Journey's End. Bj James
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place. “Are you hungry?”
Taken by surprise at the sudden switch, Merrill thought for a moment and discovered that she was. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
“Famished?” He waggled his hand, his thumb and little finger tilting up and down. “Or only moderately?”
This time her answer came promptly. “Moderately.”
“Good. How about a ride, then breakfast by a stream?”
“Breakfast by a stream?” She glanced out the window as if she might have missed something in the course of their conversation. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is Montana and there’s snow out there.”
“For now,” he agreed. “But it will be gone by the time we reach the stream.” When her expression turned skeptical, he laughed and couldn’t keep himself from touching her cheek with the back of his hand. “Trust me in this. I know Montana.”
“Maybe you know Montana, but you don’t know if I ride.”
Ty gazed down at her through narrowed eyes. He would almost swear he saw the beginnings of laughter on her face. “Do you?”
“Not well enough for the rodeo, but enough to know the front of a horse from the rear. I can manage to stay in the saddle on a sedate ride.”
“Sedate, and you manage, huh?” She was leading him down the garden path, he was sure of it. A subtle tease, hinting at a wealth of humor temporarily weighted down by her troubles. Another step. Another beginning. “We ship most of the horses to lower pastures once the season’s over, but I think I can find you a mount that fits the bill.
“You brought boots, I hope.” He gave his approval of the full, comfortable shirt she wore, as well as the jeans belted snugly at her waist. With a jacket, both would do nicely. The delicate footwear, some sort of house slippers he deduced, left much to be desired.
“I have something that will suffice,” she returned casually.
“Terrific. I can have the supplies we need assembled and meet you in the barn in five minutes. Will you need more than that?”
“You’re sure about this?” Merrill cast another doubtful glance at the window. “We aren’t going to get lost in a blizzard and go snow blind, are we?”
“This is hardly a blizzard, as you’ll see later in the winter. We aren’t going to be lost. And I assure you, sweetheart, I won’t let anything happen to your enchanting eyes.” The endearment, one he’d imagined only moments before, had been a simple slip of the tongue. He wasn’t a man who normally went about calling virtual strangers familiar names, but it had seemed natural to think of her in those terms. It still seemed natural. Though, if she was as modern and as progressive in her thinking as her skills, she would very probably have his bloody scalp hanging from her belt for the diminution.
Yeah, maybe he should apologize. Should, he thought with little remorse, but wouldn’t.
Merrill was far less concerned with the slip than with her reaction to it. If this was a bar and he a stranger, he would be agonizing over his tenderest parts. But on a snowy morning at Fini Terre, and coming from Ty who looked at her through caring eyes, the casual endearment filled her with a warm, blushing glow.
Suddenly, it was wonderful to feel something more than the cold emptiness of guilt. And the wonder of it was there for Ty to see in the muted animation in her manner when she stepped away from the table. “Five minutes?” she considered. “That should be quite enough.”
When she would have gone to her room, his hand closing over her shoulder detained her. Her face was flushed and luminous, her mouth soft and dewy. For a mad moment he wondered if she would taste as delicious as he imagined.
A gold tipped brow arched in question as she stood motionless beneath his hand.
“I suppose this means you’ve decided to trust me after all.” His voice was hoarse from the sudden need to take her in his arms, to steal the kiss he wanted so badly.
Her smile was slow, and real, but with the ever present sadness lurking beneath it. She was conscious of the weight of his hand. The warmth, the strength, hers for the taking. For her to trust. For the winter.
“Yes, Ty,” she murmured, lingering a heartbeat over his name as she lifted her gaze to his. “I suppose it does.”
Three
He’d been snookered. Hoodwinked. Hustled and had.
Led down the garden path would be putting it mildly.
He knew it when he looked over the back of the horse he was saddling and found her watching him from the corral fence. Her jeans were the same, and the shirt. The jacket was of a matching denim. Not as faded, but enough that he knew it was a working jacket, not purely the decorative complement of a tenderfoot’s idea of ranch wear.
Sensible, practical, but the real giveaway was her boots. Or rather not boots. She wore moccasins, wrapped and laced, and tied at the knee. The same footwear favored by some of the Indians who worked with him as guides and wranglers through the short tourist season. Not as an affectation, nor for show, but comfortable, practical footwear for the skilled and intuitive nder.
His arms folded across the saddle, his hat tilted back a notch, he studied her from the Stetson that was far from new, to moccasins that were at least as old. A wry smile crinkled in fanning lines about his eyes. A flip of his finger moved the hat brim back another notch. “Sedate, huh?”
Merrill only nodded. The sun was at her shoulder, its muted fire casting provocative shadows beneath her cheekbones and turning her skin luminous. She’d taken a minute to braid her hair. But a minute was never enough to completely tame her curling mane. Tendrils escaped and drifted like mists about her face.
Ty wondered what it would be like to paint, to be able to capture on canvas the time, the place, this woman, forever.
The horse, a small, pretty mare, stamped a hoof and flicked an ear signaling an eagerness to be away. “Ho, girl.” Ty tapped her neck and stroked her, but kept his gaze on Merrill. A gaze that swept over her again, taking in every detail, the gear, the posture, the lithe, agile body. The mischief he couldn’t see, but knew was lurking there. He hoped was lurking there.
“You know one end of a horse from another, do you?” he asked soberly, picking up the threads of the conversation they’d had in the kitchen as if it had never been interrupted.
“The tall end is the front.” The reply was given just as soberly, without a ripple of change in her expression.
“And which side to mount from?” He continued the unnecessary catechism.
“Your side, if you’re a cowboy.”
“And if you’re not a cowboy or a cowgirl?”
“My side.” Merrill stayed by the fence. Her expression never altering.
“Indian fashion?”
“My first riding lesson was in Argentina.” A comment that might have been apropos of nothing, a digression, per chance a convoluted diversion. But not when it came from Merrill.
As she paused, his head angled and a brow lofted as he tried to make the connection. “Argentina.”
“I was seven.”
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