Table Of ContentOnly In My Arms
By: Jo Goodman
Synopsis: Award-winning author Jo Goodman writes stories that are sheer
magic.
Her unforgettable characters--spirited women and sensual men-hold readers
spellbound. Now with ONLY IN MY ARMS, she concludes her beloved series
featuring five different Irish sisters in a poignant, passionate tale of love and
faith. A MAN ABOUT TO DIE... A WOMAN READY
TO LIVE... Torn between devotion and a secret yearning for adventure and
fulfillment, Mary Dennehy makes her choice. Shocking her family, she leaves
the convent and her cloistered existence behind and sets out in search of a new
life.
But for a woman alone, the West can be a hostile and treacherous place.
And no one is more dangerous-and irresistible-than Ryder McKay.
Faithful to the Apaches who raised him, now sentenced to hang for a crime he
didn't commit, Ryder is desperate enough to seize one last chance for freedom.
Taking Mary Dennehy hostage, the army scout plots his daring escape. on a
breathtaking journey into peril and forbidden passion that will test her faith and
challenge both their hearts ...
AND A LOVE THAT COULD SAVE THEM BOTH
Advance praise for award-winning author Jo Goodman and ONLY
IN MY ARMS "There's nothing quite so delightful as one of Jo Goodman's very
special romances. She captures the magic and joy of love with laughter and
tears. Trust Jo Goodman to deliver top-notch romance!
"Romantic Times "Jo Goodman's writing sparkles! ONLY IN MY ARMS is the
crowning jewel of the Dennehy Sisters series. Engaging, passionate and
memorable! "The Literary Times "A fun-filled, action-packed western romance.
ONLY IN MY ARMS will linger in the hearts of readers for a long time to
come." Affaire de Coeur ALWAYS IN MY DREAMS "Jo Goodman keeps you
turning the pages. Her delightful sense of humor, pacing and scintillating knack
for mystery combine for one great read! "Romantic Times "A delightful reading
experience.
This book is lovely-very highly recommended. "The Midwest Book Review
FOREVER IN MY HEART (winner of the 1994 National Readers' Choice
Award) "Put this historical on your summer reading list-it is great!
"Rendezvous SWEET SEDUCTION Books by Jo Goodman PASSION'S
BRIDE
CRYSTAL
PASSION SEA SWEPT ABANDON VELVET NIGHT VIOLET FIRE
SCARLET LIES
TEMPTING TORMENT MIDNIGHT PRINCESS PASSION'S SWEET
REVENGE
SWEET FIRE WILD SWEET ECSTASY ROGUE'S MISTRESS FOREVER IN
MY
HEART ALWAYS IN MY DREAMS ONLY IN MY ARMS A GIFT OF JOY
(with Fern Michaels, Virginia Henley and Brenda Joyce) Looking around, Mary
spied the slim bar of soap she had used on her hair. She picked it up, ignoring
the cloth that lay nearby. She raised a bit of lather between her hands, then
applied the soap and suds to Ryder's body.
"I don't think-" he began.
"You think too much," she interrupted him gently. Her hands worked deftly,
sliding the soap over Ryder's shoulders, massaging his chest and upper arms
with slippery lather. Her fingers glided to his neck before she circled around
him and rubbed down his back. His flesh rippled under her touch and defined
the hardness lying beneath his taut skin. Mary slipped her arms around him
from behind, resting her forehead against his back. Her soapy fingers rubbed
lather across his abdomen. Her hands went lower to the arrow of hair below his
navel.
That was when she dropped the soap. And the pretense.
Made buoyant by the water, Mary slipped around Ryder again, her entire body
rubbing smoothly against his as her hand went below the surface of the water
and grasped him. Published by Zebra Books ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022
Copyright (c) 1996 by Joanne Dobrzanski All rights reserved. No part of this
book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written
consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the Publisher and
neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this "stripped
book."
Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off First Printing: September, 1996
For John Scognamiglio -from the start he said I had to write this one, and told
me about his sixth grade teacher to prove it Printed in the United States Of
America Chapter One July 1884, The Hudson Valley Stillness surrounded him.
He welcomed it, absorbing it in much the same way a leaf absorbs light, turning
into it as if it were necessary to his very existence. He was aware of his slowing
heartbeat and of the near-silent passage of each breath. He didn't concentrate on
these things, but let them be. They happened of their own accord as he
embraced the quiet and calm of being in this moment.
He had positioned himself on the lip of a large rock a few feet above the
clearing's water hole. He hunkered more than sat, his lean, agile frame folded so
that he could rise without hesitation. For now, he did not move. Waiting was its
own pleasure. Had he been asked for what or whom he waited, he would have
had no reply. It wasn't important to him, and it wasn't why he sat perched on the
edge of the inclined rock.
Waiting did not foster impatience or anxiety.
