The Complete Mackenzies Collection Page 3

  “I don’t know how,” Mary blurted, still unable to believe this was happening.

  His voice was almost guttural. “Like this.” He took her mouth again, and this time she parted her lips immediately, eager to accept his tongue and feel that odd, surging pleasure once more. He moved his mouth over hers, molding her lips with fierce pleasure, teaching her how to return the pressure. His tongue touched hers again, and this time she responded shyly in kind, welcoming his small invasion with gentle touches of her own. She was too inexperienced to realize the symbolism of her acceptance, but he began to breathe harder and faster, and his kiss deepened, demanding even more of her.

  A frightening excitement exploded through her body, going beyond mere pleasure and becoming a hungry need. She was no longer cold at all, but burning inside as her heartbeat increased until her heart was banging against her ribs. So this was what he meant when he’d said she got him hot. He got her hot, too, and it stunned her to think he had felt this same restless yearning, this incredible wanting. She made a soft, unconscious sound and moved closer to him, not knowing how to control the sensations his experienced kisses had aroused.

  His hands tightened painfully on her waist, and a low, rough sound rumbled in his throat. Then he lifted her, pulled her closer, adjusted her hips against his and graphically demonstrated his response to her.

  She hadn’t known it could be like that. She hadn’t known that desire could burn so hot, could make her forget Aunt Ardith’s warnings about men and the nasty things they liked to do to women. Mary had quite sensibly decided that those things couldn’t be too nasty, or women wouldn’t put up with them, but at the same time she had never flirted or tried to attract a boyfriend. The men she had met at college and on the job had seemed normal, not slavering sex fiends; she was comfortable with men, and even considered some to be friends. It was just that she wasn’t sexy herself; no man had ever beaten down doors to go out with her, or even managed to accomplish the dialing of her telephone number, so her exposure to men hadn’t prepared her for the tightness of Wolf Mackenzie’s arms, the hunger of his kisses, or the hardness of his manhood pushing against the juncture of her thighs. Nor had she known that she could want more.

  Unconsciously she locked her arms around his neck and squirmed against him, tormented by increasing frustration. Her body was on fire, empty and aching and wanting all at once, and she didn’t have the experience to control it. The new sensations were a tidal wave, swamping her mind beneath the overload from her nerve endings.

  Wolf jerked his head back, his teeth locked as he relentlessly brought himself back under control. Black fire burned in his eyes as he looked down at her. His kisses had made her soft lips red and pouty, and delicate pink colored her translucent porcelain skin. Her eyes were heavy-lidded as she opened them and slowly met his gaze. Her pale brown hair had slipped completely out of its knot and tumbled silkily around her face and over her shoulders. Desire was on her face; she already looked tousled, as if he had done more than kiss her, and in his mind he had. She was light and delicate in his arms, but she had twisted against him with a hunger that matched his own.

  He could take her to bed now; she was that far gone, and he knew it. But when he did, it would be because she had consciously made the decision, not because she was so hot she didn’t know what she was doing. Her inexperience was obvious; he’d even had to teach her how to kiss—the thought stopped as abruptly as if he’d hit a mental wall, as he realized the full extent of her inexperience. Damn it, she was a virgin!

  The thought staggered him. She was looking at him now with those grayish blue eyes both innocent and questioning, languid with desire, as she waited for him to make the next move. She didn’t know what to do. Her arms were locked around his neck, her body pressed tightly to his, her legs opened slightly to allow him to nestle against her, and she was waiting for him because she didn’t have a clue how to proceed. She hadn’t even been kissed before. No man had touched those soft breasts, or taken her nipples in his mouth. No man had loved her at all before.

  He swallowed the lump that threatened to choke him, his eyes still locked with hers. “God Almighty, lady, that nearly got out of hand.”

  She blinked. “Did it?” Her tone was prim, the words clear, but the dazed, sleepy look was still in her eyes.

