CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TARA’S ROOM, HER PERSONAL sanctuary, was spacious and feminine, with lots of lace, both at the windows and on her antique brass bed; it was the same space, and yet it was different, too.
Despite the voices going back and forth in her mind, a quiet knowing came over her: she wasn’t out of control. In fact, she’d never felt stronger or more self-possessed. She’d brought Boone Taylor to this room for one reason and one reason only—because she wanted him.
He smoothed her hair back off her shoulders, a gesture so tender that it made her throat ache, and tilted his head to one side, regarding her with smoky eyes and a modicum of concern. “Are you sure you want this?” he asked, his voice gruff. A little grin cocked up one corner of his mouth. “This is me, you know. Boone Taylor. The redneck sheriff from next door, he of the beat-up double-wide and the weedy yard.”
She smiled, relishing this strange and special freedom she was allowing herself, this bubble that held the two of them, somewhere outside of time, all the while knowing full well that she’d probably regret it later and still not giving a damn, and slid her arms around his neck. Her senses raced as Boone drew her close, her softness resting against the steely length of him. He smelled of soap and fresh air and something else she couldn’t quite define, his own scent, she guessed, as unique to him as his fingerprints.
Boone arched one dark eyebrow, watching her, waiting for her reply. He was so solid, so substantial, and if there was any hesitancy, any uncertainty in him, Tara couldn’t detect it.
“It was bound to happen,” she said reasonably.
He gave just the slightest nod, then the corner of his mouth quirked up again. “I figured it would be on concert night, though,” he observed.
“You’d rather wait?” she teased, looking up at him, longing to get lost in him.
“No, ma’am,” he answered. “But some things have to be taken into consideration, just the same.”
“I’m not using birth control,” Tara confessed, and felt her soaring spirits sag a little.
Boone chuckled, pulled his wallet from the hip pocket of his jeans, opened it and brought out a small, battered packet. “‘Be prepared,’” he quoted, his eyes twinkling with an irresistible combination of passion and mischief. “I’ve been carrying at least one of these around since high school.”
Tara eyed the condom. “Not this particular one, I hope,” she said, only half kidding.
He laughed, a low, masculine sound, easy and real and unhurried. “No,” he answered. “I’ve seen a little more action than that, as it happens.”
“Kiss me again,” Tara said. Some part of her longed to conceive a child, this man’s child, but she knew it wouldn’t be fair to Boone or to the baby. If things didn’t work out—and there were so many reasons why they might not—Boone would want to be a part of the little one’s life, wouldn’t he?
And the baby would be born into turmoil and controversy. Tara wanted her children to be conceived in love, raised in a happy home, like Joslyn and Slade’s little boy, and Hutch and Kendra’s infant daughter.
“I like a woman who says what’s on her mind,” Boone answered, obliging.
If only you knew what’s on my mind. You’d probably be out of here in two seconds flat.
Instead of clueing him in, Tara gave herself up to his kiss, to his mouth and the caresses of his hands, marveling that the floor seemed to pitch beneath her feet, dazed and dizzy and loving the wild physical and emotional responses Boone roused in her.
They kissed again and again, now hungrily, now in gentle exploration, and again the ordinary course of time seemed altered to Tara.
This is here, she reminded herself silently, joyously. This is now.
Still, things were shifting—constantly shifting—within her. How long had she and Boone been standing here, really? A few moments? An hour? A year?
A soft, country-scented breeze played over Tara’s skin, and that was when she realized she was naked—somehow, without her noticing, her clothes had simply melted away.
And so, she soon discovered, had Boone’s.
She found herself on her back, just midway across the width of her bed, with her legs dangling over the longer side. Boone murmured to her as he kissed and caressed her, sweet, senseless words that made her feel cherished, almost worshipped.
It was all so new to her, his governed strength, his slow hand, his warm mouth, tracing her neck, her breasts, her belly, that Tara felt virginal and, at the same time, powerful, very much in control of her own destiny.
Kneeling beside the bed, Boone kissed the insides of her knees, then her thighs.
She shivered with an anticipation so primitive, so undeniable, that she might have been a she-wolf, offering herself to her mate under a magical moon.
