A Wedding In Willow Valley. Joan Elliott Pickart

Dove said. “Was he wearing his code-talker medallion like he always does?”

      Ben nodded.

      “Well, that’s one normal thing. But the rest of what you’ve told us… I saw him last week and he was sitting outside weaving a basket. He seemed fine then.”

      “I visited him the week before,” Laurel said, “and we went for a walk like we usually do, but…now that I look back I realize we didn’t go as far as we would on one of our walks. I didn’t think anything of it at the time but… Oh, I wish he hadn’t said owl.”

      “Let’s not panic,” Ben said. “We’re accustomed to Grandfather being in excellent health. He’s in his eighties, you know. It stands to reason that he’s slowing down, having some off days, so to speak.”

      “But why would he say neasjah?” Dove said.

      “He might not realize he even spoke that aloud,” Ben said. “It could be nothing more than the fact that he’s spoiled by the great health he’s had, too, and is realizing that he’s getting up in years, that his next journey will be to the other side.”

      “No,” Dove said, shaking her head.

      “Not yet,” Laurel said.

      “Let’s just wait and see what happens,” Ben said. “Let’s also agree to keep each other posted.”

      Dove and Laurel frowned and nodded. The trio was silent for several long moments, each thinking about their beloved Grandfather.

      “Oh!” Laurel shrieked suddenly as the fishing pole she was still holding jerked in her hand.

      “Hang on tighter,” Ben said. “From the way that line is going out and the pole is bending, I’d say you’ve snagged a good-size one, Laurel.”

      “I don’t want it!” Laurel shrieked, gripping the pole with both hands.

      “Don’t you dare lose that thing,” Dove said. “I definitely want it. I can make Grandfather a super dinner with a freshly caught fish. It’s probably a big ole trout, and he loves grilled trout. Start reeling it in, Laurel. Come on.”

      “I don’t know how!” she yelled.

      “Ben, help her,” Dove said, flopping back on the grass and dissolving in laughter. “This is too funny. Wouldn’t you know it would be Laurel who is the champion of the day. Oh, my goodness.”

      “Pull the pole toward you,” Ben said, “at the same time you’re reeling in the line.”

      Laurel leaned back and attempted to turn the handle that would take up the slack of line.

      “This isn’t working,” she said. “The line is going out more, not coming in. That’s not a trout, it’s a whale.”

      “Jeez,” Ben said, chuckling.

      In the next moment he scooted across the grass and slid behind Laurel, his legs on either side of her as he pressed himself against her, then brought his arms around her to cover her hand on the pole and the other one on the handle.

      Dove’s eyes widened and sparkled with delight as she saw what Ben had done.

      “Oh, my, my,” she said. “Thunder is obviously getting nervous from all this shouting.” She scrambled to her feet. “I’ll go keep him calmed down, walk him out a ways until you two land the whale. Ta-ta.”

      “Ben, I don’t think…” Laurel said.

      “Shh,” he interrupted. “Concentrate on reeling in Grandfather’s dinner. Okay. We’re pulling back on the rod at the same time as we’re shortening the line. That’s it. Slow and easy.”

      He was a dying man, Ben thought, staring up at the sky for a moment before directing his attention back to what he was doing. Oh, God, Laurel felt good nestled against his body. His body that was going nuts, was on fire with the want, the burning desire for her. Damn, the heat. Low, churning, tightening into a painful coil and…

      Mmm, she smelled fantastic with that familiar cologne mixed with fresh air and sunshine. His cheek was resting against her silky hair. Hair that evoked such sensuous memories of when it was freed from the braid, waiting for his hands to sift through it, falling over them both like a waterfall of ebony strands. Laurel.

      Think fish, Ben told himself. Think about anything except how much he loved this woman and what she was doing to him right now. Fish. Grandfather’s dinner.

      Ben pulled back on the rod again, then, with his hand still covering Laurel’s, reeled in the slackening line that effort had created.

      Oh, dear heaven, Laurel thought. She was going to faint dead away. Her heart was racing so fast she could hear the wild tempo echoing in her ears. Her cheeks were flushed pink with warmth, she knew they were. She was encased in the strong embrace of Ben Skeeter and it was wonderful, just exquisite and so very, very wrong or very, very right, she didn’t know, couldn’t think straight, couldn’t…

      She wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him. Memories of making love with Ben were slamming against her mind with images so vivid, so real, she could feel his lips on hers, taste him, inhale his special masculine aroma. Her hair was swept free of the braid and caressing them and… Oh, God, the heat that was pulsing so low in her body was… And her breasts ached for Ben’s soothing touch, his hands, his mouth, his…