The Crush

by Sandra Brown

  “He seems to understand what you’re saying to him.”

  She took umbrage. “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “I didn’t know horses had language skills.”

  “Mine do.” Eyes shining with affection and pride, she ran her hand over the gelding’s smooth coat. “At least with me.”

  “Then that’s probably a talent of yours, not the horse’s.”

  She turned to respond, but apparently felt they were standing too close. Ducking beneath the gelding’s head, she moved to the other side. Undeterred, Wick followed. “Does this English-speaking wonder have a name?”

  “Beade.”

  “Unusual. Does it have any significance?”

  “I like the sound of it.”

  “You don’t elaborate much, do you?”

  “No.” Then she looked at him and they laughed. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “I have a curious nature. Do you race Beade often?”

  “Only when he’s challenged by a pickup truck.”

  She moved away then, but glanced back at him over her shoulder and it was as close as she’d come to flirting. Or maybe she was dead serious and it only looked like flirting because of her tight jeans and the long blond braid that hung down her back from beneath the straw cowboy hat that he’d jogged a mile to retrieve. Maybe it looked like flirting to him because he wanted it to.

  After all the feed buckets had been filled and she had said a personal good-bye to each of the horses, she led the way from the barn to the house. She excused herself to go inside.

  “You can enjoy the porch swing.”

  “Exactly what I had in mind.” Rather than make an issue of not being invited inside, he sat down in the swing and gave it a push. “Take your time.”

  “If Toby shows up, tell him I’ll be right out.”

  “Toby?”

  But she had disappeared inside and Toby remained a mystery until a few minutes later, when a man drove up in a rattletrap pickup. He climbed out of the cab and paused there to stare at Wick before coming up the front steps onto the porch. Wick wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the ring of spurs.

  He was tall and barrel-chested. Gray hair curled beneath his sweat-stained cowboy hat. When he removed his sunglasses, his deep-set eyes reminded Wick of the bad-ass lawmen in classic Westerns. He curbed his impulse to say “Howdy, Marshal.” Somehow he didn’t think Toby would appreciate the humor.

  “Where’s Rennie?”

  Not much of a greeting, was it? “Inside. If you’re Toby, she said for you to wait, that she’d be out soon.”

  He sat down on the porch rail, propped a size-twelve Lucchese boot—no spurs—on his opposite knee, folded his arms over his chest, and made no bones about staring at Wick.

  “Nice day,” Wick offered.

  “If you say so.”

  Okay, Toby hated him on sight. Why?

  After a lengthy silence that was broken only by the squeaking chain of the porch swing, the old man asked, “You live around here?”

  “Fort Worth.”

  He snorted as though Wick had replied “I live in Sodom, just this side of Gomorrah.”

  “Hello, Toby.” Rennie emerged from the house and joined them on the porch.

  Toby came to his feet and whipped off his hat. “Rennie.”

  “How are you?”

  “Doin’ good. Everything meet with your approval?”

  “You ask me that every time I come out, and the answer is always the same. Everything is perfect.” The way she smiled at him would’ve made a jealous man murderous. Wick was afraid to define the spark it kindled in him. “Did you meet Mr. Threadgill?”

  “We hadn’t got quite that far.” Wick stood up, extended his hand, and said his full name.

  “Toby Robbins.” He seemed reluctant to shake hands, but he did. His hand felt even rougher than Gus’s. His palm was spiky with calluses.

  “Toby owns the neighboring ranch,” Rennie explained. “He looks after the horses for me. Sometimes it’s a week or more between my trips out here.”

  “Then you’re a good man to have around.”

  Toby ignored him and addressed Rennie. “The vet came out this week and gave them all a good goin’ over. No problems that he could see.”

  “I hadn’t spotted any, but I wanted to be sure. Thank you for arranging his visit. Will he be mailing me a bill?”

  “He left it with me.” He removed an envelope from the breast pocket of his shirt and passed it to her.

  “Thanks. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” She stuffed the envelope into her shoulder bag. “Any more signs of the bobcat?”

  “Not since he got that calf a few weeks back. Hopefully we scared him off. I think one of my shots might’ve wounded him. Maybe he crawled off and died or just moved on to friendlier hunting territory.”

  Wick wouldn’t have thought the man capable of smiling, but he did and Rennie returned it. “I hope you’re right.”

  “He’s a big cuss,” Toby continued. “Big as I’ve ever run across, but I think we’ve seen the last of him.”

  “Well,” Rennie said, “we were just about to leave.”

  “Don’t let me hold you up. House secured?”

  “I locked up on my way out.”

  Toby motioned for her to precede him, and the three of them filed down the porch steps. “Anything special you want me to do this week?” he asked.

  “I can’t think of anything offhand. If I do I’ll call you. Just take good care of the horses for me.”

  “You bet.”

  “Say hello to Corinne.”

  “Will do.” He tipped his hat to her and shot Wick a look that made his balls shrivel, then replaced his sunglasses, climbed back into his truck, and drove away.

  Rennie gave the house and barn a wistful glance, then announced, “I’m ready.”

