CHAPTER ELEVEN
Brand scowled as he drove to his mother’s home. A foul mood clung to him as he stared through the windshield peppered with rain. His day at work had been a complete bust and he’d barked at poor Rinda when she’d asked him for the umpteenth time where a set of blueprints was located. Syd had come with his daily set of problems and Brandon had dealt with them without his usual dose of humor—something he’d lacked since this past weekend when Dani had all but avoided him.
After he’d asked her about the mysterious phone call to Sloan Redhawk, she’d gotten all tongue-tied and serious, as if she were going to lay the weight of the world on him. He’d half expected to hear some horrible tale about her life, but when he’d pressed her, she’d held her tongue, and for the next two days he’d barely seen her. She’d given Chris a couple of riding lessons and been more than civil to him, but whenever Brand was around she’d been busy. Always with that Jack character—some ranch hand who worked for her part of the time, then took off in the winter to be a ski bum. With his tanned skin, sun-streaked blond hair and easy smile, Jack had been more than attentive, helping Dani put in new pipes in the bathroom of her apartment and checking over all the equipment—baler, plow, tractor, seed drill, you name it, Jack checked it out.
Brand’s fingers tightened over the wheel. He wasn’t a man prone to jealousy; thought the emotion was downright stupid. But when it came to Dani, his thinking wasn’t straight at all. Never had been. She managed to get under his skin like no other woman ever had.
“Hell,” he grated as he drove past the city limits of Dawson City and angled the nose of his Jeep toward his mother’s house. He switched on the wipers and dirt streaked the rain-splattered windshield. Venitia was another problem. A big one. He’d gotten a panicked call from Chris just this morning; the social worker had been out, poking around, asking questions, staring at Chris with pity in her eyes. Venitia was digging her own grave.
Gritting his teeth, he knew he was in for the battle of his life—and hers. But it had been coming for a long time. She, probably unsuspecting, would be home from work by now as it was nearly five, and he wanted to catch her before she’d gotten too far gone. He’d called a treatment center early this morning and made a reservation for her; now all he had to do was talk her into drying out. “Good luck,” he muttered to himself and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rearview mirror. His mouth was firm and set, white lines around the edges, his eyes hidden by reflective glasses against the glare of a sun partially hidden by gray clouds. He looked more like a prison warden in an old B-movie than a concerned son.
“Get a grip, Scarlotti,” he growled, parking next to the curb. Several cats were hiding in the bushes, avoiding the rain that fell from the sky intermittently. He noticed that some of his crew had been out. A new unpainted post shored up the porch and old gutters had been ripped away to be replaced by newer prepainted downspouts and pipes. Even the sagging step had been fixed. The windows hadn’t been changed yet, but first things first; the men who’d done the work here had managed to wedge it between their other jobs.
Stuffing his sunglasses into his breast pocket, he knocked lightly on the screen door, then let himself in. He found her in the living room, curled near the arm of the sofa, her feet tucked beneath her. For once he didn’t spy a bottle of any kind in the room.
“I’ve been expecting you,” she said, her colorless lips compressed, no hint of makeup on her face. She looked older than she was and Brandon felt like a heel.
“Why?”
Wrapping her arms around her chest, as if to ward off a chill in the warm room, she glared up at him with wounded eyes. “I got a call today. From a Dr. Kelly Bush, a friendly woman who seems to think I’ll be admitting myself into some place called the Blue Haven Clinic.” Her fingers drummed on the shiny arm of the couch. “I assume this is your doing?” It wasn’t really a question. More like an accusation.
“Guilty as charged.” He sat on the other arm, hands clasped loosely between his knees, one foot swinging, as he told himself not to let her talk him out of this. Sure, he felt like a damned heel. Who wouldn’t? But if someone didn’t intervene, she’d lose everything she held dear. Including her second-born son. “Chris is worried, Ma, and so am I.”
“Chris is just a kid.”
“Doesn’t mean he can’t worry.”
She made a sound of disgust in her throat. “I suppose he told you about the social worker.” Staring through the window, Venitia tried hard to keep her chin from trembling.
“This is hard on him, Ma.”
She blinked and swallowed. “And what about me? Isn’t it hard on me, too?”
“Of course it is,” he said in his most soothing tone as a tear tracked from the corner of her eye.
With agitation, she motioned in the air. “What’s supposed to happen to Chris while I’m away—while I’m in treatment, huh? What about him? I will not, will not, have him go into some foster home and Al—” She bit her lip and closed her eyes. “Al doesn’t want him.”
