by Joanna Bell
I caught Jack's eye, waiting for the sly grin. It didn't come. He was joking. Or I'd heard him wrong. "What?" I asked.
"That's exactly what I said," he laughed, "when the woman on the phone told me how much it was. Nine and a half million dollars. You're hearing me right."
"Nine and a half," I repeated slowly. "Million? Million?!"
"Dollars, yes. So as you can see, I actually can afford the necklace. I want you to have it. And no, I do not plan on going on a wild spending spree with the rest of the money."
But I was no longer thinking about the beautiful necklace. "The ranch," I said. "Sweetgrass Ranch! You can buy it back now, Jack! I need to – uh, hold on – what time is it at home? I needed to call David Mc-"
"Blaze!"
"What?" I asked, still dazed by the news.
"Put your phone away. I'm handling this. I don't want you anywhere near this – it could endanger your career if anyone found out about us and started questioning what you knew and when."
"But –"
"But nothing! I've spoken to David McMillan, but I'm waiting to actually talk to the bank – here, in Ireland – before I make my next move."
"And that's –"
"Well, it's getting Sweetgrass Ranch back. Tomorrow is the appointment at the bank. You can come along if you want – I was actually planning on bringing you with me anyway, so you could find out that way, from someone with authority."
Nine and a half million dollars. I knew savings accounts could build extraordinary amounts of interest if left untouched over a long period of time, but even in my wildest dreams of Jack getting his ranch back I never expected it to be so much.
"You have authority," I told him as he pushed a strand of wet hair off my forehead. "Maybe not with the bank, but with me. You have more authority than anyone else in my life, actually."
Jack's eyes radiated tenderness. "You mean that," he said quietly, "don't you?"
"Yes," I replied, looking back at him, aware in that moment of how perfectly, specifically vulnerable I was to Jack McMurtry.
For a moment, I thought Jack was going to say something back to me. He opened his mouth like he was going to but then shut it again. When he did speak, it felt like it wasn't what he had first intended to say.
"We should get back, Blaze. It's getting dark and I'm getting hungry. How about you? How's your stomach? You hungry?"
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack
There were so many things I wanted to say to Blaze that night under the soft Dublin rain. Mostly what I wanted to express was a kind of 'me, too' sentiment. Me too, Blaze. You care deeply about my feelings for you? You worry that I'll leave or that you somehow won't be good enough? You have a respect for me you didn't think possible? Me too, my beautiful, smart, charming girl. Me too.
So why didn't I say any of them? I don't know. Male ego? That's the uncharitable interpretation. And I'm not going to pretend like feeling vulnerable the way I did towards her wasn't new and terrifying to me – because it was. But mostly, what Blaze created in me was an almost irresistible need to take care of her. When her eyes welled up, my body practically went into full panic mode. Get rid of those tears, at all costs! This is the woman you need to keep smiling, even if she decides on a whim that the only thing that would make her happy is you chopping your own foot off. Jackie-Boy, get the axe! I chuckled at that thought as we walked down the rain-slicked cobbles and Blaze clung to my arm.
I had to grow up quickly. My mom died when I was very young , my dad was basically an irresponsible drunk and Old Blackjack was a tyrant. Not always an evil tyrant, but a tyrant all the same, and one who needed to be obeyed at all times. Grandma Dottie loved me the way children need to be loved – fully, completely – but she had no real power in the household. It meant my siblings and I all grew up very quickly – for better and for worse. I felt like a man at eight years old, getting up at the crack of dawn to feed and water cattle my own father was too hung-over to deal with and doing my best to navigate the complex and constantly-shifting fault-lines that existed in the bedrock of the McMurtry household.
But like Blaze had tried to express, that she never quite knew what it felt like to be happy the way she was happy with me – I found that I didn't quite know what it was to be a man until I was with her. I didn't have to manufacture it within myself or consciously will it to life, it was just there. She brought it out in me, and it was as natural a way of being as I'd ever experienced.