  * * *

  The ice-cream parlor was doing a summer Sunday afternoon business. When one of the small wrought-iron tables became available, Rennie held it for them while Wick stood in line to place their order for two hot fudge sundaes. As he carried them back to the table he was thinking that between Crystal’s banana pudding and this sundae he would probably gain several pounds today.

  They were well into the ice-cream confections when Rennie asked, “Do you experience panic attacks?”

  Coming out of the blue like that, the question stunned him. “Pardon?”

  She gave a quick shrug. “I noticed the rubber band around your wrist. It was there last night, too.”

  “Oh. That. It’s a, uh, just an old habit. Can’t remember when I took up wearing it or why.”

  She nodded, but she was regarding him closely. “Sometimes people who suffer acute anxiety are urged to wear a rubber band around their wrist. If they feel a panic attack coming on, they can pop the rubber band. Sometimes that halts the false signal being sent to their brain that they’re in mortal danger. It wards off the panic.”

  “Huh. I didn’t know that.”

  They finished their sundaes in silence. When she was done, she pulled a napkin from the dispenser in the center of the table and blotted her lips. If one could will the dreams he had, Wick would have willed having a dirty dream about her mouth. That would be something to look forward to.

  “What made you think I might own property outside the city?” she asked.

  “Last night when I walked you to your car I saw a saddle in the back.”

  “I could’ve been a member of a riding club.”

  “You could’ve been a Canadian Mountie, too, but I didn’t think so.”

  “You’re very clever.”

  “Thanks. But probably not as clever as I think I am.”

  “That was going to be my next observation.”

  Her smiles transformed her face. Unfortunately, she didn’t smile very often. All afternoon he’d been looking for evidence of the audacious barrel racer who slept around and had all the studs in Dalton standing three deep to catch a glimpse of her. He hadn’t s
een any. Other than the attire. The jeans did in fact make her butt look saucy, but that’s the only aspect of her that came across as such.

  What had happened to that wild, reckless girl? he wondered. And who was this tightly contained woman who’d taken her place? He was interested to know what had caused such a dramatic transformation. Rennie was a puzzle he wanted to solve whether or not she was Lozada’s client.

  His mystified stare must have made her uneasy, because suddenly she declared, “I need to be going.”

  “How come?”

  “I have things to do.”

  That was what she said. What her expression telegraphed was None of your damn business.

  He groped for something else to talk about so she wouldn’t bolt. “How many acres do you have out there?”

  “Two hundred and twenty.”

  “Ah, that’s nice. A good place to escape from the grind.”

  “What do you do, Wick?”

  Well, he’d made some headway. She was still seated, and she had asked him a question about himself, and she had finally called him by his first name. “Computer software.”

  “Sales?”

  “And design.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What?”

  “Just an observation.”

  “What?” he probed.

  “I can’t see you confined to a desk all day working on computer software.”

  “Very insightful. My job is boring as hell.”

  “Then why don’t you do something else?”

  “I’m in the process of looking. I guess you could say I just haven’t found my niche yet.”

  “You don’t know what you want to be when you grow up?”

  He laughed. “Something like that.” Scooting his empty dish aside, he propped his arms on the table. “You seemed sad when you left today. You must really like being out there on the ranch.”

  “Very much. I love the house.”

  From what he could see, he could understand why. She had a pleasing place in Fort Worth, but this house appealed to him more. It was a typical two-story ranch-style home with a native stone and cedar exterior and a deep porch running the length of it. Casual but classic. And a lot of house for one person.

  Or was it occupied by only one person? Maybe Toby looked after more than the horses. Wick had assumed the mentioned Corrine was Mrs. Robbins, but she could be an elderly aunt or a wire-haired terrier.

  “Have you known Toby and Corrine long?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do they have children?”

  “Three. Just had their fifth grandchild.”

  Good. They were a pair, and it was doubtful that Grandpa Toby was a sleep-over at Rennie’s ranch house. “Aren’t you afraid to stay out there by yourself?”

  “Why would I be afraid?”

  He raised a shoulder. “A woman alone. Remote location.”

  She hastily gathered up her shoulder bag and scooted back her chair. “People are waiting on the table. Anyway, it’s time I got back to Fort Worth. Thanks for the sundae.”

  She made for the exit. Wick nearly mowed down a family of four in his rush to follow her out. By the time he reached her Jeep, she was sliding into the driver’s seat.

  “Hey, slow down. What’d I say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why the sudden split?”

  “I need to get back, that’s all.”

  “Rennie, Olympic sprinters don’t move that fast. What’s wrong?”

  She jammed her key into the ignition, then turned to him, eyes blazing. “Your insinuation that I need protection.”

  “I insinuated no such thing.”

  “Were you hoping for an invitation to come out and protect me?”

  “I was making conversation. You’re reading a bunch of crap into an innocent question.” They wrestled over control of the door. “Listen, if we’re talking about fear, let’s talk about mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Yeah. You scare the hell out of me.” She stopped tugging on the door and looked at him for an explanation. “You’re richer than me, smarter than me.” He glanced down at the door handle. “Nearly as strong as me, and I’m afraid you could probably beat me in a foot race.”