  Slowly, because he didn’t want to let her go, and gently, because he knew he had to, he let her body slip down his until she was standing on her feet again. She was innocent of the ramifications, but he wasn’t. He was Wolf Mackenzie, half-breed, and she was the schoolteacher. The good citizens of Ruth wouldn’t want her associating with him; she was in charge of their young people, with untold influence on their forming morals. No parents would want their impressionable daughter being taught by a woman who was having a wild fling with an Indian ex-con. Why, she might even entice their sons! His prison record could be accepted, but his Indian blood would never go away.

  So he had to let her go, no matter how much he wanted to take her to his bedroom and teach her all the things that went on between a man and a woman.

  Her arms were still around his neck, her fingers buried in the hair at his nape. She seemed incapable of movement. He reached up to take her wrists and draw her hands away from him.

  “I think I’ll come back later.”

  A new voice intruded in Mary’s dreamworld of newly discovered sensuality, and she jerked away, color burning her cheeks as she whirled to face the newcomer. A tall, dark-haired boy stood just inside the kitchen door, his hat in his hand. “Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to barge in.”

  Wolf stepped away from her. “Stay. She came to see you, anyway.”

  The boy looked at her quizzically. “You could have fooled me.”

  Wolf merely shrugged. “This is Miss Mary Potter, the new schoolteacher. Miss Potter, my son, Joe.”

  Even through her embarrassment, Mary was jolted that he would call her “Miss Potter” after the intimacy they had just shared. But he seemed so calm and controlled, as if it hadn’t affected him at all, while every nerve in her body was still jangling. She wanted to fling herself against him and give herself up to that encompassing fire.

  Instead she stood there, her arms stiffly at her sides while her face burned, and forced herself to look at Joe Mackenzie. He was the reason she was here, and she wouldn’t allow herself to forget it again. As her embarrassment faded, she saw that he was very like his father. Though he was only sixteen, he was already six feet tall and would likely match his father’s height, just as his broad young shoulders showed the promise of being as powerful. His face was a younger version of Wolf’s, as strong-boned and proud, the features precisely chiseled. He was calm and controlled, far too controlled for a sixteen-year-old, and his eyes, oddly, were pale, glittering blue. Those eyes held something in them, something untamed, as well as a sort of bitter acceptance and knowledge that made him old beyond his years. He was his father’s son.

  There was no way she could give up on him.

  She held out her hand to him. “I’d really like to talk to you, Joe.”

  His expression remained aloof, but he crossed the kitchen to shake her hand. “I don’t know why.”

  “You dropped out of school.”

  The statement hardly needed verification, but he nodded. Mary drew a deep breath. “May I ask why?”

  “There was nothing for me there.”

  She felt frustrated by the calm, flat statement, because she couldn’t sense any uncertainty in this unusual boy. As Wolf had said, Joe had made up his own mind and didn’t intend to change it. She tried to think of another way to approach him, but Wolf’s quiet, deep voice interrupted.

  “Miss Potter, you can finish talking after you get into some sensible clothes. Joe, don’t you have some old jeans that might be small enough to fit her?”

  To her astonishment, the boy looked her over with an experienced eye. “I think so. Maybe the ones I wore when I was ten.” For a moment amusement sparkled in his blue-diam
ond eyes, and Mary primmed her mouth. What did these Mackenzie men get out of needlessly pointing out her lack of attractiveness?

  “Socks, shirt, boots and coat,” Wolf added to the list. “The boots will be too big, but two pairs of socks will hold them on.”

  “Mr. Mackenzie, I really don’t need extra clothes. What I have on will do until I get home.”

  “No, it won’t. The high temperature today is about ten below zero. You aren’t walking out of this house with bare legs and those stupid shoes.”

  Her sensible shoes were suddenly stupid? She felt like flying to their defense, but suddenly remembered the snow that had gotten inside them and frozen her toes. What was sensible in Savannah was woefully inadequate in a Wyoming winter.

  “Very well,” she assented, but only because it was, after all, the sensible thing to do. She still felt uncomfortable about taking Joe’s clothes, even temporarily. She had never worn anyone else’s clothes before, never swapped sweaters or blouses with chums as an adolescent. Aunt Ardith had thought such familiarity ill-bred.