“What?” Brandon was on his feet in an instant. Fury roared through his blood. “Doesn’t want him,” he repeated, his lips curling. “He should have thought of that before he fathered the boy!”
“Oh, Brandon, if you only knew,” she said on a heavy sigh.
“I do know, Ma,” he said, hooking his thumb at his chest. Leaning close enough, to smell the cigarette smoke still clinging to her hair, he said, “I was treated the same way, remember?”
“You don’t understand.”
“And I never will!” he roared. “When a man becomes a father, he’d better take responsibility or risk fouling that kid up forever.”
Tortured eyes met his. “What if he can’t afford a child? What if he really didn’t love the woman involved? What if the baby was just a mistake?”
“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Brand muttered, then it hit him. She wasn’t talking about Chris any longer. “What’re you trying to say, Ma?” he demanded.
“That . . . oh, God, Brandon, if you only knew how much I loved you, how I adored you, how full you made my life. Would a father have made any difference?”
“A helluva lot.” Crossing the room, he tried to gain control of his temper, which always shot into the stratosphere when the subject of fatherhood was brought up. Turning, he pinned his mother with a furious stare. “Tell me everything you can about Jake Kendall.”
“I—I already have,” she said, her voice faltering, her eyes sliding away.
“But you’ve told me nothing.”
She took in a tremulous breath, looked up at her son, then back to the floor.
“Why don’t I know a damned thing about him?”
“Because he doesn’t exist, Brand. Doesn’t now, didn’t then.”
“What?” he snarled. Fear, dark and foreboding, spun through his mind, and it occurred to him, not for the first time, that she might not know who’d sired her bastard; maybe she played fast and loose those days and there were lots of men who could have been the one who . . . A dull ache throbbed relentlessly at the base of his skull. “What do you mean?” His voice was low and hoarse.
She licked her lips nervously. “Jake Kendall was a figment of my imagination, a name you could cling to, a . . . an excuse for your father not to be around.”
“So who was the real guy?” Dread thudded through his brain.
“I swore that I’d never admit the truth,” she hedged. “That was the agreement—he’d pay child support and help out and I’d keep his name out of it.”
His heart was pumping. “So you do know him. It wasn’t because there were too many men—”
“Brandon!” she cried, wounded to the depths of her soul. She stood on shaking legs, staring at her son, fighting tears that seemed determined to run from the corners of her eyes. “I didn’t tell you because I promised and it would only have made things worse, but of course I know who he is—was—and I probably should have told you sooner so you could have met him as son to father.”
“Could have?” he whispered, his fists clenching in frustration. “What happened? Is he dead?”
“He was killed, Brandon. Just last summer.”
“Killed?”
“Ned Jansen ran him off the road at Elkhorn Ridge.”
The earth seemed to split open. “You don’t mean—”
“I do, Brand,” she said wearily, tears streaming down her cheeks in rivers. “Jonah McKee was your father.”
“No!” he bellowed, hearing the sound like that of a wounded calf as his cry hit the walls of the old house and bounced back at him.
“Brand, just listen—”
“I can’t believe it, Ma!” he said, then felt like a fool.
“Why would I lie?”
“Why have you lied for the past thirty years?”
“I had a pact.”
“Oh, for the love of Jesus! Don’t tell me about pacts or deals or honor, for God’s sake! You’re telling me that Jonah McKee was my father and I’m supposed to just sit here and take it and understand? Do you know what you’re saying? Do you?” he asked, aching inside, his emotions severed and frayed. “That my whole life has been a lie. That my father lived a stone’s throw from me but never once, never once, damn it, so much as looked in my direction. He never spoke to me. He never—”
“He did what he could,” she said, her shoulders quivering. “And you can’t blame just him. I was there, too. I got involved with him, knowing full well that he was married.”
“This is sick, Ma. Sick! You’re telling me that Max McKee is my half brother?”
“And Jenner. Casey’s your—”
“I know what she is! I can figure it out. My legitimate half sister, right? Favored daughter, while I was a secret to be swept under the damned rug! Holy Mother of God, I can’t believe this,” he whispered savagely, trying to gain control of his raging emotions. He felt as if he’d been mentally drawn, quartered and disemboweled. Everything that he’d known, all he’d believed in for over thirty years had been a lie! A twisted, ugly lie that had grown with each passing year.
