Standing Bear's Surrender Page 5

  Her words haunted him. I don’t usually scare men except to scare them away.

  Life stirred in Jim, and for the first time since his accident he opened himself to emotions. He let himself care, and care deeply.

  Sarah must have had second thoughts about revealing so much of herself, for she turned her face away and began to weed her garden once more.

  “Sarah.” Jim had to lean forward in order to touch her. Tenderly he cupped her face. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes were enormous, and so clear it was like looking into the deep green waters of the lakes of his childhood. With this woman he felt clean and noble. He wanted to beat his chest, warrior-like. To ride bare-back across sweeping plains on a black stallion and take her captive. To cover her with a woven blanket and make her his own.

  Looking into her eyes he saw himself as whole. The wheelchair ceased to exist. The accident faded into oblivion. The months of struggle vanished.

  There was only Jim Standing Bear, master of the skies and Sarah Sloan, night dancer.

  “When I saw you from my window this afternoon standing in the sunshine and checking out my garden with that predatory look on your face…”

  “Was I that obvious?” she said.

  “…I thought you were the most desirable woman I’d ever seen.”

  He felt the heat that came into her face. Loved it. Savored it with the tips of his fingers.

  Her skin was smooth and soft. Silky. Mesmerizing. He could have stayed forever in her garden caressing her. Merely caressing her.

  “That’s not possible,” she whispered.

  “It’s not only possible, it’s true.”

  Her face became radiant, and for a moment she looked like a woman who had always believed in herself, a woman who was accustomed to receiving the adulation of the public, the attention of men.

  And yet, Jim knew instinctively that it was not so. Sarah Sloan was a good woman, a strong woman, a caring woman. But she had no idea that she was also a beautiful woman.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything, Sarah. Talk is highly overrated.”

  A sparkle of laughter burst from her lips, and Jim wanted nothing more than to kiss her. There was a time when he’d have done just that. There was a time when he’d have picked her up and carried her into the house, straight to the nearest bed.

  Reality hit him a sledgehammer blow, and he released her. Quickly, before he made a fool of himself.

  She was still smiling, her color high.

  “You make me feel almost beautiful.”

  That heartbreaking poignancy was in her voice again. Jim hardened his heart. Who was he to give hope to Sarah Sloan, a man whom hope had abandoned long ago?

  She was looking at him with bright expectancy, and Jim silently cursed himself for coming. He should have stayed home. He should have phoned. Hell, he should have mailed the note.

  Nice and clean. No entanglements. No expectations. No impossible dreams.

  What was there left to say to her? All he could do was stare at her. Stare at her and yearn.

  Sarah sensed the change in him immediately.

  Silly goose, she told herself. He was merely being nice. Flattery probably came easily to a man like him, a man so handsome that he had merely to enter a room for three hundred women to fall into a swoon.

  Heat still flooding her cheeks, she turned to the flowerbed and jerked out a handful of weeds, giving herself a pep talk the whole time.

  Get yourself under control. Lighten up. Wise up. Where’s that sense of humor that always sees you through?

  Clutching the uprooted weeds, she laughed up at her unexpected visitor.

  “If you keep up this flattery I’m liable to end up on your doorstep with another orphan chocolate cake.”

  There. She’d made him smile.

  “Orphan?”

  “Yes. I noticed you left my cake sitting on the doorstep.”

  “I retrieved it. Then ate four pieces.”

  He liked her cooking. Sarah grabbed elation by the throat and reined it in before she could conjure up images of herself in his kitchen wrapped in a pink apron and up to her elbows in cake batter while the Bear wrapped his arms around her from behind and murmured sweet nothings in her ear.

  “Then I shall make you another.” She laughed. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’ll send it over by Delta.”

  That was his cue to leave. While he was slightly ahead. Before he made any more bruising mistakes. Caressing her face. Yearning to kiss her. Acting in general like a besotted teenager.

  “Take care of yourself, Sarah Sloan.”

  “You, too, Jim Standing Bear.”

  Her eyes were impossibly green, like cool river water. And he felt himself drowning.

  Jim left quickly, the wheels of his chair bumping over the rough spots, tilting and lurching as if it would spill him out at every turn.

  That’s all he needed. A tumble out of his wheelchair in front of the woman who already saw him as somebody in need.

  He could feel her watching him, feel the heat of her gaze on the back of his neck.

  Don’t look back, he told himself. For he knew that if he looked back, just once, he was lost.

  Chapter Four

  The garden was Sarah’s refuge. As March gave way to April, Fred Astaire appeared more and more frequently. And he loved dancing, especially in the garden. She was determined to make it a beautiful place for her father, as well as for herself.

  Azaleas were in full riot there. Forsythia dripped its golden bells across the garden paths and the early-blooming camellias put on a spectacular show. A star magnolia had burst into full bloom in the northwest corner, surprising Sarah with its pristine beauty.

  Wearing a sunhat and a linen wrap to protect her skin, Sarah twirled among the spring blossoms with her father. And that’s how Julie found them.

  She stood at the garden gate with a picnic basket on one arm and the other lifted to shade her eyes against the sun.

