Til Death Do Us Part (15 page)

“There's something I want to show you. I think it'll pretty well confirm that this was our great-grandparents' trysting place.” J.T. turned her to face him. “You stay right here. It's in my saddlebag.”

When he started to walk away, she grabbed his arm. “What is it?”

“Just let me get it and show it to you.”

She nodded agreement and waited in the cave for his return. The eerie silence crept up her spine. She shivered. Somewhere off in the distance she heard the sound of drums. She listened, thinking she was imagining the rhythmic beat.

No, the sound was real, even if it existed only in her heart, as surely as it had existed in Annabelle's heart long
ago. A magical drumbeat, summoning lovers together, speaking without words of a love that was meant to be.

“Here it is.” J.T. came back into the cave, a blanket over his arm and a tattered book in his hands. “I found this ragged old book in the cave when I was up here exploring by myself one day. I was always collecting stuff, taking it home and adding it to my treasure trove. But it's not so much the book itself I wanted to show you, but something pressed between the pages.”

He held the book out to Joanna. Her hands trembled as she reached out for it. The binding had been broken and numerous pages had fallen out, probably years ago. She opened the book to the first page. J.T. spread the blanket on the ground, lifted one of the flashlights and slid his hand under Joanna's elbow.

“Come on, honey, sit down.”

He eased her down on the blanket, then sat beside her and held the flashlight on the thin volume of verse. “Go ahead and read it.”

The inscription read, “To Benjamin. Forever and only yours, A.”

“It's a stupid book of poetry,” J.T. said. “Why an eleven-year-old boy ever kept such a thing, I'll never know. I suppose at that age, I considered it some sort of treasure. I stuck it in a bottom desk drawer in my room, where I kept a lot of the junk I collected.”

“Christina Rossetti's poems,” Joanna said. “This book must have belonged to Annabelle. There're references to Christina Rossetti's poems in her diary. One in particular.”

“Look about halfway into the book,” J.T. told her, then watched as she carefully turned the brittle, yellowed pages.

There, lying atop the poem entitled “Echo,” was a four-inch braid of hair—strands of jet-black hair and fiery-red hair blended together and tied with a faded yellow ribbon. Joanna gasped. Moisture stung her eyes. She swallowed her tears.

Closing the book with reverence, she laid it beside her on the blanket, then looked at J.T. “You think it's all a bunch of stupid, sentimental hogwash, don't you? You can't understand why they would have cut strands of their hair and braided them together as a keepsake for Benjamin, can you? Or why she would have given him a book of poems by her favorite poet?”

“Hey, seventy years ago, people were different than they are today. Maybe everybody was more romantic.” J.T. rubbed his hand up and down Joanna's back. “I think we both know Annabelle Beaumont had a romantic streak in her a mile wide. So if Benjamin really loved her, then he would have catered to her romantic nature, don't you think?”

“Well, I'll say one thing for you, J. T. Blackwood, you certainly know how to get a woman's mind off her troubles.” She tried to smile, but the effort failed. Instead, she caressed his cheek with her fingertips. “That's why you chose today to show me this cave and the book with the hair braid. You wanted me to forget about Claire's disappearance and Lenny Plott's threats.”

“Obviously it didn't work.”

“Yes, it did. I'd much rather think about and talk about our great-grandparents than about living in fear of what Lenny Plott will do next.”

“I thought you'd like to keep the book,” J.T. said. “I figured it'd mean a lot more to you than it ever could to me.”

“Thank you.” She caressed his cheek again. He covered her hand with his, trapping it against his face.

“What are the odds that you and I would ever meet, let alone become lovers?” he asked.

“You don't believe in destiny, but I do. You and I were destined to meet and become lovers, just as Benjamin and Annabelle were.”

“Now, Jo, don't start comparing us to—”

“I'm not! I know very well that you and I aren't our great-grandparents, and we aren't destined to relive their tragic love affair. We're very different people than our ancestors were, and our affair is different from theirs.” She pulled her hand from his.

