when she’d been a teenager, determined to rebel against everything her mother held dear, Brandy had known her parents loved her, that they wanted only the best for her. And, in the end, it had been their love that kept her from turning to drugs and alcohol, the way so many others did. “I’m sorry,” she said again.
“Are you?” The fire had burned down and she couldn’t see his face clearly, but she heard the sneer in his voice.
Brandy lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Yes.”
J.T. raked a hand through his hair. Anger and frustration roiled up inside him. No doubt she had grown up in a little white house surrounded by loving parents. She’d probably never known what it was to be hungry, to have to beg for food.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. He’d never forget what it had been like to sneak into a smoky saloon looking for his mother, never forget the humiliation he had endured as he listened to the rude remarks and derisive laughter of men who had paid to sleep with his mother.
Anger and frustration welled up inside him. In spite of everything, in spite of the humiliation and the shame and the embarrassment of being her son, he had loved her.
And suddenly he hated Brandy Talavera. Hated her soft gray eyes and smooth honey-colored skin. Hated her because she’d had parents who loved her, because she could never in a million years understand why he had turned out the way he had.
“Go to bed,” he said, his voice harsh.
“What?”
“Go to bed.”
It was in her mind to argue, but one look at his face assured her that arguing would not be prudent. Removing her shoes and petticoats, she slipped under the covers.
Wordlessly, J.T. grabbed her hands and lashed them together with a short length of rope. There was no gentleness in his touch now, only a deep dark anger.
Brandy started to protest, to say that she wasn’t fool enough to try to run away, but the words died in her throat when she saw the anguish in his eyes. He was hurting deep inside, and he was taking it out on her because she was there.
Her sympathy for him vanished when he lowered himself over her, trapped her face in his hands, and covered her mouth with his. It was a brutal kiss, filled with anger and frustration. She bucked beneath him, outraged and afraid, but his body held hers pinned to the ground. His lips ground into hers, his tongue raped her mouth, hot and hungry.
For one fleeting moment, she surrendered to his touch. Heat flowed through her veins, her heart pounded in rhythm with his, and she knew a wild, unexplainable urge to slip her arms over his head and hold him close, to whisper words of comfort in his ear.
The idea that she should respond to such a violent act, that she should respond to him, shocked her back to awareness, and she lay stiff beneath him, fury building with every breath.
And then she bit down on his tongue, hard. She tasted the warm metallic taste of blood, and then he drew away with a yelp of pain.
Straddling her hips, J.T. glared down at her, his anger fading as he saw the fear in her eyes. Damn! He was treating her as if she were no better than a whore…
With an oath, he stood up, too ashamed to face her, hating himself because he was behaving exactly like the men who had bedded his mother. He had wanted to kill those men.
Hands clenched at his sides, he walked away from her, taking refuge in the changing shadows beyond the campfire. Damn her! Why had she questioned him about his past? It was not something he cared to think about. It was over and done and there was no going back. His father had been a worthless gambler, usually drunk, always mean. Frank Cutter had taken his mother away from her people, gotten her pregnant, and then, when J.T. was seven, Frank Cutter had deserted them, leaving Sisoka in San Antonio to fend for herself and J.T.
But no one in Texas was going to offer a helping hand to a half-breed Lakota woman. Sisoka had been too ashamed to go back home, too proud to admit her
“Are you?” The fire had burned down and she couldn’t see his face clearly, but she heard the sneer in his voice.
Brandy lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Yes.”
J.T. raked a hand through his hair. Anger and frustration roiled up inside him. No doubt she had grown up in a little white house surrounded by loving parents. She’d probably never known what it was to be hungry, to have to beg for food.
But that wasn’t the worst of it. He’d never forget what it had been like to sneak into a smoky saloon looking for his mother, never forget the humiliation he had endured as he listened to the rude remarks and derisive laughter of men who had paid to sleep with his mother.
Anger and frustration welled up inside him. In spite of everything, in spite of the humiliation and the shame and the embarrassment of being her son, he had loved her.
And suddenly he hated Brandy Talavera. Hated her soft gray eyes and smooth honey-colored skin. Hated her because she’d had parents who loved her, because she could never in a million years understand why he had turned out the way he had.
“Go to bed,” he said, his voice harsh.
“What?”
“Go to bed.”
It was in her mind to argue, but one look at his face assured her that arguing would not be prudent. Removing her shoes and petticoats, she slipped under the covers.
Wordlessly, J.T. grabbed her hands and lashed them together with a short length of rope. There was no gentleness in his touch now, only a deep dark anger.
Brandy started to protest, to say that she wasn’t fool enough to try to run away, but the words died in her throat when she saw the anguish in his eyes. He was hurting deep inside, and he was taking it out on her because she was there.
Her sympathy for him vanished when he lowered himself over her, trapped her face in his hands, and covered her mouth with his. It was a brutal kiss, filled with anger and frustration. She bucked beneath him, outraged and afraid, but his body held hers pinned to the ground. His lips ground into hers, his tongue raped her mouth, hot and hungry.
For one fleeting moment, she surrendered to his touch. Heat flowed through her veins, her heart pounded in rhythm with his, and she knew a wild, unexplainable urge to slip her arms over his head and hold him close, to whisper words of comfort in his ear.
The idea that she should respond to such a violent act, that she should respond to him, shocked her back to awareness, and she lay stiff beneath him, fury building with every breath.
And then she bit down on his tongue, hard. She tasted the warm metallic taste of blood, and then he drew away with a yelp of pain.
Straddling her hips, J.T. glared down at her, his anger fading as he saw the fear in her eyes. Damn! He was treating her as if she were no better than a whore…
With an oath, he stood up, too ashamed to face her, hating himself because he was behaving exactly like the men who had bedded his mother. He had wanted to kill those men.
Hands clenched at his sides, he walked away from her, taking refuge in the changing shadows beyond the campfire. Damn her! Why had she questioned him about his past? It was not something he cared to think about. It was over and done and there was no going back. His father had been a worthless gambler, usually drunk, always mean. Frank Cutter had taken his mother away from her people, gotten her pregnant, and then, when J.T. was seven, Frank Cutter had deserted them, leaving Sisoka in San Antonio to fend for herself and J.T.
But no one in Texas was going to offer a helping hand to a half-breed Lakota woman. Sisoka had been too ashamed to go back home, too proud to admit her
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