Boone parted her, found her most tender place and took her into his mouth, nibbled at her.
She gave a cry, part moan, part exulted gasp, and tangled her fingers in Boone’s hair, holding him to her even as she began to whimper feverishly and toss her head back and forth in a frenzy of surrender.
He worked her skillfully, taking his time, bringing her to the very brink of release and then slowing down, easing up, making her knot her fingers in his hair and plead.
Again, the breeze flowed over them, pouring through an open window, perfumed by trees and wild flowers and the nearby river.
She begged.
He feasted on her in earnest then, brought her to a climax so fierce that her hips flew upward, seeking more of the incomprehensible pleasure and then still more. Her body buckled wildly, like a cable in a high wind, and still it went on, the rising from one pinnacle to another and then another.
When it finally ended, Tara sank, exhausted, settling deep into the mattress, deep into herself and the sweet, soft glory of simply being a woman. There couldn’t be more, there just couldn’t.
Except that there was.
Boone sent her soaring, again and again, untying all the hidden knots within her, opening floodgates of passion in her heart and even her soul.
After a long time, he turned her lengthwise on the bed, speaking soothingly to her as she slowly descended from impossible heights, airless places beyond the clouds, beyond the big sky itself.
She felt his body weight shift, knew he was opening the packet, putting on the condom. Now, she would conquer him, pleasuring him until he gave himself up to her, spilled himself inside her, reveling in his satisfaction, already saturated by her own.
“One more chance to say no,” Boone rumbled, resting on top of her, settling between her parted legs. His eyes searched hers.
In answer, Tara drew his head down, kissed him softly, tantalizing him with her tongue, then nipping lightly at his lower lip.
Boone groaned and then, in one long, powerful stroke, he was inside her, sheathed to the hilt.
Tara’s eyes widened in surprise—she’d thought she was spent, that he’d already wrung every possible response from her—but a new and undeniable need swept over her, through her, instant and fiery and utterly ferocious.
She gasped his name.
Boone locked his gaze onto hers and seemed to be gazing into the very depths of her being, seeing a whole hidden landscape there, a place no other man had ever ventured into before, a place she herself had never charted.
And he began to move, his pace maddeningly slow.
She clawed at his bare back with her fingernails—until that moment she’d never known that really happened, even in the throes of passion—urging him to go faster, to increase the delicious friction until the world, indeed, the universe, exploded around them.
But Boone wouldn’t be hurried, even though the set of his jaw and the corded muscles in his neck proved he was battling his own need to give in, to let go, to fall into her fire and allow it to consume him. All the while, though, he maintained eye contact, fierce as a warrior, but at the same time, so unbelievably gentle.
Tara wouldn’t ask herself how such a contradiction could be until much later; at the moment, she was beyond rational thought. All she knew for sure was that she was a woman and Boone was a man and, together, they were being swept upward, into some kind of cataclysmic collision that would bond them in ways far more profound than the mere joining of their two straining bodies.
They climaxed at the same moment, Tara with a long, guttural, soblike cry, Boone with a raw, husky shout. They seemed to hang suspended in the aftermath, as though they’d been fused into one being, and finally they collapsed, exhausted, onto sweat-moistened, tangled sheets.
Tara had neither the strength nor the breath to speak, and Boone, too, remained silent, his heart pounding beneath her cheek, his arms tightly around her.
The old-fashioned clock on the bedroom mantel ticked, a disquieting reminder that time was passing.
The girls would be coming home soon. The chickens would need to be fed. And she would have to come to terms with what she’d just done.
Presently, Boone rolled away from her, scooped his clothes up from the floor, retreated into Tara’s bathroom without a word. By the time he returned, he was fully dressed, though his hair was still mussed and his shirt looked rumpled.
“Do we have to talk about this?” Tara whispered, as the first waves of misery washed over her. She’d expected this reaction, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.
Boone bent, kissed her forehead, briefly. “Not right away,” he replied.
And then he was gone. Tara lay very still, listened to his footsteps on the stairs, heard the distant creak of the front door opening, the snap of its shutting, the faint roar of Boone’s car engine.