  “I’ll see about your car while you change.” Without even glancing at her again, he put on his coat and hat and walked out the door.

  “This way,” Joe said, indicating that she should follow him. She did so, and he looked over his shoulder. “What happened to your car?”

  “A water hose blew.”

  “Where is it?”

  She stopped. “It’s on the road. Didn’t you see it when you drove up?” An awful thought struck her. Had her car somehow slid off the mountain?

  “I came up the front side of the mountain. It’s not as steep.” He looked amused again. “You actually tried driving up the back road in a car, when you’re not used to driving in snow?”

  “I didn’t know that was the back road. I thought it was the only road. Couldn’t I have made it? I have snow tires.”

  “Maybe.”

  She noticed that he didn’t sound very confident in her ability, but she didn’t protest, because she wasn’t very confident herself. He led the way through a rustic but comfortable living room and down a short hallway to an open door. “My old clothes are boxed up in the storage room, but it won’t take long for me to dig them out. You can change in here. It’s my bedroom.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, stepping inside the room. Like the living room, it was rustic, with exposed beams and thick wooden walls. There was nothing in it to indicate it was inhabited by a teenage boy: no sports apparatus of any kind, no clothes on the floor. The full-size bed was neatly made, a homemade quilt smoothed on top. A straight chair stood in one corner. Next to his bed, bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling; the shelves were obviously handmade, but weren’t crude. They had been finished, sanded and varnished. They were crammed with books, and curiosity led her to examine the titles.

  It took her a moment to realize that every book had to do with flight, from da Vinci’s experiments through Kitty Hawk and space exploration. There were books on bombers, fighters, helicopters, radar planes, jets and prop planes, books on air battles fought in each war since pilots first shot at each other with pistols in World War I. There were books on experimental aircraft, on fighter tactics, on wing design and engine capability.

  “Here are the clothes.” Joe had entered silently and placed the clothes on the bed. Mary looked at him, but his face was impassive.

  “You like planes,” she said, then winced at her own banality.

  “I like planes,” he admitted without inflection.

  “Have you thought about taking flying lessons?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t add anything to that stark answer, however; he merely left the room and closed the door behind him.

  She was thoughtful as she slowly removed her dress and pulled on the things Joe had brought. The collection of books indicated not merely an interest in flying, but an obsession. Obsessions were funny things; unhealthy ones could ruin lives, but some obsessions lifted people to higher planes of life, made them shine with a brighter light, burn with a hotter fire, and if those obsessions weren’t fed, then the person withered, a life blighted by starvation of the soul. If she were right, she had a way to reach Joe and get him back in school.

  The jeans fit. Disgusted at this further proof that she had the figure of a ten-year-old boy, she pulled on the too-big flannel shirt and buttoned it, then rolled the sleeves up over her hands. As Wolf had predicted, the worn boots were too big, but the two pairs of thick socks padded her feet enough that the boots didn’t slip up and down on her heels too much. The warmth was heavenly, and she decided she would pinch pennies any way she could until she could afford a pair of boots.

  Joe was adding wood to the fire in the enormous rock fireplace when she entered, and a little grin tugged at his mouth when he saw her. “You sure don’t look like Mrs. Langdale, or any other teacher I’ve ever seen.”

  She folded her hands. “Looks have nothing to do with ability. I’m a very good teacher—even if I do look like a ten-year-old boy.”

  “Twelve. I wore those jeans when I was twelve.”

  “What a consolation.”

  He laughed aloud, and she felt pleased, because she had the feeling neither he nor his father laughed much.

  “Why did you quit school?”

  She had learned that if you kept asking the same question, you would often get different answers, and eventually the evasions would cease and the real answer would emerge. But Joe looked at her steadily and gave the same answer as before. “There was nothing for me there.”

  “Nothing more for you to learn?”

  “I’m Indian, Miss Potter. A mixed-breed. What I learned, I learned on my own.”