  “Hi, I brought us some lunch.” She kissed Sarah, then her father. “How are you, Dad?”

  He turned to Sarah. “Do I know this beautiful lady, Ginger?”

  “It’s Julie,” Sarah said.

  Clicking his heels together and bowing at the waist, he kissed his daughter’s hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Fred Astaire. Do you dance?”

  Julie’s eyes got misty. “I used to dance with my father, a long time ago.”

  Sarah squeezed her arm. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  They spread the lunch on an antique cast-iron table Sarah had found at a little shop in the old section of Pensacola.

  “Any luck finding a job, Sarah?”

  “Yes. One of the teachers at Southside Academy quit, and I’m taking her place, starting next week.”

  “Southside! No wonder she quit. It’s filled with hoodlums and druggies. Couldn’t you have found something else?”

  “This is what I do, Julie. Work with the kids nobody else wants.”

  Julie sighed. “You and Dad—always on a mission. You make me feel frivolous, Sarah.”

  “You’re not frivolous, Julie. You have a family to take care of, a wonderful husband and two great children.”

  “They are great, aren’t they? I’ll arrange for a sitter to come over after school so I can come here and supervise Dad’s new sitter until we’re confident she can do the job.”

  Julie plucked another piece of fried chicken off the platter. “By the way, your new neighbor was in the news again today. Have you seen the paper?”

  “Not yet.”

  “The Blue Angels are doing a show this weekend in Pensacola.”

  After Julie left and her dad was settled into his room, Sarah sat down at her kitchen table with a cup of hot tea and the newspaper.

  It was all there—Jim Standing Bear’s accident, a recap of his career, a quarter page color photo of the Bear in full dress blues s
tanding beside his plane, Number Two of the six F/A-18 Hornets.

  The Bear had flown right wing. Now that position was being flown by a twenty-seven-year old aviator from New Jersey.

  Sarah traced Jim’s picture with the tips of her fingers.

  She hadn’t seen him since the evening he came to her garden. Not even on his rooftop.

  This came as no surprise to her, of course. She’d been right when she told him she never scared men except to scare them away. Apparently Jim Standing Bear was no exception. Which was perfectly all right with Sarah. After all, she had a father to take care of and a household to run and a new job working with children who needed her.

  Still…

  Sarah sighed. She had more important things to do than daydream. Nonetheless, she got the scissors out of the kitchen desk and clipped the article about the Bear. Then she folded it carefully, carried it upstairs and tucked it into her bedside table.

  Jim had discovered that he could see the garden next door from the upstairs library. He’d developed an avid interest in books lately. Not only reading them, but browsing.

  It was only natural to glance out the window while he browsed, only natural to stop and admire the flowers blooming next door, only natural to pause when Sarah came into the garden. To be sure she was okay. To be sure she looked happy.

  Today she was dancing. Again.

  Jim could almost feel the rhythm, almost hear the music. But more than that, he could almost feel Sarah in his arms.

  He pressed his fingertips to the windowpane right over the spot where her cheeks glowed pink in the sunshine. Sarah was never more beautiful than when she danced in the garden, her head thrown back, laughing.

  Jim watched from the window until the ache in his heart became unbearable. Then he left the library and took the elevator downstairs to his exercise room.

  “Torture rack, here I come.”

  Positioning his wheelchair in front of the parallel bars, he heaved himself upward. He swayed, almost toppled, then regained his balance. This time he stayed upright.

  “I will dance again,” he said. “I will.”

  The doorbell jarred Jim awake. He glanced at his bedside clock. One in the morning. It was probably kids, playing a prank.

  Pulling the sheet over his head, he rolled over and closed his eyes. The doorbell rang again, persistently this time.

  “Ben?”

  Jim bolted upright. Something was wrong. Something had happened to his brother. He pulled on his jeans, then struggled into his wheelchair while the bell continued to ring.

  Why hadn’t somebody called first? Maybe it wasn’t about Ben. Maybe somebody had had an accident on the street in front of his house.

  “Coming,” he called as the doorbell continued to ring.

  He jerked the door open and there stood Sarah’s father dressed in pajamas and a felt fedora, his feet bare.

  “Good evening,” he said, smiling. “I thought I’d drop by for a spot of tea.”

  Jim had never dealt personally with an Alzheimer’s patient, but he knew enough about the disease not to argue with Dr. Sloan.

  “Won’t you come in?” He held the door wide. “Follow me. We’ll have our tea in the den.”

  “How cozy.” Dr. Sloan followed him, then hovered in the middle of the room, suddenly uncertain. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Jim Standing Bear, Lieutenant Commander, U.S. Navy.”

  “Ah, the military. Good people. I’ve entertained the troops often. Perhaps you’ve seen me.” He held out his hand. “Fred Astaire.”

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Astaire? I’ll go into the kitchen and brew us a cup of tea.”

  “A pleasure.”

  On his way to the kitchen, Jim wheeled by the front door to put the dead bolt on. He didn’t want Dr. Sloan to make another escape. Then he went into the kitchen to call Sarah.

  She answered on the third ring, her voice still husky with sleep. Husky and decidedly sexy.