Lucy wandered into the room moments later, rested her muzzle on the bedding, and gazed soulfully at Tara, devoted and probably concerned.
Tara pulled up the covers to the bridge of her nose, reached out one arm to stroke Lucy’s golden head. “You’re such a sweetheart,” she sniffled.
Why was she crying?
Tara couldn’t have given a precise reason, not at that moment, anyway.
She’d never even imagined that lovemaking could be the way it had been between her and Boone—this was the stuff of storybooks, of romantic movies and very private fantasies.
But real life? Even now, it seemed impossible.
Tara’s emotions rioted even as her body settled back into an ordinary rhythm, and they were epic in proportion, those feelings, as well as completely contradictory to each other.
She was scared. She was elated. She’d just made the mistake of a lifetime. She’d just been touched by something that was meant to be, written in the stars.
Only two things were certain, and they were both alarming. One, her life would never, ever be the same after this. And two, she was in love with Boone Taylor. It wasn’t the polite, nearly platonic love she’d had with James, but the big, scary kind that seared an imprint into her soul.
The question was, did Boone feel the same way?
Or was he whistling under his breath, grinning a little, and thinking, Slam-bam, thank you, ma’am? That would be typical of a guy. Maybe he was even feeling a little cocky, thinking he’d scored one against the chicken farmer from the big city, gotten her back for all those snide remarks about his run-down double-wide and overgrown property.
The prospect was so awful that Tara wanted to hide in that bed until she got old and died, or at least until she could drum up some defiance, but neither one of those things was an option. She had the twins to think about, and sweet Lucy, and the chickens.
With a sigh, she threw back the covers, got out of bed, trailed into her bathroom and started the shower running. She stepped into the stall and let the hot water pummel her until it turned lukewarm, then got out, dried off and put on clean clothes, jeans and a worn T-shirt. Work clothes.
Downstairs, she took a store-bought lasagna from the freezer and turned on the oven. One thing at a time, she told herself. She fed Lucy her kibble, and then went outside to take care of the chickens, shutting them up in their cozy coop for the night.
By the time Shea brought Elle and Erin home from their expedition to Three Trees, the sun was going down and Tara figured she probably looked pretty normal, at least on the outside. On the inside, she knew she’d sowed the wind and reaped the whirlwind. She was a one-woman weather system, category-five.
She wasn’t the type to get carried away, never had been, but this time she’d gone and opened her heart, not to mention her body, to a man she barely knew. She’d zipped right on past beginning to like Boone to loving him, but there was certainly no guarantee of happily-ever-after.
She and Boone had little in common, really. And he’d loved his late wife deeply—probably loved her still. After all, he and Corrie had gotten together as teenagers, planned a life, made two beautiful babies.
They’d shared big dreams and worked hard to make them come true, and Tara knew—everyone in Parable did—just how deeply Boone had grieved for his bride. According to Joslyn and Kendra, he’d shut down completely, just doing his job and existing, letting his sister and her husband raise his children.
The twins were bursting with excitement, their words tumbling over each other as they recounted the high points of the movie. They’d had Mexican food for lunch, but that was hours ago, and they were both starved. And Shea was awesome.
Looking at Tara, though, their prattle trickled off into silence. She hadn’t fooled them, then—they knew something was wrong.
“What’s going on?” Elle asked, straight out.
“Have you been crying?” Erin wanted to know.
“I’m fine,” Tara said. “Maybe just a little tired, that’s all.”
Tired, yes. But she didn’t expect to get much sleep, with her insides churning the way they were. One moment, she felt ecstatic, the next, she was terrified that she was another notch in Boone’s bedpost.
Both girls looked skeptical. And fretful.
Tara went to them, gave them each a one-armed hug. “Look,” she said quietly, “I’m going through some stuff, but it’ll pass, and there’s absolutely no reason for either of you to worry, okay?”
“You’d tell us if you were sick or something, wouldn’t you?” Elle asked, still troubled. “I mean if you had some terrible disease and—”
Tara chuckled, hugged the child close again. “Babe,” she said softly, “this isn’t a movie. I’m definitely not sick.”