  Mary paused. “Mrs. Langdale didn’t—” She stopped, unsure of how to phrase her question.

  “I was invisible.” His young voice was harsh. “From the time I started school. No one took the time to explain anything to me, ask me questions, or include me in anything. I’m surprised my papers were even graded.”

  “But you were number one in your class.”

  He shrugged. “I like books.”

  “Don’t you miss school, miss learning?”

  “I can read without going to school, and I can help Dad a lot more if I’m here all day. I know horses, ma’am, maybe better than anyone else around here except for Dad, and I didn’t learn about them in school. This ranch will be mine someday. This is my life. Why should I waste time in school?”

  Mary took a deep breath and played her ace. “To learn how to fly.”

  He couldn’t prevent the avid gleam that shone briefly in his eyes, but it was quickly extinguished. “I can’t learn how to fly in Ruth High School. Maybe someday I’ll take lessons.”

  “I wasn’t talking about flying lessons. I was talking about the Air Force Academy.”

  His bronze skin whitened. This time she didn’t see a gleam of eagerness, but a deep, anguished need so powerful it shook her, as if he’d been shown a glimpse of heaven. Then he turned his head, and abruptly he looked older. “Don’t try to make a fool of me. There’s no way.”

  “Why isn’t there a way? From what I saw in your school records, your grade average will be high enough.”

  “I dropped out.”

  “You can go back.”

  “As far behind as I am? I’d have to repeat this grade, and I won’t sit still while those jerks call me a stupid Indian.”

  “You aren’t that far behind. I could tutor you, bring you up fast enough that you could start your senior year in the fall. I’m a licensed teacher, Joe, and for your information, my credentials are very good. I’m qualified to tutor you in the classes you need.”

  He took a poker and jabbed at a log, sending a shower of sparks flying. “What if I do it?” he muttered. “The Academy isn’t a college where you take an entrance exam, pay your money and walk in.”

  “No. The usual way is to be recommended by your congressman.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think my congressman is going t
o recommend an Indian. We’re way down on the list of people it’s fashionable to help. Dead last, as a matter of fact.”

  “I think you’re making too much of your heritage,” Mary said calmly. “You can keep blaming everything on being Indian, or you can get on with your life. You can’t do anything about other people’s reactions to you, but you can do something about your own. You don’t know what your congressman will do, so why give up when you haven’t even tried yet? Are you a quitter?”

  He straightened, his pale eyes fierce. “I don’t reckon.”

  “Then it’s time to find out, isn’t it? Do you want to fly bad enough that you’ll fight for the privilege? Or do you want to die without ever knowing what it’s like to sit in the cockpit of a jet doing Mach 1?”

  “You hit hard, lady,” he whispered.

  “Sometimes it takes a knock on the head to get someone’s attention. Do you have the guts to try?”

  “What about you? The folks in Ruth won’t like it if you spend so much time with me. It would be bad enough if I were alone, but with Dad, it’s twice as bad.”

  “If anyone objects to my tutoring you, I’ll certainly set him straight,” she said firmly. “It’s an honor to be accepted into the Academy, and that’s our goal. If you’ll agree to being tutored, I’ll write to your congressman immediately. I think this time your heritage will work in your favor.”

  It was amazing how proud that strong young face could be. “I don’t want it if they give it to me just because I’m Indian.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “Of course you won’t be accepted into the Academy just because you’re half Indian. But if that fact catches the congressman’s interest, I say, good. It would only make him remember your name. It’ll be up to you to make the grade.”

  He raked his hand through his black hair, then restlessly walked to the window to look out at the white landscape. “Do you really think it’s possible?”

  “Of course it’s possible. It isn’t guaranteed, but it’s possible. Can you live with yourself if you don’t try? If we don’t try?” She didn’t know how to go about bringing someone to a congressman’s attention for consideration for recommendation to the Academy, but she was certainly willing to write to every senator and representative Wyoming had seated in Congress, a letter a week, until she found out.