We decided to get dinner in Dublin, after Blaze said she wasn't sure she could handle another heavy meal like the ones they served at the hotel – amazing as we agreed they were. That's how we ended up in a tiny little French restaurant with about six tables and a view of the street outside.
"Salad," Blaze said, going over the menu. "That's what I'm starting with. I'm going to get scurvy if I spend this whole trip eating meat and potatoes."
"Potatoes are actually pretty high in vitamin C," I commented, as I perused the menu myself.
She laughed. "Are they? Huh. Well I need something green."
We chatted over our dinner, both of us leaning in across the table, eager to be as close to each other as possible. Mostly what we talked about were my plans for the house.
"What about that porch?" She asked. "You're not going to get rid of that, are you? You can't, it's too nice. But it is literally crumbling to pieces."
"I'll hire a carpenter familiar with historical restorations," I told her. "Obviously there'll be updates to the interior, but I don't want any of the original character stripped out. Of course the porch is staying, it'll just need to be rebuilt."
"Then you can sit outside on it in the summer and drink lemonade," Blaze said. "I don't know why, I just always imagined that people lucky enough to have porches like that always drank lemonade when they sat on them."
"Maybe you can sit on the porch and drink lemonade with me?"
For all our intense closeness and obvious affection for one another, Blaze Wilson and I had yet to talk – in a serious way, anyway – about the future. She knew what I'd just said was important, too, because she stopped eating and looked up at me, checking to see if I meant it.
"I would love that," she answered slowly, as if trying to figure out what tone to go with in her response.
"I know you would. But how could that happen? With you in D.C. and me all the way out in Montana?"
It was at that very inopportune moment that she suddenly sat bolt upright and her eyes got very big.
"What is –" I started, but she was already on her feet.
"I think I'm going to puke."
I caught the worried-looking waitress as she rushed towards my girlfriend on her way out the door. "Here, take my card, we'll be right back. She's just feeling a little sick. Give us a minute."
Outside I found Blaze bent over in a doorway, heaving. And that time, it was more than just heaving.
"We should get you to a doctor tomorrow," I said as I rubbed her back soothingly. "Maybe you've got a bug – they might be able to give you something."
"Yeah," she panted, when it seemed to be over. "Yeah, OK. Just – give me a sec, Jack. I don't think I can go back into that restaurant – I don't want to smell food."
"Alright, sweetheart. Just let me go and pay, I'll be right back."
"Tell them it wasn't the food," she said. "I don't want them to think it was the food."
"I will."
Inside, I found the waitress and the owner waiting anxiously. "Is the lady feeling better?" The owner asked, in a thick French accent. "We are so sorry if –"
"No, it wasn't the food," I told them, to visible signs of relaxation, "she's just been feeling a little sick for a couple of days. The food was delicious, it definitely wasn't the –"
The waitress stopped my sentence by reaching out and touching my arm. It was an odd gesture, one I didn't understand. She was smiling at me, too.
"Congratulations."
"What?" I asked, distracted and reaching for
my wallet because I'd forgotten I already handed over my card.
"Oh," the waitress took a little step back and covered her mouth, like she was embarrassed. "Oh, no, nothing. I'm sorry, I hope you –"
"Congratulations?" I asked, still clueless. "What do you mean?"
"Oh I just assumed your wife was pregnant. The two of you just looked so close and I remember when I was pregnant with my son the smell of cooking always made me – um, I'm sorry, it's none of my business. Would you like a receipt?"
"Uh," I stammered, as the world spun around me and I tried desperately to find something to hold onto. "The what? The receipt? Uh, yes. Yeah."
"I'm so sorry," the waitress apologized again as it must have been obvious how completely unprepared I was for her comments. "It's none of my business, I shouldn't have said anything."
"No," I told her, on my way out and somehow unable to meet her eye. "No, it's, uh – it's fine. The meal was – wonderful. Have a... um. Have a good night."
I stumbled blindly out the door, almost knocking Blaze herself over as she waited for me.
"Jack!" She exclaimed, when she saw my face. "What happened? Is everything OK? You look like you've seen a ghost or something!"
"Oh, no," I said. "It's fine. Everything's fine. How's your stomach? Should we find a taxi?"