Was it true? Could he possibly be a McKee? A McKee? A bad taste rose up the back of his throat as he thought of all the years of envying Max McKee and his brother and sister for their wealth, for their stability, for their loving parents. Even that was a lie. Jonah, his father—his damned father—had been a philanderer and a cheat.
Nausea roiled in his stomach and he didn’t want to believe the truth. It was so much easier to think that his father was a low-life drifter, an ambitionless man who had no time to step into the role of fatherhood. But to know that his old man was the richest damned son of a bitch in the county, a family man devoted to seeing that his precious children got the best—always the best—ripped a hole in his already-bruised heart. While Jonah’s legitimate children, his pride and joy, had been showered with gifts and money, and groomed to inherit Jonah’s vast empire, Brandon, the bastard, the boy without his name, had been completely ignored, never once spoken to, never once praised, never once reprimanded. Aside from the monthly checks—hush money—he was treated as if he didn’t exist, because there was no room in Jonah McKee’s well-laid-out life for a bastard.
Brandon squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the dull, mocking roar inside his head—the silent screams that he refused to utter.
“Brand?” Venitia whispered.
“I don’t believe it, Ma,” he said, but the defeat in his voice must have given his true feelings away. The truth explained so much, yet left twice as many holes in his life.
“I shouldn’t have told you.”
“No, Ma, you’re wrong. You should have told me years ago and the old man should have come forward.” He drew in a deep breath. “So how did it happen, huh?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Like hell!” He walked to the couch and leaned down to face her. “Were you in love with him?”
“Oh, God, Brand, don’t—”
“Were you?”
“No!”
The truth slammed through him like a runaway freight train. He nearly stumbled. “No?” he repeated, feeling disgust gnaw at his insides.
“No.” She drew in an unsteady breath. “It would be easy to lie and say I was seduced by his power, his wealth and his money. That I was young and naive enough to believe that he loved me or we loved each other or some such nonsense. The truth of it is we happened to meet at a political rally. I was . . . well, more involved than I am now. It was held in Bend at one of the hotels on the Deschutes. Anyway, the candidate whom Jonah had backed won and we all partied.”
She ran a trembling hand over her forehead. “The truth of the matter is that I got drunk and woke up in Jonah McKee’s hotel room.” She shook her head at the thought. “I didn’t know much about him, but I did realize that he had a lot of money and a wife and kids. I was horrified at what I’d done—I’d never been with a man before, never . . .” Her voice broke, and Brandon, transfixed, wished he could turn the wheels of time backward, that he could ease away her pain.
“Anyway I turned up pregnant and even though . . . even though I didn’t love Jonah, didn’t really know him, I wanted the baby. I had no one in my life and a baby . . .” She blinked rapidly and let out a shuddering sigh. “I know you didn’t have a lot growing up, I know it hurt you that you never knew your father, and I know that you’re wounded now because I lied, but believe me, Brandon,” she said, grabbing hold of his arm in a surprisingly strong grip, “I did everything because I loved you. From the day I found out I was pregnant, I loved you!”
His throat closed in on itself. “And Jonah?”
“He . . . he wasn’t happy with my decision, but was decent enough to take care of me financially. He was a lousy father to you, I’ll admit that much—”
“He wasn’t a father at all.”
“I know, but he did take some responsibility.”
Brandon needed to spit. The foul taste in his mouth wouldn’t go away. “He could have talked to me.”
“He probably would have, son. He didn’t expect to die—”
“We all die, Ma. That’s no excuse.” Gazing down on her, he saw all the pain she’d endured, all the humiliation because of him. His anger was misdirected if he leveled it at her and yet the rage burning so white-hot inside him couldn’t be extinguished with a few calming words. “Look, I just need some time to digest all this.”
“I know.”
He rubbed his face, as if massaging the tense muscles would erase some of the pain. It didn’t work. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”
Her eyes shone with tears and defeat. “You’d rather discuss putting me away.”
“Not away, Ma. Think of it as a vacation.”
Her gaze cut right through him. “A vacation?” she snapped. “Oh, Brandon, don’t act like I’m that stupid.” Squaring her shoulders, she stood. “Okay, I’ll go give the clinic a whirl, but promise me that you’ll take care of Chris. I can’t stand the thought of some do-gooder social worker taking him away.”
“You know I will, Ma.”
