“This part, too,” he whispered, toying with her lips. “Slow. Nice and slow.”
Long, slow, deep, and her so hot, so wet around him. She broke again on a moan, but he held on, moving in her, drawing out every moment, every ounce of pleasure. Up again, up again, slowly, relentlessly until he felt her give, just one more time, and gave with her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Bodine overslept—something she never did. Maybe a half hour didn’t rank high on the scale, but it put a dent in her rigid morning schedule.
She hopped out of bed so fast, Callen missed his chance to catch her.
“What’s your hurry?”
“I’m running behind before I get started. I can cut back on my workout, prioritize e-mails.” While she threw on her clothes, she calculated. “Take the truck instead of Leo.”
“I can get Leo fed and saddled up for you. I was hoping to use him today.”
She glanced back at the bed, at the shadowy outline of the man she’d slept with. “That’ll add to your own time.”
“Looks like I’m up anyway.”
Not complaining, she thought, amused, more resigned.
“Do you want to come over for breakfast?”
“I’d get better than a fried egg on toast.”
“Then I’ll see you in an hour.” She hesitated, then stepped back, leaned down, and kissed him. “If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d have pushed to get you a bigger bed.”
“This one worked out all right.”
“I’ll say it did. I have to go.”
She dashed out. Seconds later he heard his door slam behind her.
The woman sure did move fast, he thought, dragging himself up to put the coffee on.
In under that hour, Bodine finished an abbreviated workout, grabbed a shower, dressed, answered a handful of e-mails. The rest could wait. Coffee just couldn’t.
Since she still ran ten minutes behind, she’d sacrificed that first solo cup. Clementine would be in the kitchen by now.
As expected when she jogged down the back steps, coffee scented the air. Clementine had biscuit dough in a bowl and stood grating potatoes. It wasn’t altogether unexpected to see Maureen chatting with Clementine and frying up bacon and sausage.
But seeing Alice sitting at the kitchen table, head bent over her crocheting, put a hitch in Bodine’s stride.
“Running late for you.” Maureen laid sizzling bacon on a paper towel, sent her daughter a silent signal.
“Just a bit. Morning, Clem. Morning, Alice.”
“I’m making a scarf.”
“It’s coming right along, too.”
“Like you, Alice is an early riser. Grammy’s still sleeping, but Nana’s getting a shower. I told Cathy, that’s the night nurse, to take her time, and Alice could have her tea down here while we got breakfast going.”
“Cathy is the nurse. She came to the hospital. Clementine makes biscuits. I like the biscuits.”
“Got some cayenne pepper in them,” Clementine said easily. “You always liked when I put a little cayenne in them. Coffee’s fresh.”
“Yeah.” Bodine poured herself a mug.
“Coffee’s not allowed for childbearing women. It can stop the seed from planting.”
“I never heard that.” Bodine leaned back, sipped. “That’d make it the easiest form of birth control ever.”
“Bodine,” Maureen said under her breath.
Bodine kept the smile on her face, wandered over to sit with Alice. “I don’t think coffee’s going to manage that, but I’m not ready for babies yet.”
“You’re of childbearing age.”
“I am.”
“Bearing sons is a woman’s duty to her husband. You should have a husband, a husband to provide for you.”
“I provide for me. I might like a husband one of these days, but he’s going to have to meet my standards. They’re pretty high, as I have my dad as my first yardstick. So that one-of-these-days husband has to be handsome and strong and smart and kind and funny. He has to respect me for being who I am, the way Dad respects Mom. It’s likely, given my personal bent, he’s going to have to be a good horseman, too. And he’s going to have to love me like I was a queen and a warrior and a genius and about the sexiest woman ever born.”
“The man chooses.”
“No, Alice, people choose each other. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, Alice, somebody took your choice away.”
She caught movement, saw the woman standing in the kitchen doorway. About her mother’s age with short, ash-blond hair, a little stern around the mouth.
The nurse, Bodine thought, worried she’d crossed some line. But the woman nodded.
“I think you’re really brave,” Bodine finished, watching Alice’s eyes twitch as they seemed to do when she struggled to process.
“Women are weak.”
“Some people are weak. You’re not. I think you might be the bravest person I know.”
Alice ducked her head, hunched her shoulders, but Bodine caught the faintest smile. “I’m making a scarf. Clementine’s making breakfast biscuits. The sister is—”
She broke off, let out a muffled cry as Callen came in the mudroom door.
