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Veering away from her grief before it brought on tears, she concentrated on the Victorian.
Her every-second-of-the-day dream about owning that house perked her up, rerouting her thoughts away from devastating memories.
To everyone else in Rodeo, the aging home looked like a run-down romantic anomaly in the Western landscape, but to Rachel it was perfect.
But then, romantic notions and daydreams had always been her downfall, hadn’t they?
Davey had never known about this particular dream. She’d wanted to surprise him with a fait accompli. Look, honey, I bought us a house.
Any day now it would be hers. She hadn’t heard even a whisper about whether Abigail’s British relatives were going to put it up for sale, but why wouldn’t they?
It was useless to them.
She’d scrimped and saved until she had just shy of five thousand dollars in change and small bills hidden in her closet.
Dumb spot to keep her money, but she and Davey had had a joint bank account. Had he known about this money, he would have siphoned off every spare cent for his motorcycle passion...or for treating his friends to beer every Friday night...or for chewing through money like it was cereal.
Davey had had those great big hands that could love her with enthusiasm, but they were a pair of sieves where money was concerned.
She should roll the change and count the money soon and get it into the bank. Later. Right now she needed these moments of rest.
The pretty trills of a horned lark on Abigail’s land floated across to her on the late-October breeze.
No one else in town would want that house.
There was no way there would be a speck of competition. It needed work.
It would be hers. It could have been hers a lot sooner had she married someone more practical.
The heart has a mind of its own, Rach, and you just have to follow it.
I sure did, didn’t I?
Yes. She sure had, right back into the financial insecurity she’d grown up with.
She let out a sigh full of hot air and yearning.
The distant hum of an engine—a motorcycle—cut through her daydreaming. Her unreasonable heart lurched with thoughts of her late husband.
A big Harley shot down the old road toward her.
It wasn’t Davey, of course. Never again would her husband ride home with a shit-eating grin that would light up any cloudy day.
She scrubbed her hands over her arms and shivered despite the sunshine. Oh, Davey.
The bike came close, closer, and slowed down enough to initiate the turn into Abigail’s driveway. Who was it?
The noise disturbed the lark. Routed, he surged from his hiding spot, his distinctive yellow-and-black face catching the eye of a white cat crouching in the grasses along the side of the road. Ghost. Abigail’s cat shot out toward the songbird, right into the bike’s path. No!
Rachel stumbled to her feet. “Get back,” she yelled.
The biker swerved to avoid the cat, Ghost ran back into the tall grasses and the bike tipped over. The machine flew across the road, screeching and shooting sparks, leaving the rider bouncing and rolling along the shoulder in a plume of dust.
In the ensuing silence, dirt and stones fell on his still body.
Rachel froze. Unwelcome memories of that awful day and the police officer at her door surged through her. He’s gone, ma’am, in a head-on collision with a tree. I’m sorry.
Resurrected shock held her immobile.
The man lay unmoving.
Rachel stared. Please, not another death. Abigail. Davey. No.
A groan from across the small highway galvanized her.
Rachel ran over, the only sound her pounding pulse.
He still hadn’t moved. Oh, dear Lord, please don’t die.
Kneeling beside him, she checked his body for signs of injury. Hard to tell through the leather. She touched his shoulders, arms and legs, feeling for broken bones. Under layers of solid muscle everything seemed fine, but what about internal injuries? She didn’t know how to check. With a wail of frustration, she tore into herself for never having taken first-aid classes.
One arm moved, raising the visor of his helmet.
Her frantic glance took in his face. He was conscious. Deep-set blue eyes watched her steadily, silently.
He reached up to remove his helmet. She stopped him with a hand on his wrist, feeling a strong pulse, thank God. “Should you do that? Is your head injured?”
Her voice shook. So did her hands.
“I’m good.” He took off his helmet, and she gasped.
Travis?
Of all people—What—? How—?
“Are you okay?” Her voice emerged reed thin.
He didn’t respond, just stared into her eyes, then touched her bottom lip with a glove-clad finger.
“Only one,” he murmured.
Huh?
His eyes met hers again, mesmerizing. She could fall into that blue gaze for hours. The moment stretched out. A smile, sweet and broad, curved the corners of his mouth.
Oh my-y-y. What did Travis use for toothpaste? Moonbeams?
He sat up slowly, his body coming close enough for her to feel his heat even through his leathers. She sat back on her heels.
She should tell him to be careful, to check for injuries, but couldn’t find her voice.
His hand brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, the leather soft against her skin. Grasping the tips of his glove with his straight white teeth, he tugged it off, then did the same with the other. Still mesmerized, Rachel stared, swallowed and stared some more.
Again he reached for her hair and ran his fingers through it, massaging her scalp. Rachel almost purred like a cat.
