The Fall of Shane MacKade (The MacKade Brothers 4)

Very slowly, she lay back again. Intelligence, training, even common sense, had nothing to do with it. She laid a hand on her heart gingerly.

Of course she was in love with him. She’d been in love with him all along—the cliché of love at first sight. She’d ignored it, given it different names, fit her newly developed sophistication over it. But it had been there.

Well, what now? Not that long ago, she would have run like a rabbit. No doubt, if she greeted Shane with a declaration, he’d run like a rabbit. But wasn’t it just one more new experience? An emotion to be added to the others she’d finally allowed herself to feel? The only sensible course of action was to accept it, and deal with whatever came next as best she could.

She had weeks left to enjoy what she could have, and enough experience to know how to live without what she couldn’t have. It might hurt in the end, but she could accept that, too.

Much worse than pain, she well knew, was having nothing at all.

With the first days of September gleefully pouring out the last of the summer heat, Shane was sweaty when he headed for the house at midday. He was filthy, a little bloody where he’d scraped his knuckle on a bolt, and afraid he might smell a bit reminiscent of the manure spreader he’d just finished with.

But he’d also worked hard enough, and fast enough, to carve out two good hours of free time. He intended to occupy Rebecca for every moment of them.

He knew he had a stupid grin on his face, and didn’t care. He wanted her in bed again, quickly. He needed to see if it had just been the novelty of her, or something more. All he was sure of was that he’d never been so involved, so lost in a woman, as he had been with her.

Because he’d never found it otherwise, he believed lovemaking was meant to be a pleasure. But with Rebecca, it had gone beyond pleasure, into delirium. He was looking forward to taking the trip again.

There she was at the table, working away, her glasses perched, long fingers flying. He started to grin, and a spear pierced his heart, painfully, when she looked up and smiled at him, her face lighting up.

“You really are beautiful,” he murmured, and discovered he was clutching the doorknob for balance. Had a woman, any woman, ever knocked him off his feet before?

She could only stare at him. No one had ever called her beautiful. And at the moment, he looked as though he meant it. Then he grinned, and the dazed look left his eyes.

“Now, if you could only cook.”

“I managed some iced tea.”

“That’s a start.” And it might do something to cool his suddenly dry throat. He took out the pitcher, poured a generous glass and gulped. Choked. “Ah, how many bags did you use, Doc?”

“About a dozen.”

He shook his head and hoped his eyes would stay in their sockets. The stuff in his glass was as thick and strong as a trucker’s fist. “Well, it ought to get the blood moving.”

She snickered. “Sorry. I’m useless in the kitchen. It probably shouldn’t have steeped for three hours, either.”

“Probably not.” Cautiously he set the glass aside. He wouldn’t have been overly surprised if it simply marched away under its own power. “We can dilute it. I’ve got a fifty-gallon drum outside.”

“I could make a sandwich.” When she rose, he held up a hand.

“Thanks anyway. I’ll do it. No, don’t come near me. I smell like the wrong side of a cow.”

Enjoying the little bubbles of anticipation bursting in her blood, she traced her tongue over her lips. “You’re awfully dirty,” she said. She liked it. “And sweaty. Take off your shirt.”

A lightning bolt of desire flashed into his gut. “You’re very demanding. I like that in a woman.” Still, he backed up again. “I don’t want to touch you. You’re all neat and tidy, and my hands are covered with things you wouldn’t want on that pretty sweater.”

She looked down at them, then let out a little hum of concern. “You’re bleeding.”

“Just scraped a knuckle. Let me wash up.”

“I’ll do it.” She took his hand before he could turn on the tap.

She bathed his hand herself, knitting her brows over the scrape. He had the pleasure of standing there while she soaped his hands, rubbed them gently between hers.

He began to fantasize about taking a shower with her. Wet bodies, slicked skin, rising steam.

“I guess you’ll live. But you should be more careful.” She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. “What have you been doing out there?”

He grinned. “Spreading manure.”