  She ducked her head and he saw a trace of a smile. He pressed the advantage. “Have dinner with me, Rennie.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, for one thing, as soon as this sundae wears off I’ll be hungry.”

  “The sundae was my dinner.”

  “Okay, we don’t have to eat. We could go to a movie. Take a walk. Anything. I’d just like to spend time with you.”

  She turned the key in the ignition and started the motor. “Good-bye, Wick.”

  “Wait a minute.” He added a soft “Please,” which stopped her from reaching for the door again. “Why are you always rushing away from me?”

  “I told you. I’m not—”

  “I know, I know, you’re not in the market. Do you see somebody?”

  “Yes.”

  Don’t let it be Lozada, he thought.

  “Patients,” she said. “I see patients.”

  “You have dinner with them every night?” He gave her his best sad-puppy-dog smile, but it didn’t earn him even one of her half-smiles.

  She turned away and stared through the windshield for several ponderous moments. “You’re very engaging, Wick.”

  “Thanks. But…?”

  “But things should have stayed where we left them last night.”

  “That was nowhere.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, I wasn’t content with that.”

  “You’ll have to be. I tried to make it clear then. I’m telling you again now. I can’t, I won’t, see you again. There would be no point.” Turning back to him, she added, “And I won’t change my mind.”

  He searched her eyes for a long time. Finally, he extended his hand toward her face.

  She whispered, “Don’t.”

  But he didn’t touch her. He lifted a strand of hair from her cheek and tucked it beneath her hat. His fingers lingered there just above her ear for several seconds before he withdrew his hand. Softly he said, “I’ll follow you home, see that you get there safely.”

  “I don’t want you to do that.”

  “I already know where you live.”

  “You won’t be invited in, Wick.”

  “I’ll follow you home.”

  He backed away and closed her car door. She drove off without even a wave. Nevertheless he kept his promise. He followed her all the way home and when she rolled her car into her garage, he tooted his horn twice as his good-bye.

  * * *

  She called the hospital to check on her post-op patients and was told that the doctors on call had nothing untoward to report. The spleenectomy patient’s condition had been upgraded from fair to good. He was doing well.

  Following that call, she was officially off duty for the remainder of the night. Ten minutes later she was soaking in a tub of hot bubble bath. She breathed deeply and focused on relaxing, but when she closed her eyes she saw an image of Wick Threadgill and smiled in spite of herself. It was impossible not to like him. She liked him more than she had liked anyone in a very long time.

  That was why she would never see him again.

  Her capacity for romance had ceased to exist. It had died along with Raymond Collier that fateful afternoon in her father’s study. She had killed that part of herself as surely as Raymond had been killed.

  Or had it died? Maybe it had only been successfully suppressed.

  She had denied common yearnings so effectively and for so long that she had convinced herself those yearnings no longer existed for her. What was natural for most women didn’t apply to her. She didn’t need love and romance. She didn’t need anyone or anything in her life except her work. Work was what she desired, so work was what satisfied her. That had been her mantra, her anthem.

  It had begun to ring hollow.

&n
bsp; Her resolve never to marry and have a family had seemed courageous in her twenties. Now she wondered. Had she spited only herself when she made that decision? Over the years the line between independence and loneliness had become so fine that there was now little distinction between the two.

  This man, this lanky Wick Threadgill with the long legs and unruly blond hair, had stirred longings that she had thought long dead. She hadn’t wanted to say good-bye to him this evening. She liked his company but feared what she felt when he looked at her in that certain way.

  His kisses were probably as potent as his smiles. Not that she would have allowed a kiss. But it would have been nice, when he replaced that loose strand of hair, to have turned her head ever so slightly and to have rested her cheek against his hand. Just for a moment. Just to—

  Her telephone rang.

  She sat up, scattering mounds of bubbles across the surface of her bathwater. Maybe it was Wick. He was just arrogant enough, persistent enough, to try again.

  But it could also be Lozada.

  The caller ID registered no number. She hesitated, then cleared her throat and answered.

  “Rennie, are you all right?”

  Chapter 13

  Lozada thrilled to the sound of her light, rapid breathing. Only fucking or fear caused a woman to breathe like that. He would enjoy it either way with Rennie.

  “Why are you calling me again when I specifically told you not to?”

  “I was worried about you, Rennie,” he said. “I’m calling to make certain that you’re all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “Because of the company you keep.”

  He hadn’t been able to believe his eyes when she’d arrived home followed by Threadgill in his pickup truck. He could dismiss their meeting at the wedding reception as bizarre coincidence. But two days in a row? It stunk to high heaven of police tactics.

  Threadgill had given two short honks of his horn as he drove away. The only reason the bastard was still alive was because he hadn’t gone inside the house with Rennie. But where had they been? How long had they been together? An hour? All day? What had they been doing?

  Lozada had considered several ways he could kill Wick Threadgill. Which method would inflict the most pain? He wanted Threadgill’s death to be painful, yes, but it must transcend normal pain. He also wanted the death to be ignominious. He didn’t want to leave Wick Threadgill a martyr, a dead hero.