“Soft,” he said. “Calf’s ear.” He wasn’t making sense, but Rachel was too captivated to question him while he touched her with such gentle grace. Her traitorous desire overrode her common sense.
She moaned low in her throat.
He moved his hand to the back of her neck, urging her close to his chest. As pliable as a rag doll, she allowed it. His lips touched hers with velvety moisture and a faint exhalation of coffee-scented breath.
She hadn’t touched a man since Davey. Davey. Her late husband. Her eager, playful lover.
Pull back, Rach. Don’t allow this. Davey is only six months gone. You should—
He deepened the kiss. Taking his time, he caressed her tongue with his. His skill. Oh, his earnest, deep skill. Yes, to his awesome finesse. She’d known it would be like this. Heavenly bliss.
Rapture. Joy.
Need simmered inside her. In the months since Davey’s death, what she had needed most was his touch, his soothing physical support, one last endless night of blazing lovemaking.
A woman should be allowed to say goodbye to her husband. Rachel’s anger wrestled with her guilt and desire.
Fireworks blazed. Buried dreams came to life. This man’s touch, his mouth, soothed away aching, aching grief.
Rachel sighed and lost herself in his kiss, exploring his mouth with her ardent tongue.
She’d never kissed, had never been kissed, so slowly and intently. Her mind went blank and her body limp.
Elizabeth announced her presence with a hard kick to Rachel’s belly.
She pulled back. “Ouch.” She’d been kneeling too long.
“Ouch?” Travis’s voice sounded lost in a sensual fog, echoing how she felt.
“The baby kicked me. I need to stand up.”
“Baby?” Coming out of his daze, his eyes widened.
Horror spread across his features. “Sorry! God, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“You’ve had a shock,” she managed to bite out, while she really wanted to blurt, Don’t be sorry. I’ve never been kissed like that in my life. I needed it. After all of the turmoil, and the crazy worries about the future, I needed something for me. Purely, selfishly, for just me.
But that was a daydream that required a hasty burial. Just me was not possible these days.
She eased away from him and rubbed her belly to soothe Beth.
“Are you okay?” she asked, striving to pretend she hadn’t been rocked by a stranger’s kiss, that this was nothing out of the ordinary.
“Yeah.” He nodded with a perplexed frown.
Did he understand any better than she what had just happened?
“Should I call an ambulance?”
“No ambulance. No hospital. I’m good.”
The cowboy she’d met a short while ago was gone, replaced by a motorcycle rider. “No head injury? You were out cold.”
“Naw. Not out cold, just winded.”
“But you didn’t move when I was checking you for injuries.”
“No, I didn’t.” His jaw hardened, so briefly she barely caught it. She didn’t have a clue what was going on.
He stood and winced. “This head’s pretty hard. I’ve survived worse. Gonna be bruised tomorrow, though.”
Rachel struggled to get to her feet. Travis rushed to help her. “You shouldn’t be kneeling in your condition.”
In her condition. For a brief moment, she hadn’t been a pregnant woman, but a desirable one. He’d looked past her circumstances to her.
She stared at him. “Are you serious, Travis? I thought you were unconscious. I needed to check you. You could have been badly hurt.”
“I appreciate your concern,” he said, his hands strong beneath her elbows, lifting her as though she weighed no more than a sack of potatoes. “I’ll be stiff the next few days, but that’s all.” He made sure she was steady on her feet, took her hands in his and squeezed before he released her, his rough calluses a jolting return to reality.
She needed reality, needed to get her head back onto her shoulders. So, he hadn’t been knocked out, but maybe he’d been in shock. How else to account for that kiss? He hadn’t known he was kissing her. Maybe he’d thought she was an old girlfriend. Or a current one? After all, she was nothing to him.
His leather jacket had a tear along one arm. Travis could have been killed.
On a dime, those awful memories raced through her again. Davey, Davey, Davey.
Her blood arced and swooped through her arteries. Her pulse skittered worse than on a caffeine high. “You sure you don’t have internal injuries?”
“No injuries. Everything feels fine. Good thing I slowed down to take the turn.”
Rachel reached down to swipe dirt and gravel from her knees. A fine tremor ran through her. Anger overtook the fright he’d given her.
She couldn’t fend off images, thousands of Davey carefree and laughing, and that one horrifying imaginary picture of him broken by the side of the road thanks to his damned obsession with motorcycles. Because of them, he was gone for good, and her children were fatherless. What was it with men and their stupid, dangerous toys? Unfair, Rachel. A motorcycle is just a tool. Davey’s reckless speed had been the real problem.
Common sense held no sway, only anger. “Maybe you should stop riding motorcycles. They’re dangerous.”
At her sharp tone, he shot her a hard look. “Not if you know what you’re doing. Was that your cat that ran out in front of me?”
“No, it was Abigail’s.”
“Who’s Abigail?”
Rachel pointed to the aging Victorian. “That was her house.”
