitchen and took the wide central hall to the front foyer, where he lowered himself to one of the carved benches, skimmed off his hat and set it down on the bench cushion beside him.
He waited, feeling like he was about to burst out of his skin, for sixteen minutes. And then, at last, the doorbell rang. He rose and answered.
She had her hair tied back again, like that night last week. Even in the shade of the deep front veranda, it had a shine to it. She carried a purse instead of that black bag. He allowed himself a slow, hungry look, starting at her booted feet and moving up over her long, slim denim-clad legs. She wore a short-sleeved green shirt that buttoned down the front. And her mouth was set in a mutinous line.
“Hey,” he said, stepping back to usher her in just as Zita appeared to answer the door. She saw he had it handled and turned back the way she’d come. He said to Mercy, “Come on in.”
She didn’t budge. “Your horse is doing fine, healing up fast. And I know you have an account at the clinic so we don’t have to discuss the charge. You’ll get a bill, same as always.”
He thought about kissing her again. And more. Not only sex, either. He thought about reaching out, taking her hand, leading her across the threshold and over to the bench where his hat still waited, right there in the foyer. He thought about sitting her down and asking her to talk to him, to tell him everything about her. What she loved. What she hated. Her favorite color. Whether or not she liked broccoli. Why she’d decided to become a vet.
“It’s not about the bill,” he said quietly. “You know that.”
“Luke.” Her voice had gentled. “I really need to go.”
“Do you like broccoli?”
She blinked. Twice. “Excuse me?”
It came to him then. What to do. How to approach this. “One date. That’s all. We’ll go somewhere nobody knows us. We’ll…talk.”
“Talk.” Her soft mouth curved. It wasn’t a smile. “Right.”
“How do you know this isn’t something important?”
She frowned. “Important?”
“That’s right. We’ve both been thinking how we’ll regret getting anything started, how between your family and mine there’s never been anything but trouble. But what if we’ve got it wrong?”
“Wrong…”
“Yeah. What if the regret will come from not even trying, from not even giving each other a chance? What about that?”
Her mouth had softened. And so had those night-dark eyes. “I…I’ve wondered that. I have. Especially since Saturday night.”
“One date. We’ll see how it goes, find out if it’s all wrong, or if maybe this is something we shouldn’t pass up, no matter the risk, no matter the possible consequences.”
She tipped her head to the side, kind of studying him. “You think we’re going to learn all that in one date?”
He answered honestly. “Maybe not. But it’s a step.”
A long moment passed. Finally, she took a card and a pen from her purse. She wrote on the back of the card and then held it out to him. “Park around the corner. I’m a big coward. I don’t want to hurt my mother or my father. For now at least, I just don’t want them to know about this.”
He took it. And he read what she’d written. “I’ll be there,” he said.
Chapter Three
It was well after dark when Luke got to Mercy’s South Side neighborhood that Friday night. He’d taken one of the pickups from the ranch. It was a dull green and dirty, the wheels, side panels and front grill spattered with mud, the kind of vehicle no one would look at twice.
Mercy didn’t want anyone to know about the two of them. And he was willing to go along with that—at least for now. He parked two blocks from the address she’d given him, and walked the rest of the way, past small houses with dry patches of lawn in front and chain-link fences. Even after nine at night, the August heat was punishing. He heard the steady drone of window air conditioners. Here and there people sat on their front porches, laughing and talking. The occasional car rumbled by, giant speakers blaring out rap music or Tejano.
He kept his gaze front and his feet moving, feeling slightly ridiculous, thirty-one years old and sneaking around like a misbehaving teenager. But then he smiled to himself. Like a teenager in more ways than one. He glanced down at the bouquet of red roses he had picked from the garden himself. All tied up in knots, hormones on overdrive, on his way to see a certain special—and forbidden—girl.
When he turned onto her street, he slowed his steps and checked addresses. In the glow of a porch light he made out a number—203. Her house was number 212. It would be across the street.
He found it easily in the light of the streetlamp, a neat little cottage, blue with white trim. Geraniums grew along the fence and a rose trellis masked the concrete front porch. No garage. That pickup she drove waited in the narrow driveway between her house and the next one over.
Luke stood beneath the spreading shadow of an oak on the cracked sidewalk across the street, clutching his handful of roses, and staring at that little blue house, telling himself he could still change his mind. He was a simple man, really. He liked steak and baked potatoes. He said what he meant. His word was his bond. He believed in his parents’ longtime successful marriage and his family in general and loyalty and love, though you would be unlikely to catch him running his mouth off about that stuff.
He wondered what he was doing there, why he had insisted that she give the two of them a chance. He considered turning and going back the way he’d come.
But his desire—both to have her and to know her—was simply too powerful. He was a practical man in the grip of something he couldn’t control, something he doubted he would ever understand.
It was no good trying to convince himself to walk away. Desire held him there, stronger than all his compelling arguments to the contrary.
Luke emerged from under the shadowing branches of the tree and crossed the street. He went through the gate and up the three steps to her door.
He raised his fist to knock. But before he made a sound, the door swung open and her hand came out. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside, shoving the door shut again the second he crossed the threshold.
Since she was so close, he slipped an arm around her and brought her closer. He looked down into her upturned face, drinking in the sight and scent and feel of her. She had her hair down, blue-black and shining, and she wore a loose-fitting blouse that had slid off one shoulder.
“You’re beautiful.” He whispered the words, reverently.
Her strong chin quivered. “I’ve been…so anxious. Longing for you to be here, wishing you wouldn’t come, praying that you would. Going back and forth like a seesaw.”
“I know the feeling.” He pulled her nearer, wrapping both arms around her, heedless of the roses, which he held against her slim back. She didn’t resist him, not this time, only curved against him, warm and soft, all woman. A perfect fit.
She reached up, touched his face, her eyes full of wonder. “Oh, Luke. My heart is beating so hard…”
“Mine