But everything wasn't fine. I mean, pregnant? Pregnant? Part of me wanted to just go along with my first instinct, which was that it was the most absurd thing I had ever heard and that there was no possible way that Blaze could be pregnant. But that wasn't true at all, was it? Blaze and I hadn't even talked about other people – it had just never come up. And I knew, even as everything in my body and my lizard brain protested it, that she didn't belong to me.
My own stomach turned at the mere thought of her with someone else. And as soon as one thought hit my mind, a thousand more crowded in behind it. Blaze in someone else's arms. Some other man hearing those sweet little sighs of hers. Some other man laying her down on the –
"Jack!"
"Huh?" I said, turning towards her.
"I'm talking to you!"
"Oh," I responded, not aware of anything having been said. "Oh, yeah. OK."
"What's gotten into you? What happened in that restaurant, Jack? You are acting like a total crazy person right now."
"Am I?"
"Yes," she replied, obviously annoyed. "You're not listening to a damn thing I'm saying, are you? I asked if you wanted to go for a walk in the grounds when we got back to the hotel – the front desk lady said they were putting up the rest of their Christmas lights today and that we should go see them at night. She called them 'fairy lights' – isn't that cute?"
"Fairy lights, yeah, I – uh, I heard someone else say the same, uh, thing."
Blaze went quiet after that, obviously not wanting to push me any further while we were still in the taxi, but as soon as we were back in the room with the door closed behind us she turned and looked right at me, a questioning expression on her face.
"Well?"
I sat down on the bed and put my head in my hands. "If you really want me to tell you, Blaze, I will. But I don't know if –"
"I'm sorry Jack," she cut in. "But what the blue hell are you even talking about? You were in that restaurant for about two minutes when I was sick – what could possibly have happened to make you look the way you look right now? You're actually starting to freak me out a little."
"The waitress said 'congratulations' to me," I said, because there didn't seem to be another way to do it other than just telling it straight.
"What? Why would she say that? Jack, I don't understand."
"She assumed you were pregnant," I said, watching Blaze's face for a reaction. There wasn't one, not for a few seconds, until she laughed out loud.
"Pregnant? Pregnant, Jack? Me? I'm not pregnant, that's silly."
"You're not?"
Anger flashed across Blaze's face, reddening her cheeks. "What do you mean? What are you asking me right now, Jack? Are you asking me if I'm pregnant with someone else's baby!?"
I held up my hand as I could feel the fury boiling up inside her. "Wait. Blaze, no, I did not think you were pregnant. I was just thinking that you and I never talked about this, not really. We never talked about other people, or if we were seeing other people. We didn't –"
"So you are asking me if I'm pregnant with someone else's baby. Damnit, Jack. Oh my God. After everything we've talked about during this trip. After all the things I've said to you – you think it's possible that I'm just casually sleeping with other men? Without telling you?"
Blaze's voice was sharp with anger by then, accusatory and harsh. Without even noticing it I found myself suddenly pissed off, too. What gave her the right to talk to me in that tone of voice?
"You're over-reacting," I said, immediately aware that it was probably the exact wrong thing to say when she rolled her eyes and walked away from me. "Blaze, I am not accusing you of anything. But what I'm saying is true – we never did talk about any of this! You live in D.C. – how do I know what your life is like there? How do I know?"
She had her back to me but I heard her sigh and saw her shoulders slump slightly before she turned to face me.
"Have you been listening to anything I've said to you, Jack? Not just today, but when I came to visit you at Sweetgrass Ranch?"
"Yes!" I replied, exasperated. "Blaze there's no one I listen to more than you, because there's no one I'm more interested in listening to than you."
"Then how can you even think I would be with other men?" She asked. "How can you – Jack, is there some part of you that's unaware of how I feel? Don't you know? Haven't you figured it out by now?"
Her questions took me off guard a little. "I, uh – Blaze, I didn't mean to imply anything, if that's how you're taking this. That's not what I meant at all. If I meant anything it's that you are beautiful, and accomplished, and you have your shit together in a way so many people don't –"
She scoffed at that, but I kept going.