“Did Dad do something?” Erin pressed, idly stroking Lucy’s gleaming golden back. “Say something mean, maybe?”
“No,” Tara said. “Let’s make a nice salad while the lasagna is heating up.”
“I get to tear the lettuce,” Elle said, making a dive for the refrigerator. She and Erin were used to racing each other for the best chair or the front passenger seat and any number of other desirables, and getting out the salad makings was no exception.
Tara interceded, reminding them to wash their hands first, and soon they were busy at the center island, chopping and slicing and tearing.
Supper was blessedly quiet, but just as they were clearing the table, the landline rang, unusually jarring and shrill, it seemed to Tara. Even before she picked up the receiver and said hello, she knew something had happened.
“Thank God I got you instead of one of the girls,” James blurted. He sounded wound up, tight as an old-fashioned watch-spring. “Can you talk?”
Obviously the point of the call was for James to do the talking, not Tara. She drew a deep breath, let it out slowly, gestured to the twins to take Lucy outside.
“I can listen,” Tara answered when the back door closed behind one eager dog and two reluctant young girls.
“I’m coming out there to get the twins,” James announced briskly.
The words struck Tara like a punch in the stomach. Or the heart. “But I thought—what about the wedding—the honeymoon?”
“There isn’t going to be any wedding,” James informed her tersely.
Tara stretched the phone cord as far as it would go, sank into a chair at the table. “Okay,” she said, at a loss for words. She was stunned, disoriented—first, Boone and about nine million second thoughts, and now this.
James launched into a long tirade about how he and what’s-her-name had had a serious row. He felt duped, taken, used.
Tara didn’t point out that she’d felt that way, too, when they had split up.
What it all boiled down to was, Bethany wanted children—lots of them. She’d thought James wanted the same things she did. Surprise. James was over raising kids. For Bethany, that was a deal-breaker, and the wedding was off.
When James finally lapsed into a charged silence, maybe catching his breath, Tara stepped out onto the proverbial limb.
“Why not let the girls stay here a little longer? After all, you’re pretty upset. Maybe you need some time.”
“I’ve found a good school for them—it’s in Connecticut,” James said. “Some of the kids spend the summers there, in addition to the regular term. They’ll love it.”
Tara closed her eyes. “James,” she said, “they love it here.”
“They’re not your responsibility,” James informed her. What he meant was, Stay out of this. You’re not their mother.
“Couldn’t we wait a few days?” Tara ventured carefully. “So you can calm down a little?”
James’s tone hardened. “What’s the use in that?” he countered. “My assistant will make plane reservations, and get back to you with the times and flight numbers.”
Tara’s eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, swallowed.
The door opened, and Elle and Erin came through it with Lucy.
This time, she wasn’t going to cover for James. “It’s your dad,” she said, holding out the receiver.
Elle got there first, but she turned the phone slightly so Erin could listen, too.
Tara sat still, too wobbly kneed to stand up, let alone flee the room, and watched the looks on the twins’ faces as they absorbed what their father was saying.
“No!” Elle yelled suddenly. “I don’t want to go away to some stupid school, and neither does Erin!”
Erin nodded rapidly in agreement, her cheeks flushed.
Had James told his daughters that he and Bethany had called off the wedding? Tara had expected that news to please them, if nothing else.
“We’ll run away,” Elle threatened, picking up steam. “We won’t even get on the plane!”
“And you’ll never see us again!” Erin elaborated.
Tara forced herself to her feet. “Girls,” she scolded, very gently, shaking her head. “Give me the phone.”
By this time, Lucy was beside herself with worry, poor thing. She and Tara normally lived quiet, uneventful lives, sans emotional drama.
Elle fairly shoved the receiver at her, crying hard now, her chin trembling. “We won’t go back,” she reiterated, “we won’t!”
“You’re scaring Lucy,” Tara pointed out. “Take her upstairs—I’ll join you in a few minutes, and we’ll talk.”
The girls obeyed, Lucy wagging her tail hopefully as she followed them out of the kitchen.
James was furious again, frustrated to the max; Tara knew that by the way he was breathing, even before he spoke to her.