“Good.” She seemed about to say something more, to unburden yet another secret from her heavily laden soul, but she held her tongue. “My bags are already packed. Chris is at Barry Hargraves’ house. He’s spending the night—it’s already arranged. He knows that I might be leaving for a while, but I didn’t fill him in on all the details. This was your idea, so I figured you could do it,” she added bitterly, then before he could say a word, rushed on. “The Hargraveses’ phone number and address are tacked to the bulletin board. I told them you’d probably be picking him up around eight in the morning. If that doesn’t work out, give them a call. They’re reasonable and easygoing, so whatever works for you will probably work for them, as well.”
“I’m glad you accepted this,” he admitted, relieved that there wasn’t more of a fight.
“I haven’t accepted anything, Brand. This is a prison sentence. You and I both know it. You just haven’t given me any choice in the matter.”
* * *
“You miserable low-life scum,” Brandon growled as darkness settled over the land and he stared at the grave of Jonah McKee. The air smelled fresh from the recent rain and the wind blew steadily from the east. Stars twinkled above, and the headstone, an imposing slab of marble engraved with all sorts of sentiments, stood nearly as tall as the man who rested six feet below the earth. Fresh flowers, brought weekly, filled vases at the head of the grave. Jonah’s wife, Virginia, was nothing if not loyal. Even her husband’s death didn’t end her loyalty. Even knowing that her husband was a class-A cheating bastard. Brandon laughed at the irony of it. Who was really the bastard?
“You should have talked to me,” Brand said, emotion clogging his throat. “You should have told me, let me know, explained what it was that you couldn’t accept! Hell, McKee, the least you could have done was own up to it.”
He looked across the grassy knoll. Anger clutched his stomach and he nearly threw up all over his pathetic father’s grave. “And Ma. She deserved a helluva lot more than a check each month. God, she still thinks you’re some sort of saint because you doled out a little change to her, but I know you for the black-hearted son of a bitch that you are!”
Sneering, he wanted to spit on Jonah McKee’s grave, but he didn’t want the old man to have any satisfaction—even in death—of seeing his pain. So he strode back to his Jeep and decided that the night was just damned perfect to get drunk. Not just tipsy, but fall-down-on-your-face, stumbling drunk.
As he climbed into the rig, he thought of Dani. Wouldn’t she get a laugh out of this? Because of Skye, Dani was an in-law to the McKees, practically in the family, and now he was Jonah’s damned bastard.
So convenient. So tidy. So sick.
There was an old half-full bottle of whiskey in the kitchen cupboard. Brand twisted on the ignition and the engine fired. Easing off the clutch, he drove through the open cemetery gates, engine roaring, gravel spinning beneath his tires.
“Good riddance, McKee,” he growled under his breath. “I hope you rot in hell.”
* * *
Restless, Dani had walked through the fields surrounding the house, checking the fence line, thinking of Brandon, knowing that she had to tell him about their son. Sloan had tracked down the nurse who’d been working in the hospital the night her baby was born and he thought he’d come up with some answers soon. Whether she wanted to or not, Dani would have to tell Brand the truth. He’d be furious with her, probably never speak to her again, but she had no choice. Her conscience wouldn’t let her lie any longer.
Sighing, she felt the cool breath of night against her back and listened to the crickets beginning to stir. Somewhere nearby, a horse nickered softly and was answered by the plaintive hoot of an owl. The moon was full—a perfect silver disk that rode high in the sky and was surrounded by thousands of stars, winking jewel-like in the night-black sky.
As she turned toward the house, Dani saw the lights burning in the ranch house and noticed smoke curling from the river-rock chimney. Though it was the dead of summer, Brandon had built a fire. The thought of cheery coals glowing in the old grate warmed her heart and she was tempted to visit him.
“Don’t,” she warned herself. She’d avoided him in the evenings, preferring to have their short conversations in the light of day when the surroundings were less intimate, when her defenses were less likely to be overcome.
She’d stepped through the gate when she saw him, propped against the support for the porch and watching her intently.
“Evenin’,” he drawled like some kind of cowboy.
“Hi.”
“Thought you might want to come in for a drink.”
“A drink? I don’t think so,” she said without much conviction. Truth to tell, she wanted very much to be with him, never mind the drink. Standing there, one shoulder braced against the beam, his arms folded over his chest, he looked all male in his faded jeans and open-throated work shirt. Its sleeves rolled to his elbows, the shirt stretched tautly over muscles that were evident even in the darkness. His jeans rode low on his hips.
Involuntarily, her pulse beat a little more quickly.
“Suit yourself. How ’bout some conversation then?”
“You want to talk?”
“Need to, is more like it.” There was a thread of steel in his voice, a determination that usually wasn’t so evident. “Come on in.”
