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"Sure." She held the screen door for him, standing straight and shrinking against the jamb as he wedged himself past her. When his body made brief contact with hers, every cell ignited. Her breasts flared to rigid points. Her thighs tingled with heat. Her heart did handstands.
Jenny was flabbergasted. She rushed to cover her agitation by hastily preparing Cage's breakfast. Her hands shook so she could barely control them, and as soon as she set the plate of food on the table in front of him, she fled to her room.
Now that her sleeping body had been awakened to sexual awareness, it seemed not to want to lie dormant again.
But, Lord, didn't it have any discernment? Any discrimination? Would it now react to every man she came in contact with?
The thought sent a surge of embarrassment through her. Nevertheless, she stripped, crawled between the covers of her bed, and pulled her knees to her chest. She let the events of last night parade through her mind again and relished the naughty sensations that still rippled through her like aftershocks.
* * *
The dark amber contents of the highball glass didn't offer any absolution for Cage's guilt, but it held his attention as though it could.
Three long-neck beer bottles were neatly lined up on the highly glossed tabletop. They were empty. He had switched to Jack Daniel's about an hour ago, but the guilt poisoning his system refused to be diluted even by near-lethal amounts of alcohol.
He had violated Jenny.
There was no sense in using euphemisms to try to blunt the edges of his guilt. He could say he had made love to her, initiated her into the rites of sexual loving, deflowered her. But no matter how his conscience juggled with semantics, he had violated her. It hadn't been a brutal rape, but she had been unwittingly in no condition to give her consent. It had been a violation of the vilest sort.
He took another swig of the stinging whiskey. It burned all the way down. He wished he could get drunk enough to vomit. Maybe that would purge him.
Who the hell was he kidding? Nothing was going to purge him of this. He hadn't felt guilty about anything in years. Now he was swamped with guilt. And what the hell could he do about it?
Tell her? Confess?
"Oh, by the way, Jenny, about the other night, you know the one, the night Hal left and you made love with him? Yeah, well, that wasn't him. It was me."
He cursed savagely and polished off the drink in one gulp. He could just imagine her face, her dear, dear face, shattering before his eyes. She would be horrified. Knowing she had been with him would probably put her in a catatonic state from which she would never recover. The most notorious skirt chaser in west Texas had taken sweet Jenny Fletcher.
No, he couldn't tell her.
He'd done bad things before, but this time he had sunk to an all-time low. He liked his reputation as a hell-raiser. He l
ived up to it, worked at keeping it alive, kept reminding folks of it should they think Cage Hendren was mellowing with the passing years. He'd even take credit for some things he hadn't done. He would let that slow, lazy smile answer allegations for him, and his cronies could draw their own conclusions as to whether the latest rumor was true or not.
But this…
Signaling to the bartender, Cage became aware of his surroundings. They were dismally familiar. Tobacco smoke fogged the close, stuffy, beery atmosphere of the tavern. Red-and-blue neon lights advertising various brands of beer winked from the walls like phosphorescent sprites hiding in the paneling. A sad strand of gold tinsel, left over from last Christmas, dangled from a wagon-wheel-shaped chandelier. A spider had made a home between the spokes. Waylon Jennings mourned a love gone wrong from the jukebox in the corner.
It was tawdry. It was tacky. It was home.
"Thanks, Bert," Cage said laconically as the bartender set another glass of whiskey in front of him.
"Hard day?"
Hard week, Cage thought. He'd lived with his sin for a week now, but the gnawing guilt hadn't abated. Its fangs were as sharp as ever as they ate their way into his soul. Soul? Did he even possess a soul?
Bert bent over the table and transferred the empty beer bottles to a tray. "Heard something that might interest you."
"Yeah? What about?" There was a droplet of water on the outside of the highball glass. It reminded him of Jenny's tears. He wiped it away with his thumb.
"'Bout that parcel of land west of the mesa."
In spite of his black mood, Cage's interest was instantly piqued. "The old Parson's ranch?"
"Yep. Heard the kinfolks is ready to talk money to anyone interested."
Cage slipped Bert a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad, and a ten-dollar tip. "Thanks, buddy." Bert smiled back and ambled off. Cage was a favorite of his and he was glad to oblige.