Shit! Bodine thought. She should’ve run back and told Callen to hold off.
“Morning.” Callen stood where he was. “I’m here to mooch breakfast. Are those your buttermilk biscuits, Clementine?”
“They are. Are your hands clean?”
“They will be. You must be Miss Alice.” He spoke easy, in a tone Bodine had heard him use with a nervous horse countless times. “It nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“One of the sons, one of the sister’s sons.”
“An honorary one.” Maureen’s voice might have been a few shades overbright, but it stilled Alice’s fretful hands. “This is Callen. Cal’s same as family. He’s a good boy, Alice.”
“Man. He’s not a boy.” Alice patted her cheeks.
In response Callen rubbed his own. “Didn’t think to shave this morning. Slipped my mind. That’s pretty work you’re doing there. My sister does needlework. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knitted up a house next.”
“You can’t knit a house. I’m crocheting. I’m making a scarf.”
“If you want anything in this kitchen, you get over here and wash the horse off your hands,” Clementine ordered as she cut out biscuits. “This breakfast’ll be ready soon.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She tells the man what to do,” Alice whispered to Bodine.
“She tells us all what to do.”
“I washed my hands.”
Though her eyes went damp, Clementine nodded at Alice. “Then you’ll get your breakfast.”
At the clatter on the stairs, Alice jolted again. Bodine laid a hand over hers.
Rory bounded in, cheerful as a puppy, hair still damp, face freshly shaved. “Overslept. Smells damn good in here. I could use—”
He spotted the woman at the table with Bodine. Like the rest of the family, he’d been schooled. And Rory was, at the core, a salesman. He shot out a megawatt smile.
“Good morning, Alice. I didn’t have a chance to meet you yet. I’m Rory.”
Alice’s face went slack. Bodine heard the two rapid gasps before that face transformed into something beyond joy. Something too bright even for joy.
“Rory. Rory.” Tears spilled even as she laughed. And as she laughed, she pushed up from the table, flew at him. Her arms wrapped around him. “My baby. My Rory.”
Awkwardly patting Alice’s back, he stared at his mother in baffled shock.
“This is my youngest, Alice,” Maureen said carefully. “This is my son, Rory.”
“My Rory.” Alice eased back enough to look at his face, to stroke her hands over his cheeks. “Look how handsome. You were such a pretty baby, such a pretty boy. Now you’re handsome. So big! So tall! Ma can’t rock you anymore, my baby.”
“Ah—”
“Alice,” the nurse spoke, tone even, matter-of-fact. “This is your sister’s son. This is your nephew.”
“No. No.” Alice clutched at him again. “My baby. He’s Rory. You can’t take him away. I won’t let anybody take him away again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rory told her. “It’s all right.”
“I prayed for my babies. For Cora and Fancy and Rory and Lily and Maureen and Sarah and for Benjamin even though he went right to heaven. Do you know where they are, Rory, the other babies? My baby girls?”
“No, I’m sorry. Let’s sit down, okay?”
“I’m making you a scarf. It’s green. My Rory has green in his eyes.”
“It’s nice. It’s really nice.” And as Rory looked at his mother again, Bodine stood up.
She moved to the back stairs to hug and hold Cora as she wept.
* * *
He was dog-sick for a solid week. He could barely crawl out of bed to do his business much less to down more medicine or open a can to eat.
The fever burned, the chills racked, but the hacking, tearing cough was worse. It left him weak, breathless, his chest fist-tight, his throat raw from the thick, yellow mucus that spewed from his lungs.
He blamed Esther, cursed her as he lay on sweat-stained sheets.
He’d track her down when he got back on his feet. He’d track her down and beat her bloody, choke the life out of her. She didn’t rate a bullet.
Even when he managed to stand for more than a few minutes, the cough could bring him to his knees.
By the time he felt able to drag himself outside, he saw the dog was halfdead—maybe more than half. He tossed some food in a bucket. Pumping water into another brought on a violent coughing fit. He spat out blood-tinged mucus, wheezed breathlessly as he took a look at the cow.
Hadn’t been milked in a couple days, he judged, and like the horse had made due with snow and the spare grass under it. The chickens fared little better. It all showed him, clearly, bitterly, the boy had barely been around. And when he had been he’d done his work halfway.