She was aware of her heart pounding as she crossed the gravel yard, her boots crunching on the sharp stones. This is a mistake, an inner voice warned. An irreversible mistake.
He held the screen door open for her and she noticed a gleam in his eye—something was definitely on his mind—and the set of his jaw, as if he’d been provoked way too far. He knows, she thought frantically. He found out about the baby and now he knows! Why didn’t you tell him earlier? It would have been so much better for the news to come from you! Misery slid through her insides, like a snake coiling, getting ready to strike. How could he have found out? No one, not even her own mother, knew that he was the father of her child.
Suddenly chilled, she walked into the living room where the fire crackled merrily against dry, pitchy chunks of pine. Though her insides were as cold as ice, she began to sweat and didn’t argue when he poured her a chilled glass of Chablis. Anxiously she twirled the stem of her glass between her fingers. No lights were on; just the hazy red glow from the fire illuminated the room.
He was drinking whiskey and this wasn’t his first shot, she suspected as she stared at him. He leaned against the window and the ticking of the clock resting on the carved fir mantel was in sharp counterpoint to the pounding of her own heart.
“Wh-what is it you want to talk about?” she asked, deciding two could play this game—whatever it was. Standing next to the couch, she watched the play of emotions on his face; repressed rage caused a muscle to tic beneath his eye.
Darkness settled in his eyes.
Here it comes, she thought with fatalistic certainty and steadied herself against the back of the couch ready for the blow that was sure to hit and hit hard.
“Well,” he said. “I learned a lot this afternoon.”
Oh, God. “You did?” She took a sip of wine. It slid cold and easy down her throat.
“Yep. Things that happened a long while ago.”
Give me strength. “Oh?”
“I was in the dark about a lot.”
Knees threatening to buckle, she waited, holding her breath, ready for the one-two kick, a drone beginning in her head.
“Believe it or not, Dani, you and I, we have a lot in common.”
Her throat was as dry and scratchy as cotton.
“Yes, sirree. Here you are an in-law to the old McKees and you probably never guessed that I was one of ’em.”
“Wh-what?” she stammered, hardly daring to believe her ears, or maybe she’d misunderstood his words over the buzz echoing through her brain.
“That’s right. Old Jonah had a fling with Ma. I’m the result. There is not and never was a Jake Kendall.” Pain and quiet fury etched the brave lines of his face, but there was something more, something deeper as he gazed at her.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered. “How did you find out?”
“Ma. She told me. Just before I took her to a clinic in Bend.”
“A clinic?” He was talking in circles. “Is she ill?”
“Yes, but the first disease we’re tackling is her addiction to alcohol.”
Dani flushed as she looked down at her own glass of wine.
Brand offered a twisted smile. “I know. Ironic isn’t it?” he said, staring into the amber liquor in his tumbler. Then, as if repulsed, he tossed the rest of his drink, ice and all, into the fire. In a violent hiss, flames shot upward. “Damn it all to hell anyway,” he growled, slamming the empty glass onto the mantel and striding over to Dani. As if to drive away the demons in his head, he vaulted the couch, stood in front of her and stared straight into her eyes. “I’ve made more than my share of mistakes in this life,” he said, taking her wrist in his. Her wineglass rolled gently to the floor. “Walking out on you was one of them. I think it’s time to change things.”
“Change?”
“Take care of past mistakes.”
“But—”
“Right here. Right now.”
“Oh, Brand, don’t. You’ve been drinking and—”
“I’ve thought about this a long time, lady,” he said, his blue eyes unwavering. “I want you. And not just for now.”
The words were simple and straightforward. They seemed to pulse in the semidark room. And there was a thread of tenderness in his voice that touched a dark corner of her heart.
“Wanting isn’t enough.”
“But I want you forever.” His voice was low and seductive and he moved closer so that she stepped around the couch trying to keep a few inches of distance between the heat of their bodies. “It’s time we made up for all the years we lost. The years I threw away.”
“What?” Her heart was a drum. “You don’t—”
“I do. Marry me, Dani.”
The words she’d waited so long to hear were now hollow. She couldn’t marry him, not with so many obstacles in the way. “No, Brand, you don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I sure as hell do. Marry me.”
“I can’t.”
He jerked on her wrists, pulling her roughly to him, slanting his mouth over hers in a kiss that was rough and gentle, hard and persuasive. The room seemed to spin and Dani’s legs began to give way, but she couldn’t make promises she couldn’t keep. If and when he found out about the baby . . .
