“I’ll do that.” Rising, Will gave a nod of dismissal and strode out of Matt’s office, more annoyed than ever—with himself, mostly. He could tell he’d just inflated Matt Boyle’s sense of self-importance to blimp-size proportions by making him feel like the two of them rubbed shoulders in collusion.
He wasn’t doing anything illegal, not even near it!
“Have a good day, Mr. Proffitt,” Missy said on his way out.
It struck him then what the situation was he’d registered earlier with Matt: he was given the red carpet treatment wherever he went in this town. Feared and revered—like he was some almighty cattle baron!
Will yanked open the bank’s leaded glass door. He’d worked his tail off for nearly twenty years, brought the Double R from the brink of ruin to prosperity, and had done his best to funnel that commerce back through this town. And in his mind, if that brought him the kind of respect which exhibited itself in a bit of fawning in his wake, then he deserved it.
And if he judiciously pulled a few strings to keep one of those he’d worked so hard for from making a foolish mistake, where was the harm?
Of course, Lee wouldn’t see it that way.
Will headed up the street to his pickup even as he continued stewing on the matter. Fact was, Lee didn’t just favor their daddy, as Will had told Lacey; he was exactly like him—prone to following whatever fancy took him, just as Lee had for years on the rodeo circuit.
Which was fine so long as you didn’t have a family to support and employees who depended on you, as Art Proffitt had had when he inherited the responsibility for the Double R upon the death of Granddad Clarence.
Will, on the other hand, was more like that man, a hardcore pragmatist with not much patience with such aimlessness. Instead, Will was the type, you saw a job that needed done, you did it.
So it had been when Will, just turned eighteen, had told his father he was taking over managing the ranch. It was either that or lose it. Art just wasn’t much of a rancher; it had taken him a mere five years to run it nearly into the ground after decades of Granddad’s sound management.
Fortunately, Will had the same knack for ranching as his grandfather. It took a few seasons, but it wasn’t long before Will had the Double R breaking even, then soon after that running in the black again, and soon after that expanding. Today, he was a balance sheet millionaire, rich in land and assets.
And when his father had passed on six years ago, he’d done so in the comfort of the home he’d been born in, surrounded by loved ones who truly mourned his passing as one of a dying breed of man, for Art Proffitt had come to be revered as something of a cowboy sage in the area.
While there’d been a time when Will’s parents had nearly split up over Art’s shortage of direction, Mama had grieved him most of all. So when she’d decided to make another life in Tucson, rather than this tough one on a West Texas ranch, both her sons wished her every happiness.
Will took pride in having had a hand in protecting the happiness of both his parents, just as he found gratification in at last providing Lee with the means to make a steady, reliable living—even if it wasn’t, in Lee’s mind, the most fulfilling way of doing so.
Will came to a halt in the shade of the awning outside the post office, for there came upon him a squeezing pain in his chest, right in the vicinity of his heart.
There was simply no way he’d let Lee fall for Lacey again.
Because despite her assurance that she wasn’t looking for a man, the fact of the matter was Lacey was looking for something. Always had been. And she obviously hadn’t found it in Abysmal. Never had—and never would.
Anyone who looked into her wistful green eyes could see it.
Who knew—maybe it had been that look which made a man wonder if he could be the one to make her happy that had captivated Nicolai Laslo, enough to make him want to make her his own. Except Will knew one thing without having it confirmed: no man would ever possess Lacey McCoy. That quiet conviction had radiated from her, much as her pale blond hair haloed her flawless face. And he had almost found himself believing today in the earnestness of her aim to find a job and make a living for herself in Abysmal.
That is, until he’d seen her gaze zero in on his left hand—and then on him. And he almost hadn’t felt himself responding, just for one hair-split of a second, to the yearning in those soft green eyes.
What had the woman come back here looking for?
Will took a step, ready to walk away, when through the post office window his attention caught on a square of paper tacked to the bulletin board amongst the Most Wanted posters and Kiwanis meeting notices.
He stepped inside to get a better look and read: Wanted: Job of Any Kind! Must be full-time and pay at least minimum wage. Am a hard worker not afraid to get my hands dirty. Call anytime!
At the bottom it was signed Lacey McCoy.
Will stared at that handwritten note for some time. Any kind of job, was it? And a hard worker not afraid to get her hands dirty. What about the rest of you? he wondered with a wry grin.
He reached up and removed the piece of paper, folded it twice and slid it into his shirt pocket before heading for his pickup with renewed gusto.
No point in leaving her ad up there, because he was planning to make Lacey McCoy an offer she couldn’t refuse.
* * *
THE CLUTCHING SENSE of claustrophobia surrounded her like a cloud of noxious gas. In her preoccupation, Lacey had been caught off guard and now found she couldn’t draw a full breath.
She had just entered her parents’ house.
Very deliberately, she made herself pause and gather her senses in what was becoming a daily ritual since moving home.
Certainly, there was no physical reason to feel closed in. The floor plan was such that one entered the house through a sweeping foyer complete with vaulted ceilings and a cathedral window.