Instead, it carried with it a certain heady anticipation that was like the scent of
wildflowers lifted on the back of the wind, fleeting and elusive, but something to
embrace and enjoy. Waiting gave rise to possibilities and expectations.
Anything could happen in the passing of a moment. Anything. It was what he
knew to be true and what he felt now. Ribbons of morning mist rose from the
water hole. The perimeter of the clearing was marked off by red cedar, river
birch, and white pine, but even their sweeping branches could not crowd out the
sun's sure ascent. Heat lifted the shroud of water vapor; and light glanced off its
surface. He watched the shifting patterns of light glint and sparkle like so many
stars and could almost believe this was a place where the heavens were
captured. That thought brought about the first movement he made, a slight
lifting of one corner of his mouth. An observer would have wondered at the
smile, for it was at once derisive and amused, a little mocking, a little secretive.
He was not embarrassed by the thought that had crossed his mind, but he knew
of others who would be embarrassed for him. Poets and philosophers could
entertain notions of the heavens being captured in a well of water but United
States Army scouts were better off keeping their own counsel. The hint of a
smile faded and his features returned to their resting state of impenetrable
impassivity. It was not a cold, stoic expression. The shape of his mouth was not
tight or thinly set, and the cleanly carved line of his jaw was not clenched in
stony hardness.
The source of the implacability that defined his expression was calm.
Through the sleeve of his black oilcloth duster he could feel fingers of heat on
his shoulder. As the sun rose higher a band of warmth touched the side of his
neck just above the collar of his shirt. A moment later it skimmed across his
cheek and then the glossy black thickness of his hair. He made no move to shed
the heavy coat or lift his hair where it brushed his collar at the nape. The heat
was as welcome as the stillness and the waiting. He raised his face, shutting his
eyes momentarily, and breathed sunshine. She was there when he opened his
eyes. She stood on the opposite side of the water hole, flanked by twin birch
sentinels. Her path to the water was marked by the natural placement of large
rocks rising from the bank like a stone stairway. She made no move toward the
water or even to put her bare feet on the flat, sun-warmed rocks.
Instead she remained very still and maintained her hold around the clothing she
carried in her folded arms. The bundle of fabric draped in front of her was the
only clothing she wore. At first he thought she didn't move because she had seen
him. But as he continued to watch her he realized she did not have the frozen,
startled posture of a frightened doe. She was not clutching her clothing in front
of her protectively to preserve modesty or dignity, she merely held it. He was
struck by the reverence of her posture, the respect she had for this quiet clearing
he had only just discovered. Her stillness had nothing to do with him at all, he
realized. She was unaware of his observation, and he wished that it might
remain so. With no small measure of regret he knew he would have to make his
presence known to her. But not yet, he thought selfishly. Not just yet. Her
contemplative state ended abruptly as she tossed her clothing carelessly on the
rocks. It lay like a darkly raised bruise against the pale, sun-drenched stones.
She didn't appear to give it another thought, not pausing even briefly to
straighten or arrange it so it wouldn't wrinkle.
In a way he was disappointed that she didn't care more for her garments. He had
only an impression of healthy pink skin, elegantly slender curves, and rose-
tipped breasts as she ignored the stone stairway and launched herself rnto the
water from where she stood, entering it cleanly and shallowly in an arching,
graceful dive that sprayed diamond droplets in her wake. She didn't come up
immediately, and he followed her path as she moved swiftly just below the
water. She was as fluid as the element she moved in, her body undulating sleekly
in a current of her own creation. The tapered length of her legs moved in unison,
propelling her forward in a seductive, almost lazy rhythm.
Once he thought she would surface for air in the middle of the water hole, but
she dove abruptly and only the curve of her bottom broke the waterline before
she went deeper. A smile flickered on his face.
When she finally came up for air it was directly below his perch.
He was no longer smiling when she looked up and saw him for the first time. He
was still hunkered on the lip of the rock like a bird of prey. His glossy black hair
and the long black duster draping the ground around him, furthered that
impression. Intense gray eyes watched her narrowly above the straight, but
somehow aggressive line of his nose. He didn't say anything, just continued to
stare at her. In spite of the flush that was creeping across her skin and heating
her cheeks, she didn't duck beneath the water. It wasn't in her nature to run even
when common sense dictated she should. With characteristic directness she
stared back at him. Her eyes were remarkably green, he thought, as deeply
green as the forest around her. It was a pure pleasure to look into them, and he
was in no hurry to look away.
"I don't think you have any shame," she said. In other conditions, in anqther
setting, she would have been able to infuse her words with enough acid to etch
glass. This stranger merely smiled at her.
"It's that obvious?" he asked. She had to draw on a contemptuous glare which
she had been told could leave a bruise. It left the man above her unmoved. She
was realistic enough to acknowledge that he had all the advantages. He was on
the high ground, on solid footing, and more importantly he was the one wearing
clothes.
