Texas Heroes_ Volume 1(94)

You made your bed, Perrie. Now sleep in it. Alone.

For just a moment, she allowed her thoughts rein…set herself free to imagine yielding to the temptation Mitch presented. Not just to sink into the comfort of his strength, but to give in to the draw of the smoldering sensuality he exuded with every breath.

He was a hard man, but beneath that shell, she sensed more, something explosive. Deep within him, something called, male to female, to something in her. She couldn’t help wondering about how those strong, lean fingers would feel on her body, and the very wondering shocked her. Tantalized her. Never in her life had Perrie felt the pull of a man the way Mitch exerted a steady draw on her. Like the moon called to the tides, something deep within him made her want to respond.

But she was a mother first. She could not afford impulse.

Would not.

With effort, Perrie drew away from her fascination with the world outside the window and turned to her son.

“Davey?”

Davey looked up from his intense concentration on the figures he’d arranged on the rug.

“The ground is covered now. Want to go outside for a few minutes before we eat?”

His eyes glistened. “Yeah!”

“Okay. We have to bundle up like we would in Boston. There’s not a lot of snow yet, but the wind is much higher.”

His joy brightened her own heart.

Concentrate on Davey. It’s your only concern.

Davey raced out of the room, and Perrie followed behind him.



Mitch had heard them dressing, heard Davey’s excitement and Perrie’s whispered caution. But he had stayed in his bedroom, stretched out on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

Don’t get involved. Caring brings pain.

Life had hammered that lesson into his skull with an emphasis he couldn’t forget. He’d cared too much, felt too much. Lost control of his emotions—and a whole family had paid.

Where was Boone now? Davey’s question haunted him. Was Boone his size? Two years younger, his brother had been almost his height the last time Mitch had seen him, when Boone was fourteen and Mitch two years older. Their father was a tall man, broad in the shoulders. Mitch had once thought Sam Gallagher the strongest man in the world.

Thoughts of his father stirred to life feelings that Mitch had thought he’d killed off years ago. The fury in Sam’s face when Mitch had come home drunk for the umpteenth time. The worry in his mother’s eyes. Her attempts to calm both him and Sam down.

To no avail.

Get out of this house and don’t ever come back. You’re no son of mine. You’re throwing your life away—for what? You make me sick.

Mitch sat up quickly, rubbing both hands over his face as if to scrub away what had happened next. If only he’d kept his temper… If only his mother hadn’t followed him…

If only… Two more useless words did not exist in the language.

His mother was dead. It was his fault. He couldn’t even blame Sam for banishing him forever, after that night.

He rose to pace the small room. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? The only safe path was not to feel…anything. He’d begun to feel too much lately.

It had to stop.

He had to be careful, for the child’s sake. Davey gave his affection so easily, like it was as natural as breathing. If he had a son of his own, he’d want him to be just like Davey.

But he would never have a son. He would live—and die—alone.

And it was best, that way.

Just ease away, he thought. Pull back slowly. Don’t get in any deeper. The boy was devoted to his mother, and he had latched onto Mitch when he was the only adult awake, that was all. Just that simple.

And if it bothered Mitch to lose the boy’s growing devotion, well, he’d get over it. He’d gotten over worse.

Mitch left his room, headed for the coffee pot. He poured a cup and lifted the lid of the stewpot on the back of the stove.

Heaven. His mouth watered at the scent. Then he looked in the wood box and saw that she knew how to handle a cook fire. She might be a pampered socialite forced into a few days of primitive living, but she obviously remembered what Cy had taught her.

And it smelled like she was a damn good cook. Mitch couldn’t remember the last time someone else had cooked for him.

Just then, a shriek from outside drew him toward the window. Holding the full mug in his hand, Mitch watched them.

And smiled.

Davey pelted his mother with a small, mushy snowball that fell apart even before impact. Then he danced around, his arms lifted high in glee.

Perrie stood there, bundled in her own clothes, golden hair braided again, smiling like a teenage girl with no worries. He hadn’t realized, until he saw her now with all the caution smoothed from her face, just how tense she’d been since he’d met her. Around him, she was on edge. Even with Davey, she was always watchful, ever cognizant that she was a mother.