Her back against the front door, Lacey took a tentative sniff. That was it: very faintly came to her nostrils the equilibrium-disturbing sensation of an affluence meant to distract one from the deeper-set atmosphere of declining purpose, dashed hopes and empty dreams.
It smelled, she realized, like her marriage.
Lacey gave herself a mental shake. It was just her imagination. Despite having paid for it lock, stock and barrel, Nicolai had never been in this house; neither had she, for that matter, until a few days ago. Nevertheless, she hustled down the hallway to the friendlier ambience of the French country kitchen, where she found her mother sitting at the table making out a grocery list, a cup of coffee at her elbow.
“Hey, Mom.” Lacey glanced hopefully out the window. “Daddy out in his shop?”
“Mmm-hmm,” her mother answered, looking ready, in her Western-style skirt and appliqued blouse, for more than a mere dash down to the store.
“Going out?” Lacey asked, automatically opening the fridge to inspect its contents.
“This is my day to get together with the girls for lunch at the café.”
“So dinner’s catch-as-catch-can for the rest of us, I’m guessing,” Lacey remarked.
“Yes. I made up a plate of cold fried chicken for your daddy, but there’s plenty left.” She cast her daughter a meaningful look. “Just don’t expect me to wait on you now.”
Lacey straightened. “Have I ever, Mother?”
Rachel didn’t answer, but a ridge of flesh appeared between her eyebrows.
Lacey slid a flour tortilla from its plastic bag and munched on it while she rummaged through the refrigerator. Lifting the lid on a saucepan, she found some cooked ranch-style pinto beans. Ah, comfort food. And boy, did she need it, after a morning of futile job hunting, her brush with Will Proffitt, and now her mother in one of these moods.
A bean burrito later, Lacey asked, “Is there anything I can do for you this aft
ernoon? Some laundry or housecleaning? Now’s the time to use me, before I’ve found a job.” She smiled at her mother across the table. “It must take some elbow grease to keep this house looking so nice.”
“I’ve been keeping a home for going on thirty-five years, Lacey. I can manage this one fine.”
Lacey counted out ten beats as she methodically loaded up another tortilla.
“I wasn’t implying you couldn’t manage this house, Mother,” she said reasonably. “I simply was hoping to make up a little bit for dropping back onto yours and Daddy’s doorstep.”
“Really, Lacey, I will not see you lowered to cleanin’ toilets, here or anywhere else.”
This time Lacey required a twenty count as she pondered the logic. So her mother wasn’t about to wait on her, yet housework wasn’t fit occupation for her.
Rachel continued, “You might make light of the situation, Lacey, but I have to hold my head up in this town. And you comin’ back and scrounging for work does not make that easy!”
With a huff, Rachel stood, grabbed up her cup and saucer and went to the sink, where there arose a clatter of utensils and china against porcelain.
Aha, thought Lacey, sitting back in her chair and regarding her mother’s stiff spine, now we’re getting down to the heart of the matter.
For a period of nearly eight years, Rachel McCoy had graced the summit of Olympus, Abysmal-wise. Her daughter, the very fruit of her loins, had married a count—and made national news doing so! Lacey had been hailed America’s Cinderella, and Nicolai Laslo her Prince Charming.
Lacey stood also, only she chose to take herself to the window, where she looked out upon a fully landscaped backyard, complete with diving pool.
And then there had been this house. From the first, she had been against the whole idea of building it for her parents. But Nicolai had insisted—and by that time he’d learned where her mother’s buttons were and when to push them so that he had her responding to his every hint and suggestion like one of Pavlov’s dogs.
Lacey turned, arms crossed over her middle, and regarded her mother. There’d be no good time to bring this subject up, so she might as well get it out and over with. “Mother. I think you better start considering how you and Daddy are going to manage this house now that Nicolai won’t be paying for its upkeep.”
Her mother whirled, her face slack. “He won’t?”
She rushed on before Rachel could get up any more of a reaction. “Paying for the expenses on this place—utilities and insurance and taxes and maintenance—is going to take just about all I’m thinking I can earn if not most of what Daddy does, and I’d hate to see you two cutting into your savings to keep this place up.”
Her mother shook her head. “We’ve got the money from the sale of our home two years ago. It’s well invested. There’s the interest on that we could use. Or we could take an equity loan on this house. That ought to bring us more than enough money.”
“But, Mother, you’ve got to see neither is a practical solution, long-term. You’ve handled the household budget and the one for Daddy’s business for years, so you know it’s not sound financially at your age to live off of your interest income. You’d just be robbing Peter to pay Paul by taking out a mortgage on this house.”
An idea occurred to Lacey, one that would ease the pressure on her, too, to find a job and allow her to figure out what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. “You know, it’d make a lot of sense to buy a smaller house that’s maintainable on what Daddy makes and sell this house and invest the proceeds from it.”
“But, Lacey, really—”
“I understand it might feel like a step down in prestige, but honestly, Mother, at a certain point you’re going to have to realize that living in a mansion isn’t practical for you.”
Rachel looked at her strangely. “But, Lacey—just who in Abysmal were you thinkin’ this house would be practical for?”
