Give Me Tonight(69)

"Yes," she choked, knowing the admission was an invitation for him to do more. Ben kissed her again, his heart thundering. He was drunk on the taste and feel of her. Her scent seemed to follow a pathway from his nose to his loins. Now that he'd had a taste of her, he'd never be satisfied with anyone else. There was a natural combustion between them, the kind of affinity some people never found despite a lifetime of search­ing.

Addie molded against him, thigh to thigh, chest to chest, and still it wasn't enough. Wanting to climb inside him, she slid her arms around his waist and clung fiercely. Suddenly he broke their kiss with a low sound, pressing his mouth against her temple.

"Wait. Shhh . . . be quiet."

"What—"

"Hush darlin' . "

She realized he was listening for something, that he'd heard something, and she went still. There was a shuffling sound in the darkness, the scrape of unsteady footsteps across the well-packed dirt, the hum of a muffled monologue. Ben looked toward the noise in­tently, willing his mind and body to cool down.

Addie sensed him drawing away from her, and she couldn't help making a sound of distress. "Hush," Ben whispered, stroking her back in a soothing mo­tion, staring in the direction of the darkness beyond the corral. After a minute she let herself rest against his chest, her ear pressed to his heartbeat. She heard him sigh in exasperation.

"What is it?" Addie asked thickly.

"It's one of the boys walking a few feet off the ground. Watts."

"You mean he's had too much to drink?"

Ben grinned in spite of his frustration. "Give or take a quart."

Reluctantly he reached behind his neck to disentan­gle her arms.

"What are you doing?"

"I've got to see to him."

"He can't see us," she persisted as he unlocked her hands with gentle insistence. "He'll go away if we just ignore him."

He laughed and bent his head to kiss her swiftly. "I can't let him wander around the ranch like that, honey. He needs help."

Addie realized how shameless she had sounded, and how selfish, and she colored. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't start that or I'll be another ten minutes. Just go on inside. " Ben loosened his arms from around her and started to leave her, swore softly and stole one more kiss.

Addie stood still, watching him stride off to the stag­gering cowboy. The night seemed cooler now, the blackness of the sky overwhelming. Instead of going into the house, she drew deeper in the shadows, her eyes dilating as she stared after Ben. He reached Watts and laid a hand on his shoulder to stop his pacing. Watts stumbled.

"Whoa, boy," she heard Ben say. "I see you had a good night in town." She couldn't make out the other man's mumbled reply, but it looked as if he would fall without the support of a steady arm. "Why don't you head in the direction of your bunk?" Ben turned Watts to face the bunkhouse. "You're gonna have a hell of a morning tomorrow. Might as well get a little sleep."

Another slurred remark from the cowhand, louder than the first.

"Jis . . . bin doin' little sshelebratin' . . ."

Ben laughed quietly. "Yeah, I can see that. Come on, pardner. No more celebrating tonight."

Suddenly Watts tore away from him and swiveled in a drunken lurch, cursing as he tried to stagger away.

Addie frowned in disgust, having a low opinion of men who liked to drink until they couldn't see straight. Having no further interest in the scene, she headed toward the front steps. But a new note of concern in Ben's voice stopped her. "What in the hell's gotten into you tonight? I've never seen you this soaked."

Abruptly the cowhand's muttering disintegrated in a long groan of pain. Addie gripped the railing on the side of the steps as his mournful wail sent chills down her spine.

"Aw, Bennn . . . why'd she hafta do it . . . why . . . " Ben gripped him by the shoulders and shook him slightly. "Who? A lady-friend? What happened?"

But Watts merely buried his face in his hands, and Addie realized with surprise and a sense of embar­rassment that he was crying. She wished she had gone into the house, wished she hadn't been a witness to his private grief. Slowly she crept up the stairs, won­dering what could have made him break down like that. She couldn't make sense out of his sobbing, but Ben seemed to understand it. She heard the compassion in his voice as he murmured to Watts.

"It's not your fault. Dammit, you should've talked to someone about it before filling your guts with forty-­rod. No, there was nothing you could have done to stop her . . ."

Addie reached the front door and turned the han­dle. She glanced back and saw Ben's arm slung over the other man's shoulder. It struck her then, how un­afraid he was of other people's weakness, how ready he was to share his strength with someone who needed it. Most men would have shrunk from such a scene. But Ben wasn't afraid of emotion, or of being needed.

Her eyes stung as she stared at him. For the first time she saw him as the man he was, not as she had feared or dreaded him to be. Ben looked up then, be­coming aware of her presence on the steps, and his brows drew together in a gathering scowl. He hadn't expected her to be there. Knowing he wanted her to leave before Watts saw her, she slipped guiltily inside the house and went upstairs to her room.