There was simply no dignity in treading water naked. Worse, she was getting
tired of doing it. He watched the tempo of her movements change as she sought
purchase among the submerged rocks.
He was prepared to lend her a hand when her feet touched on a narrow ledge that
would support her. She made no attempt to raise herself out of the water, rather
she remained very satisfactorily cloaked by it while she rested. Water glistened
on her shoulders and at the hollow of her throat. His eyes strayed up the length
of her neck, glanced off her smooth cheek, passed her ear, then fastened on the
red-gold cap of hair that was like a damp helmet on her head. If her eyes were
her most remarkable feature, then her hair was her most unusual. It was not
merely the color that made it so, but the length. Closely cropped to follow the
shape of her head, it defied any fashion. It lay sleekly against her scalp, the ends
of it already drying and curling in the early morning sunshine. Apache women
cut their hair when they were in mourning.
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she had lost a loved one, a husband or
father perhaps, when he remembered she wouldn't understand the question, that
New Yorkers certainly didn't observe the same rituals as the Chiricahua, Kiowa,
or Mescalero. He touched the back of his neck where his hair brushed the collar.
Even at this length it was still longer than hers, yet shorter than he had worn it
for most of his life. He had cut it out of respect for the passing of a friend and
more regretfully as a concession to New York mores. As the stranger continued
to stare at her hair, she surprised herself by touching it with an air of
selfconsciousness, tugging on a damp strand near her temple to make it seem
longer. That simple gesture was enough to cause him to look away. She
wondered what construction he had put upon her cropped hair. Did he think she
was ill? That she had been? That she was a banned adulteress? The sense that
he was pitying her forced her chin upward at a defiant, proud angle.
"You're trespassing," she said coolly.
"This is private property." He was unperturbed.
"I was invited."
"By whom?"
"The owner."
"That's not possible." He shrugged. It didn't matter if she believed him or not.
"You're not his wife, are you?" She blinked at that, startled that he thought she
would be anyone's wife. Glancing over her shoulder to the opposite side of the
pool, she saw her discarded clothes piled on the rock. No, she realized, there
were no clues for him there. She looked at him, her eyes narrowing
suspiciously.
"Whose wife would I be?"
"Walker Caine's." She sidestepped the issue.
"This isn't Walker Caine's property. The Granville mansion is a few miles
farther up the main road." As she watched with some fascination, color crept
just beneath the surface of his sun-bronzed complexion. He was clean shaven
with no beard or mustache or side-whiskers to hide the telltale tide of
embarrassment. When it receded a faint smile touched his mouth, and it was rife
with self-mockery.
"I don't think this is a story I'll be sharing with Walker," he said.
"Or anyone else." Before she could ask what it was that amused him about
being lost, he stood and shrugged out of his duster. He was tall and leanly
muscled, limber and loose in spite of the fact that he had been crouched
throughout their conversation. She had no difficulty appreciating that he was
what her mother called a "fine figure of a man," but it wasn't his physical
appearance that made her react with a small gasp. The gun belt resting on his
hips accomplished that.
"You're not from around here, are you?" she said. She supposed she deserved
the smile he tossed off like a flippant remark.
"What I mean is, men in Baileyboro don't wear guns."
"Gun," he said.
"Singular. Short-barreled Colt A5." He had it unfastened by the time he
finished commenting and laid it with some care on his duster. His fingers were
deftly moving over his shirt buttons when he added, "Just like the gunslingers
wear."
He glanced down at her, a single dark brow raised, wondering if she'd rise to the
bait. She didn't. The fact that he was taking off his shirt had riveted her
attention. She found her voice when he began to unbutton the fly of his jeans.
"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. His fingers didn't pause even
a beat.
"I'm going swimming." He wondered if he could. He had no illusions that he
would be as expert as she in the water. At best he would be awkward. At worst
he would drown. He had been seven years old the last time he was in water deep
enough to swim. That was twenty-three years ago on the banks of the Ohio
River. He had balked on that occasion until his father had held out a hand and
told him once he learned he would never forget. He was about to test the truth of
those words now. There was so little he remembered about his father, he hoped
that memory wasn't playing him false.
"Not here you're not," she said firmly, as though she believed it was in her power
to stop him. He didn't respond to that. Instead he sat down on the rock before
removing his pants and pulled off his dusty boots. He felt as if his entire body
was layered with the same dust.
The decision to sluice it off in this water hole seemed more inspired with each
passing moment. When he stood again to strip out of his jeans and drawers he
saw that he was, for all intents and purposes, alone. She had dived, pushed off
the ledge, and was swimming toward the center of the water hole. His face wore
its calm, impenetrable mask as he flung himself into the water. He didn't come