Lacey stared at her. Her mother was right. This house was the white elephant of white elephants. There was no one within a hundred-mile radius who could afford it, and even if they could, who’d buy a half-million-dollar mansion in Abysmal, Texas?
How long? How long would she experience these lapses in her reasoning which always seemed to hit her broadside?
Because Nicolai would certainly have foreseen her being put into this position and having to deal with it; she had no doubt he’d planned on it. It was the same kind of calculation he’d used throughout their marriage to keep her within the sphere of his influence—and it seemed he meant to try to hold her there, even though she was no longer married to him.
That desperation clutched at her again, like a vise gripped around her throat. She wouldn’t let it get the better of her!
“I have no idea who’d be able to afford this house,” Lacey admitted, rubbing her forehead. “So I guess we need to take a look at how to keep it up without you and Daddy going broke. And I won’t let you down there, Mother. It’s because of me you’ve got this house, and it’s because of my divorce you’re stuck with paying for its upkeep, which you never expected to have to do when Nicolai bought it for you.”
“Well, I think it’s downright dishonorable of him to refuse to!” Rachel said. “I don’t know that we’d have accepted the house if we’d an idea we would be saddled with maintaining it.”
Lacey knew she’d better get this part out right now. “He didn’t refuse. I refused to let him.”
Rachel gaped. “Why?”
Dropping her chin to her chest as she thrust her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans, Lacey murmured, “Let’s just say I’d rather not have any of us beholden to Nicolai Laslo in any way. It’s just...how it has to be for me, Mother.”
In the ensuing silence, the sound of the central air-conditioning clicking on seemed as loud as a jet engine.
“What did he do to you, Lacey?” her mother asked suddenly.
For a moment, Lacey’s eyes stung with tears. She lifted her head, was a step away from going to her mother and finding the comfort and understanding she so needed.
Then she saw it: Rachel stared at her with stark eyes, and she realized her mother wasn’t as concerned for her having gone through some ordeal as she was trying to find some explanation for the drastic action Lacey had taken in leaving her marriage.
It almost seemed her mother would rather have had her endure such circumstances than deal with the fact that Lacey had made a choice. And yet she had been driven to make one.
Without another word, Lacey strode from the room. She had to—or she’d say something she really, truly would regret.
She came to a halt in the foyer, the sound of her boot heels echoing in the lofty space. Lacey was sure she could hear her thoughts echo as sharply.
It struck her then what else she’d seen in her mother’s expression: weariness at her life’s work being shown a failure.
The hollowness in Lacey’s middle grew to fill her entire chest. Then and there she vowed she would not let this tragedy carve the same heartache into the planes of her face. She wouldn’t cling to old dreams and circumstances, bemoan a past that couldn’t be changed, or become brittle with bitterness because the people she’d given control of her happiness had not fulfilled her expectations.
Neither would she withdraw from the world, protect her feelings behind an expressionless mask, within a hardened shell. She’d tried it with Nicolai, and she knew more than ever that she couldn’t live that way. What she wanted instead, more than anything in the world, was to live her life as herself, to be accepted for herself. To be loved for herself.
And to love freely, as herself.
There had to be some way for her to achieve those goals. However, her first responsibility had to be for her parents’ circumstances—which they would not be in right now if not for her.
Lacey cl
utched the top of the baluster, ready to take the steps two at a time to the top of the stairs and get to the stupid dusting. But she wasn’t keen on facing more of the same emptiness. More of the same confinement.
Right now she needed to get away from of this place and its stale, stifling air.
Lacey spun, crossed the tile floor in two strides, yanked open the heavy front door—
And plunged straight into Will Proffitt’s arms.
Her forehead met his chin with a crack, making his hat fly backward off his head. His foot came down on her instep, and she gasped in pain. He gave an “oomph” of his own pain when her elbow connected with his ribs as they both grasped the other for balance.
Her hands spread on his chest, his clasped her waist. Their eyes met in mutual apology.
But neither let go.
Lacey wondered if her gaze was as unguarded as his. For she was immediately caught up in the force that was Will Proffitt.
It was in the feel of him, all solid muscle beneath rough denim and soft chambray. In his untamed auburn hair, thick and wavy and made for twining one’s fingers through. Without his hat, his face was completed, the cutting angles of his jaw and nose and cheekbones tempered by the wide brow and those expressive eyebrows. The smell of him was unpretentiously straightforward, an immediate intoxicant combining sweat and outdoors and something pleasantly musky.
Lacey took in one deep lungful of him and felt the last vestiges of the polluted atmosphere disappear from her head. Unable to stop herself, she took another breath. The hollow place in her chest filled to bursting, making her sway.
Will’s hands tightened on her waist.
His mouth was directly at eye level, and Lacey found her gaze fixing upon that curve of lip as a slow burn kindled awake in her abdomen, turning into something she hadn’t felt in an age: a certain restlessness to reach up and push her fingers through the tangle of dusky hair at his temples as she pressed her mouth against his, just to see, just to feel, just to know if it was as tender as it looked—
Countess in Cowboy Boots Page 3