  “Sarah, this is Jim. I’m sorry to awaken you, but your father is over here.”

  “Oh, God… Is he all right?”

  “Yes, he seems fine. He’s sitting in my den waiting for his tea.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “You might want to bring his shoes.”

  Jim got the teapot from the cabinet, then realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Too late now. By the time he got upstairs and changed, Sarah would be at his door. Worried. He didn’t want to alarm her further by not answering promptly.

  No sooner was the thought out of his mind than the doorbell rang.

  Sarah was in her gown. It was the old-fashioned kind. Long and white and soft looking. Very feminine. Very appealing.

  For a moment Jim forgot to breathe.

  “Come in, Sarah. He’s in the den.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Jim. I didn’t even know he was missing.”

  “I started to wait till morning to call, but I thought you might get up in the middle of the night to check on him.”

  “I usually do.”

  She followed him into the den. Her father was stretched full-length on the sofa, his hat still on, fast asleep.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Sarah knelt beside him and gently removed his hat. Then she smoothed his hair. The tender gesture tore at Jim’s heart.

  “He looks so peaceful it’s a shame to wake him,” she whispered.

  “Then don’t. Let him sleep.”

  Jim retrieved an afghan from the closet and handed it to Sarah, lingering over the small task. His hand brushed hers. Accidentally? Deliberately?

  Shock waves went through him and her eyes widened. Catching her full lower lip between her teeth, she turned back to the sofa to cover her dad.

  Still, Jim didn’t move away. He couldn’t, for Sarah smelled like roses and he was trapped in the heavenly fragrance, trapped in the nearness of her.

  “I still can’t believe it.” Sarah smoothed the afghan over her father, and her hands began to tremble. “What if he hadn’t come here? What if he had wandered into the street and gotten killed?”

  “He didn’t. He’s safe now, Sarah.”

  “Oh, God…”

  Sarah turned to him and there were tears in her eyes. Jim didn’t stop to reason. He didn’t pause to think about consequences or propriety.

  Leaning down he scooped her onto his lap. She didn’t protest, didn’t express surprise. She merely curled into him like a kitten, pressed her face into his bare chest and cried.

  “There, there,” he murmured, smoothing her silky hair. “Let it all out. I’m here.”

  “This is so weak. To cry.”

  Her statement was muffled and jerky, punctuated by sobs. With one arm around her waist, the other woven in her hair Jim drew her closer.

  He was in heaven. He was in hell.

  “You’re not weak. You’re the bravest woman I know.”

  She cried even harder.

  “I can’t…I can’t seem to stop.”

  “That’s all right. Cry as long as you like.”

  He didn’t want her to stop. Selfish bastard that he was, her anguish gave him a perfect excuse to hold her. No, not merely hold her. To caress her.

  He smoothed her hair, rubbed her back, ran his arms up and down the length of her arms. She was soft and fragrant and altogether enchanting.

  But more than that, she was desirable. As her sobs began to subside, she adjusted her weight. Desire stabbed him with a force that shook Jim.

  Over the last few months he’d wondered if he would ever feel passion again. Not because of Bethany’s desertion. It had taken him a surprisingly short while to get over her.

  No, not because of Bethany, but because of his own condition. Crippled. Confined to a chair. Dependent for months on pills to kill the pain.

  There was no doubt about his condition now. His arousal was obvious…and impossible to hide.

  What would Sarah think?

  “You are so kind,” she murmured, her war
m breath whispering against his skin.

  Kind is not the word he would use to describe himself, especially not at the moment.

  “I don’t know what I would have done if I had awakened to find my father gone. Jim…”

  She lifted her face to his, and her voice trailed away. Awareness leaped into her eyes. Jim held his breath.

  And then…

  Her arms stole around his neck and his lips claimed hers and he was kissing her and she was kissing him back. It was a miracle. Miracles happened only once in a lifetime, and Jim knew better than to question this one.

  Her lips were lush. Delicious. He couldn’t get enough of them. He couldn’t get enough of her.

  She shifted. He tightened his hold. Her full breasts were pressed enticingly into his bare chest. Separated from her only by the thin fabric of her gown, he felt how her body responded to him. She ripened and bloomed, as rich and lush as the garden she tended so carefully.

  Her lips parted in sweet invitation, and he explored her honeyed depths. The sensual play of tongues ignited a fire in his blood. He’d kissed her a thousand times in his dreams, but nothing had prepared him for the real thing.

  Sarah wove her fingers in his hair and pulled him closer. Time suspended. Place vanished. There was only the two of them, caught up in a passion that raged like a wild river.

  Every inch of his body was sensitized. Her slightest movement caused a friction that spurred his desire.

  Sarah was not a silent lover. She allowed an intensity of feeling to rock her. She moaned and swayed against him, her aroused nipples brushing across his chest with an erotic friction that almost shattered his control.

  Locked in the tight confines of the wheelchair, their bodies were as intimate as if they were making love.

  Almost.

  Every fiber in his being yearned to love her, fully, completely. His exultation was in knowing that it could happen. His private hell was in knowing that he could only be a passive recipient.