“That was a dirty trick,” he bit out. “You really put me on the spot, Tara, and I don’t appreciate it.”
The nerve of the man. She’d put him on the spot?
No more Ms. Nicey-Nice. The gloves were off. “Would you like to know what I don’t appreciate, James?” she snapped out, not giving him a chance to answer before she rushed on, whispering in case the girls were eavesdropping at the top of the stairs. “I don’t appreciate your arrogant disregard for other people’s feelings. Elle and Erin are your children, not puppets you can jerk around on strings, and all you can think about is what you want, what you need.” She paused, dragged in a quick breath, left him no room to interrupt. “Damn it, James, I’d understand if you had any intention of being an actual father to the twins, but you’re just eager to shuffle them off somewhere, out of sight, out of mind!”
“Are you through?” James asked coldly.
“No,” Tara replied, “I’m not through. I’m not sending Elle and Erin back to New York alone. If you want your daughters, bucko, you’ll have to come and get them.”
“‘Bucko’?” James taunted.
Tara said nothing. She just stood there, seething, knuckles white where she gripped the receiver.
“You just love to make things difficult, don’t you?” James said, after a long-suffering sigh. “The twins are perfectly capable of flying on their own—they’ve already proven that.”
“I don’t care,” Tara said stubbornly. She’d spent most of their marriage doing just the opposite of “making things difficult.” She’d been a fool.
“I could call the police,” James pointed out, but he didn’t sound quite so confident as before.
“Go ahead,” Tara challenged, imagining Boone coming to her door, in his capacity as sheriff, with some kind of interstate court order in his hand.
“You know I can’t afford a scandal,” James almost whined. “I’m a respected professional man, Tara. A top-flight surgeon, and in my business, reputation matters. Be reasonable.” He was definitely singing a different tune now, but Tara still wasn’t inclined to dance to it.
“Then I guess you’ll have to come out here to Montana and tell these children, face-to-face, that you don’t really want to raise them, and you aren’t about to let me do it, either, so you’re sending them to boarding school.”
Silence.
Tara heard the girls and Lucy moving around upstairs in their room.
She half expected James to hang up in her ear. Instead, he gave another sigh, this one ragged and genuinely weary. Tara didn’t feel one bit sorry for him.
“I know what this is about,” James said, in mock revelation. “You’re thinking that if I come out there, you and I can get back together, patch things up. That I’d bring you back to New York and we’d all be one big happy family again.”
Indignation surged through Tara, rendering her speechless for several long moments. That was the last thing she’d expected him to say—and the last thing she wanted.
“You are so wrong,” she managed to say, mildly sick to her stomach.
“Am I?” James almost purred the words.
“Yes!”
He went quiet again, thinking. Then he said, “We did have some good times. Maybe we could work things out.”
Was he being sarcastic? Surely James knew as well as she did that they were completely over.
“Tara?” he prompted, with a note of smugness, when she didn’t reply right away.
Sometimes, a person had no choice but to fall back on a cliché. “Not if you were literally the last man on earth,” she said. “Goodbye.”
She hung up, paced the kitchen for a minute or so, trying to rein in her temper. What had she ever seen in her ex-husband, with his God-complex and his lack of concern for anyone but himself?
What kind of person didn’t want to raise their own children?
Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks, and a chill went through her. A person like Boone Taylor, that’s who.
Sure, Boone’s boys were living with him now, but he’d been willing enough to farm them out with his sister after Corrie died—when they’d needed him most.
She stood at the sink, gazing at her own reflection, a gaunt ghost-version of herself, in the night-blackened glass. She’d fallen for the wrong man once, and now she’d done it again.
“Fool,” she accused, turning away.
* * *
BOONE HADN’T SLEPT the whole night, and now that sunup had rolled around, he knew he was going to pay the price. By the end of the day, he’d have to prop his eyelids open with matchsticks.
He made coffee and looked in on the boys, saw that they were sleeping soundly.
Scamp, curled up between them, lifted his head to look at Boone, then quietly got up and jumped to the floor, tail wagging.
Boone grinned wanly, went back to the kitchen and poured coffee into a mug, even though the gizmo hadn’t finished its chortling, steaming cycle. The stuff was half-again too strong, but he needed the caffeine, so he’d drink it, anyway.