"So it's not like I don't get that you probably have a thousand men going after you in D.C. And I'm just trying to express that, like or not, I understand that I don't have any right to dictate your life to you."
"But do you understand how I feel, Jack?" She repeated. "That's what I want to know."
I looked into her eyes and saw that she was really asking. She didn't want a joke, or a kiss, she just wanted a real answer. I took a slow breath. "I think I know how you feel, Blaze. I think you like me. I think maybe you like me a lot. It's just that I was –"
"You were too busy raging about the possibility of some other man touching me –"
"Yeah," I answered, looking her straight in the eye. "I was. Because to be frank, Blaze, the idea of another man putting his hands on you makes me want to rip his fucking head off."
"Well no one put his hands on me. I don't want anyone else's hands on me, Jack! Do you know I barely even see other men these days? It's like I've got blinders on or something, Liam Hemsworth could come dance through the office naked and I swear I wouldn't even see him since I met you!"
Maybe I shouldn't have puffed up like a rooster again – Blaze was being sincere, after all, and I knew vulnerability didn't come easy to her – but I couldn't help it. "Is that true?" I asked, taking her wrist and pulling her towards me.
She looked up at me – I love the way Blaze looks up me, with her eyes full of the emotions she seems to find it so difficult to talk about. "Of course it's true, you dummy. Do you think I'd admit something like this if it wasn't true? It's totally embarrassing."
I kissed the tip of her nose. "Really? You'd take Jack McMurtry from Montana over Liam Hemsworth the famous movie star?"
Blaze rested her forehead against my chest. "Yes, I would. I wouldn't even have to think about it, you know."
"Look at me."
She turned her face up to me again. "What?"
"You're mine, Blaze Wilson. I know men aren't supposed to say thin
gs like that to women these days, and you can slap me across the face if you like, but it's true. You're mine. You're mine."
But there was no slap forthcoming. "I am yours, Jack. And I know maybe I'm not supposed to like you saying things like that to me but I feel like it doesn't even matter if we should say it or we shouldn't say it or shouldn't feel it or whatever because it's just the truth, isn't it? I am yours, and there's nothing else I want to be."
I loved her. I didn't say it, not right then, in that moment – but I realized it. I realized that I loved her, and that I'd probably loved her for a while. I pulled her down on the bed with me and we lay side by side, wrapped around each other.
"Thank-you for my necklace, Jack," Blaze whispered. "It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful."
I was sliding my hand down her body, over the concave curve of her waist and then across her belly when it suddenly occurred to me. I spoke before I'd even thought about what I was going to say.
"We didn't use a condom. That first time, in the kitchen. We didn't –"
Blaze rolled over immediately and faced me. "We – Jack, we didn't. Did we?"
"No."
I couldn't keep my eyes from wandering down to her midsection, and her gaze followed mine.
"Blaze," I whispered, as the possibility bloomed in my head like an exotic flower. "Blaze – could you be pregnant?"
"I – um, I don't know, Jack. I mean, I guess I could. From that one time? I know that can happen but –"
"Well don't women miss their period if their pregnant? Did you –"
"Mine's never been regular," she replied. "So I can't tell from – oh my God, Jack. Oh my God! What if –"
"We'll go to a pharmacy tomorrow," I told her, noticing the high-pitched edge in her voice and wanting, as ever, to reassure her – even as I was in the midst of the crisis myself. "Yeah, that's what we'll do. It's probably nothing. You probably picked up a bug on the plane. How about we put some warm coats on and go see the Christmas lights now?"
I did my best to remain calm, to keep my expression and my voice even as we got ready to go back out and see the lights. It's funny, looking back, because even at the time I think I might have half-recognized my actions for what they were – responsibility. Not a responsibility that has been imposed by some outside force or person, and not a responsibility I resented, the way some men do. No, it was something that just naturally occurred. Blaze Wilson was upset and stressed out. Not a minor upset, either. It was my responsibility to be strong for her, to be solid and unmoving as she looked for something to hold onto in the storm.