“I'm glad you see it that way. I don't want you to think just because I showed you this cave and gave you that book—” he pointed to the volume of poetry “—I'm buying into any of this romantic nonsense. I'll go so far as to admit that I believe Annabelle and Benjamin probably cared deeply for each other, but I think this tragic, eternal love between them is something your great-grandmother concocted in her fantasies. Benjamin had to have gone on with his life and married someone else and spent his life with her. After all, he did have a child—my mother's father.”

“You don't know anything about your family history, do you? Your grandfather Blackwood really did cut all your ties to the Navajo, didn't he?”

“Yeah, you're right. I don't know anything about my mother's family, but I don't see what my ignorance concerning my Navajo heritage has to do with—”

“Benjamin Greymountain was a young widower with a four-year-old son when he met Annabelle. His wife had died in childbirth, and he never remarried. When I asked Elena about Benjamin, she told me that her mother said he died of tuberculosis at the age of thirty-eight.”

J.T. grunted, then blew out a huffing breath. “I give up.
Benjamin went to his grave pining for Annabelle, and she loved him and no other as long as she lived. Now, are you satisfied?”

Joanna grinned. “You don't really believe it. You're just saying that to pacify me.” Lifting her arms, she circled his neck. “In your own gruff, moody way, you're very sweet, you know.”

“I've been called a lot of things, honey, but never sweet. There's no reason for you to read more into what I say and do than—”

“I know. I know. You can't give me anything, aren't offering me anything, except your protection and a temporary love affair.”

She realized that he had no idea he was catering to her romantic nature. Just as, perhaps, Benjamin had catered to Annabelle's romantic nature. When a man cared deeply for a woman, he made concessions. Was that what J.T. was doing? Did his feelings for her run far deeper than he wanted to admit? She could only guess at J.T.'s true feelings. It was possible, even probable, that he didn't know himself. Long ago, as a young boy, he had sealed off his emotions, protecting himself from being hurt. He had been stolen from the only love he'd known—his mother's. And he'd been raised by a bitter old man who obviously hadn't known the first thing about love; only about controlling and possessing.

“Exactly what did you have in mind when you brought me up here to this cave?” Joanna leaned closer, hugging J.T., pressing her breasts against his chest. “Considering how intrigued I am by Annabelle and Benjamin, you might have thought I'd want to make love here, in their special place.”

Clearing his throat, J.T. shuffled his hips on the blan
ket. “I don't want you to think I brought you up here with the intention of—”

Joanna covered his lips with her index finger. “Why did you bring along a blanket?”

“Now, Jo, you're doing exactly what I told you not to do. You're reading something into my actions that—”

She silenced him with a tongue-thrusting demanding kiss, then toppled him down on the blanket, knocking off his Stetson. Covering his body with hers, she ended the kiss and smiled at him.

“If I promise not to misinterpret your actions and start thinking there's something magical happening between us the way it did between our great-grandparents, will you make love to me here…in this cave…now?”

J.T. cupped her buttocks in his big hands, lifting and positioning her so that her softness settled directly over his hardness. “Honey, I'll make love to you…anywhere…anytime.”

She had dreamed of this moment, but she didn't dare tell J.T. Since the first time she'd read her great-grandmother's diary, she had fantasized about meeting her own passionate lover, here, in this special place where Annabelle and Benjamin had consummated their love. Perhaps she was just a foolish romantic, a woman for whom reality had become cruel and bitter. But Annabelle had been a romantic fortunate enough to find a lover who had fulfilled her fantasies.

Joanna kissed J.T.'s leather-brown neck, then laid her head on his shoulder as she draped her body over his. “I'm glad I waited for you. It wouldn't have been the same with anyone else. It wouldn't have been so absolutely right.”

He rolled her over onto her back, leaned down and unbuttoned her shirt. She shivered when his fingers touched her bare skin. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Yes, I'm very sure.” Reaching up, she unsnapped his shirt and stretched her hands out over his chest. When he sucked in his breath, she smiled. “You make me want to learn all there is to know about making love. You make me want to trust you completely, to give myself over to you and believe you'd never hurt me.”