He had some time before he had to get Griffin and Fletcher up, washed, fed and pointed in the right direction, and the restlessness that had kept him awake was still with him.
He went outside, stood on the sagging porch, gazed at the place where the new house would stand, ready to live in before the first snow, if luck was with him. He’d gotten the loan in place and hired a contractor, but after what had happened with Tara the day before, well, maybe he ought to put on the brakes.
He turned, walked toward the offshoot of the river, because he always did his best thinking anywhere near the water.
Scamp kept pace, prancing along beside Boone, pausing every now and then to sniff the ground.
Tara’s house seemed to have an aura, with the sun rising behind it, spilling red-orange light over the land.
Boone’s throat tightened, and he shoved a hand through his hair, confused about some things, and bone-sure of others. He bent to pick up a stick and toss it into the water and, to his delight, Scamp went right in after the twig and proudly brought it back, shaking himself off as he looked up at Boone. Boone laughed and bent to pat the dog’s head, take the stick and throw it again.
Scamp rushed after it, splashing as he went.
Watching the dog, Boone didn’t glance toward Tara’s place again, but he could hear the chickens clucking, Lucy barking, Tara calling something to her.
It took a moment to register the note of alarm in Tara’s voice and, when he did, Boone looked up quickly, saw her coming toward him. She crossed the board bridge nearly at a run, and that was when he caught the expression on her face. Terror.
“The twins are gone!” she blurted out.
Boone frowned. “What?”
“They’re not in their room,” Tara gasped out, stumbling as she neared him, nearly falling before he caught hold of her arms and steadied her. “Boone, they’ve run away—they said they would—”
“Take a breath,” Boone ordered, sounding calmer than he felt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Scamp drop the newly retrieved stick and wander off along the bank, nose to the ground.
Tara was trembling, and her face was pale. “They’re gone,” she said, almost whimpering the words. “I looked in the garden, behind the barn—everywhere I could think of—”
“When did you see them last?” Boone asked, still grasping her arms. She looked frail enough to blow away with the first strong breeze.
“Last night,” Tara answered, “after they’d gone to bed. I went upstairs to talk to them—they’d gotten some upsetting news—and everything seemed to be okay, after a while, anyway.” Boone had called Tara right after and they’d talked on the phone, briefly and shyly, with too much still needing to be said. “But this morning—”
“Any idea where they might be headed?” Boone persisted. Kids didn’t go missing in Parable County, it just didn’t happen. But there was always a first time.
Tara shook her head, fighting tears, struggling so hard to keep her composure that Boone’s heart broke for her.
“We’ll find them,” he told her. “Tara, I promise we’ll find them.”
She lifted her head to meet his gaze and in that moment he saw the contents of her heart right there in her beautiful eyes. She loved those children.
And she loved him. If it hadn’t been for the circumstances, he’d have shouted hallelujah.
Scamp gave a single, sharp bark just then.
Frowning, Boone turned his head, squinting against the dazzle of a copper-penny sun, about to call the dog back to his side. He’d take Tara to the double-wide, make some calls, round up his deputies and Slade and Hutch to start searching for the twins.
A moment passed before Boone realized that that derelict old rowboat he’d always meant to haul off was gone. Scamp was standing in the muddy gouge on the bank. He barked again.
Boone clasped Tara’s hand and bolted toward the spot, barely able to believe his eyes, even now. That boat had been a ruin when he was a kid, and there was no way it would stay afloat.
Lucy joined them, drawn by Scamp’s barks, and sent up a worried whine.
Tara’s grasp tightened around his hand. “Wasn’t there a boat...?”
Dread filled Boone as he shaded his eyes from the sun and looked hard toward the natural spillway where the branch and the main river connected. There was no sign of the twins or the boat, but his gut told him the impossible had happened—somehow, Elle and Erin pushed that warped and rotted wreck into the water and rowed it far enough to disappear.
He was betting they’d gone upstream, toward the river, since the split drained off into a pond about a quarter of a mile in the other direction. He let go of Tara’s hand and bolted for the spillway.