his history. "That must have been hard," he
said, neutrally.
I swallowed and
nodded. "When I was little I thought he didn't want me to make friends.
Any time I made a friend, I had to pack up again. Or that's what it felt
like." The wind through the trees sounded exactly like my sigh. "But
when we moved to Holcum, that was supposed to be different. We were supposed to
stay forever."
"I'm
guessing you didn't stay there?"
For a moment my
fists balled on their own. Old hot anger flashed through me, but with nowhere
to go, and nowhere to direct it, it settled into an ache in my stomach. I didn't want to be telling this story to
a complete stranger, much worse a complete stranger who was also a rich white
cowboy country singer, beautiful blue eyes or no. I decided to keep it light.
"We had land that my grandparents had worked. When they passed, they
willed it to my dad. He told us things were different, that he wouldn't move us
any more. That we'd get to stay." The words caught in my throat and I
closed my mouth before I could spill out the whole, sorry story.
Dad led away in handcuffs, shouting promises over his
shoulder. Mom standing on the porch, eyes glittering with angry tears of
betrayal, but refusing to let them fall. He told her to stay and wait, but we
didn't.
We left in the night. That night. And moved on.
Again.
I stared down at
the ground. "But...he didn't keep his promise. And then my family kind
of...fell apart." I squeezed my eyes shut to catch the angry tears. "Having
these kind of ties to a place...shit..." my ability to form sentences
suddenly failed me...
And then just as
suddenly, he was right there. I nearly jumped out of my skin when his hand
brushed my shoulder, but he didn't shy away. His fingers trailed down my arm,
just letting me know he was there. The brush of his fingertips left trails of
electricity in their wake, my skin seared by the heat of him. I was certain he had
scarred me forever with his touch. My breath caught in my throat and I looked
up at him.
His face was right there , the strong angle of the sun
carving his beautiful profile into a stunning mélange of highlights and
shadows. He was so beautiful...but that was the wrong word for something so
ruggedly handsome too. His features looked carved by the hand of a master
sculptor who poured all of their genius into each stroke of the chisel. Without
meaning too, I found myself moving closer, intent on studying the structure of
his face. My artist's eye wanted to divide him into sections of light and
color, the better to paint him with my mind.
But the hunger in
his eyes insisted I do nothing of the sort.
"I'm
here," he said, simply.
"I know,"
I replied.
The magic of this
place was evident all around us. The wind died down, allowing our words to hang
in the air, all the promise of what was left unsaid ringing in our ears. He was
there, it was a simple statement. It was up to me what I wanted to do with his
presence.
My hands made the
decision for me.
I reached out and
pressed my palms against his rock hard chest. First one hand, then the other. I
was half holding him back, half eagerly seeking.
His breath caught
slightly when I touched him, but he didn't move. I was afraid to look back up
and see the hunger in his face, so I concentrated on my own hands as they slid
downward, sliding along the rippling landscape of his torso. The fabric of his
T-shirt bunched a little as I stroked back upward, lifting to reveal a small
sliver of tanned skin above his Wranglers.
Seeing that
sliver made my heart skip and my stomach splash into my core. His abs contracted as I brushed my
finger under his shirt. It was like my hands belonged to someone else, moving
without input from my brain. They were on a mission to touch as much of his
skin as that little sliver of lifted hem would allow. And I would have gone on forever like
that, in a mindless
said, neutrally.
I swallowed and
nodded. "When I was little I thought he didn't want me to make friends.
Any time I made a friend, I had to pack up again. Or that's what it felt
like." The wind through the trees sounded exactly like my sigh. "But
when we moved to Holcum, that was supposed to be different. We were supposed to
stay forever."
"I'm
guessing you didn't stay there?"
For a moment my
fists balled on their own. Old hot anger flashed through me, but with nowhere
to go, and nowhere to direct it, it settled into an ache in my stomach. I didn't want to be telling this story to
a complete stranger, much worse a complete stranger who was also a rich white
cowboy country singer, beautiful blue eyes or no. I decided to keep it light.
"We had land that my grandparents had worked. When they passed, they
willed it to my dad. He told us things were different, that he wouldn't move us
any more. That we'd get to stay." The words caught in my throat and I
closed my mouth before I could spill out the whole, sorry story.
Dad led away in handcuffs, shouting promises over his
shoulder. Mom standing on the porch, eyes glittering with angry tears of
betrayal, but refusing to let them fall. He told her to stay and wait, but we
didn't.
We left in the night. That night. And moved on.
Again.
I stared down at
the ground. "But...he didn't keep his promise. And then my family kind
of...fell apart." I squeezed my eyes shut to catch the angry tears. "Having
these kind of ties to a place...shit..." my ability to form sentences
suddenly failed me...
And then just as
suddenly, he was right there. I nearly jumped out of my skin when his hand
brushed my shoulder, but he didn't shy away. His fingers trailed down my arm,
just letting me know he was there. The brush of his fingertips left trails of
electricity in their wake, my skin seared by the heat of him. I was certain he had
scarred me forever with his touch. My breath caught in my throat and I looked
up at him.
His face was right there , the strong angle of the sun
carving his beautiful profile into a stunning mélange of highlights and
shadows. He was so beautiful...but that was the wrong word for something so
ruggedly handsome too. His features looked carved by the hand of a master
sculptor who poured all of their genius into each stroke of the chisel. Without
meaning too, I found myself moving closer, intent on studying the structure of
his face. My artist's eye wanted to divide him into sections of light and
color, the better to paint him with my mind.
But the hunger in
his eyes insisted I do nothing of the sort.
"I'm
here," he said, simply.
"I know,"
I replied.
The magic of this
place was evident all around us. The wind died down, allowing our words to hang
in the air, all the promise of what was left unsaid ringing in our ears. He was
there, it was a simple statement. It was up to me what I wanted to do with his
presence.
My hands made the
decision for me.
I reached out and
pressed my palms against his rock hard chest. First one hand, then the other. I
was half holding him back, half eagerly seeking.
His breath caught
slightly when I touched him, but he didn't move. I was afraid to look back up
and see the hunger in his face, so I concentrated on my own hands as they slid
downward, sliding along the rippling landscape of his torso. The fabric of his
T-shirt bunched a little as I stroked back upward, lifting to reveal a small
sliver of tanned skin above his Wranglers.
Seeing that
sliver made my heart skip and my stomach splash into my core. His abs contracted as I brushed my
finger under his shirt. It was like my hands belonged to someone else, moving
without input from my brain. They were on a mission to touch as much of his
skin as that little sliver of lifted hem would allow. And I would have gone on forever like
that, in a mindless
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