Boy was useless, just like his cursed mother.
When he got his strength back, he’d take that boy to task good and proper. And he’d go out, get a young wife, get a young one who’d bring forth sons who’d honor their father instead of one who came and went as he damn well pleased.
Made a mistake with Esther, and he could admit it. Wasted too many years on her. Made a mistake or two trying to take on a second wife, but he wouldn’t make another.
He just had to get his strength back, even enough to get himself some medicine, some supplies.
Dizzy from the effort of tending to the animals, he stumbled back inside. He wanted to check the Internet, gain some solace from the words of men who knew what he knew, believed as he believed.
He’d paid good money for the Wi-Fi antenna, for the hot spot devices and repeaters. And he’d learned how to use them and stay off the grid.
Goddamn government, spying on everybody, stealing land, shoving their gays and blacks and Mexicans down the throats of real Americans.
He was a sovereign citizen, he thought, a man prepared, even eager, to shed blood to protect his rights.
He’d shed Esther’s, he thought. He’d thrash some respect into the whelp she’d foisted on him. And he’d find a wife who’d give him the sons he deserved.
But all he could do was crawl back in bed, shiver with chills, wheezing out breath from lungs thick with fluid.
* * *
Callen’s gut knotted when he saw Sheriff Tate pull up.
“Let me know if you need anything,” he said to the farrier, walking over to meet Tate. “Has there been another one?”
“No. No, that’s one blessing. Got a little May weather in March.”
“It’ll turn on us, but I’ll take it.”
Tate scanned the paddocks, the shelter. “You on your own?”
“We got two trail rides out, another two this afternoon, and a pair of lessons down at the center. May weather means May bookings.”
Tate nodded. “Is that Spike over there?”
“Yeah. Hell of a name for a farrier.”
“You don’t often see a farrier wearing a spiked dog collar and sporting half a dozen tattoos. But he knows his work. Can you take a break?”
“It appears I’m already taking one.”
“Let’s walk over this way.” Tate aimed for the big paddock. “Some fine-looking horses.”
“We brought more in today. We’re going to take them out to pasture tomorrow if this weather holds like it’s supposed to. It’s been some time since I herded horses to pasture at dawn, rounded them back up for the night.”
“It sounds like you’re looking forward to it.”
“I guess I am. I like the work here, even though there’s a lot of computer and paper involved.” He reached out, rubbed a curious bay down the nose. “I know you didn’t ride over here to see how I was taking to the job.”
“No. I’m heading over to the Bodine Ranch to talk to Alice. She’d be having her talk with the psychiatrist now. I’m going to hope she remembers a little more.”
“I can tell you she’s had more to say. I heard her myself when I went over at breakfast. She thought Rory was hers. She named off seven children. All girls but for one named Rory and another. The way she put that one he either died in the birthing or right after.”
“Ah, my Christ.”
“I don’t figure I’m telling you anything I shouldn’t when I say she latched onto Rory. She talked about how she’d rock him, sing to him, play peek-a-boo, how he’d learned to walk on his own. It about broke your heart. Have you got anything on this son of a bitch, Sheriff?”
“I wish I could say we did. We’re working with the Staties. We put up her picture, gave it to the media, in case anybody’d seen her. We had dogs out, trying to pick up her trail, but with the rain, and not having a damn clue how far she’d walked up or down the road before she collapsed, we don’t have so much as a starting point.”
“You need her to tell you, and you can’t push at her.”
“You’re right on both counts.” When the curious bay nudged at his shoulder, Tate gave him an absent pat. “But any little thing she can say is one more thing to work with. But that’s not why I came by. I heard Garrett came out here in an official vehicle, wearing his official uniform, and went at you again.”
“Clintok doesn’t worry me.”
“I suspended him.”
Callen turned now, shoved at his hat. “There’s no cause for you to do that on my account.”
“I didn’t do it on your account.” Temper ruddied Tate’s cheeks. “He disobeyed a direct order. He harassed and threatened a private citizen. I suspended him rather than firing his arrogant ass, as he’s got some good qualities under the bullshit, and … I’ve got two manhunts on my hands. I got two women dead, and a cold trail on whoever killed them. I got a man who kept a woman I have a fondness for locked up we don’t know how many years. And right now, that trail’s cold, too. But if Garrett crosses the line again, he loses his job, and that’s for me to say.”