He undid the front opening of her bra, lifted her just a fraction off the blanket and removed her shirt and bra. He gazed down at her breasts—round, full and tempting. Covering them with his hands, he slid one leg between her thighs. Lifting his knee, he massaged her intimately.

“I want you to trust me completely,” he said. “To know that what happens between us now is a mutual loving. We both give and we both take.” Clasping her hand in his, he carried it to his belt buckle. “I take you. You take me. And when you lose control, I lose control.”

With a precision of familiarity, as if they had undressed each other numerous times, Joanna and J.T. divested themselves of their clothing. When they lay naked, side by side on the blanket, J.T. took her in his arms and turned her to face him. “Will I frighten you if I'm not gentle this time?”

He fondled her, testing her readiness. She clung to him, her answer a gasping sigh against his lips. “No, you don't have to worry. I don't feel very gentle myself. Not here. Not now.” Not when the passion within her had been ignited by the chance to fulfill a dream, to capture for herself some small portion of the magic Annabelle had known.

His kiss devoured her, as hers did him. He rolled her on her back and cupped her behind, lifting her. She clutched his back, biting into his flesh with her fingernails, bucking up to meet him. Wrapping her legs around his hips, she issued him an invitation into the sheathing warmth
of her body. He thrust into her forcefully. Moaning with pleasure, she kneaded his tight buttocks.

Heat poured into her body as if a searing liquid fire had entered her bloodstream. Her breasts ached, her nipples beaded into tight buds. As he moved in and out of her, his hard chest grazed her sensitive nipples, the sensation shooting pinpricks of pain and pleasure to the very core of her femininity.

Her breathing quickened. She gasped for air as the tumult within her built, stronger and stronger with each powerful stab. What he gave her was too much, and yet at the same time, not nearly enough. She wanted him to end this torment, but she wanted the loving to go on forever.

He increased the depth and pace of his lunges. Erotic words, spoken harshly and urgently, told her of his needs and intentions. Joanna trembled as the first warning signs of fulfillment rippled through her.

J.T. didn't know if he could hold on much longer; the tight clutching of her body brought him to the very edge. The moment he felt her shatter into paroxysms of release, he hammered into her repeatedly, his own release coming hard and fast. He cried out, the sound one of a triumphant male animal. Pure masculine completion controlled his body.

His jackhammer thrusts created anew the climactic spasms within her. Her moans of pleasure grew louder and louder. In the final moments, he uttered Navajo words to her, words neither of them understood.
“Ayóí óosh'ni.”
But in her secret heart of hearts, Joanna believed she knew what J.T. had said to her, even if he did not. His words were Benjamin Greymountain's words—his proclamation of love to Annabelle.

J.T. wrapped his arms around Joanna, their bodies rest
ing spoon-fashion. He lay there, holding her, listening to the soft, sweet sound of her breathing as she slept peacefully, sated and safe. Somehow he'd allowed this beautiful, loving woman to get under his skin, to get past the protective armor he'd kept securely around his emotions. He was a fool for getting personally involved with her, but heaven help him, he had never wanted or needed a woman so much.

He had promised her that he'd never hurt her, but he had lied. He had lied as much to himself as he had to her. Oh, he'd never hurt her physically, but he knew that sooner or later he'd break her heart. And for a woman like Joanna, his precious romantic Joanna, breaking her heart would be far more devastating.

She believed in things he didn't, and wanted more from him than he had to give. He almost wished he could be the man she wanted. But he couldn't. She wanted him to be the reincarnation of Benjamin Greymountain; to come to her with a Navajo soul, to love her with a mindless passion. Joanna wanted the two of them to capture the spirit of their ancestors and bring to life the love Annabelle and Benjamin had taken to their graves.

When Joanna awoke, they made love again. Sweet, slow love, each learning the other's body by touch and taste and sight. The burning sun melted into the late-afternoon sky, splaying the earth with golden light. They dressed unhurriedly, taking time to savor their last moments alone in this special place. Joanna clasped Annabelle's book of poetry to her breast. A shadowy sense of sadness settled on her heart. Would this be the only day she and J.T. would make love here? Was there no future for them?