Lori Foster - Buckhorn Beginnings - Sawyer

Sawyer went back and closed the bedroom door silently, drawn to her though he knew he should just walk away. As he passed the bathroom, he noticed her toothbrush, still wet, on the side of the sink, along with a damp washcloth over the spigot, and his comb that he’d lent her. Those things looked strangely natural in his private domain, as if they belonged. She’d evidently prepared for bed, then was lured—as he often was—by the incredible serenity of the lake.

Though the house had a very comfortable covered deck across the entire front and along one side by the kitchen, he’d still insisted on adding the small patio off his bedroom. In the evening, he often sat outside and just watched the night, waiting for the stars or the clouds to appear, enjoying the way mist rose from the lake to leave lingering dew on everything. The peacefulness of it would sink into his bones, driving away any restlessness. Many times his son or one of his brothers would join him. They didn’t talk, they just sat in peace together, enjoying the closeness.

He’d never shared a moment like this with a woman, not even his wife.

He approached Honey on silent feet. She looked melancholy and withdrawn, and for a long time he simply took in the sight of her. He’d seen her looking fatigued with illness and worry, and he’d seen her eyes snapping with anger or panic. He’d watched her cheeks warm with a blush, her brow pucker with worry over his son. He’d even seen her muster up her courage to embrace a verbal duel with Morgan. Sawyer had known her such a short time, but in that time, he had truly related to her. Whereas hours might be spent on a date, her health had dictated they bypass the cordial niceties of that convention, and their relationship had been intimate from the first. The effects were devastating. He’d already spent more time in her company than most men would through weeks of dating.

Every facet of her personality enthralled him more than it should have. He wanted to see her totally relaxed, without a worry, finally trusting him to take care of her and make things right.

And most of all, he wanted to see her face taut with fierce pleasure as he made love to her, long and slow and deep.

He slid the French door open, and she looked at him.

There were two outdoor chairs on his private patio, and he pulled one close to her. He spoke softly in deference to the quiet of the night and the quiet in her blue eyes. “You look pensive.”

“Hmm.” She turned to stare back out at the lake, tilting her head at the sound of the crickets singing in the distance. “I was…uneasy. But this is so calming, like having your problems washed away. It’s hard to maintain any energy out here, even for irritation.”

“You shouldn’t be irritated just because we want to help.”

Her golden brown lashes lowered over her eyes. “Dinner with your family was…interesting. Around our house, there was only my sister and me. It was always quiet, and if we talked, it was in whispers because the house was so silent. Dinner wasn’t a boisterous event.”

“We can take a little getting used to.”

She smiled. “No, I enjoyed myself. The contrast was wonderful, if that makes any sense.”

That amused him, because meals at home were always a time to laugh and grouse and share. She’d probably find a lot of contrasts, and he hoped she enjoyed them all. But it also made him sad, thinking of how lonely her life must have been. “It makes perfect sense,” he assured her.

“Good.”

Because it had surprised him, he added, “You held your own with my brothers.”

She laughed, closing her eyes lazily. “Yes. Morgan is a bully, but I have the feeling he’s fair.”

Sawyer considered her words and the way she’d spoken them. “Honorable might be a better word. Morgan can be very unfair when he’s convinced it’s for the best. He’s a no-holds-barred kind of man when he’s got a mission.”

Her long blond hair trailed over her shoulder all the way to her thigh, catching the glow of the setting sun as surely as the lake did. She tilted her chin up to a faint warm breeze, and his blood rushed at the instinctively feminine gesture and the look of bliss on her face. “It was so cold inside,” she whispered, “I wanted to feel the sunshine. I came out here to warm up, then couldn’t seem to make myself go back in.”

They did keep the air low, but not so much that she should be uncomfortable. He reached over and placed his palm on her forehead, then frowned. “You could be a little feverish again. Did you take the ibuprofen I left in the bathroom?”

“Yes, I did. And the antibiotic.” She blinked her eyes open and sighed. “Did I thank you for taking such good care of me, Sawyer?”

A low thrumming started in his veins, making his body throb. He could feel his own heartbeat, the acceleration of his pulse—just because she’d said his name. “I don’t know, but it isn’t necessary.”

“To me it is. Thank you.”

He swallowed down a groan. He wanted to lift her onto his lap and hold her for hours, just touching her, breathing in her spicy scent, which kept drifting to him in subtle, teasing whiffs. Right now, she smelled of sunshine and warmth and the musky scent of woman, along with a fragrance all her own, one that seemed to be seeping into his bones. It drove him closer to the edge and made him want to bury himself in the unique scent.

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