He tasted of whiskey and the scent of his soap mingled with the smell of burning wood. Her mind quit arguing as he touched her lips with his tongue, applying pressure. Sweet, sweet pressure.
Her insides quivered, and as if he felt her resistance fading, he kissed her harder and his tongue gained purchase, sliding over her teeth, flicking against the roof of her mouth, exploring and plundering, causing her senses to reel.
It felt so right. His body melded close to hers, as if there were no clothes separating them, as if they belonged together, as if they were destined to fuse.
“Brand—” she murmured.
“Don’t tell me no.” He touched her breast, his fingers scorching her skin, though cotton fabric held them at bay.
“I—I won’t,” she whispered and gave up the battle as desire, deep and dark and wanton, seared through her blood. Her arms circled his neck and she kissed him back.
“Dani, love,” he said softly, his voice hoarse.
Her heart ached for the little boy who hadn’t known his father and the man who now did.
His hands tracked down her ribs. His weight forced her backward and they tumbled onto the couch. Brand, still kissing her, deftly worked the buttons of her blouse, parting the fabric then edging the lace of her bra with one long finger.
Dani quivered inside as his finger grazed her nipple. Her breast swelled and the nipple seemed to ripen, jutting hard against its lacy barricade. With a groan, he unhooked her bra and her breast fell into his open hand. Dani’s eyes fluttered closed and she was lost in the powerful feelings that this one special man evoked in her. He loved her. Hadn’t he said as much? He wanted to marry her.
A small cry crossed her tongue. She couldn’t marry him now—not until she told him the truth about their baby. She opened her mouth to speak, but he captured it with his again and his hands moved anxiously against her skin, ridding her of blouse and bra, then dipping seductively under the waistband of her jeans. She didn’t stop him, didn’t try. Liquid fire was building deep within her, flowing slowly as her jeans popped open and he slid them lovingly over her hips.
She unbuttoned his shirt, and gazing at the hard muscles of his chest, she laid a finger on one nipple. He groaned and the flat disk hardened beneath a swirl of dark hair.
“You’re asking for trouble,” he warned and she, with a smile, asked again by touching his other nipple, then slid her fingers down the washboard of his abdomen, tracing the hard muscles, watching him suck in his breath as she opened his fly and slipped her hands inside his jeans to touch his buttocks. Firm and supple, they flexed beneath her fingers.
He kissed her hard then, his lips fitting fiercely over hers, his hands tangling in her hair. Her body trembled, hot from the inside out. His fingers and lips were everywhere, touching her intimately, kissing her, stroking her, adding fuel to the fire that was already consuming her.
Moaning, she writhed beneath him, and he removed her panties and kissed her in the most intimate of places before shucking off his own jeans and briefs. Closing her eyes, she felt the world quake as he slowly brought up his head and dragged his body between her legs. “I’ve waited forever for this,” he said, his voice hoarse and low. Firelight flickered in his eyes and gilded his skin as he poised over her, gazed into her eyes and whispered, “I love you.”
The words were like a bucket of ice water thrown over her. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not until she told him the truth. “Brand, there’s something you should know—”
With a primal groan, he thrust into her, and her willing body arched up to join with his. Her worries, so vivid a second before, fled in the heat that he created as his arms surrounded her and his body moved over hers. She found his tempo, caught it and felt the earth shift again. Faster and hotter, as if trapped in a wildfire, Brand moved. Dani’s breath was short and fast, her heart pounding, her mind spinning.
“Dani!” his voice was raw, his head thrown back.
Her soul was ripped from her flesh in that instant when their bodies and the stars collided.
Her own throat was raw from her cries.
He collapsed against her and her arms held him close, waiting as his breathing slowed, feeling the soft fingers of afterglow cuddle them both.
One hand lazily stroked her hair, his other arm was wrapped securely around her waist. As he gazed down at her, he smiled and some of the pain had left his eyes. “What about it?” he finally asked in the near darkness. “What do you say, Dani? Will you marry me?”
A lump grew in her throat and tears starred her lashes. “I—I can’t,” she whispered, then bit her lip.
“Why not?”
She took in a long, slow breath and tried not to break down, but her voice failed her, and when she spoke it was the barest of whispers. “Because,” she said, staring into his blue, blue eyes, hoping her words and courage wouldn’t fail her, “because . . . because somewhere—and I don’t know where yet—somewhere you and I have an eleven-year-old son.”